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It was difficult doing this alone; gave a man too much time to think about things when all he wanted to do was forget. He wished he could forget the look on her face, the helplessness he felt when she whispered his name, her voice thick with pain and confusion. He could still picture her, hair fanned out around her head in a golden halo as if each lock had been deliberately placed just so. Her anguished whisper when their eyes met tore through him as if he experienced the pain with her.
There was no one else there with John Winchester and his little boy to sit this vigil while they waited for word about baby Sam. The hardest part was the wait. He already felt helpless and not knowing was even worse. There were so many questions to which he doubted he'd ever have the answers to. John wanted to give the nurses hell, wanted to demand to see his other son. He desperately needed to be there in the room with him, but he still needed to keep a cool head for the child beside him.
Dean finally moved away from his side to sit down in front of a low table filled with the sort of detritus one found in waiting rooms in hospitals across the country. He settled in front of a large stack of glossy magazines and opened an edition of Vogue at least six months old. John watched the way his son flipped through the pages, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as the beautiful models with their pearly white teeth and perfectly lined lips caught his interest. The boy would be a lady killer when he grew up. The thought brought a slight smile to John's face despite his unease.
For the fifth time a nurse came to the waiting area, but still the news wasn't for him. He dropped his head into his palms. The familiar tang of metal and grease washed over him; it always drove Mary crazy when he didn't wash his hands properly. Yet another thing he'd failed to do this night. He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory.
There had been nothing he could do though he'd tried everything in his power to help, to save her from the agony. John knew it was all his fault. If only he'd been fast enough, if only he'd been there with her rather than in front of the television, asleep. If only. His hands dropped and clenched into fists between his knees, the only outward show of emotion he was allowing himself at the moment. Movement out the corner of his eye drew his thoughts momentarily from his self-loathing.
The drowsy green-eyed imp in front of him shifted, and then climbed up onto the plastic sofa beside him. He was restless. His father spent the next twenty minutes trying to answer an endless barrage of questions. No, he didn't know if Superman really could blow air cold enough to put out fire. Yes, there were such things as angels. No, he didn't think they had rainbow colored wings. Dean talked himself into a stupor as he found a more comfortable position stretched out beside him, his head pillowed on his thigh. John combed his fingers through hair the color of spun sunshine, a perfect match to the woman who had given him life. Slowly the cadence of the little boy's breathing changed. Though he was asleep, his quiet whimpers were testament to fears he had refused to verbalize. John rested his hand over the boy's torso, more to reassure him that he wasn't alone than anything else.
Eventually he dozed off himself, jerking awake several times in the night to the sound of elevator doors chiming or quiet conversations around them. A nurse brought one of those hospital blankets over for Dean at some point and covered him up. The industrial detergent smell lingered in the stale hospital air. No, we still don't have any word, Mr. Winchester. Yes, of course you'll be the very first to know when we do.
Finally, nearly twelve hours after they'd arrived, someone came to fetch them. John stood up, his body protesting the sudden movement after hours of being in one position. He stretched quickly and rubbed his chin, grimacing at the rasp of whiskers against the calluses on his hand. His other hand held Dean's securely in his own as they followed the woman to the room. Once inside, Dean let go and hurried over to the bassinet where his brother lay, peering inside. John stood by the door for several long moments and took in the sight, gathering himself. Life would never be the same now.
"Come here, Daddy," her honeyed voice murmured, "and meet your son, Sam Winchester."
He took a tentative step inside, and then another, hurrying over to his wife's bedside and taking both of Mary's hands in his own. John raised them to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles, first one hand and then the other. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
"I'll need a few weeks to recover from the surgery, but yes, handsome, I'm fine." Mary's smile lit up the room and she let her gaze return to where their sons were. "Next time I'm pregnant though," she continued with a teasing lilt to her words, "do try not to fall asleep at the shop. It was a close call with the ambulance getting there in time."
Dean was enthralled with the pink-skinned infant, hushed and reverent as he reached a hand inside to touch the soft blue blanket in which his baby brother lay wrapped. Sam made little fussing noises and he panicked, turning to his parents, his green eyes huge in his face. "I didn't do anything!"
He watched his father lope over to join him, and then looked down at the fussing baby again. John smiled reassurance to his first born and then reached down to gather up his second child. This was his family, his reason for living, and he knew as he held his wife's blue-green gaze with his that as long as they had one another, they could conquer anything. Together. He finally let go of the last of the unease and guilt that had plagued him all night and said, "You think Sammy's ready to toss around a football yet?"
"Daddy." The giggled word broadened John's smile and he led his boys back to the bed, and Mary.