a/n: In tribute to the Season 2 Premiere of Supernatural (in 7 hours 48 minutes in my time zone!), I though I'd post my take on what would happen. Not to mention I had to get it out there that I was like "Dean's going to be in a coma!" the second the Season 1 finale ended...In fact, I wrote a sort of mock-up Season 2 Premiere script the next day in writer's craft (you can check it out here- http/wingdndangerous. for our loving boys, here's my idea of the goings-on that will occur...Not much actually happens, but hey. Also, please forgive any grammar mistakes---I haven't had time to get it edited (but wanted to post it BEFORE I saw the episode tonight). I'll probably edit/update/add to it later.


Lyrics are from Cat Steven's "Majik of Maijk's"


What kind of war is this,

That I can't fight no more

That leaves me weaponless,

And nails me to the floor

He couldn't be entirely sure of what happened. Dean had been hit on the head before, but never so suddenly and jarringly that it sent white sparks across his vision. He was unconscious before his head bounced off the window, so he didn't have time to see the truck. If he was thinking about what happened, let alone thinking anything, he would have assumed that the blood loss had finally taken hold of him, and the unfamiliarity of the blinding white spark sensation made Dean conclude in the millisecond before blackness took over that it must be what death felt like.

What kind of power, of powers.

What kind of man--

Can make me turn and see

The way I really am

John had been awake for nearly two days now. He was alternating between his sons' beds, but he took to hovering closer to Sam's waiting for the more probable chance that he would wake up. The horrible reality that despite all his efforts he might be the last surviving member of his family had hit him hard. The nurses had threatened to sedate him if he didn't eat or take an IV, but John simply stood up, limped out of the room, and taken his watchful seat beside what he prayed wouldn't be the deathbed of his youngest son.

Where have my brothers gone,

Why I don't see them about

Sam knew where he was before he tried to open his eyes. The sickeningly sterile smell of hospital was clogging his nostrils, quickly followed by the sickeningly hollow feeling in his stomach that he might be the only one left alive. Suddenly, opening his eyes to a potentially empty life wasn't something he couldn't bring himself to do. Silently, Sam tried to slip back inside himself before consciousness set in fully.

What kind of power,

What kind of demon is this

Who kicks me out in shame,

With every word he says

In the past few hours, Dean had come to realize that nothing about his life from this moment onwards would remain the same. He had adjusted to living a broken life. He never spared thoughtful moment to give any deep consideration to what truths might be lurking under the clearly dysfunctional surface. Sam had tried to expose the truths sometimes, but never on the same deep level that they had been brought up and shoved down Dean's throat while he was pinned against the wall of that god-forsaken cabin. Dean could understand the irony of having his heart both literally and figuratively torn out. What bothered him most was that if had been coming from anyone else, is the words had been reflected in any eyes but his father's, no matter how glowingly demonic, Dean would have kept it together. Maybe the demon bastard knew that, maybe it was sheer luck, but Dean knew that even Sam, from across the room, could see him fall apart. He had lost all his defenses, and had choked down every emotion he could along with the blood he swallowed as Sam knelt down beside him. He couldn't look at his brother with the sting of the demon's words still fresh, and he wanted to disappear into the floor around him with the insight that Sam didn't need him anymore. No one did. The only thing Dean was bitterly thankful for was the mind-shattering pain he was in.

"Go on and let him in, he's only asking for

A simple job to do and nothing more" they said.

"Go on and let him in."

Whether he knew it or not, John had let go of Dean. He had seen how pale his son was, how liters of blood were brought in whenever they could be found to slowly try and ease life back into Dean's broken body, heard the plans for surgery and the delicate balance to be kept between keeping him alive and doing more damage. The danger of him loosing more blood by doing surgery, and the danger of allowing his blood levels to regain enough that the ruptured blood vessels in his brain could cause permanent damage. Sam was stable. He had lost blood, but it had been replaced without worry of it furthering any damage and now they were just waiting for him to wake up. John told himself that Sam needed more protection, that the nurses payed less attention to him while Dean's room was rarely unoccupied. Under the concern for both his sons, John harbored a bitter resentment at the nurses for treating Sam like any another recovering patient. They had no idea what his boys had been through.

They're all around him now.

And keeping me out.

Sam tried to keep control over his body now, to force himself back into unconsciousness where nothing mattered. He tried where he had failed when it was most important, where he could have ended everything and kept his brother safe. The demon had plans for him, but it had wanted Dean. It enjoyed torturing his brother. Or maybe it enjoyed that Sam could do nothing about it. While he was watching helplessly, some part of Sam wondered if this was the demon's punishment for him--if Dean was just the next in a series of victims that all revolved around him. The moment he grabbed the colt and trained it on his possessed father, for a flicker of a second the best option seemed to turn it on himself. It was knowing that Dean would give up completely that stopped him.

"Go on and let him in, he's only asking for

A simple job to do and nothing more" they said.

But looking back

I see this stranger had the key

To any door

John had been with the demon when it tried to kill Dean, and he knew what it had done. It was bitterly amusing to watch the hospital staff scramble to stabilize Dean without having the faintest conception of what had ripped him open. John knew he couldn't tell the nurses without bringing up too many questions. The demon had opened up Dean's chest like a sick game of Operation, slicing around any major organs to avoid an instant death. It had torn through his skin and muscle easier than tissue paper and enjoyed the metallic smell of his blood as it hit the air and dripped to the floor. It made John nauseous to think about, and made his entire chest ache whenever he looked at Dean.

But looking back

I see this stranger had the key

To any door he wished, with his eyes I say.

All things heal in time.

John looked at his son, kept alive only by the tubes snaking from his mouth and nose and the beeping machines around him.

Some people just run out of time.