Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural" or it's characters-- they own me. :-)
Author's Note: This piece is a coda to "Watching Over Us" I considered adding it as a chapter to that one, but well... that story can be read and held for it's sweetness, this one cannot. ;-) I didn't want to ruin "Watching Over Us" for anyone.
References are made to "Kate and Mike" these people were referenced in John's journal as friends he stayed with following Mary's death.
Thank you for reading.
Rock him with the angels.
John stared dully at the door. His babies were in that room. Asleep, Kate assured him. She'd tucked Dean in herself, she'd said. Read him a story and cuddled him a little... while John'd been out, she'd added after a moment.
Accusation barely veiled.
The door was a nice creamy white color. Good wood, too; not the kind that would splinter with one kick. Mike kept the place up nice.
Dean wasn't asleep.
John knew that. He knew it the way he knew it hadn't been an electrical fire. He knew it the way he knew her blood had dripped on his hand. He knew it the way he knew his life would be never be the same-- never even close.
Dean wasn't asleep. He didn't sleep anymore. He slid into bouts of unconsciousness.
The doorknob was brass. It would be cool under his touch-- if he touched it. If he turned it and walked into that room. To Dean. Who wasn't asleep.
Dean, who didn't ask questions, who didn't run around anymore; didn't play, didn't ever want... Dean, who just reacted, didn't act.
There were no angels. No angels to rock him with. If there were angels, her blood wouldn't have dripped on his hand.
He unfolded his legs and pushed himself off the floor.
No angels, no protectors-- fire...
There was fire and there was blood. No angels, though.
The room was dim. Sammy's crib to one side, the big bed in the middle-- dressers and end tables and desks and chairs around in other corners of the room.
Dean was not on the big bed. He'd known Dean wouldn't be on the big bed.
His boys were wrapped together, Sammy in sleep, Dean on watch. He wanted to say something; to tell the boy it was okay, that it would be okay, that he was safe...
He couldn't push the lies past his lips.
Dean's eyes were fixed straight ahead, as dim as the lighting in the room. John swallowed hard and placed a hand on the boys head.
There was no reaction; he'd known there wouldn't be.
"Hey, buddy." He whispered, "You wanna come out with me a little bit?" He asked.
Dean curled tighter around Sammy. John smoothed his hair again. "Yeah," he murmured, "Didn't think so."
"How 'bout the three of us sleep on the big bed?" He whispered.
There was no reaction. He continued smoothing Dean's hair-- Dean's soft blonde hair, Mary's hair.
Slowly, Dean relaxed his hold on Sammy; blinking wide eyes as he tilted his head towards John's hand.
John nodded, the sign he'd been waiting for. Carefully, he bent down and slipped both arms underneath his boys, gently scooping them up and against his chest.
On the bed, he settled against the headboard, kicking his shoes off, stretching his legs out... Dean didn't shift, didn't uncurl his hold on Sammy.
John settled further down into the bed, pressing his face into Sammy's downy head, then his cheek into Dean's wispy strands.
He wanted to comfort; to bring his little boy back. He wanted to so badly it hurt, a constant burning in his stomach as unrelenting as the agony of losing her...
He wanted to-- he just couldn't. He had nothing to offer, nothing real. Just this... not even rocking-- he couldn't do it, couldn't rock their sons... not knowing she never would again-- couldn't do it. All he had was this-- just this...
The shuddering breath he drew in had Dean curling tight again, clenching his eyes shut, fisting little hands around his Dad's shirt.
John swallowed hard again, trying to get past the lump in his throat.
"Go to sleep, Dean." He finally said, voice gravelly from the effort.
Sammy made a gurgling noise, sighing in his sleep, wiggling in the hold his father and brother had him sandwiched in.
Dean winced at the sound and hid his face in the baby's neck and John felt the urge to scream; to open his mouth and howl like the lone wolf looking for his pack, long and mournful and pleading...
Pleading with something, anything to make it all go away-- to erase the last two weeks... because they couldn't be real... right? How could they be real? How could she be-- and on the-- how?
He released a breath, tightening his hold on his boys; making himself swallow, making himself say something, "There's no way to fix it, son."
The words slipped out smooth, calm-- completely inappropriate. What kind of father was he? What kind of Dad told their four-year-old shit like that?
"No way to make it right." His mouth continued, he couldn't stop, "If there was I'd do it. I'd do it. But there isn't."
There was no way to fix it.
"I can't-- I can't fix it... but I'm... here. I'm here. So you... you just go to sleep, just try... I'm here. I can't-- fix it... but..." he swallowed against rising pain so intense it took his breath away.
He couldn't fix it.
"... but I'm here," he repeated, "I'm here."
Dean shifted a little; John loosened his hold a bit.
Slowly the boy relaxed his hold again. The minutes slid by, blurring into hours-- eventually stillness lulled Dean into unconsciousness.
John lowered his head and rested his forehead against Dean's hair; feeling Sammy's warmth against his chest, tracking Dean's even breathing.
No way to fix it. No way to make it right. No angels to rock him with.