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Sam wasn’t born deaf. He was perfectly normal— that is, he could hear. The entire family was ordinary like that. The ideal American family. John felt like he was living the dream: a beautiful wife and two healthy boys. His vision of perfection. He used to think that’s why the demon picked them. What more could a demon want, but to ruin that ideal? To destroy John’s vision of perfection that he was so busy staring at it, he didn’t notice the shadow creeping underneath with a lit match. John couldn’t be sure who to blame for Sam’s loss of hearing. Was it something the demon did that night or was it the moving around while John hunted for answers?
Maybe it was both.
Either way, the result was the same. Sam turned one and John was finally getting close to this Missouri lady who would tell him everything. For six months, Sam was fighting one cold after another. John knew it wasn’t healthy for a baby to be dragged around the countryside, going from household to household of old friends, but he couldn’t stop. He needed to know that what he saw in the nursery was real, that it wasn’t a freak accident, that Mary was murdered. Dean didn’t seem to mind the traveling and he never got sick. John was a fool to think that Sam was invincible too.
John was bent over a few books he borrowed from Bobby, a man he met while he searched for answers in Ohio, when Alisha came in with Sam in her arms. She rocked him gently with dark circles under her eyes. She had let John and the boys stay with her and her husband for three weeks now and John could tell that she was reaching her charitable limits. He would need to find another friend to take them in soon before this friendship burned up like…well.
“I didn’t hear him cry,” John apologized and stood up.
“He didn’t,” Alisha replied. She licked her lips, black hair framing her tan face. “Sam is getting worse, John. I think he needs to go to the hospital.”
“Isn’t it just an ear infection?” John asked. He crossed the small living room to take his son from her, but she backed up a little. Her eyes held very little warmth for him and John stopped, wondering what he had done.
“God damnit, John,” she whispered and she sounded near tears. “I’m sorry about Mary. But if you don’t wake up soon, you’re going to lose one more piece of her. Look at Sam.” Alisha peeled Sam’s yellow blanket back and John felt his insides turn to ice. “He hasn’t been eating. He’s extremely fussy and loud noises bother him and…”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” John said, reaching for his boy again. This time, Alisha relented and Sam weighed no more than a pillow in John’s arms. He didn’t even stir in the transfer, dark eyelashes still on pale cheeks.
“You’re never here, John,” Alisha snapped. “You just take off and don’t tell anybody what you are doing. You don’t even leave a phone number for me to reach you.”
“I’m sorry,” John said softly.
“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” she said.
John nodded tightly and stared at Sam. He felt so still, so--.
“How long has he been this sick?”
“About twenty-four hours. John, I think…”
“Yes. Yeah. I mean. Dean?”
“Hank will take care of him. Do you want me to drive?”
John wasn’t sure if he could make his arms unwrap from Sam ever again.
“Yeah.”
Meningitis, they said. They put Sammy on antibiotics, stuck IV’s in his tiny arms, and kept him in the hospital for three weeks. They said he was going to be okay. They couldn’t be sure, but Sam seemed aware enough, which meant there was no brain damage and he was moving his arms and legs. Before John knew it, Sam was giggly and kicking his legs and smiling.
They didn’t think they needed to run any more tests.
But what the fuck do doctors know.
John watched Dean plant his face against the clear wall of Sam’s crib. He slid his face this way and that, distorting his nose and mouth. Sam giggled and pressed a tiny fist against the plastic, letting out a squeal of laughter when Dean opened and closed his mouth over his hand, as if trying to eat it. John smiled over his newspaper and then glanced away. He could hear Dean moving around to the other side of the crib and climbing onto a chair. And then Dean yelled, “Sam! Sammy! Saaaaammy!”
John looked up from the paper and over at his youngest son. Sam was still looking where Dean was previously, as if waiting for him to reappear.
Dean’s voice grew louder. “Hey! Hey, look over here! Sam! Come on, you doofus, can’t you hear me?! Sam! SAM!”
John waited, watched as Sam didn’t turn his head, didn’t even flinch. Dean yelled at the top of his lungs, at first playful, taunting, and then scared. He started stomping his feet and clapping his hands, shouting his brother’s name over and over. John’s newspaper slipped from his fingers as he stood up and crossed the room. Sam’s eyes were fluttering closed, tired, and John reached both hands down to pick him up.
He stopped.
He changed positions.
John was crying because he already knew, tears weaving down his face, but he still prayed God, please, no. His hands hovered near Sam’s ear andhe clapped hard, loud, once and it sounded like the crack of his heart breaking. The slap of his skin hitting silenced Dean in mid-scream, Sam’s name hiccupping back into his chest.
John’s palms stung, the only sensory detail he could recall for that one second, and Sam…His little boy just snuffled in his sleep.
The silence that followed would haunt his dreams for years.