Wounded Solider
John Winchester was getting worried. His sons Dean and Sam said they would be right back, and he had been waiting fifteen minutes. To some people, this might not seem like a big deal. Normally, not even to John. But they were on a hunt. And on a hunt right back and fifteen minutes could be the difference between life and death.
John had been just about to follow his sons into the house when he heard footsteps running towards him. Sam, his younger son, who was twelve, came barreling out the front door.
"Dad!" Sam said. "I'm sorry!"
Sam was clearly very distressed. His eyes were filled with fear and worry, and tears streaked his cheeks. There was blood running down the side of his head, but that's not what was worrying John the most right now.
"Where's Dean, Sam?"
"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really sorry."
"Sam! Look at me! Where. Is. Dean." John enunciated each word.
"The… the spirit got him. I couldn't find the lighter…"
John looked down at his distressed youngest. He hugged him close. "It'll be okay Sam. I'll be right back." And John headed towards the house.
He wondered how a simple salt and burn could go so horribly wrong. Who knew where Dean was, or what state he was in? Hell, who knew if he was even still alive. John pulled his lighter out of his pocket, holding it at the ready.
He headed towards the body Sam and Dean had found. It had been in the walls of the house and they had taken an axe to the wall, and the body had fallen out, it was laying on the floor, already doused in lighter fluid. He threw his lighter and the body, doing what Sam had failed to do.
Now to address the next problem.
"Dean!" John yelled. "Dean, where are you?"
He heard a groan come from the door that led to the basement, and he rushed toward the door. He ripped it open to find a rickety set of wooden stairs. Dean was lying at the bottom of them. His body was twisted and broken.
John winced. He took stock of his son's injuries. There was blood soaking through his white shirt, his shoulder was obviously dislocated. Part of his bone was sticking out through his jeans, it was also bleeding heavily. His other arm was twisted in an impossible way. His head was bleeding too.
John rushed down the stairs. "It's okay, Dean." He comforted his son. "This is gonna hurt, but I have to get you out of here, alright?"
Dean groaned again, and John took that as an okay.
As carefully as possible, John gathered Dean in his arms. Dean's breathing got heavier with every move, and he gasped in pain when John lifted him up. John stepped carefully on to the unsteady stairs, which creaked under his weight. He climbed up them painfully slowly. Literally. Dean's face scrunched in pain with every step. John found himself almost wishing his son could pass out, to escape the pain.
He finally made it up the stairs, and rushed out the front door, calling "Sam! Start the car!"
Sam did as he was told before turning back to his father and asking "Will Dean be okay?"
"I don't know." John said dejectedly. "Open the back door so I can put Dean in. We'll have to take him to the hospital."
"But what will tell them?" Sam asked, doing as he was told.
"We were jumped." John answered simply, sliding in Dean, trying to ignore Dean's pain filled sobs.
The house behind them was slowly filling with flames, and black smoke was billowing out of the windows. They needed to get out of here and to the hospital. Now.
Sam got into the passenger's side of the car, glancing back at his brother.
"You'll be okay, Dean."
"Sammy?" Dean whispered.
"Yeah it's me. Just hold on, okay?"
"Okay."
The car started and they hit the road. John winced at the gasps that came from the back seat with every bump. Sam glanced back at his brother every now then, as though making sure he was still there.
Dean was shaking, trying to control the pain, and spasms rocked his body every few minutes resulting in a held back scream each time. Sam kept talking to Dean the whole way there saying things like "just hold on." And "Everything's okay. You're okay. We're okay."
Sam wished it really was.
The ride to the hospital seems to take hours and hours for them all, Dean included. John wondered how his sons did it sometimes. They were so much younger, but they handled everything the way he would. Sam had just turned twelve, and Dean was fourteen, almost fifteen. His birthday was in a month and five days. But John couldn't help but wonder if Dean would live to see it.
When they pulled up to the hospital, John got out yelling for help, and nurses with a gurney rushed out to help them. They strapped Dean in, and a doctor met them a door.
"Male, fourteen years old, severe trauma…"
John tuned out after that, and a nurse took Sam away to look at his head. Another led him to the waiting room and brought him a scrub shirt to put on. John gratefully accepted it, and went to the bathroom to wash Dean's blood off his hands and dispose of his ruined shirt.
When he returned he sat down next to Sam, who had his freshly bandaged head in hands, holding back tears that were threatening to spill out of his eyes.
"You okay, son?" John asked.
"It's my fault." Sam said.
"What? Sam, how is this your fault?"
"If I had just found the lighter…"
"Sam, you can't blame yourself for this."
"But…"
"No buts. You were not the one who hurt Dean. Alright?"
Sam nodded.
They sat in silence for the rest. Sometime during the wait John picked up an old crappy magazine and read about Jaylo (or some name like that) doing something stupid. About two hours in a doctor came out to give him an update.
"We found some internal bleeding, and his lung was punctured. He was stabbed twice in the stomach, his arm and leg were broken, his shoulder was dislocated, and three of his ribs were broken. There was some swelling in his brain, and our neurosurgeon had to operate. We won't know if there was any damage until he wakes up, but Dr. Jackson is very good at what he does. Everybody is working very hard to save your son, but there is a chance he won't come out of this, or have some sort of handicap. Also, the uh police are here to take your statement. They understand if you're not ready to talk about what happened…."
"I'm ready." John interrupted.
"Alright." The doctor said, motioning the officers over.
"Hello, Mr. Avery. (They used the alias John had used when they came to the hospital) I'm Detective Hopkins, and this is Detective Douglas. Can you tell us what happened to your son?"
"We we're jumped. There were three men with guns, and one with a knife. The one with the knife grabbed Dean and he stabbed him. Another one knocked Sammy down and I tried to stop them but they started beating Dean up. I tried to stop them but I couldn't…"
"Can you explain why you didn't call an ambulance for your son?"
"They took my cell phone." John had dumped their phones out the window on the way to the hospital.
"Did something set them off to make them so angry?"
"I didn't have any money with me."
"Can you describe the men?"
"They were wearing masks."
"Alright, thank you Mr. Avery."
"No problem."
He and Sam waited another three hours before the same doctor from before came out and told them Dean was out of surgery. "Your son is quite the fighter. We have to wait for him to wake up before we can know about any effects from the brain swelling, but other than that your son is doing great."
"Can we see him?"
"Yes, he's in room 304. Call a doctor the minute he wakes up, okay?"
John had seen plenty of people in plenty of hospitals, but he was not prepared for the state his son was in. There were wires connecting him to machines sticking out every which way, and his leg and arm were in casts. His head was wrapped in gauze, and bruises covered most of his visible skin.
Sam grabbed Dean's hand on his arm, and whispered something John couldn't make out to him. John sat down in the corner of Dean's room.
"Sam?" John heard Dean's voice.
"Dean!" Sam cries.
John hits the button for a doctor and rushes to his son's side.
"Hey, Dean." He says softly. "How are you feeling?"
Dean hesitates. "Okay."
Bullshit.
The doctor comes in just then. "Hello, Dean. Can you remember what happened?"
"Yes." Dean answers.
"Alright, follow this light with your eyes."
Dean does as he told. "Okay. Good job, Dean."
The doctor leaves after that, telling John that Dean doesn't have an side effects from the swelling in his brain. That he'll be okay.
"I'm sorry dad, I shouldn't have let the spirit get me."
"Look at me Dean, this is not your fault. Okay? Never was, never will be."
"Okay." Dean nods, he's already falling back asleep. John doesn't blame him. After everything he's been through, he should be exhausted.
"Go back to sleep, son. We'll be here when you wake up."
The End