He was hurt. Not fatally, but seriously enough.
John had seen hunters hurt much worse. He'd even seen other hunters die.
Hell, the truth that no living soul knew was that when the two of them were in the middle of nowhere with no chance of getting to a hospital in time and the other hunter was holding his intestines in his hands, John had put a bullet in Bill Harvelle's head to end his suffering.
But this time it was John's son who was the injured hunter.
Dean had been begging for weeks to go on a hunt, and on paper, this should have been the perfect one. A pair of rogue vampires had been tracked to a small town less than an hour's drive from Bobby's place. John, Bobby, and Travis were going to take them out. Adding Dean to the lineup would give them a two to one advantage.
Dean was more than capable. He may only be fourteen years old, but he was nearly as big as Bobby. The kid could shoot the wings off a fly at 50 yards and handled anything with a blade like he belonged in a Three Musketeers movie. Hell, he already had a couple kills under his belt.
They even had Sam covered for this hunt. Skeeter was temporarily laid up at Bobby's house with a broken leg, so he and Sam could keep an eye on each other.
The number one rule of being a hunter, however, was that nothing ever went the way you planned. When they found the nest, they found not two, but seven vamps.
No one backed down. They had taken down four of the vamps, with Dean beheading the fifth one just as number six came up behind him and threw him across the room. John watched in frozen horror as his son's body hit the wall with a sickening crunch, and then continued through it.
"Get Dean!" Bobby shouted.
John turned in the direction Dean had been thrown from. Travis was already on the vamp, so John spun and ran for the doorway.
He found Dean sprawled in the wreckage of splintered timbers and shattered drywall, lying still and silent, face down.
He was breathing. Thank God, he was breathing.
John scooped up his son and carried him outside. By the time he had Dean laid out on the backseat of the Impala, Bobby was coming out of the shack. Moments later, Travis followed as black smoke began to curl out of the broken windows.
"How is he?" Bobby asked, leaning around John to peer at the boy.
"Still out, but he's breathing." John tugged at the hem of Dean's shirt, looking for visible damage. "Split his head open, hell, most of his left side is chewed up."
"He's out too long." Bobby shook his head. "I don't like it."
John looked a Bobby for a long moment, as if making a decision in his head. He then placed his car keys in the older hunter's hand. "Let's get back to your place."
Bobby nodded, then turned and tossed his own keys to Travis. "T, you follow us back in my truck."
Travis frowned at the keys in his hand and then at Bobby. "Why don't I just drive John's car?"
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Because I told you to drive my truck."
John crawled into the backseat, kneeling in the floorboard. Bobby drove slowly back to the road, trying to miss as many ruts and roots as possible, but there was just no hope for it once they reached the gravel lane. It was only a little over a mile back to the paved road from there.
Bobby stopped at the first gas station, buying two rolls of paper towels, a bottle of peroxide, a gallon of water, and ice. John cleaned Dean up, relieved that his son flinched as the cold, wet paper touched his bruised and bloodied temple.
Thirty minutes into the trip, Dean regained consciousness.
Sort of.
His eyes were unfocused, he seemed confused, and he tried to turn over and close his eyes, mumbling for his father to leave him alone. His movements, however, brought pressure against his left side, causing him to moan in pain and draw his knees up.
"What's hurtin' him?" Bobby asked, trying to see Dean in the rear view mirror.
"Side. Probably broken ribs." John answered. "He's disoriented."
"He went through a freakin' wall." Bobby muttered. "Whadda expect? He's gonna jump up singin' and tapdancin'? Just try to keep him awake and still 'til we get to the hospital. We're only about 15 out from Sioux Falls General."
"Dean!" John said sharply.
His son looked up through unfocused eyes.
"Dean, I need you awake. This is important." John pressed the ice pack against his son's side, causing the boy to cry out. "Do you remember what happened?"
"Vamps." Dean wheezed. "I got two of 'em."
"Yeah, and you damn near got yourself killed!" John roared. "What have I told you about being careful, about being aware of your surroundings, of being ... "
"John!" Bobby interrupted. "It's not his fault as much as it is ours. We never should have taken a kid into the middle of that many vamps in a nest. We should have checked it out better to make sure we knew what we were getting into."
"I'm sorry, Dad." Dean apologized.
"Listen, when we get to the hospital," Bobby looked over his shoulder. "There's an old barn back behind the salvage yard. We'll tell them Dean was messing around out there, up in the loft and the floor gave out and he fell through. I'll have Travis run back there and help the floor give out case the sheriff decides to come sniff around."
"Thanks Bobby." John nodded.
Dean's eyes began to slide shut again.
"Dean!" John shouted again, roughly shaking the boy.
Dean groaned in pain, clutching his side, and looked up at his father. "Dad, please, I'm just dizzy."
"Don't close your eyes!" John ordered.
Dean stared at his father, as if trying to bring the man into focus. And then he vomited all over himself, John, and the backseat of the car.
"Is he puking?" Bobby called from the front seat.
"Oh, yeah." John groaned.
"Told ya he had a pretty good concussion." Bobby nodded.
"I'm sorry." Dean moaned.
"You can't help it." John sighed.
"Just hang on, kid." Bobby looked over his shoulder again. "We'll be at the hospital in a few minutes."
"We gotta go get Sammy first." Dean wheezed.
"No, we're taking you to the hospital, and Sammy will come see you later." John vetoed. "It would scare the shit out of Sammy to see you like this."
"It's gonna scare the shit out of him when you come home without me." Dean pointed out.
"He'll get over it." John huffed.
Bobby dropped off Dean and John at the hospital, sent Travis to partially demolish the old barn, and cleaned out the worst of the blood and vomit from the backseat before going to fetch Sam.
Sam, as predicted, was very upset and demanded to be taken to the hospital immediately, where he sulked and didn't speak to John more than necessary.
Dean was diagnosed with three broken ribs and a broken arm on the left side, two broken fingers on his right hand, a moderate concussion, and contusions of his spleen and left kidney. He had to stay in the hospital overnight for observation.
No one questioned Bobby's story about the old barn.
Sam was allowed in to see Dean for just a few minutes, for Sam's sake rather than Dean's, as Dean was sedated and slept through the visit.
In the car on the way home, Sam looked over at John.
"When Dean comes home, I'll take care of him." the child promised. "I'll take care of him like he does for me. But please don't take him hunting anymore."
John sighed. "I probably won't take Dean hunting again for a long time. But he's a good hunter and he's going to want to keep doing it. I'm going to keep hunting. At least until we find the thing that killed your mother. We have to keep going until we do, Sam. You understand that, right? You don't anyone else's mother to die, do you?"
"No," Sam answered softly. "But I don't want my brother and my dad to die, either."
"Dean's going to be fine." John reminded him.
"This time." Sam murmured.
John didn't answer him.
The next afternoon, John had to take a set of clothes to the hospital to bring Dean home, as the ones he had been wearing had been cut off by the emergency room staff. When he started to put on his jacket, the sleeve wouldn't fit over his cast.
John looked from one son to the other.
"You know, both of you are outgrowing your jackets. Why don't you give that one to Sammy and take this one?" John slipped the worn leather coat from his shoulders and held it out toward his son.
Dean's eyes widened as he looked up at his father. "Are you sure?" he asked softly.
John shrugged. "Yeah, I got my old utility field jacket. Besides, every good hunter should have a leather coat. You gotta
show me you deserve it."
"I will." Dean breathed reverently, reaching for the jacket.
"I mean it." John warned. "No showing off or stupid moves. That's what gets people killed. You could be a great hunter if you wanted, Dean. Save a lot of people."
Dean nodded, Slipping his new leather jacket on with some help from his father. "I'm going to be the best one day."
Dean didn't see that way Sam looked at their father, as if John had stabbed his younger son in the heart.
That night, as Dean snored in a pain pill induced slumber, Sam crawled into bed beside him, snuggled against his brother's good side, and cried himself to sleep.