In Which a Regular Day is Anything But
1997, just outside Mission, SD.
It was a regular day; nothing new or special to make it stand out in the minds of the Winchesters. Their dingy motel room was familiar, though they had never stayed at this particular establishment before; eventually, the cheap motels that they frequented just blended together.
It was a regular hunt; a simple salt 'n burn. After the death of his wife in 1932, a Mr. Fredrick Connor went mad and killed three townspeople, slitting their throats, before he was caught. Since his death, any man, woman, or child who entered his property had been murdered in the same manner. The only catch was that his body had already been cremated; they assumed he was tied to something in the house.
It was a regular afternoon; Sam and John argued over the case, as per usual. Dean stepped in to mediate, as per usual. If Dean were a little more subdued than normal, nobody said anything.
It was a regular evening; John cleaned the guns while Dean packed the rounds and the gear while Sam tried to squeeze in last minute research.
It was just a regular day.
Until suddenly it wasn't.
"Fuck, Dad, Sam - get down!" Hearing Dean's shout, John dropped to the ground without a second thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam do the same.
Before John's body had even hit the floorboards the crack of a shotgun rang out above his head. Instinctively, John dropped his own gun to cover his ears, protecting them from the deafening sound as another shot was fired.
"There's more than one," Dean said, his voice tense but even as he ejected the spent rounds and reloaded his gun, not a trace of panic. John would've been proud of his son's control if he weren't panicking himself.
How can there be more than one?
"What!?" John jumped back to his feet, grabbing his shotgun off the ground beside him.
"We fucked up, Dad!" Sam snarled as he rose off the ground as well, his own gun in hand. "We aren't prepared for two pissed off ghosts - we don't know who the second one is, let alone what's holding it here!"
"Stand down, Sam!" John snarled right back, momentarily forgetting their situation. "I don't need your bullshit right now!"
Dean stepped in between his father and Sam, placing a hand on his brother's chest, effectively cutting off whatever snarky comeback he had prepared. "Yes, we fucked up – we fucked up. But right now, I don't give a damn about you two working out your shit." Dean pushed the two men apart roughly, and John stumbled backwards, not prepared for his son's anger. "If we don't get a handle on this situation, then nobody gets to be right because we'll all be dead!"
Both John and Sam paused. Dean's eyes were hard as diamonds, and his expression left no room for argument. Neither quite knew how to deal with an angry Dean; he was always the peacemaker, the go-between.
"Now both of you - Shut. Up." Dean pushed on both of their chests again, his lip curled in distaste. "If you two haven't noticed, Casper-the-not-so-Friendly-Ghost and his Mystery Date have gone incognito for the moment."
John looked around, quickly bringing up his gun, confused by his lack of attention to his surroundings. Apparently arguing with Sam gave him tunnel vision, a dangerous thing on a hunt, especially on one where they didn't hold all the cards.
"What are they doing? Why haven't they come back yet" John chose to ignore the fact that Sam had directed the question at Dean and not him. He also chose to ignore the fact that Dean had apparently taken charge of the situation, contradicting John's self-appointed position of commander.
"Regrouping," Dean replied shortly. "It'll take longer than usual; I packed our new rounds with salt and iron shavings to give them an extra kick; we should have a bit before they come back for us." Dean didn't look at either his father or brother, either not acknowledging or not noticing - unlikely - their looks of surprise.
"C'mon," Dean spoke quickly as he jogged down the stairs, his father and brother trailing behind him. "Since Casper was cremated the assumption is that he's being kept here by something in the house, right? And it's reasonable to assume the same for our surprise guest, right?" He paused for a breath, but didn't wait for a reply. "Then let's burn this whole motherfucker down." He turned back to his family once they reached the first floor, his face still hard with controlled anger.
Sam and John both nodded, silently agreeing that, while this argument wasn't over, they would hold off on it and follow Dean's lead.
"Good," Dean said, his voice tight, not betraying any emotion. "Sam, go get the gasoline out of the car - I packed an extra can." Sam nodded and took off. "Dad, you and I will start salting the place; use whatever lighter fluid you've got, too. I'll watch your back." John nodded, setting his gun down and pulling the materials out of his pockets.
"The whole house is made of wood, so it should burn pretty quickly once we get the fire really going," Dean said from behind him, more to himself than his father.
John just kept flinging salt and lighter fluid all around him. He was only slightly embarrassed when he jumped as his son fired two more shots from behind him. He knew at least one had missed its mark when he heard Dean let out a low curse.
"Hurry up, Sam!" Dean shouted, expelling the spent rounds and reloading.
"Got it!" Sam called out moments later, just outside the doorway, causing his father to look up. He noticed that Dean was facing away from the door, spinning in controlled circle as he kept an eye out for the spirit he hadn't hit.
"Dad, get -!" John couldn't hear the rest, but dropped to the floor for the second time that night, narrowly avoiding a chest full of rock salt and iron as well as the ghost behind him.
John looked up when he heard a strangled cry, just in time to see his eldest son rise to the top of the staircase, two stories high, held up by the neck by the ghostly form of Fredrick Connor.
"Dean!" John choked out, rising to his feet and taking off for the stairs, grabbing his gun off the floor and never taking his eyes off his eldest son. He wanted desperately to shoot the spirit, but dared not while it held his son two stories off the ground and when he wasn't even sure he could hit it accurately.
John felt a chill in the air once more, but it was cut off abruptly by another shot.
Sam, John thought, simultaneously relieved for his youngest son's help and worried for his safety.
"Hurry!" Sam called out from behind him, fear evident in his voice.
John continued his race up the rickety old steps, cringing internally at the weakness of the boards beneath his feet. It would be just his luck for one to break at a time like this. He could see Dean clutching at the ghost's grip on his throat, desperately trying to loosen it, desperately trying to breathe. His complexion had turned a disconcerting shade of blue and his eyes bulged, his legs kicking out weakly.
The mad spirit of Fredrick Connor leaned down to Dean's ear, whispering words that John couldn't quite catch before cackling madly, brandishing a straight razor and pressing it into the delicate flesh of Dean's pale throat, a spurt of red blood erupting from beneath the blade.
"No!" John howled, hefting his gun and taking quick aim before firing. His aim was true, and the ghost dissipated, but it hit his son as well, a pink cloud of blood blossoming in the air as Dean's body dropped like a stone. For a moment John regretted firing.
"Dean!" John and Sam let out twin cries, watching helplessly as son and brother tumbled through the air.
Time seemed to slow, allowing the two Winchesters to watch him fall in terrifying detail. They could both hear Dean's choked cry of pain and fear as he hurtled towards the ground. A sickening thud resounded through the still air as Dean's shoulder collided with the hand railing of the stairs, and they watched his panic stricken face lose all expression as he slid into unconsciousness before falling once more. He fell like a rag doll; no resistance, body twisting and turning. He landed on his side first, one arm trapped beneath him and the floor. The sound of Dean's flesh crashing into the floor made both John and Sam physically ill. The force of the fall sent him rolling, coming to a stop a few feet away, facedown.
And then there was silence. Both John and Sam stood stock still, frozen in shock as they stared at Dean's limp body, his arms and legs splayed out in odd angles and a pool of blood slowly growing beneath him as he lay on the filthy floor.
John was the first to recover, his voice deceptively emotionless. "Grab your brother and get him to the car. Leave the gas so I can finish these motherfuckers." Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean.
"Dad, I-"
"Now, Sam!"
The look Sam shot his father before rushing to his brother's side conveyed everything John needed to know, everything Sam felt.
This is your fault.
You didn't research enough.
You didn't listen to me.
You shot the ghost.
You let him fall.
This is your fault.
With one deep breath in and out, John expelled his emotions. Right now he couldn't afford to be a father; he needed to be a soldier. Dean needed him to be a soldier. If Sam hated him for it, then so be it. If he hated himself for it, then so be it. He rushed back down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Sam had recently hit a growth spurt, but still wasn't quite on par with his brother's six foot stature. Still, he was strong and motivated and Dean was skinny, and he managed to heave his brother's dead weight onto his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Not sparing his father another glance, Sam took off at the fastest pace he could manage.
Moving quickly, understanding that he likely only had a few more seconds until both spirits returned, John grabbed the gasoline from its place in the middle of the floor, flinging it out in wide arcs as he backed towards the front door. Just as he reached the entryway and ran out of fuel, a chill ran through his spine and his breath fogged in front of him.
"Burn in hell," John muttered as he drew an old Zippo lighter from his pocket, lighting it and flinging it into a puddle of gasoline.
SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN
John looked in the rearview as he drove away, grim satisfaction coming over him as he watched the house burn. The flames rose steadily, ever growing; red tongues licked at the graying wood, turning it black as coal. The mesmerizing flickering threatened to draw him into a memory he couldn't face on his best days, and the satisfaction dissipated.
"Dad, he still hasn't woken up," Sam's broken voice jarred him back to a reality no less horrifying than the memories he tried to escape, his youngest son's hands pressed tightly over the still bleeding gash in Dean's neck. "Why hasn't he woken up yet?"
John only pressed harder on the gas pedal in response; he had no answers that would satisfy his son.
The seconds dragged on like hours, and John knew he had to make a decision.
"Has the bleeding stopped? Did he nick a vein, an artery?" John asked, his voice carefully steady even as a storm raged inside him. "Does anything look broken – his neck, his back?"
"What are you… No, no. I've got it; the bleeding's mostly stopped," Sam responded, his own voice heavy with emotion. "There's a bump the size of a grapefruit on his head and it's bleeding a bit, but I think his back's okay. Something's wrong with his shoulder, though; dislocated, maybe."
John paused. "We're going back to the motel."
3… 2… 1.
"What?! No! Dean needs a hospital!" Sam raged right on cue. "Dad, no!"
"But what if he doesn't, Sam?" John snapped back, translating his fear and worry into the only emotion he'd ever really been capable of expressing - anger. "We can take care of Dean just fine on our own. You're both still minors. If CPS catches wind of another incident – especially one this bad – what do you think will happen? He's got goddamn handprints on his neck. I'll lose you and your brother, and you'll probably lose each other, too." He took a deep breath, trying to contain his sudden emotion. He couldn't bear to lose his boys; they were all he had left to keep him human. "Call Bobby; tell him where to find us. He can help."
"At least Dean would still be alive if we went to a hospital," Sam snapped back, but his voice had lost some of its passion; the mere thought of losing his brother took the wind right out of him. Dean's injuries were serious, no doubt, but, with the proper care, they wouldn't be life threatening.
Sam fervently prayed they could provide the proper care, and started searching for the phone he and his brother shared. Finally finding it in Dean's jacket pocket, he pulled it out, careful not to move to quickly or harshly out of fear of harming Dean any farther.
"Dean!" Bobby crowed happily through the line. "Finally decide to call me back, didja?"
"Bobby," Sam choked out.
"Sam?" Bobby's demeanor instantly changed, the uncharacteristic happiness morphing into the familiar gruffness. "What happened?"
"It's Dean; he's hurt. He's, he's hurt bad," one hand held the fat cell phone in a death grip while the other pressed a bloody rag to his brother's throat, trying to stem the bleeding.
"Fuck, and today of all the goddamn days; fuck," Bobby cursed, more to himself than Sam. "Where are you guys?"
"Just outside Mission; we're about an hour away from you. We're staying at the Red Heart Motel. Room 11."
A brief pause. "I'll be there in forty."
Click.
"What'd he say?" John asked tersely.
"He'll meet us in forty minutes at the motel," the heat was gone from Sam's voice for the moment, adrenaline gone and concern weighing him down.
Ten silent, tense minutes followed, the quiet punctuated by the painful, rattling breaths of Dean and Sam's murmured reassurances and pleas.
You're going to be okay, dude. Dad and I will patch you right up. Bobby's on his way.
Please, please just open your eyes. Wake up.
Hey, look. The bleeding's basically stopped.
C'mon, man, just say something. I'm begging you.
The Winchesters finally reached the Red Heart Motel. The dark lot was empty as John whipped the care in, and he felt a flash of gratefulness. There would be nobody to explain themselves to. He pulled into the parking spot just outside of the door and was climbing out of the car without bothering to switch off the ignition.
He ran around to the other side of the car, yanking open the door. Sam stared up at him, naked fear shining in his hazel eyes as he held his brother's head in his lap, one hand clamping a bloody rag to his throat. John swallowed his own fear as he looked down at them.
Dean needs a soldier, not a father.
"Pass him to me, Sam," John said quietly, feeling somehow that any loud noise would send his boy spiraling into oblivion. "I can carry him."
Sam didn't move a muscle, and John took his silence as acceptance, reaching down and carefully picking up his son's limp body. He heard Sam get out behind him, footsteps unsteady and shuffling.
"Open the door," John ordered quietly.
Hurrying to get in front of his father, a little bit steadier now that he had something to do, some way to help, Sam pulled the motel key from his pocket, hands shaking just a little as he opened up the door. John rushed in beside him, trying to keep steady to avoid jostling Dean any farther.
A quiet moan escaped Dean's lips as his head lolled back, the first sign of awareness he'd showed since the fall.
"Dean?" John murmured, his arms tightening ever the slightest as he moved over to one of the beds. "Dean?"
Another moan, louder and more painful that the last. Dean's eyes skittered back and forth underneath his eyelids, and his breath quickened, grew shallower.
"Dean!" Suddenly Sam was beside them, inches from his brother's head, drawn by Dean's pain.
Very carefully, very gently, John set Dean down on the bed, and was finally able to take in the full extent of his son's appearance. The bloody rag that had been covering the gash on Dean's throat had slid to his shoulder, revealing a two inch gash, fresh blood still welling up. There was blood on the pillow beneath his head, leaking from somewhere up in his hair, but seemed to not be bleeding as badly as it could've been. His throat was ringed by harsh hand-shaped imprints, which would no doubt leave a technicolor bruise. His breathing was still harsh and ragged, and John knew that he had broken a few ribs. His left arm was swollen at the shoulder, likely dislocated, and John thought he saw some blood seeping through his shirt.
Maybe I should've taken him to the hospital… No, wait for Bobby. He might as well be a doctor. He looks like hell warmed over. Too late for second thoughts, Winchester.The soldier and the father in him warred internally.
"Fuck me," Dean rasped out, the words sounding as though they had to claw their way out of his throat. His eyes flickered open, unfocused and dilated.
"Dean," Sam and John both breathed out, relieved that son and brother was indeed among the living.
"What ha-" he was cut off by one of the most painful sounding coughing fits john had ever borne witness to.
For a moment, all he could do was stare at his son as he struggled to sit up without using his bum arm as he was coughing into the other. It was the tears squeezing out of the corner of his eyes that spurred John into action.
He can't get a breath. He's afraid. The mere idea of his invincible, rock solid son being afraid tore John's heart apart.
And then John was there, gently lifting his son up, trying to ease the pain. The fit lasted a moment longer, and then Dean sucked in a rattling breath before going limp once more. John was caught between relief that he wasn't in pain when he was out cold and fear that next time he wouldn't wake up.
So John didn't put him down; he couldn't. Instead, he shifted over so that Dean was lying on his chest while his arms held him up. The warm little puffs of air into his shoulder and the feeling of Dean's heartbeat on his chest comforted John; let him know that his boy was very much alive. Holding his son in a way he hadn't been held since he was four, John couldn't help but notice how thin he was. Not just regular I-have-the-metabolism-of-a-jackrabbit teenage skinny, either. This was I-don't-eat-nearly-enough-food skinny.
"Dad?" Sam's soft, almost teary voice brought John out of his own mind.
He turned his head to look at his other son. "Yeah, Sam?" John kept his own voice soft, even.
"Is Dean… Dean's going to be okay, right?" Staring into his son's haunted eyes, John felt the father in him come out from the hole he'd hidden it in.
"Dean's going to be alright, Sammy. Bobby's on his way, and he's better than any doctor I've ever met."
John could see the disbelief in his son's eyes, but there was hope, too, and that was brighter. John hoped he wasn't lying.
Please, please be okay, Dean. We need you.
Careful not to jostle his son more than necessary, John reached around with one arm, trying to find where Dean was bleeding from on his head. Dean let out a soft moan but stayed unconscious when John's fingers brushed against a bump on his head, just above and behind his left ear. He drew back, his fingers covered with warm and sticky blood. Sam was right; the spot had swollen to grapefruit proportions.
"Go get clean towels," John whispered, still not letting go of his son.
For moment he thought Sam would protest, would beg to stay with his brother, or, worse, argue with John. But he only nodded and trotted over to the bathroom, coming back with two towels that had seen better days but were cleaner than the bloody oil rag they had been using.
John nodded, taking one towel and pressing it to Dean's head wound while Sam put pressure on the gash on his throat. Dean's brow furrowed, and he tried to move away from the pressure and the pain, but John held him tightly. Dean soon gave up his unconscious efforts at escape, slumping down in his father's arms once more.
"How long ago did we call Bobby?" John asked, keeping his voice to a whisper to hide the quiver he knew it would hold as well as to avoid waking his son.
Sam glanced at the clock between the two beds. "A little less than half an hour ago. He should be here in ten." John could tell Sam was fighting to put his emotions in a box, but he wasn't as practiced at the art as his father.
John nodded, his eyes drifting closed as his chin brushed against Dean's hair. He tried to ignore the feeling of wrongness when he noticed that his son's normally upright hair was matted down by sweat and blood, but he couldn't. And suddenly everything was wrong. This hunt had been wrong; John had been wrong; Sam had been wrong. And Dean – invincible, rock solid Dean - was hurt and afraid.
"What else did Bobby say?" John couldn't be in his own head anymore; he'd fall apart. His voice was slightly louder, more desperate, but if Sam noticed, he didn't say anything.
"He seemed angry," Sam whispered, his voice closer now. John opened his eyes to see Sam sitting right beside Dean. He was wiping at the blood that coated most of his throat with a wet towel that John hadn't realized he'd grabbed. "Not at first, though. When he thought it was Dean calling, he was happy; he asked if Dean had finally decided to call him back." Sam swallowed thickly and kept his head down. "Then, after I told him Dean was hurt, he got mad. Not at me, I don't think, at least. He just said 'Fuck, and today of all the goddamn days; fuck.'"
John decided that his youngest son's language was not the biggest issue here; besides, he'd been quoting Bobby. Then he registered the words and what they meant.
"Sam, why would today be worse than any other day?" John's voice was calmer, more even, but confused. Talking to Sam was helping to distract him from the feeling of the blood in his son's hair and the heat radiating from him in a way that couldn't be healthy.
"I dunno," Sam answered, frowning, his voice shaky still, but steadier than before as well. They both needed to get out of their own heads, it seemed. "What's today?"
John frowned, too. "January something?"
Sam's eyes widened a little bit, flooded with even more guilt than they already possessed. "Not the 24th, though, right?"
John furrowed his brow. "No, I think it is. What's the…" And then it came to him
Dean's birthday. Today is Dean's eighteenth birthday.
"Oh." John was shell shocked. Why hadn't Dean said anything? Why didn't he mention something, even a hint?
He did, dipshit.
And then John remembered that morning, how Dean had woken up bright and happy, contrary to his usual anti-morning attitude. He'd asked what they were doing today, and John and Sam had both looked at him funny before John said, "Hunting, remember?" And suddenly Dean's good mood had vanished; he got quiet, withdrawn. Neither John nor Sam had registered the behavior, not really. The only time did had said anything for the rest of the day aside from "Yes, sir," or "Sure, Sammy," had been to step in the middle of their argument before the hunt.
"We didn't even go out to breakfast," Sam said morosely, latching onto the simplest thing; it was easier to deal with not getting a celebratory meal than the prospect of his older brother dying on his own birthday.
"How could we forget?" John marveled at his own self-absorption.
Dean never really asked for much of anything; John couldn't even remember the last time he'd gotten his son a gift of any sort. It was easy to let him slip into the background when Sam was demanding that he listen, that he pay attention. But today should've been special, or at least it shouldn't have been forgotten. In any other family, turning eighteen would've been cause for an all day celebration; it had been in John's own family.
The sound of pounding at their door made Sam and John jump as well as waking Dean up. His eyes fluttered, his pupils unfocused and dilated, and he let out a pitiful moan.
Sam leapt to his feet, rushing to let in the only man who would come knocking at this hour.
"Bobby," Sam's voice was awash with relief.
The old hunter, normally gruff, seemed to sense the boy's need for some form of comfort, comfort than John was incapable of providing. He wrapped the teenager in a bear hug, crushing him, but Sam hugged back just as tightly. And then the hug was over, a manly pat on the back, and Bobby was all business.
Dean tried to push away from his father, his eyes still unclear, confused. John tried to ignore the feeling of his heart clenching in his chest. He looked up at Bobby, eyes pleading for help.
"Lemme go," Dean slurred his words, sounding even worse than he had just minutes earlier. John thought he could see blood spotting on the inside of his mouth and wondered how badly the inside of his throat was ton up from the coughing and the ghost choking him.
"Let him down gently, John," Bobby spoke softly but firmly, and John couldn't tell if the gentleness was directed at him or his son. Either way, he obeyed.
Dean blinked sluggishly as he was put down on the pillows, licking his lips and attempting to swallow. Bleary eyes cast about the room, but there was recognition at least.
"You're okay, boy," Bobby murmured as he pulled up a chair next to Dean, laying a heavy looking bag on the table beside him. "I need to check you out real quick, but I don't want you to much too much, okay?"
"M'kay," Dean mumbled, his voice still sounding as though it had been through a blender before coming out of his mouth.
For the next few minutes, John and Sam sat silent guard beside Dean's bed as Bobby poked and prodded and examined. Dean was only half conscious, it seemed, muttering half-hearted protests anytime Bobby hit something particularly painful. John knew Dean was definitely concussed; his eyes were still unfocused.
Bobby had to cut off Dean's shirt, seeing as he couldn't move well enough to do it himself. Bobby, John, and Sam felt their worries grow exponentially when Dean didn't even try to make a joke about 'not swinging that way'. Once his bare torso was revealed, all three had to hold in their gasps. Bruises were already covering most of his prominent ribs and abs, decorated by dozens of small nicks and cuts from the rock salt; John winced. His shoulder was swollen and slightly out of place – dislocated – as well as being covered by a just-scabbed-over scrape.
"Okay, son, I'm going to have to set your arm, okay?" Bobby broke the silence, his voice not as steady as it had been earlier. "I'm pretty sure you've just dislocated your shoulder, and it's going to hurt."
Dean nodded, licking his lips. " 'Kay."
Bobby's frown grew impossibly deeper at Dean's nonchalant agreement. "Take these first, though. They're Vicodin, to help with the pain." John chose not to question how he'd gotten the prescription pills in the first place.
Dean took the pills with his good hand and dry swallowed, wincing just a little.
The guttural sound that ripped its way out of Dean's throat when Bobby popped the shoulder back in almost gave John a heart attack, and Bobby managed to barely conceal a wince at the boy's cry of pain.
"That was awesome," Dean muttered, his breathing still heavy and labored. If anyone noticed the tiny tear tracks making their way through the dirt and grime covering his face, they didn't say anything.
Bobby said that the cut on Dean's neck would need stitches, and he would need to wrap his ribs as well. The cut above his ear wasn't as bad, and would probably only need a good cleaning and some gauze. He agreed with John that Dean had a concussion when Dean told him that he was holding up six fingers rather than two.
Thankfully, Dean passed out before the stitching could begin, for which all three other hunters were grateful. The thought of the injured hunter enduring any more pain, even if it were to help him, made them physically ill.
30 minutes, eight stiches, a rib-wrapping, a roll of gauze, and three ice packs later, and Bobby's work was done.
"One of you idjits want to explain to me how this happened?" Bobby asked, leaning over Dean to readjust an icepack.
"We messed up," Sam said quietly, staring morosely at Dean's freshly wrapped up torso, watching little pinpricks of blood stain the clean white.
"Well I can see that," Bobby said, his voice harsher than he intended. "But how in the hell did you two walk away clean and he nearly died? Dean's a damn good hunter, and this shit doesn't normally happen."
John winced at the observation, but it hadn't escaped his notice either. "Unlucky?" He offered by way of weak explanation.
Bobby shot him a look, but Sam didn't raise his head.
"We messed up," Sam repeated. "Dad and I messed up, and Dean tried to fix it. There were two ghosts when we only expected one, and then we couldn't find the bodies or whatever was keeping them here," his voice was choked with guilt. "And then Dad and I were arguing, but Dean stepped in and said to just burn the whole place down. And I went to get the gasoline while Dad and Dean salted the place, but one of the ghosts grabbed Dean." He finally raised his eyes, and the look of bottomless guilt made John wish he hadn't. "He tried to cut open his throat, but then Dad shot him, and he fell."
Bobby turned back to John, his eyes blazing. "You shot him?"
John's own temper flared at the accusatory tone. "It was either I shoot the ghost that was holding him, or let him get his throat slashed. So, yes, I shot him." The final sentence slipped past John's lips, and his stomach bottomed out.
I shot my son.
He buried his head in his hands, fighting tears. "Oh, Go. I shot him."
"Suck it up, both of ya," Bobby growled. Both Sam and John let their anguished eyes rise to meet Bobby's angry ones. "You ain't the ones you got shot, slashed, or dropped. Get over it. This isn't about you. Dean needs you two, but he doesn't need you belly-aching or at each other's throats."
John swallowed past the lump in his throat, trying to bury his emotions behind a wall, and he could see his youngest doing the same.
"Bobby?" Sam asked, his voice hesitant. "Just one more thing."
"What?" Bobby's voice was exhausted now, not angry. His own emotional toll in this situation was not light; he loved Dean like a son.
"When you thought it was Dean on the phone, when I first called…" Sam trailed off, and John had to swallow even more guilt; he knew where this was going. "When I first called, you said you'd called him earlier."
"I did," the gruff hunter replied; he knew where this was going as well. "Do you two know what today is?"
Sam and John both nodded, but only the older man could get the words out. "It's… It's Dean's birthday… We forgot."
We forgot.
Bobby's eyes hardened as his suspicions were confirmed. "Let me try and sum up your day for you: everything was business as usual. You two blew Dean off to argue with each other. And if he was a little quiet, a little more easily annoyed than usual, than you two couldn't give two shits. And then, the only time you two idjits give this him any form of attention – any at all – on his eighteenth birthday is when he's saving your sorry asses and almost dying in the process."
Sam swallowed thickly, and John could only look away. Bobby snorted and shook his head.
"God help him because he's going to need anything he can get around you two sorry asses."
"I'm sorry," Sam managed to force out.
"Don't apologize to me, boy," Bobby replied, his voice gentler, but still angry. "I ain't the one who got screwed here."
And suddenly all John could think about was everything Dean did for him and Sam. Stitched up wounds, helped with homework, cleaned the guns, cooked the food, practiced sparring, earned money, kept the car running, took care of them when they were sick, remembered holidays and birthdays – anything, everything. All the little things Sam and John never thought about, never noticed, and Dean took care of it. He was the only thing that kept them from falling apart. All John could think about was how little they did for him and just how badly Dean was getting screwed in this arrangement.
A low moan dragged all three men's attention back to the boy on the bed.
Looking around and noticing the faces surrounding him for the first time, his lips spread into a slightly loopy smile. Dean had always been a lightweight when it came to pills, even if he could hold his liquor. The childlike look of trust in Dean's eyes only ever really showed when he was doped up on meds.
"You guys look like shit." His words were still slurred, but he was slightly more coherent now that the pain pills had kicked in.
And with that, the tension in the room shattered. The three hunters let out half-hysterical laughs, beyond relieved that Dean was alive and functioning well enough to make jokes.
"You're one to talk," Sam teased back, his face infinitely less anxious with his brother awake and not completely delirious.
"Even on my worst days I look better than you, short stack," he shot back, razor blade voice making everyone wince just a little.
"I'm practically as tall as you!" Sam crowed indignantly. "And I'm still growing. Jerk."
"Bitch."
John and Bobby exchanged slightly confused glances when the boys both smiled at the final exchange.
"Ya damn idjits," Bobby huffed, shaking his head.
"You love us and you know it," Dean stuck his tongue out at the older man, who could only smile, relieved at the boy's animation after his listless behavior earlier. And it was kind of amusing to watch a nearly grown man behave like a petulant five-year-old.
"Hey, Dean," John said softly, drawing everyone's attention. His voice was vaguely uncomfortable, which confused Dean.
"Dad? What, did something happen -?" Dean's voice was suddenly vaguely frantic, and everyone heard the unspoken ending. -to you or Sammy? The fear in his voice reminded him of four-year-old Dean. "What do you mean mommy's not coming home?
John felt his heart break a little. Yes, something had happened, but it had happened to Dean. Because of him and Sammy. "Happy Birthday, son."
Dean sank back in his pillows, wide green eyes blinking owlishly. "Oh." The disbelief and shock coloring the simple word broke John's heart all over again. Dean glanced at the clock. 12:04. "Not anymore, it's not," he tried for snarky, but his voice just came out devoid of anything, aside from the razorblades he felt like he was swallowing.
"Yeah, about that," John trailed off, leaning forward with one hand rubbing at his neck.
"We're sorry, Dean," Sam jumped in. "We forgot, and we wrecked everything." John felt a perverse sense of relief and camaraderie at Sam's use of the word 'we'.
Dean just blinked again, his expression vaguely perplexed, as though he couldn't fathom why his family would feel guilty for forgetting his birthday and then almost getting him killed. He looked like a confused toddler for all intents and purposes.
How many damn times can my heart break in one night?
"It's cool, guys," Dean finally spoke. "Bobby called, wished me well." He turned to the older hunter at this. "Sorry for never calling you back, by the way. A little occupied," he motioned down at himself with his good arm, but he wasn't seeking pity so much as shooting for a really awful joke.
"We'll make it up to you, I promise," Sam jumped in, drawing his brother's attention back to him. "As soon as you're not seeing triple and not sounding like a blender, we'll make it up to you." Dean opened his mouth as though to wave off the offer, but Sam cut him off again. "With pie. We will make it up to you by going to the Washington Pie Emporium."
"Yeah? Bobby, too?" Dean looked cautious as his gaze drifted over the two elder men, seemingly unwilling to believe that anything good would just be given to him.
John smiled a little sadly, and Bobby nodded his head. "Yeah," they answered simultaneously.
The way Dean's eyes lit up reminded John just how easy it was to make his son happy, how innocent Dean could really be. It was the little things that mattered.
"Happy birthday, son," John said once more.
A/N: I intend on making and "In Which..." series, made up of drabbles that all kind of related to one another, but you can read separately just fine. Any way, read, review - let me know what you think. :)