Of Other Fathers II: Dean

He roused to a rising ache, a kindling pain that wouldn't let up. For some time, even in the weird system disconnect caused by painkillers, his body had been aware of the insult. And he remembered very clearly what that insult was: a bullet. It had entered his back, plowed its way through tissue and vessels, and parked itself just beside a rib, pushing against skin. A brief self-exam in the gas station bathroom had showed him the small knob of metal lying beneath the layer of bruised flesh. Hadn't looked like much, till he touched it.

Felt like a whole lot, then.

Darkness, mostly, where he was. The fire had died to embers. The only illumination in the room was produced by a dim overhead ceiling light.

Bobby's house.

As awareness increased, Dean recalled the dramatic arrival at the salvage yard, heralded only by his message left on voicemail, and no more than three words: "Bobby. We're coming."

It was enough. Always enough. Bobby Singer needed no more than that, to grasp the news. Hell, a phone call wasn't necessary. But a heads-up was always a good idea, especially when he was hauling along a gunshot victim. And was one himself.

Sam's wound, he knew, was of concern, because bullets were serious business. But once he'd pulled his brother out of the building in the aftermath of the shooting, once he'd gotten him into the Impala and away from the site, he'd found a gas station and pulled in. Sam was bleeding, Sam was hurt, but a quick inspection suggested the through-and-through wound in the meat of the shoulder was, as such things went, not critical. No foreign object in the flesh, and Sam could move the arm, even if it hurt like hell and provoked profanity. Dean hadn't been pleased to discover the Impala's first aid kit was low on supplies, but there was enough disinfectant, antibiotic swabs, gauze, and tape to patch up the kid before they sought real care at Bobby's.

Kid. Right. Sam hadn't been a kid for years. But always, to Dean, the baby in the family. His responsibility. Their father had made it plain. Since the age of four, Sam had always been Dean's responsibility. Even if it was twenty-four years after he'd carried his infant brother out of a burning house. This time he'd hauled him out of an abandoned building they'd entered chasing a haunt, only to discover a drug deal gone south. Two hunters, all unexpectedly, caught smack in the middle when the cops and bad guys opened fire.

Bullets had flown up, down, and sideways. Even as they hurriedly dove for cover in the midst of the maelstrom, one bullet entered and exited Sam's left shoulder. Another punched a hole right through Dean, back to front.

He felt—heavy. Weighted down. He lay on Bobby's couch on his back, legs slightly bent, with his head resting on a pillow set against the couch arm. A thin Army surplus blanket covered most of his body. He ached. He felt hot. He felt cold. He felt ill.

Mostly, he was pissed.

Somewhere in the house, an alarm buzzed. Not long after it stopped, or was stopped, Bobby appeared. The bearded, aging hunter with a slight paunch materialized out of the darkness of the kitchen. Dean squinted up at him hazily, still feeling the drugs.

"Hey," Bobby said, by way of hello.

"Hey," Dean responded, though mostly it was a cracked whisper, not much voice getting through. "Sammy?"

"Just gave him his meds," Bobby replied, "and about to do the same with you."

Dean cleared his throat. "How's he doing?"

"Breathin,' still. That's all that counts, for now." Bobby uncapped bottles, shook tablets into his palm. "Kid's okay. Spiking a low-grade fever, but he'll beat that. Here." He knelt, slipped an arm beneath Dean's head to raise it from the pillow.

Dean wanted to say he could manage by himself, but he knew it wasn't entirely true. He knew, too, that the meds were warranted. Stupid to insist otherwise, with a bullet in his body. So rather than protest, he suffered Bobby to aid him, to tip pills into his palm, to keep his head upright while he swallowed tablets, took down water.

Bobby set aside the bottle when Dean was done, displayed the digital thermometer. "Open wide, sunshine."

Dean practically spat out the thermometer when the beep sounded. "And?"

Bobby grunted as he observed the results. "101.6. Got Sam beat: his is just under 100. Something for you to brag on."

"Peachy." Dean drew in a breath, blew it out again through mostly compressed lips. Fresh drugs would take him soon, but for the moment he was intimately aware of the pain that radiated through his body back to front. Or front to back, depending on your perspective. "Thanks, Bobby."

The older man grunted. "Still say you need a hospital."

They'd been over this the night before. "Can't."

"I understand. Just sayin.'" With Dean flat on the couch, Bobby loomed over him. "Look, I'll tend the wound, stuff you full of antibiotics and such, but if your temp keeps rising, I'll do what I think's best. I'll come up with a story. I always do."

Dean shook his head. "There was a cop involved, Bobby. What kind of story will cover that? Hell, we don't even know if he's alive."

"I'll try to find out," Bobby said. "And how the hell did you and Sam end up in the middle of a drug bust, anyway?"

But Dean didn't attempt to explain. The meds were starting to work, starting to dull the edges of awareness. He still felt heavy, still felt like he might simply sink through the couch to the floor beneath—and maybe beyond that - but the ache in his body, the acid bite of the pain through his back and chest, felt more distant. Behind closed lids the world was at a remove. He welcomed that.

Before he tipped over the edge, he heard Bobby's heavy sigh, the gravelly mutter. "You and your brother'll be the death of me."

# # #

He roused to voices in the other room. He had no strength to so much as open his eyes. All he could do was listen. Try to process through the fog in his head.

Sam's voice was strident, verging on horrified. "Bobby, I didn't even know! Why didn't he tell me?"

"Worried about you," said Bobby, making it obvious. "What else would you expect? Just wanted to drag your ass back here and then deal with his own issues."

"I wasn't exactly at death's door," Sam snapped. "He should have looked after himself first. Dammit, I just sat there in the car thinking about the shoot-out, about my own damn self—"

Bobby was clearly annoyed as he cut him off. "For pity's sake, Sam, you got a bullet through your shoulder! Man's gotta right to think about himself with that going on."

" I just . . . dammit, Bobby . . . I just wish I'd known."

"Wouldn't have stopped him. It's what he's always done. It's what he'll always do."

Dean thought about that. Yes, it was what he did. Always would. He couldn't comprehend why Sam might feel he should have done something else.

"—my job . . . " he murmured. "Sammy."

"Now you," Bobby snapped, "had better lie yourself back down. You're hardly fit to go stompin' around the place, and you're still running a fever."

"Bobby —"

"I ain't pickin' up a human pine tree in the middle of my kitchen if it falls over. Lie down, Sam."

A wisp of a smile crossed Dean's face as no further commentary issued from the other room. Then consciousness weakened, wavered. He let it go.

# # #

When he awoke again, his brother was speaking.

"I can sleep on the couch, Bobby. Let's get him into bed."

Sam's voice, low with its clean timbre, so different from Dean's grit and rasp, came from very close by. Dean managed to defeat the weights on his eyelids for a brief, hazy moment, saw his brother sitting on a kitchen chair drawn up close to the couch. He wore a clean shirt in place of the bloodied one Dean had taken off him the day - two days? three? -- before, and was perched so close to the edge of the chair he might well pitch right off as he tilted his long torso forward, forearms resting across his thighs. Shaggy brown hair was hooked behind his ears. With eyebrows knitted, he stared hard at his brother in a mixture of emotions that spoke clearly of concern, even a trace of fear.

Dean wished instantly to dismiss that from the dark eyes. No reason for fear, Sammy. Promise.

"I don't want to move him," Bobby said. "At least, not that much. But I gotta change out those bandages on his back, treat the wound. You okay to help with that?"

"I'm good," Sam answered. "Whatever you need."

Swallowing took tremendous effort, but Dean managed. He pushed a single word through the dry mouth. "—Sammy? "

"Dean. Hey." Sam slid off the chair, knelt on the floor closer yet, stationing himself between the table and the couch. "How you doing?"

"—you," Dean said.

"I'm fine. I'm good. Bobby says I'm over the worst." He touched his left arm briefly, acknowledging his own wound. "It's okay. But we gotta get you better."

"Try sitting on the arm of the couch," Bobby directed. "I'll lift him, you hold him. That way I can reach his back. And let's get the shirts off him while we do it. I didn't want to disturb him for that before now, but it needs to be done."

Detachment. Distance. He didn't float, but he felt disembodied, except for the pain. It pinned him to the couch.

And then it was worse, much worse, because Bobby slid hands beneath his shoulders, lifted, pushed, aimed him toward Sam who now sat on the arm of the couch, who caught his arms and held him upright as Bobby cut away the remains of two shirts stiff with dried blood and stripped them from his body.

Dean could not restrain the sharp exhalation of shock, the outrush of gasped breath through a constricted throat. And then Sam hooked one arm around him, almost like an embrace, and eased him close. Dean tried to hold himself upright, but nothing in his body obeyed. He just slumped against his brother, clamped one hand around Sam's forearm and clung, hanging onto consciousness. Barely.

Bobby peeled off tape, removed a gauze pad. Dean felt the brush of air against his bare back, the chilling bite of it in the edges of the wound.

"How's it look?" Sam asked, from somewhere over Dean's head.

Bobby didn't answer immediately. Dean felt careful fingertips exploring his skin. And then, "Could be worse, I reckon. Okay, Dean, no joke—this is going to hurt. I'll use lidocaine again, but it won't do much. Gotta clean it again."

Cold and wet, the swab against his flesh. An involuntary shudder shook his body, hard. Set the flesh on his bones arising.

Sam stuck a hand against his brow. "Bobby—he's hot."

It cried out for the obvious response. Even as clarity frayed, Dean managed a faint smile. Against his brother's shoulder, he slurred, "- 's what all the girls say . . . "

And Sam snickered, which was exactly what Dean desired, because it meant for a moment, just a brief instant, that his brother wasn't worried. He didn't want him worried. That was part of the job, too.

Bobby grunted. "Boy could be on his deathbed, and thinkin' about the ladies."

But he wasn't thinking about ladies anymore, or making Sam snicker. It was consciousness he wanted. It seemed precariously fragile all of a sudden, drifting inexorably away. Then Bobby began to apply something to the wound in his back, and he grayed out. Just—faded.

Sam felt it, took his weight, tightened the arm hooked around his shoulders, steadied him against his chest. "It's okay . . . Dean, it's okay. I've got you."

The candle of consciousness flickered. Dean tried to shift away from the pain as Bobby worked. Against his will he sucked in a hard breath he instantly regretted, expelled it as a brief, teeth-gritted, ragged groan against Sam's chest.

"Hang on," Sam said. "Just hang on, Dean. Bobby -?"

"It's clean," Bobby said. "No fresh bleeding. Okay, I'm done with the bandaging—you can let him back down. Easy."

Dean shuddered, and that hurt worse. But hands were on him, hands that held him, steadied him, kept him together. He was lowered to the couch once again, and Bobby dropped the blanket over him, covering his bare chest.

"Sam, I've got bedding in the linen closet. Grab a couple more blankets, will you?"

Sam said nothing, but his presence disappeared. Dean pressed his tongue against his lips. Dry dry dry. He had no saliva to moisten them. Through the barest crack of open eyes, he saw the thermometer approach just as Bobby stuck it into his mouth. And then Sam was back, and Bobby, removing the thermometer, said, "105.7. Not likin' this. Goin' the wrong direction."

Sam bent, arranged a heap of blankets. "He's shivering, Bobby."

The world contracted. Dean's eyes widened. Everything around him, including people, was suddenly flat, black-and-white, of one dimension only.

"—what-" he managed. "—hey—"

"Okay," Bobby said, but not acknowledging him, speaking only to Sam, "we're gonna have to be a little more aggressive. Sam, get some ice packs out of the freezer, wrap 'em in towels. You know the drill. I'm gonna push fluids."

"—what—" Dean repeated, and once again lost track. What, where, how, when, why. He didn't know answers to any of them.

"It's okay, Dean. I've done it before. Outta practice so you'll feel the stick, but what's a little pain between friends?"

The world abruptly snapped into place. He saw in three dimensions again. Bobby was into his big medical box, pulling out supplies.

And Sam was back, juggling towel-wrapped ice packs. "One under his neck," Bobby directed. "Stick a couple more at waist level, snugged right up against him. I'm gonna set up an IV drip, get saline and electrolytes into him. And Sam - once you've got the ice packs in place, bring me that floor lamp from over in the corner."

As Sam bent close to place the ice packs, Dean saw his dark hazel eyes turn a clear, brilliant, undeniable yellow.

# # #

He came up hard, lunging, grabbing for the knife, the knife, the blade that could stop a demon dead in its tracks, send it straight back to hell.

No knife.

-where the hell's the knife-?

"Crap!" Bobby blurted. "Sam!"

Flame sheeted his flesh. It was all he could do not to shout aloud with it.

-knife- -knife-

No knife.

The demon grabbed his biceps. "Dean! Dean! Stop!"

The demon with Sam's voice.

"—send you to hell—" Dean promised.

And Bobby in the midst, trying to intervene, putting hands upon him. "Dean! Dean, stop!"

He glared at Sam, displaying teeth in feral promise. "—send you back to hell, you yellow-eyed sonuvabitch!"

"—delirious," Bobby said tersely. "Dammit, Dean, you're doing yourself a world of hurt!"

Sam's voice, the demon's voice, words all run together: "DeanDeanDean."

And then the wild, rage-fueled strength deserted, abruptly and absolutely. Ran out, spilled away, flooded from his body. He said nothing, did nothing, as they pressed him down upon the couch. Pain burned in his bones.

Sam's hands—Sam's hands, not a demon's (oh Jesus, what had he done? Said?) - remained on his shoulders, holding him down. "We need to do something, Bobby. Knock him out before he hurts himself."

"What he needs is a hospital!"

"You told me the cop died, Bobby! We can't risk it! How do we explain we were hunting? They'll dump his ass in jail, and mine, too, probably."

Bobby muttered something vicious beneath his breath. "Look, all I've got is oxy, a little hydrocodone. Oxy is what I've had you both on. Probably shouldn't, but I'll double the dosage, see if that will shut him down for awhile. Dammit, Dean . . ."

Dean, verging on incoherency, gazed blankly up at them both. "Where's the knife?"

It baffled Sam, who frowned. "I've got it."

"—'kay. Good. Keep it." He closed his eyes. "Don't give it to me."

"Fat chance," Bobby said dryly. "Here, Dean. Take these. Can you manage?"

Dean needed them to understand. Needed Sam to understand. "It was Yellow-Eyes. In your body."

Sam's brows shot up, but his tone was easy. "He's gone, Dean. He's not here. I promise. Take the pills, okay?"

That much, he could accomplish. He thought. His hand shook, but he tipped the pills into his mouth. Bobby presented the bottle of water, helped guide it toward his lips.

He swallowed the tablets. Two more than before. Washed them down with water. His breath ran loud, a string of clipped exhalations. "I thought—I thought—ah hell, I thought it was him. Sammy—"

Sam smiled, dimples flashing. "Forget about it. The fever's made you delirious, that's all. And there's no way I'm letting you have the knife."

"Good. Good." Dean closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing. "Jesus, it was so real . . ."

"You blew that yellow-eyed mother to hell," Bobby stated, with explicit clarity. "Literally. He's gone, Dean. You can stand down. You can rest."

The edges of his vision were fraying. Bits and pieces, like tattered cloth, were blowing away. It was more difficult to blink, because his eyes wanted badly to seal themselves closed. Impossible to think.

He knew what Bobby meant. But he was too much the hunter, and rest was never certain.

"Dean." Sam knelt next to the couch. He wrapped one big hand around Dean's forearm, squeezed it briefly. "You killed him. And Dad was there to see it. Remember? He saw it all."

That, he did remember. John Winchester, dead but no demon, had made his way through the hellgate in that Wyoming cemetery, had seen his firstborn son use the Colt and the last hoarded bullet. The mission, the obsession, was ended. Mary was avenged, his youngest son was safe, and the eldest had accomplished what the father could not.

"Rest," Bobby said quietly. "Let it go, Dean. Sam and I are holding down the fort."

For at least that moment, he believed it possible. And let it go.

# # #

When he roused, it wasn't to the yellow-eyed demon. It was to clammy lumps of melted ice packs shoved against his bare torso, a needle in his elbow, catheter taped to his arm, and medical tubing that ran from the cath to a bag of fluids hanging from, of all things, a friggin' floor lamp.

It was so completely incongruous all Dean could do was stare at the bag of Ringer's taped to the lamp. After a moment he filed that vision into memory.

Well. No hospital, then. They'd listened to reason.

It appeared to be daytime. The ceiling light was turned off, and the fire was a doornail. What part of daytime, he couldn't tell. It felt a little like morning. Maybe.

Pain was present, but not overwhelming. His torso was bare under layers of blankets. Dean lifted away fabric, peered down his chest from an awkward position with his head against the couch arm. Saw a hump of gauze taped against his ribs. That was nothing, a couple of scalpel slices. The back wound was a different story. But mending, he thought.

He pressed the back of his left hand against his forehead. Hell, who knew? He'd never been able to judge his own temperature. But he felt damp, a little warm, and incredibly wrung out, awash on exhaustion.

He wanted a shower. He wanted a beer.

Neither, he supposed, would be forthcoming any time soon.

He considered his elbow, hosting needle and tubing. Looked again at the bag of Ringer's depending from the lamp. Flaccid. Deflated.

It took many hours for a bag to empty itself into a vein.

He heard a step at the threshold between kitchen and living room. "Ah," Bobby observed, "it's alive. And how does it feel?"

Dean licked his lips, cleared his throat. "Quasi human. Mostly like roadkill. Really, really dead roadkill."

"Appropriate," Bobby said, "considering that's pretty much what you look like." He crossed the room, grabbed the thermometer on the coffee table, presented it to Dean to do the deed himself.

Left-handed, Dean went through the motions. When the beep sounded, he squinted at the digital readout. "Hah! 100.2. That's human, not roadkill." He looked up at Bobby. "How's Sam?"

"He crashed. Sat up with you most of the night, until I pointed out that he would be of absolutely no assistance whatsoever should you need said assistance, if he didn't get some sleep." Bobby shrugged. "Shoulder's sore, of course, but his temp's normal, and he ate half a cow last night. Reminded me of you."

Dean read between the lines easily enough. Bobby was unspeakably, vastly relieved by the improvement in his formerly fragile patient. And it would remain unspoken.

"I'd like a cow," Dean said meditatively, "but I'd start with a cheeseburger. Extra onions. Chiles, even, if you've got any." He tested it. "Maybe a beer?"

"No booze till you're off the oxy," Bobby said, predictably.

Dean twitched his right arm. "You gonna unhook me?"

Bobby came all the way into the living room, checked the bag. "Little bit left yet. Let's get our money's worth."

Left-handed, Dean dug out a towel-wrapped ice pack from beneath his side. "Think that puppy's done." He pulled another from under his neck. "You can have the others, too."

Steps sounded. Sam appeared from the kitchen. A crease ran down the left side of his face, and the hair, uncombed, resembled nothing so much as a haystack blown apart by a microburst.

Dean grinned. "You're rockin' that whole bedhead look."

Sam frowned, squinted, ran both hands through his hair to sweep it from his face and hook it behind his ears. "That's just rude."

Dean smiled. Then he grinned. And Sam grinned back.

Who needed words?

The world was right again. Even if most of his body ached like a sonuvabitch.

Nothing new.

~ end ~