A/N: This story was written for the Christmas Challenge over on UnGen. The rules were to show one or both of the brothers at the age of 8, 12 and 25 "celebrating" Christmas. And if you have read my other stories -apart from the wee!chesters- you will know that I tend to make 'em suffer rather than let them enjoy a warm and lovely Christmas.
The story is set before the first season and flashbacks to Christamases past will show us a few more wee!chester moments.
Thanks to my betas... all the mistakes left in this story are mine. They did their best! And special thanks to gaelicspirit for her beta/comment thingy. So made my day, gaelic. Still makes me smile to think about it.
Right, enjoy...
In and Out
by RoweenaC
Christmas Eve 2004
Minnesota
cabin in the middle of nowhere
late night
The wind howled around the corners of the shack, rattling at the wood panels and windows as if an unbidden visitor forcefully demanded entry. A myriad of snowflakes were swirling in dazzling, turbulent spirals down to earth, spreading a fluffy, chilling blanket over the frozen ground and silencing all evidence of life. The bare-branched trees, dead, shriveled hands spearing through the white forest soil, creaked in the storm, never allowing the snow to settle on their fingers for longer than the blink of an eye. As the daylight waned, the snowflakes started to twinkle and shine reflecting the glow emanating through the small windows of the ancient hut. An eerie orange half-light bathed the clearing. Just beyond the last sparkle of brightness the world seemed to morph into a dark, far-reaching, unfathomable forest, menacing to draw closer, to invade the warmth and make-believe safety of the cabin's interior.
~I a O~
A log exploded with a loud crack snatching the hunter back into the present. Abruptly sitting up, he instinctively switched to a higher state of awareness, ready to fight and kill. The sudden and sharp movement, however, jarred at his injuries and he was barely able to conceal the agonized gasp tumbling from his mouth. The sound of another wood-burning explosion jerked his head around toward the fire, sending a red hot painful bolt of lightning whizzing up a nerve track in his neck. Dean almost expected to see the wendigo crawling down the chimney like a twisted version of Santa bringing lethal gifts ... No. He had killed the sucker, hadn't he?
The early harbingers of a high fever wracked his system, befuddling his mind. Therefore, Dean had to amplify his efforts to recall the day's events clearly and reassure himself that he had indeed ended the creature. A scowl deepened his pained expression as he remembered the messy, bloody finale of the arduous struggle with the beast. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him at the mental images uncoiling behind his now closed eyelids.
~I a O~
Christmas Eve 2004
Minnesota
deserted woods
Early morning hours
The wendigo lashed out at him with one overstretched, bony arm ending in a talon, spiked with long, jagged nails, undoubtedly tainted with putrefied vestiges of previous meals. In the same instant, Dean threw his last homemade Molotov cocktail at the creature. Both opponents seemed to have frozen in motion for the tiniest moment in time, eying each other and calculating their counterpart's chances of survival. Then, both attacks struck their respective targets. The wendigo's claw tore a deep, disgustingly sticky gash across Dean's lower abdomen, blood spattering the thin layer of snow with angry red droplets in a wide range to the hunter's right. Dean howled in agony, clutched his belly with his right, and doubled over, reaching out in front of him to stop his fall with his left hand. It sunk into the icy sheet, chilling him instantly, sobering his pain-befuddled brain and enabling him to process coherent thoughts for a few seconds.
Gazing up at the creature looming over him, a malevolent grin spread across his sweaty face. He hissed a sarcastic "burn, you fugly sonuvabitch, burn" between his clenched teeth as his left arm gave way under his body's full weight. The hunter sagged forward into the wet, frosty whiteness, his consciousness, oddly enough, staying behind on that same spot he had just occupied while watching the torch-formally-known-as-wendigo burn to a crisp.
~I a O~
When he came to after who knew how long, he felt deathly cold, teeth chattering wildly and his fingers stiff and unable to move. Painfully, he attempted to breathe them back into motion, only to be reminded that breathing meant moving his upper torso. That part of his body seemed to have melded with the ground and on commencing to blow into his fists he realized that " melded with the ground" obviously equaled "painful stabs at his lungs and gaping cut". Instantly, he felt the world tip on its axis due to the lack of oxygen and he closed his eyes to concentrate on shallow, less torturous breaths.
In... Out... In... Out...
It worked. His chest slowly rose and fell and with each motion his body was able to peel off of the ground a little further. Wincing and gagging at his blood-red shadow imprinted in the snow, Dean looked toward the smoldering heap of the wendigo, finally succeeding in hoisting himself up on his numbed knees, swaying precariously. Finally, the numbness in his hands slowly reduced and he cursed under his breath as the blood returned with agony into his hypothermic extremities. Freezing never hurt as bad as the much-desired warmth. Another memorable lesson learned.
~I a O~
Dean would never truly find out how he had finally made his way back to the ramshackle hut he had rented over the last three days. The trip had taken at least an hour, though he had trouble making a precise estimation due to his numerous collapses and blackouts highlighting his trek.
During the last tedious leg, the soft snow-fall had mutated into a fully grown blizzard rendering it nigh impossible to see let alone stand straight. Trusting in his skilled sense of direction, Dean only recognized the cabin the instant he stood directly in front of the wooden door. Exhausted and
close to collapse yet again, he leaned against the brittle wood frame and pushed hard against the handle. The door swung open with loud creak unheard by Dean as the heavy gales howling around him ripped the dry, shrill sound away. Staggering and swaying, he crossed the threshold and peered into the half-light dwelling in the mold-scented room. Before he could thankfully sink into the sofa, his knees buckled and his body, unbalanced and exhausted beyond tolerance, simply folded in on itself, crumpling down to connect jarringly with the timber floor boards. Consciousness fled, leaving him to the embrace of the indifferent darkness.
~I a O~
Christmas Eve 2004
Minnesota
cabin in the middle of nowhere
late night
Still wincing from the abrupt movement that nagged at his continuously seeping belly wound, he huffed between clenched teeth and berated himself for his nervousness.
His left hand cupping the deep, angry gash beneath the torn fabric of the t-shirt, he made a conscious effort to breathe without enhancing the tearing sensation that had grasped his whole body in its red hot fists. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In and out. In. Out. Slowly, subtly the voice in his head lecturing him through the breathing took on another tone. Harsher, deeper, urgent. Almost frantic. Alternating with a lost and sad nuance.
~I a O~
Christmas Eve 1987
Kansas, outskirts of Dodge City
Bel Air Motel
"Breathe, dammit! In! Out! In! Out! Come on, buddy!" Dean's panic filled eyes flew back and forth between his dad, frantically massaging the small chest, and his baby brother's lifeless face, tears still moistening his usually rosy cheeks. The boy's tender, soft skin had taken on a ghostly pallor highlighting the bluish tinge lacing his thin lips.
Dean bit down hard on his bottom lip, frozen to the spot, unable to move and watched. Watched as his father's eyes filled with tears and his chin quivered in despair. Watched as his brother's still form remained unresponsive. Watched as his father yelled out a few choice expletives and desperately called his sibling's name.
"Sammy!"
He heard John's voice break on the last syllable and panic filled his heart threatening to crush it like glass. This was bad. This was real bad. He had seen his dad like this before. That night. That night mom had... gone. Had left him, Sammy, and daddy forever. That night that had destroyed his small, safe world so completely. Seeing his father so broken again, fighting so desperately, hopelessly, brought home to him with a sickening jolt just how messed up the whole business, hell, their whole lives really were.
~I a O~
It had started out as a pretty normal evening. By Winchester standards and ignoring the fact that kids all over the world would never in their wildest dreams describe Christmas Eve as a normal evening. In fact, that would have been preposterous to any other kid. Dean, however, was for once happy on this 'normal' day. His dad was home for the first time in two weeks and as an additional treat he had brought a few gifts and some candy together with a small, battered tree. Dean's heart threatened to burst with glee.
However, just after dinner fate had caught up with Winchesters once again. Their kind of fate. Sam and Dean had just snuggled down on the worn out pull-out sofa and were watching a late night special of the Twilight Zone happily teasing each other by throwing M & M's from the fresh supplies at one another. One of the crunchy pearls -a sneaky, shifty orange one, always Dean's least favorite ones - aimed at Sam's cheek went rogue. Just in the same second the missile had left Dean's hand, Sam had turned his head to look at his big brother. Grinning broadly, mouth wide open as he was about to wish his big brother a "Merry Christmas", and share his naïve joy with the normality of this memorable night.
The orange missile, however, stubbornly held its course and impacted painfully in Sammy's soft palate. The small boy's mouth snapped shut automatically and he began to choke on the tiny projectile. His face quickly turned a deep, menacing red whereas his eyes flew open and bulged, threatening to pop out of their sockets. Angry, scared tears soaked his chubby cheeks while his mouth opened and closed rhythmically, imitating a fish on dry land.
Dean was paralyzed. At least for the first three nanoseconds. Then reason caught up with his unresponsive limbs and he jumped into action. Quickly shuffling over to his suffocating baby brother on hands and knees, cursing the twisted blankets and the amount M&M's scattered on the mattress as they dug painfully into his bare skin, bruising the tender flesh beneath it, Dean called out for John, who had gone for a quick, hot shower a few minutes ago to rinse off the remnants of his last hunt.
"DAD!!!!"
Panic unmistakable in Dean's voice, John hurtled out of the bathroom barely taking time to grab a towel and skidded to a halt next to the kids' bed. Gazing down in horror at his youngest child's now unnaturally still form lying next to Dean, John's knees threatened to buckle. Just in time to catch himself from falling, he knelt down and began to shake Sam. Quickly glancing at his older son's teary and guilt-ridden face, he ignored the silent plea for assistance and guidance but instead he bellowed out.
"What the hell happened, Dean? Has he swallowed something? You were supposed to watch out for him!"
Dean winced as if John had hit him straight across the face and tried to answer coherently, yet he failed miserably.
"I... it... it.. w's 'n accid -dent... I d-didn't ... it j-just... 'm sorry..."
Dean's voice trailed off as powerful sobs shook his body violently and his chin started quivering uncontrollably. Flinching away from his father's unforgiving, hard stare, Dean clambered off the mattress and shrank back towards the wall opposite the bed.
From this vantage, he was able to watch yet not disturb his father and brother. Hands clenched into fists, so tight the knuckles stood out white against his skin, arms hanging limply at his sides, he was unaware of the tears streaming down his face so pallid that his complexion rivaled Sam's. Frightened green eyes fixed on the terrible scene unfolding in front of him, he stood. Silent. Shuddering. Helpless. Writhing inwardly in guilt.
"Sammy? C'mon, buddy. Wake up! Breathe!"
John huddled over the terrifyingly small, weak body. He brought Sam up into a half sitting position and shook him. Brown, worried eyes gazed intently at the kid's face, eager to detect a single sign of life. When Sam's lips began to turn purple, John panicked. He turned Sam around, the boy's back nestled against his strong, muscular chest, and John pulled Sam's right arm with both hands towards the unmoving, frail-looking ribcage and jerked forcefully, yet with care, and the small arm buried itself into the sternum below the stomach. Sam's diaphragm responded with a sudden hitch but to no avail...
After the third futile attempt at the Heimlich maneuver, John rushed through all methods his terrified brain would offer, willing his youngest to "Breathe!" again. John was bathed in sweat after 30 seconds. Panic wreaked havoc inside him. He had tried turning Sam upside down. He had shaken him. Patted his back almost hard enough to shatter the juvenile spine. Nothing. Breathless silence.
"Dammit! Sam, breathe!"
John changed tactics and gently lowered his son down to the hard, cool floor and overstretched the thin neck far back so that even the smallest amount of oxygen might travel through Sam lungs and flush his hypoxic body with the sorely needed breath of life. Dean just stood there silently, horror-struck, as his dad pinched Sam's nose shut and blew life into his mouth and cheered his son on to breathe in the short pauses in between each blow. In and Out. In. Out.
Dean watched, never turning away, wincing with each too short huff being followed by stillness. Watched as his desperate father clamped his strong hands around Sam's frail looking upper arms and shook Sam, his head snapping, back and forth, twisting as if to look at Dean, turning away again, hanging lifelessly on his slim neck. Dean swallowed hard noticing the fine red traces of bruises blossoming on the thin arms and subconsciously rose his hands to his own biceps protectively as if his father's clenched fists had bruised his limbs.
The actions carved deep into his soul and leaving behind an eternal imprint. His fault. He had screwed up. Sam was his responsibility. He had let Sam down. And he had let his dad down. What kind of a son and brother was he?
'Please, don't let Sammy die. It's my fault. Blame me! Take me instead!'
Unsure who he was praying to, he stopped and pressed his lips together, allowing a glimpse at the defiant, determined hunter he would one day become.
'No! I screwed up, I can make it right. I will make it right.'
His mind quickly assessed the situation in front of him. John was covered in sweat from minutes of fruitless mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and mild tremors had gripped hold of his arms and hands. Sam was still lying on the floor, not breathing, wasting away like snow in an unnaturally hot winter's sun.
Pulling together all his courage, inhaling one deep breath, Dean stepped towards his father and gently laid a hand on the bare shoulder, surprised at how easy it suddenly was to touch his authoritative dad.
"Dad? Please. Lemme help?"
Although phrased as a question, Dean radiated self-assuredness as he was fraught with the certainty that his help would make a difference. John sensed his son's determination and allowed himself a quick glance at his eldest, appreciating the boy's effort. He shuffled over making room for Dean to quickly step over to Sam's other side, where Dean knelt down and took hold of the limp, clammy hand. The eight-year-old bent forward, face coming to rest right above Sam's and spoke softly.
"Sam? Sammy? Can you hear me?" No answer. Not even a twitch. Dean retried with a different approach and prayed it would work while he squeezed Sam's hand tightly.
"Hey, Sammy? You gotta wake up now, midget! It's Christmas, we gotta open the presents, now." On a hunch, he amended, "OK. I'll have yours then. You won't need 'em anymore..." Praying silently against better judgment and feeling guilty as hell for the mean challenge thrown at his unresponsive baby brother, he pulled back and allowed his dad room to recommence the decompressions. His hand never leaving Sam's, he watched closely as he muttered under his breath a steadily flowing mantra of "Come on, come on, come on!"
And then there it was. A small line formed on Sam's forehead spreading upwards from the bridge of his nose and finally vanishing into floppy brown strands of sweaty hair. Sam frowned and squeezed Dean's hand gently.
At that same moment John leaned forward to recommence mouth-to-mouth.
"Wait!" Dean's voice cut across John's stupor, into which the monotonous actions to save his younger son had driven him.
He looked up into Dean's face, an unvoiced question etched into his expression.
Dean answered accordingly, "Look at him, dad. He's coming around..."
Disbelief roaring inside him, egging him on to recommence his administrations, John focused on Sam's face. There it was indeed. Dean was right. Barely visible, but unmistakably there. The life-signs he had been desperately praying for over the last painfully prolonged minutes. Sam's lips trembled slightly and his eyelids quivered as he fought to pry open his eyes. A frown line etched the four-year-old's forehead. A Sammy-frown, always indicating a feeling of injustice he himself or others might have been subjected to. Beside himself, John gasped out a breath he had been holding to blow into Sam's obstructed lungs. The air whooshed out in a short bark somewhere between sob and laugh.
Cupping the child's head in his large surprisingly gentle hands, he addressed Sam, tears dripping down on the boy's face, which in turn deepened the frown line etched on his pallid, sweat beaded forehead.
"Hey, Sammy? Buddy. Open your eyes. Open 'em, boy." Gentle words of comfort flowed over his father's lips as Sam finally had the strength to open his eyes.
Sam worked his throat, fighting the urge to gag against the presence of a foreign body agonizingly stuck in his windpipe. The obstruction needed removing should he ever be able to breathe freely, to flush his protesting lungs with fresh air. His diaphragm twitched and reflex took over. A shuddering cough seizure shook his whole body, white hot pain stabbed at the base of his brain as hypoxia took its agonizing toll and he squeezed his eyes shut one more time. Dean gently enforced the pressure on his sibling's hand and Sam answered gratefully by opening his eyes a fraction, allowing a thin hazel line to surface.
The chocolate bullet, however, continued resisting for a few terrifying moments until the tag team Saliva and Cough finally worked the miracle. Following a high, arched trajectory the orange villain was ejected and landed unnoticed - and soon forgotten - in a far corner of the room, where a cockroach would thank its creator for a truly generous Christmas present later that night.
Sam felt sick and tired. And his throat resembled the surface of the sandpaper. Swallowing hard, willing moisture to soften the raspy sensation in his windpipe, Sam opened his weary, frightful eyes and looked up at the frantic, brown gaze of his father.
"Da-ha... ddy?" A hoarse whisper issued between dry lips. Dean made to get up and get some water for his brother. Sam's head, however, shot to his side, pleading eyes locking with Dean's while the gentle pressure on their intertwined hands intensified. Dean nodded understandingly.
John, having witnessed this wordless conversation, rose shakily to his feet, silently swearing at the numbness that had settled into his exhausted limbs. He headed for the sink as he heard his youngest son wheeze out a quick challenge at his elder sibling, a distinct note of reproach lacing the words.
"You don't get my presents, Dean. They're mine!"
John took a few deep, liberating and reassuring breaths before turning around to face his boys. In and out. In. Out. Half way through the motion however, he felt Dean's eyes burning holes his back, searching for John's fatherly gaze. Looking around, the hunter watched with surprise as Dean echoed his breathing routine while he subconsciously stroked Sam's cheek reassuringly.
~I a O~
Christmas Eve 2004
Minnesota
cabin in the middle of nowhere
late night
A faint smile brightened his pained expression. "Merry Christmas, Sammy. Hope you get your presents in the morning." His voice, laced with agony, came out as a dry whisper. The words drew out the last dregs of oxygen from his over-strained lungs, aggravating his lightheadedness even more. As a counter measure, he concentrated on simply breathing. Although, too aware of the constant blood flow soaking his T-shirt and how the muscles in his limbs were shaking, he stuck to the steady, monotonous rhythm. The tremors intensified and he wondered whether they were the result of his blood loss or from the expected infection sprung from the wendigo's carrion-soiled talons.
Dean enhanced his efforts to focus on the way his breath flowed between his lips, how it widened and tightened his ribcage in a frequent rhythm. In and Out. In and Out. How the successful gas exchange in the microscopic capillaries eased the deafening pressure in his head, spreading upwards from the base of his skull. The cramped muscles of his upper torso began to gradually relax now, a fraction at a time. However minute the difference, it simplified breathing and diminished the pain. The regularity of his breathing pattern mildly soothed the agony riding his body and allowed him to think again. Think and relax. His body sagged back into the cushions on the old settee, billowing out a cloud of suffocating dust, and he cursed inwardly.
'Terrific. Dust in the Wind-pipe... Just peachy.'
He allowed his heavy eyelids to slide shut and listened to the sounds of the fire and the blizzard howling menacingly outside, like a lonely wolf calling out to its pack. Dean returned his focus to his breathing and sensed his awareness slipping into a deep, black hole. The last sound he consciously picked up was his own capitulating sigh. His feverish mind took hold of it as oblivion led him down, back in time, towards another Christmas Eve, a lifetime ago.
~I a O~
Christmas Eve 1991
Spokane, Washington
Hospital waiting room
middle of the night
Sammy sighed, a quiet and distraught sound cutting through Dean's worry-laden thoughts. Compelled into speech by the wordless demand, Dean turned his head and chose a flat, indistinct tone, intent on masking the true emotions roaring inside him. Ignoring his inner desperate desire to touch, hear, see... he forced out a "You OK, Sammy?" and begged Sammy silently to just, JUST say "yeah" and leave it at that. Dean wasn't sure how much more he could take tonight. Not after...
Another sigh escaped thin, pale lips and hazel eyes, shining with barely controlled tears found Dean's considerate gaze.
"He won't...? You don't think he...? Hesgonnabeokayisn'the?"
The third attempt to voice his fear tumbled from Sam's lips in a quick succession, morphing into one worried plea for hope. Dean winced internally as he found his own concerns thrown back at him with the force of a semi-truck crashing into a small car. Turning away from pleading eyes as he sought to regain control, he gasped noiselessly and feverishly searched for the right words, trying not to betray his own despair.
"Yeah. Sure. Dad's been a lot worse. Loads o' times. He'll come around. It's just a flesh wound. No big deal. You'll see; he'll be up in...."
Noticing the rambling tone, he stopped himself in mid sentence. 'Tone it down, dammit! Sammy is a friggin' genius. He'll see right through your lies!' he berated himself. 'No need to worry him more than necessary!'
"He'll be okay." Dean stopped himself from reaching out and patting his brother's back reassuringly. That would have been too much to handle for Dean's twelve-year-old soul, although he knew Sam could have done with a little sign of love. And to be honest, so could Dean. However, the looming prospect of opening up was more than Dean momentarily thought himself capable of coping with. It would tear him apart. It would throw him in a wild river, bubbling with swirling rapids, and suck him beneath the surface to spit him out on new and unfamiliar shores. 'No. Not today.'
A faint, familiar melody wafted around the room, highlighting the harsh contrast between the Winchesters' lives and the rest of the world.
You better watch out,
You better not cry,
You better not pout,
I'm telling you why,
Santa Claus is coming to town...
"Oh, for crying out loud!"
Anger born out of helplessness and enforced idleness spilled out of the boy. Restlessly, Dean got to his feet and started pacing the empty waiting room, movement usually being the means to soothe his boiling emotions. Every now and then he would venture a glance at the closed doors of the ER, hoping against hope, willing them to open. To rekindle hope.
'You don't get to do this, dad! No! Not today! It's friggin' Christmas. I'll... Sammy will never forgive you!'
Hands buried deep into the pockets of his saggy, worn-out jeans, he continued his pacing. In passing, he noticed that Sam had finally fallen asleep, body balancing precariously on two chairs, legs over one armrest and head cushioned on John's bloodstained leather jacket.
'Good. Sweet dreams, Sammy.'
Grinning affectionately, he felt some of the pressure lift from his heart. He puffed out a deep breath and realized just how liberating such a simple thing as breathing could be.
'Oh, god. Dad, please be alive. Breathe. Please. Breathe.'
Renewed panic coursed through his body, speeding his pulse, his heart pounding deafeningly in his head. 'Aah, Jeez. Breathe, dammit! In and out. In and out. In and out,' he commanded himself. His pace joined the rhythm and he welcomed the dwindling of his tension with every huff and puff, bit by bit silencing the terrifying drumbeat in his ears.
Humming along with the enticing melodies of the Christmas songs playing in the background, marching in their rhythms, Dean made his way through the night. Walking, breathing, hoping.
~I a O~
After two endless hours of pacing and, to Dean's own surprise, praying, the doors to the ER finally opened. A young doctor in scrubs came striding out, looking around searchingly. Dean froze in his tracks, his heart beating in his throat, sweat soaking his hands and back immediately. Did the doctor look worried? His vision tunneled and grayed out on the periphery. Letting out a breath he had been holding, the boy swallowed to regain control over his paralyzed limbs.
'Okay. This is it. You can do this. Suck it up, Winchester! Breathe.'
Bracing himself, he walked over to meet the doctor half-way. One quick glance back at Sammy, sound asleep, Dean decided to leave him be for a little while longer. If it was good news, he could still wake him. If the doctor brought bad news...
'No! Not gonna happen, not on Christmas!' Child-like belief in the good flooded his mind and heart. For once, for once in his life he believed in theoverall good, had to believe in it.
"You the Winchester boys?" The young doctor peered into Dean's eyes, sizing him up and looked around the older boy's shoulder at the kid on the chairs fast asleep. Internally, the doctor winced. 'Poor boys. Christmas Eve – or Day judging by the clock - and their only parent's in a hospital.'
Icy fingers grasped for Dean's heart and it skipped a few beats.
"Yeah? How's our dad?" Dean shot a worrying glance back at Sammy. 'Please, let dad be okay!'
The doctor sighed. "Well, first of all, my name is Dr. Jessup. I was the attending when they brought your dad in."
Dean nodded silently, afraid his voice would betray his fear and sorrow. His mouth went dry, wishing the doctor would hurry up and spill it. Only, at the same time, he dreaded the man's next sentences.
The young medic seemed to pick up on Dean's struggle and didn't wait for an answer, not sugar-coating his report as the child before him squared his shoulders resolutely.
"Your dad has a deep wound in his side and lost a lot of blood. It was pretty touch and go for the first hour but he's stable for the time being. We had to resuscitate him twice. The bleeding's stopped for now. However, he'll need surgery to stabilize the bone fragments and to treat the inner injury to his lung."
Dean paled.
"This is standard procedure, kiddo. The only problem is, one of the bones has punctured the left lung and caused a pneumothorax and some major blood vessels to rupture. We need to take care of this ASAP. But he'll make a full recovery. "
"Can... Can we go see him?" Dean's knees wobbled in relief and he felt slightly lightheaded as the pressure that threatened to crush his heart lifted a little. "But only for a few minutes. He is intubated and very tired. And the OR is waiting."
Dean turned on the spot after the first short sentence the medic had uttered. Running and sliding towards the waiting area, he knelt down beside his brother and shook him gently.
"Hey, Sammy! Wake up. It's Christmas Day. And Dad's okay. Let's go see him. Come on, wake up..."
Sam's eyes opened, sleep lingering there still. However, after his brother's face came into focus he saw the pure joy shining from it and almost fell off the chairs trying to get up faster than his still sleepy legs would allow.
"He's okay?"
"Yeah, li'l bro. He's fine. Told you so, didn't I?" Laughing jittery, he patted Sam on the back and they got up together, Dean hugging Sam around the shoulders and grinning as if he'd been given the world's greatest gift ever.
He sees when you are sleeping.
He knows when you're awake.
He knows if you've been good or bad
So be good for goodness sake...
~I a O~
Christmas Day 2004
Minnesota
cabin in the middle of nowhere
early morning
"For goodness sake, DEAN! Wake up!"
Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean's consciousness fought back the fogs of the past, making way for the present's gifts of nauseating pain and exertion.
"Dean? Come on, kid! Wake up, that's it!"
The voice sounded familiar. A voice from the past and the present. A male voice. Soft and gentle but with an unrelenting undertone. 'Dad? No. Not dad. Can't be. Sam?'
Dean felt gentle hands softly assessing his physical condition, and heard almost inaudible apologies in answer to his gasps of pain. With earlier memories still clouding his consciousness, confused thoughts tumbled through his mind. Where the hell was he? And why, the freakin' hell, was he so tired?
"Dean... you have to open your eyes, now son. Lemme see those dazzling greens! Come on!"
'No, definitely not Sam either.' Disappointment spread painfully through his soul and in its wake, agony returned to his resetting bodily system. Sam was in Stanford. Had been there for over a year now. Why would he come now of all times? How would he even know, where to find his brother, when Dean himself didn't recall where the Hell he was? As feeling returned with his increasing consciousness, pain coursed through his torn flesh, bringing tears to his still closed eyes.
"Wha' the Hell...?" he groaned, an agonizing stabbing, sensation spreading in his lower abdomen, only to be cut across his inconsiderate choice of words.
"Mind your tongue, son! No profanities... Especially not today, at least, it's Christmas Day!"
The gentle rebuke cleared away the last cobwebs from Dean's memory.
"Pastor Jim?" And then it all came back to him. 'Minnesota. I'm in Minnesota. Jim called to offer me a job. Oh my god. The wendigo. I ... I killed it? Yeah, must have. Wouldn't be here in the shed, alive and breathing, if I didn't.'
The first thing that came into his mind, finding its way out through clenched teeth and past his dry lips was "Where's my car?"
Chuckling in spite of the seriousness of Dean's injuries and the amount of time already wasted by gently bringing the hunter back to reality, Jim answered, "She's OK, Dean. 'bout three feet of snow on her roof, hood and trunk but other than that, OK." Shaking his head fondly, he renewed his efforts to alert Dean to his surroundings.
"Come on, now. Open your eyes and try to sit up. You need a hospital. We have to get that cut looked at. And I think you have a fever." Dean felt strong arms move under his armpits and he winced, as much from the ensuing pain as from the awkwardness of being propped up like an infant by another grown man.
"Uuurgh;" he offered in response. Prying his gritty eyes open, he attempted to blink away the blurriness and to focus on the man directly in front of him. Understanding, sympathetic eyes rested on Dean's face, a smile playing in the corners of Jim's mouth. Not a grin, a smile, encouraging Dean to try and gather his senses as much as possible, to reach one more time into the nearly depleted reservoir of strength.
"I've got my pickup outside. Come on, son. We need to get you out of here fast. And I still haven't spoken to your dad about this whole damn business. Holy shit, you weigh a ton, Winchester!" Heaving the limp, muscular weight and nearly buckling under it, Pastor Jim pulled Dean upright.
"Mind your language, Father!" Grinning and scowling at the same time, Dean pushed himself from the sofa, silently grateful for the strong arm the priest offered him.
"Well, if that isn't a good sign. Dean Winchester found his wits again. Pity, though. I could have done without them for a little while longer."
Very cautiously and slowly, they made their way to the awaiting pickup truck. Dean had to stop every two steps to catch his breath. His lungs rattled audibly, heralding an impending pneumonia, and the ragged edges of the deep belly wound shook sickeningly with every movement. More than once his vision threatened to gray out and his legs turned into immovable, dead weights. Every time however, Jim was at his side, holding him up, soothing his anger, encouraging him onwards.
"Easy there, Dean. Try to breathe... Slowly. In and Out. In. Out. In. Out ..."
The End...
End note: Thanks for reading!