Author:Mirrordance
Title: With Blood
Summary:Bobby Singer was just a friend to a widower, not minding the occasional babysitting. But his devotion for the Winchester family truly began when he was struck by a terminal illness and saved only by a sacrifice from Dean. Pre-Series.
Hi gang!
Wow, the reception for this fic is really really great. Thank you for taking the time to read, alert, favorite and especially review to let me know what you think. I hope everything is coming together in a satisfactory manner for you in terms of how I depict the characters, which I am cautious about especially since the last two episodes of the series are showing a few new sides of Bobby in the hospital. I am almost done with this fic, and hope that the last part (a short chapter, and epilogue, my standard post-fic afterword and possibly a preview of my new project) will be up by next week :) Thanks again, and will be sending out more comprehensive review responses in the next few hours and days. You guys are the best and I sincerely hope you enjoy the latest installment of With Blood. As always, c&c's are welcome and received with much love, and 'il the next post!
" " "
With Blood
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3: Responsibilities
2002
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Dean Winchester slowly started to adjust to his knew pain management regimen, just as he had counted on, just as he knew he could. Or maybe it was because Bobby was there with him when the nights got rough, sometimes standing by the door and sometimes sitting by his arm on the bed.
The older hunter always was a quick study, and he knew when to move in and when to leave Dean alone, even when Dean didn't know it himself. Always with Dean, the instinct was to turn away the help, but Bobby was insistent and was always right.
"You're like Sam sometimes," Dean had groaned to him in half-hearted, resigned complaint one night that Bobby had imposed his help on the injured hunter again. Just as he knew when to step in and when to back out, Bobby used the opening Dean had brought upon himself to ask about the absent youngest Winchester.
"How long has he been gone?"
"Forever," Dean said before he could stop himself. He had pulled out the answer so easily, as if it's been at the tip of his tongue, the shallowest surface of his mind, for a long, long time.
"You still get to talk to him?" Bobby asked.
Dean hesitated. He didn't want to answer, because answering meant he had to think about things. But the ease by which the answers came to his head was scaring him, like the words were dying to get out.
"Nah," Dean replied, "We did a lot at the start though. And you know dad: he'd tell me to leave the kid alone and then he'd shut up and pretend not to notice, as long as I pretended to hide. It's stupid, but it works."
"What happened?"
"Sam just got busy over there," Dean said with a shrug, "I guess it just happens. Never thought it would but it could be so easy, couldn't it? To get into something and to just... forget. He's kind of like dad in that way. They get busy and they just forget."
Forget me, was the unmentionable conclusion to that.
"I'm sure he--"
"He loves me?" Dean laughed in embarrassment. It was a funny, funny word, 'love.' It tasted both ridiculously ironic and sparingly precious in his mouth, "Yeah, yeah. I'm not saying he doesn't, god knows that little girl can give a shit about a housefly so I think I'm good. I have no issues with that. But that doesn't change the fact that he's gone and I'm still here and sometimes, people just forget to talk. Suddenly it's been months and then it's gonna be years and at the end of it all, maybe you'll still know each other and maybe you won't. You probably still give a damn about each other, but yeah... maybe you'll still know each other and maybe you won't."
"Fair enough," Bobby said quietly, "You mad at him?"
"Nah," Dean said uneasily, "Too much trouble to get mad and too tiring to stay mad. Besides, I guess I get busy sometimes too."
"You ever think about leavin'?" Bobby asked.
The pain from his hunting injury was eating him from the inside-out, they were talking about the brother who had abandoned him for greener pastures and damn but of course he'd thought about it too. "Dad needs me," Dean said simply, except it never was. The simplicity was only because it sounded so empty sometimes, mildly deluded, because god knows where the hell his dad was even at the moment.
The days and the nights melded together, like those weirdly pretty scrawls that came out whenever Dean gave a then-kiddie Sam a bunch of old crayons to amuse himself with and the kid went nuts over the damn things. Sometimes he and Bobby talked about Sam, sometimes they talked about cars, sometimes they talked about Bobby's wife's kitchen or her linens, or her cooking (never her directly, because Dean could understand full well that she had been his life). Dean began to reacquaint himself with the long-missed feeling of comfortable, familiar boredom. Just days on the porch reading and talking about stupid things and not-so-stupid things. Researching and talking shop, networking with other hunters about who can do this job or that, trying to get in touch with his father to make sure he was all right and, in failing, checking with other hunters to see what they knew.
There was that feeling again, of probably having done this in childhood: sitting on the porch, looking at Bobby expectantly as he made phone calls, looking for his father.
"I got a guy in DC who swears up and down that Johnny's okay," Bobby told him, "Your father's fine, Dean." Other days it was Jersey, other days Oregon, or Vegas or wherever. Maybe some of those days didn't happen this time around but years ago, when he was a kid being assured by Bobby that everything was all right. Either way, his father was okay, and so Dean was too.
The days shifted to a sudden stop when time finally caught up to them: Dean woke up late one morning, to the sound of a frantically barking Rumsfeld. The sun was high up in the sky, and Dean got up as quickly as he could, still recovering from the previous night's usual misery.
"Bobby?!" he called out, the dogs barking panicking him a little as he hauled himself out of bed and limped heavily toward the halls. The dog was outside Bobby's door, scratching at it. The dog turned to Dean with an uncannily human expression of relief.
"Hey man!" Dean twisted the knob urgently, "You okay in there?"
"Dean," the muffled voice came from within, "I don't suppose you can drive with that bum leg of yers?"
"What?" Dean asked, as he opened the door fully. His heart slammed in his chest at the sight of the older hunter sitting on the floor next to his bed, as if he tried to stand and get up but landed there instead. His face was pale, and the arms that were braced on the floor and the bed were shaking as he tried to raise himself up.
Dean practically jumped toward him, but the leg complained and the dog beat him to Bobby's side. Dean hissed and just dropped to his one functional knee beside Bobby on the floor, the casted leg stretched out behind him.
"Take it easy!" Bobby barked at him, "Jesus, Dean, are you trying to kill y--"
"I'm fine," Dean insisted, "Bobby, what the hell?"
"Guess you aren't up for a drive," Bobby grunted, attempting to rise again before resignedly sinking to his rump and just patting his dog's head to calm him down some, "Ya think you can call me an ambulance?"
" " "
The seat was killing him.
Killing him slowly, like some medieval torture device, determined to get the very best out of you just before it took it all. It was a little like a terminal disease, wasn't it? Sitting on this damn chair, getting the life sucked out of you.
The midday sun was streaming into the windows of the hospital room where Dean sat with Bobby, who had been asleep pretty much since they brought him in and hooked him up to this machine or that, with this medication or that. It all went by in a panicked blur to Dean's eye, but from what he could figure, the kidneys conking out meant a whole lot of other imbalances: they kept Bobby in for anemia, arrhythmia, fatigue, malaise, nausea... they could have just hit his head with a medical book and it would have had the same effect. Either way, it was looking abundantly clear that as hardy as Bobby was, he was also running out of time. The days can run long and boring, and Dean often had to rely on Bobby for mobility because of his injury, but Dean was getting better and Bobby getting worse, and he wasn't allowed to forget about that.
Dean sighed. He sat in the waiting room for hours before moving to Bobby's room after the older hunter was settled in. His leg was beginning to bitch at him with vengeance, and he knew he was in trouble, what with him missing this morning's dosage and forgetting to bring his pain medicine with him when he rode in the ambulance with Bobby.
He grunted in discomfort, pressed his hands around his casted limb. He rocked himself back and forth; it was inexplicably comforting.
He jumped in surprise when a cell phone started to ring. He had absolutely nothing else with him but Bobby's phone, which he had snatched up from the older hunter's night stand to call for an ambulance. The only reason why he got to bring it was because it was stuck to his panic-stiffened fingers when the EMTs came. It just felt so wrong and so petrifying, seeing Bobby weak. He recognized the feeling, which was how it felt whenever his dad was injured; it was the sudden shift of the world's weight from wherever it was and onto Dean, and he had to stagger a little bit each time before he could regain his balance. He never felt like this, whenever he had to look after Sam. It was because Sam was a consistent responsibility that never ever rested or shifted. It was just always Dean's, and most of the time, it was never really very heavy. As a matter of fact, now that the weight was gone, his back felt bare and cold.
He saw his father's name on the screen of Bobby's phone. He answered the call right away: "Dad? You all right?"
John sounded genuinely surprised, "Me? Bobby said you were kind of rough with the pain meds, Dean-o."
Dean's face pinched to a helpless frown. His father sounded strange, sounded a little bit light, a little bit... happy?
"Are you all right?" Dean asked again, carefully.
"I'm fine," John replied, "Wrapped up that hunt, got caught in... something else. Don't worry about it. Are you all right?"
"Yes," Dean snapped, "I mean no, I'm worried. We don't hear from you for days and--"
"Mind the tone, Dean," John warned him, "You know how it goes."
What had he told Bobby? They just forget...
Dean closed his eyes as pain rippled up his limb. His body started shaking. He bit at his lip to keep from whimpering, "You comin' by soon?"
Dean glanced at Bobby, who was still out like a light. He was dying to tell his dad that the other hunter was very sick, but knew that it was not his story to tell; Bobby would be pissed as hell. And besides, Bobby had a right to how he wanted to keep things private. But he'd tell his father his plans about donating an organ and how it would keep him rooted to this place for a little while if he had to. Today magnified how much Bobby needed this procedure done, and if he had to sit out a bunch of hunts and stay here a good while to do this, then he would.
"Are you okay?" John asked, side-stepping the situation enough for Dean to deduce the answer to 'Are you coming by soon' without requiring him to say it.
Dean was pissed for a moment, before he sighed in resignation, "Yes sir, I'm fine. The meds were just dicking me around a little. I'll live."
"Is Bobby there?"
"Why?" Dean asked evasively, "So you can check if I'm lying? Please, dad. Give a guy a break here. I'm fine, I said."
"Are you--"
"I'm sure," Dean promised him, "Now can you please tell me where you are and what you're doing? This is driving me nuts, having to keep looking for you. I don't know if I should be sitting put or -"
"I'm up in Minnesota," John said, "Got a few things to take care of. I'll be here for awhile."
"Hunting what?"
"Nothing you need to worry about, Dean," John said, "I'm safe. But I might be incommunicado once in awhile. I'm fine, I'm always fine. Just get better, and then we can get back on the road."
"Yes sir," Dean said quietly, "Be careful out there."
"Don't give Bobby any headaches now," John said.
Dean hung up the phone wearily; it was assurance enough that his dad was not lying dead somewhere, and it was also assurance that Dean would have a little more time to sort out the things he had to do for his donation. He clutched at the phone in his hand and flipped it in his fingers in an effort to distract himself from the pain coming from his leg. He stared at the phone, at the shaking hand that juggled it. As a distraction, the activity was piss-poor ineffective.
The depth of the pain was really something else, how it felt like it was coming from the very core of the bone, expanding outward. It alternated between sharp and blinding, sending spots in his eyes, to deep and dull-throbbing that made him nauseous. He let go of the phone, let it clatter to the floor as he gripped at his leg tighter with both hands. He grunted in pain, then pressed his lips together to keep from making any other sound. He hasn't been without medication like this in a long time.
He shivered in the cool, crisp air of the room. He felt sick and weak, but he doubted that throwing up would help matters any. Stifling a moan, he used the handles on the chair to lower himself to the ground, and he crawled toward the phone he had dropped.
Dean dialed the number to Dr. Carr's office. He was patched through to her by the secretary very quickly, and Dean partly-attributed this to that fact that Dean made an effort to flirt with her once in awhile. It could also be because his voice sounded tight and strained, even to his own ear.
"Dean," Dr. Carr greeted him, "I was just going to call you."
"Yeah?" Dean asked, momentarily distracted from his pain by the prospect of news on the transplant, "You got the tests back?"
"Tell me what you're calling about first," Dr. Carr told him, "You sound bad."
"But--"
"Dean," she told him in a warning tone, "Go first."
"Um..." Dean hesitated, "I'm at the hospital, with my uncle. It's Sackrey General, not too far from yours. Had to bring him in an ambulance."
"I'm sorry to hear that," she told him sincerely.
"I've been here a couple of hours," Dean explained, stifling a gasp, "And all my meds are in the house, my wallet too. I forgot to bring my shit in the rush. You think you can fax the pharmacy here my scrip or something? And my payment info too?"
"That would be wise," she said and paused, as if she was checking her watch, "This was reckless, Dean. I'm sure you're slowly getting more and more miserable over there. I'll call up the pharmacy; we know a good bunch of people from that hospital, I'll take care of it. Someone will bring your meds to you in your uncle's room in the next few minutes. Hang in there."
"Thanks doc," Dean said gratefully, "Now what were you gonna tell me?"
" " "
The test results finally came through from his doctor: he was in decent shape as far as they could tell, and based on initial information, could be a good match to Bobby. They needed more samples and greater coordination from both donor and recipient now, and it was high-time to start talking to Bobby about what needed to be done.
" " "
A dosage of the pain pills kept Dean running until the end of the day. He sweet-talked himself into both staying until Bobby woke up even at the end of visiting hours, and he also managed to hitch a ride with a nurse who lived near Bobby's. He needed the time to think about what to say, he needed to freshen up and grab a few of Bobby's things, he needed to feed the dog, and he needed his pills and his wallet for when he returned to the hospital in the morning. Besides, she was a cute little thing and she smelled so good assisting him into the house...
Nightingales, he decided blissfully, There is a God.
But Bobby had been right when he teased Dean about the physical rigors of sex; she helped him to bed and he was so exhausted from the day's excursions that he about fell asleep right away. The last memories he had of the night was her prettily disappointed pout, and her offer to pass by in the morning to pick him up since she was also on the way to work. He hoped he said yes; it would be one thing out of the way, out of the way of the larger things he had to accomplish tomorrow.
" " "
Dean cleared his throat as he came upon Bobby eating his breakfast. "Hey man. Good to see you up and around."
"Yeah," Bobby grinned, waving at his pasty-looking food, "You hungry?"
Dean blanched at the sight, "Ew."
"This shit is supposed to be good for me," Bobby said glumly.
Dean pasted on a smile, "Well in that case, man, it looks great."
Bobby just snorted at him.
"Um... hey Bobby?" Dean hesitated as he limped toward the bed, "We need to talk."
"Geez, Dean," he said, "You look like you're about to ask me to the prom or something."
Dean didn't bite, instead sat heavily against the detestable seat next to Bobby's bed. The night before had been rough: a lot of pain because Bobby's emergency caused a disruption in his medication schedule, and exacerbated by his having tried to move around so much during the day.
"You okay?" Bobby asked.
Dean wondered long and hard on how to go about this. Initially, he debated just being a secret donor; tell Bobby he was skipping town and then the old man would ideally never know it was Dean's kidney inside him. But keeping things a secret from one of the greatest researchers in the hunting community would be futile; Dean knew that as a hunter, Bobby would make sure that kidney came from a spirit at peace or was clean and safe, so he would have to know where it came from. He'd find out about Dean in a heartbeat. Besides, considering their surgeries were going to be closely coordinated, and that Dean had no one else but Bobby helping him move around right now, it was impossible not to involve or inform him. At this point, Dean only hoped to rely on Bobby's pragmatism, and so decided the straightforward would be the best way to handle this.
"I have really good news," Dean said.
"Yeah?" Bobby asked skeptically, "Then why the hell do you look like you killed my dog?"
"'Cos it might piss you off," Dean said, "But in the end you'll see it's just really awesome."
Bobby chuckled , "Now you're really making me nervous here, kid. What the hell is going on?"
"I got you a kidney." Like ripping out a band-aid.
Bobby's eyes popped out of his head, "What?! Whose was it?"
"I bought it from someone who really needed the money--"
"I could throttle you."
Dean laughed nervously, "Actually I'm just kidding."
Bobby blinked at him, his face a mixture of indignation over the terrible joke, amazement at the boy's poor judgment, residual anger, disbelief-
"I mean I got you a kidney," Dean rambled on, "Just not someone else's. I mean, in the sense that-- mine. It's mine."
"What?"
"I wanna give you one of mine," Dean said with determination and resolve, unlike his earlier shyness and unease, "I wanna give you one of mine."
"Damn it, Dean."
" " "
Bobby was speechless.
He knew about live organ donation, but he had no relatives to ask help from and no friends that he wanted to burden. If he could have kept his illness to himself for as long as he lived, he wouldn't have minded. But sitting here looking slightly-ill but hardy and determined was Dean, his eyes blazing commitment and generosity, promising Bobby a chance, offering him life.
Bobby trembled, unable to describe how he felt. Hope, certainly. Shame because he wanted to take, take, take this and not ever let it go. Guilt because he had a sudden realization that this is one of the reasons why Dean has been going to the hospital, why he's been in pain. Anger because he also realized that things were already in motion and Dean hadn't asked him at all. Fear because while he honest-to-god didn't want to die from organ failure, he also did not want to die at the hands of John Winchester, who would have his head if he knew about all this. Gratitude because Dean's offer made Bobby feel that he had a place in the kid's life that was rare and treasured. Love because... love too, he supposed, just because that had always been there.
"Say something," Dean said suddenly, "Come on, man."
"No," Bobby said, mouth dry.
"No like you don't wanna say anything?"
"No like I don't want this from you," Bobby said, "I don't want this from you, Dean. You can't do this--"
"Ah but I can!" Dean cried out triumphantly, "I knew you'd say that. My doc says I can handle it. Think of a different excuse."
"Your father will kill me."
"He might," Dean said with a wicked grin, "But he'll get over it. Say what you will about my dad, man, but he understands debts, and he understands his friends."
"But he hates disruptions in the hunt more," Bobby pointed out, "Which includes anything that will keep you off your feet. You read about it, right? How long this'll make you weak? Three weeks, Dean, something like that."
"I'm laid up 'cos of this leg anyway," Dean argued, "Might as well do a good deed. And then when the cast's off and I've healed from the surgery, I'll be fine. People can live active lives with one kidney."
"If you get hurt in the future," Bobby said, "Giving this up could cost 'ya if you damage what's left."
"If I wanted to avoid danger," Dean replied, "I'd be teaching a yoga class or something. Anyone can get hurt at any day, man. Even crossing the street."
"I don't want it."
"Why?" Dean challenged, "Why the hell not?"
Why not, Bobby asked himself, Why the hell not... it certainly felt like he was taking too much from Dean, and he didn't have that in him, that much courage to have that kind of gratitude for someone. He didn't have the courage to owe a debt that large. He never liked debts, never liked relying on other people, never liked accepting things from them. It was one of the reasons he was endeared to Dean, he realized. They were both givers, and they both held that to a certain dignity. There was pride to giving, to protecting, to saving. There was a heroism to it, a kind of lonely glory. It was its own selfishness, in that paradoxical way. Consequently, there was certain shame to being needy, to being weak, to being helped.
"Let me help you," Dean said quietly, "Sometimes you gotta just take help, right? You're the one who said that. I wanna do this. I've thought about it long and hard, I know the risks, I know what all of it means, I know how it can hurt, all right? I know. But I wanna do this. You gotta just let me."
"Dean..." Bobby's voice trembled. He looked away. He felt so, so ashamed. That he was more ashamed than grateful bothered him a little, but it was how it was.
"I can't..." he stammered, "I can never repay you for something like this. And why you'd do it is beyond me. We ain't even family."
"Family doesn't end with blood," Dean told him, fire just burning in his eyes before he lightened both gaze and tone, "Think about it this way.. if a guy offers, maybe it's already been pre-paid. Like I said – you were good to my dad when he had nobody, you're good to him when he'd being a dick. You're good to my brother and me, you're even good to Sam when he's being bitchy. And you never ask for anything back. Help me pay up my debts, man. It'll make me feel a whole lot better, especially the next time around that I come bothering you."
Bobby wasn't in the mood to joke.
"I don't wanna die," Bobby told him plainly, and it was the most honest he'd been about this disease. All this time, he'd been holding onto the poor comfort that every bastard had to kick the bucket in someway someday anyway, and the hope that maybe he'd get to see his wife again in death. But the truth was that now faced with life and hope making other choices possible, he honestly didn't want to die.
"I don't know what's out there," he went on, "And what little we know ain't pretty. I'm shit-scared, Dean. I wish I was a better man, I honest-to-god wish I was man enough to tell you no. But how could I?"
"That's right," Dean told him quietly, "You can't. And there's nothing wrong with that." He smiled in an effort to lighten the mood, "You wanna live, and it's not gonna hurt me to help you, and you're gonna be staying around and helping a lot of people – including me. Nothing generous about this, old man. And you know what else? The moment my kidney's working inside The Great Bobby Singer, everything you do from that point on is gonna be my good karma."
"Am I gonna be hearing this bullcrap for the rest of my life?" Bobby asked him wryly.
"Maybe," Dean said with a shrug, "Or maybe I'll just keep asking you for favors, from time to time. Like The Godfather. The more I think about it, this live donor thing is sounding better and better. I wonder which other parts I can give up."
"More of you to go around," Bobby winced, "That's just great."
" " "
The two men did some tests relating to the transplant while they were in the hospital, and Dean was given an even more meager set of pain pills before they checked Bobby out and went home a few days later.
The night they got home, as with every night, Dean's pains amplified. It was the first nightly-pain-spell after Bobby realized that Dean was cutting back on the meds in preparation for donating a kidney for him.
Bobby knew full well that Dean was awake in the room next door. It was sometime between night and dawn, hours since they said good night. Bobby knew he was awake because he knew from experience that it was about time the pain would hit, and once in awhile if he strained hard enough, he'd hear the even, controlled breaths sporadically broken by a quiet whimper.
If this were any other night, he would be near Dean in a heartbeat. But it wasn't. He didn't know if he had the guts to go in there and watch the younger man suffer and know that it was for him.
He rubbed his hands wearily over his face. He wished fervently that he was a better man, that he could just up and say no to Dean's generous offer. But there's no telling a man in the desert that it's selfish to be thirsty. He just was simply not in a position to say No thank you.
So what position are you in? Bobby asked himself.
He sat up in bed and dragged himself to his feet. He might not be man enough to say no to Dean, but he was definitely in a position to face his responsibilities and help Dean weather the pain he was suffering for Bobby's sake.
He walked to Dean's room, found him curled up in the usual fashion. But this time around, he kept burrowing his head into his pillow like he wanted to vanish. The room was ghosted by his long, low moans, and he was shaking so hard that the bed itself was trembling, one of the unequal legs making a a frustrated rhythm of taptaptaptaptaptaptap against the wooden floorboards.
Bobby ran to do as he always did: covered Dean in cold compresses. He even tried massaging the tension out of the younger man's shoulders, rubbed reassuringly at his back. But nothing was helping, and since he came in, Dean hasn't even acknowledged that he was there. Feeling helpless, Bobby ran out of the room and gave Dr. Carr a call.
He muttered "Come on, come on, come on..." as the doctor's phone rang and rang. Finally, the doctor picked up, and her voice sounded breathy with sleep.
"Hello?"
"He's in a bad way," Bobby blurted out right away, "Shaking like a leaf and he ain't moving or talking or-"
"We cut back on his medication further in preparation for the procedure, Mr. Singer," Dr. Carr explained, quickly realizing who she was talking to, "These are reactions we can expect. These are reactions Dean himself knows about."
"But--"
"Is he having trouble breathing?" she asked, "Is he running a fever? Is he ill? Are there disruptions in consciousness? These are signs that you should look out for in considering bringing him in to the ER. Because if he is simply in pain--"
"Simply?!"
"I use it as a quantitative description," she said, "I know this is hellish, but it is not life-threatening."
"What?" Bobby growled, "He's just supposed to bear it?"
I'm just supposed to bear watching him bear it?
"Yes," she sighed, "Not unless you want to up his dosage. But that will be a setback from our timelines, especially since him returning to them tonight means we have to re-evaluate how long we'd have to keep him on them."
"Screw the timelines," Bobby snapped, "What do I give him?"
The doctor gave him quick instructions, and Bobby hung up and hurriedly prepared to do as instructed. In minutes, he had in hand two magical blue pills that would take Dean's problems away.
"Dean," he called to the younger man, shaking him by the shoulders, "Hey, come on."
Dean's head shook left to right, clearly indicating he didn't want to be bothered.
"Dean, come on!" Bobby said more forcefully, and this time Dean did turn to face him. Green eyes opened to slits, and they were hazed in pain but very much aware of what was going on around him. He stared at Bobby.
"I called your doctor," the older man lied, "She said to give you your meds, 'cos this ain't right. I'm helping you sit up, all right?" He didn't wait for a response, just manhandled Dean to lean against the headboard. Dean's face scrunched in pain and he cried out, but let himself be moved. He ended up slumped against the headboard, breathing in wheezing pants. He closed his eyes to recover himself.
"Okay, good," Bobby said, "Now the pills. You think you can take in water?"
Dean's eyes opened up again, and settled on Bobby's face. Weighing, Bobby realized, because he could feel that there was something not quite right with this picture.
"She said," Dean gasped, "She said I should?"
"Yes," Bobby said quickly, not missing a beat, hoping Dean would take that as a sign that he was being truthful.
"Oh you son-of-a-bitch," Dean growled. Anger was always a good place to borrow strength from, and his eyes cleared enough for him to glare at the older man.
"Dean..." Bobby said helplessly, "This ain't right, what you're doing to yourself."
Dean slid back down in bed, and he looked like grease going down the side of a car, all gooey and heavy. He turned his back on Bobby and burrowed his face into the pillows again.
"Dean, please..." Bobby found himself begging, "I can't... I can't just let you do this. This ain't right..."
"Enough of that already, all right?" Dean bellowed at him, turning to face him again. He was screaming unhealthily, but there was something about the screaming that was loosening him up, easing his pain a little, "I've made up my goddamn mind. I'm not changing it, all right? What I need from you now is to just take it, okay? You need my help, so the fuck what? Come on, man!"
He ended the tirade with an inarticulate, frustrated cry, and then he buried his face into the pillows again.
Bobby's heart beat wildly in his chest. What could he do, short of stuffing the pills into the kid's mouth and forcing him to swallow?
Dean cried out again, and buried his face in deeper. He needed to scream, Bobby realized, not keep all of this pain inside. It was why being pissed at Bobby was lending him fire. He needed to get this out. Bobby rested a warm palm over Dean's back.
"You let it out, Dean," he said quietly, and the younger hunter shook his head in a negative vigorously.
"You let it out," Bobby insisted fervently, "No one else will hear. No one but me, and I won't care. It's just you and me here, Dean, no one else will hear--"
Dean cut off his talking with a loud, primal scream. He shook and he tensed and he clutched at his leg, clutched at the sheets, and cried his heart out. The sound shook the empty night, shook Bobby's nerves. Dean screamed again, and again, and then when he was exhausted and when his body finally started to relax, he sank limply against the bed, releasing the limb, releasing the sheets, breath hitching as he sobbed a little in relief.
"You're all right," Bobby soothed, and this time he was the one clutching at Dean's collar, "I got ya, you're all right..."
" " "
Bobby went back to his room after Dean fell asleep.
His entire body was shaking, and he felt the insatiable need to put an end to all of this. But how could he? How could he say no? He was in absolutely no position to say no...
He grabbed his cellphone, dialed John Winchester's number.
He might not be man enough to say no to Dean, but he was definitely man enough to want someone to pull the plug on all of this.
Bobby prayed and un-prayed that he would catch the man himself, instead of his machine.
Leave a message, the gruff voice said and before Bobby could gather his thoughts and understand what he felt about that, the beep sounded.
"John, it's me," Bobby said, voice grave and alien, "You gotta come see Dean, all right? He's really in a bad way. You gotta come see Dean."
To be continued...