Crows in the Wheatfield
Chapter 7
OoOoOoO
Julie liked the night shift in the ICU.
It usually was pretty quiet around here, even though the clinic was very well equipped and definitely one of the biggest in this part of the state. But they didn't have that many emergencies stationed here. Most people still preferred the huge and, in her opinion, impersonal hospital in the state's capital.
She did her rounds as usual, walking through the five occupied rooms on the ward, most of which housed people she actually knew, people that had even been inside her parent's house at one point or another. This wasn't a small town by any means, but it still was pretty personal. She liked that.
The last room on her round this night was that of a stranger, though. Dean Metcalf. Certainly a stranger in town, but a stranger she'd have very much liked to meet outside of this hospital. She guessed he usually was a heart-throb, a looker, definitely a ladies man, despite all the ugly bruises and horrifying wounds that disfigured his body and face at the moment. If his father was anything to go by…that one definitely wasn't too ugly himself, even though he wasn't quite within her age-class.
Dr. Powell, Dean's physician, had told Julie to take special care of him, monitor him closely, make sure he was holding up alright. She'd left special instructions to call her, no matter the time, if anything out of the ordinary happened.
So, Julie felt very much obliged to give Dean the special care Dr. Powell wanted her to give him. Her job certainly provided her with worse chores than that.
She entered his cubicle quietly, a little relieved to find Dean's father still gone. He was a good-looking man to be sure, probably charming as well - if he wasn't worried out of his wits about his son. It certainly was easier to check on her patient without him around.
The room was semi-dark, the only illumination coming from the dim fluorescent tube running along the length of the wall over the patient's bed.
Immediately upon entering the room, Julie could see that Dean wasn't sleeping peacefully anymore. Only about thirty minutes ago, when she'd left him to check on the other patients, he'd been completely still, eerily motionless, eyes closed and face a mask of absolute oblivion and peace.
Now, his face was screwed tight in pain. His right eye was wide open, lashes obscenely long and curled and damp, glassy green orb restlessly searching the empty space above him.
Julie took a step towards him, expecting him to react to her close proximity, suspecting he'd just woken up, alone and confused, not knowing where he was. Her eyes still locked on his face, she slipped one cool hand onto his forearm, wanting to sooth him, trying to draw his attention from whatever picture or memory he was staring at.
The reaction her touch caused was entirely different to what she'd intended – what she'd expected.
When her hand made contact, only just registering the clammy feel, the tightness of his skin, he suddenly started trembling so hard, his whole body almost went rigid, as stiff as a poker.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong. Mr. Metcalf…Dean - why don't you look at me…"
He practically gasped, visibly flinching at her words, but his eye never left that spot on the ceiling, never ceasing to roam around the same area, aimlessly, lost. Even the eye swollen shut so horribly was rolling, twitching, searching desperately for something Julie couldn't see. A small, gurgling sound pressed past the tube in his throat, and she could see his lips working soundlessly around the plastic providing him with oxygen.
"You can't talk – we had to put you on a ventilator…"
He gasped again, right hand slamming down hard on top of the sheets, jerking out of her grasp and clawing towards his abdomen.
For a second, Julie was left dumbstruck. She didn't understand what she was seeing, didn't know what was going on. He'd been alright just half an hour ago, what the hell had happened? And why wasn't there any alarms? Surely, the medical machines he was hooked up to had to pick up on Dean's distress?
Just then, as if her thought had only triggered the action, a shrill alarm started to cut through the still of the room, bisecting the air around her like a sharp knife.
One look at the monitors surrounding his body confirmed her suspicion.
Pinning his still flailing arm down to the bed she reached for the emergency-button that was fastened on the bed's metal rail.
This didn't look good at all.
OoOoOoO
He came to with a gasp, his lungs seizing, legs and arms and whole body rigid as if molded out of stone all of a sudden.
He knew his eyes were open, knew it from the blur of light that made it hard to focus, from the immediate nauseating headache that rocketed into his skull and latched on just behind his eyes, seemingly squeezing every single nerve ending tight.
He hurt.
God, did he hurt.
It felt like a slab of concrete had been dropped onto his abdomen which was hard and swollen and painful to an extent that made every movement close to impossible. He wanted to roll up and die, curl up and not think anymore. But he couldn't do that.
He needed to get up…needed to get away.
He needed to call someone, anyone…Sam, no, dad. Sam was gone – at school. Where he wanted to be. Dean needed to call dad, have him come, have him help him. He needed help with this, goddamnit. One hell of a hunter he was.
Somewhere in the back of his brain there were faint memories, distorted pictures…a black dog, a black bird, yellow eyes, an ocean of wheat and mind-numbing music…his dad…
It was all there, but the pictures were all scrambled up, and he didn't know how to put them into the right order, the right perspective.
He needed his dad here, talk it all out, get help sorting it, making it understandable. Dean had always been good at deciphering puzzles, but this now was a little bit too much…too much. Even for him.
He struggled to sit up, determined to get his bearings, get his shit together and get moving.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
His lungs were struggling to work but he couldn't, try as he might draw one goddamn breath into his starving lungs.
Something was crammed down his throat and he was unable to dislodge it, unable to breathe past the object that somehow managed to slip past his lips.
He wanted it out.
He wanted to breathe.
He wanted his father.
He needed his brother.
God, did he need his brother bad.
And then, there was the distinct feeling of someone there, someone holding his arm and his head and his chest, holding him down and talking to him, even though he didn't hear a thing. Hands slipped down over his chest, cold air hitting his burning skin like a punch in the face, then something bore down onto his abdomen, fingers like ice picks digging and punching and probing…
He didn't know why someone was touching him, was unable to see through lids that weighed a ton and lashes that seemed as if glued together to imprison him in eternal darkness. And yet the fingers kept digging, pressing, slipping, making him want to scream.
It felt like he was going split open any second, like his abs was an overly full balloon on the verge of popping.
He felt the pain, unimaginable amounts of pain and a pressure in his abdomen that threatened to fold him in half, and then all came crashing down and he was gone again as fast as he'd resurfaced.
He never managed to see who was torturing him, never managed to see where he was, never managed to utter even a single word.
He never managed to call for help.
He was going to die here.
Alone.
OoOoOoO
As soon as he made it back to the hospital, John headed straight for the nurses' station.
It didn't matter that it was in the middle of the goddamn night, that the person on duty probably had no idea what he was talking about, was most definitely not to be blamed for the whole mess up. It didn't matter.
All John Winchester wanted was some answers, and he was going to get them, one way or the other.
It was still way too early for the hospital to have picked up its busy daytime rhythm, even though in the ICU there always were people bustling around, always movement, always sound. There always was the hiss of ventilators and the beep of heart machines and the faint groans of patients in pain or distress. Sometimes John thought he hated nights at the ICU even more than days, because then at least there'd be an overlying blanket of noises that drowned out those others…that drowned out his thoughts.
As expected, there was a single nurse sitting behind the shiny white desk of the station, her nose buried in paperwork.
She looked up expectantly when she heard John's footsteps approaching, her eyes widening minutely in reaction to his probably very grim countenance, John thought.
He managed to soften his face a little, or so he thought, stepping up to the table, hands down flat on the shiny surface.
Her eyes flicked to his hands for a second, then back up to his face.
"Mr. Metcalf."
He merely nodded in response to her greeting, leaning forward slightly.
Sam had once - ok, many times – accused him of using his height and dark looks to pressure people, to intimidate suspects and victims alike, and maybe he'd been right. Maybe Sam had been right about more things than John would like to admit to.
But his act worked, most of the times, so he wasn't going to start changing his MO now of all times.
"Hi…uhm, Julie. I'd like to…you've been here yesterday morning, right?"
He was a little surprised to recognize her face, his countenance immediately softening a little.
She nodded carefully.
"Yeah…this morning too - double shift. Colleague called in sick this afternoon."
John tried to look sympathetic, he really did. Problem was, he was so tired, he doubted he could pull it off even by a long shot.
"So, yesterday morning, when my son was brought in…someone made a call from his cell. I'd like to know why I wasn't informed…why I wasn't called. The paramedics had my number…I'm his next of kin…"
He really thought he'd done a pretty good job keeping his voice even and low, not too threatening, to be sure. The look in her eyes suggested he might not have done such a bang up job, after all, but they soon softened again, empathy taking over. Well, she was a professional. John was sure she dealt with distraught relatives all the time…
"Well, I was the one who made that call, actually. The paramedics that brought in your son gave me his phone when they arrived, said Dean woke up on the flight over, panicked a little. Said he needed to call Sam, make sure he was alright. We weren't sure if Sam had been with him when Dean had been attacked …"
John flinched, his heart clamping painfully in his chest. Over and over again he was reminded of how Dean saw the need to make sure his brother was alright even if he was the one critically injured.
"The paramedics managed to calm him down only in promising they'd call his brother, let him know where Dean was… I'm sorry if we did something wrong, but he insisted…"
John shook his head in frustration.
Of course Dean had insisted.
The stubborn kid had always needed his brother, first and foremost whenever he'd been hurt or in pain. Waking up, confused and in a freaking helicopter sure as hell hadn't served to make him any more reasonable. He'd probably been scared out of his freaking mind.
It stung a little that he hadn't thought to call his dad in a situation like this.
"I'm sorry, sir, if we did something wrong…"
John shook his head vehemently, angrily biting his lips to cut off the sharp retort that had started to build on his lips.
It wasn't her fault they were fucked up the way they were.
"No, it's alright. You couldn't have known. No harm done."
And with that he spun around on his heels, making his way towards his son's room.
He couldn't really blame Dean, it was John's own fault anyways. He'd made his sons depend on each other so fiercely…
"Mr. Metcalf, hold up a minute…"
The nurse was running after him, the soles of her white plastic shoes making light squealing sounds on the newly waxed floor of the hallway. John stopped, turned to meet her halfway. Her cheeks were a little flushed, her eyes skipping between him and the door of the room a couple of feet behind him – the room Dean lay in.
John was too tired to ask, so he just waited her out.
"Nobody contacted you?"
There as something in her voice that immediately raised the fine hair on the back of John's neck.
"Nobody contacted me about what?" he growled, not even pretending this time.
She really looked like she much rather be anywhere else but here…
"Nobody contacted me about what?"
OoOoOoO
He knew where he was before he even managed to open his eyes.
A lifetime of waking up in places he didn't remember going to sleep in, unfortunately, had made him sensitive to the sounds and smells around him. Helped him orient himself faster than most others would have managed.
The only difference this time around was awoken by his own body shaking him awake.
It almost felt like one of those magic-finger beds he usually loved to relax on, only that there was nothing even remotely relaxing about the whole situation now.
Hospital.
Smell and sound and feel – a definite give-away - a perfect match.
Pain was strangely absent, or maybe not absent, but somehow subdued, lingering right there around a dark corner, ready to jump him any second.
Definitely hospital.
No place else would leave him feeling so at peace and at the same time panicked out of his freaking mind. For him to wake up in a hospital, it had to be bad. If it was something his dad or brother couldn't deal with…it had to be pretty damn bad.
But he had no clue why he was here…or how he had gotten here in the first place.
The shaking grew more intense, his body shivering almost violently, his teeth chattering as he felt goose bumps chasing themselves over his whole body. And each almost spasm-like tremor there was a small little step towards more awareness, more realization, more pain.
His left hand clamped down onto the sheets he found beneath his fingers, digging into them, attempting to pull the fabric up and over his ice cold limbs. The movement caused something to flare up in his shoulder, a spear of pain, still covered partially by a blanket of painkillers, creeping down towards the tips of his fingers.
A pitiful sound, something between a whimper and a moan pushed up and past his raw throat.
Almost instantly, he felt a presence, familiar and still strangely foreign at the same time drawing closer.
Dean didn't even manage to pull away, to stop yet another moan to wrench itself from a throat that seemed to be lined with sandpaper and filled with liquid fire.
"Hey…easy, take it easy Dean."
The voice was deep, warm…familiar.
Yet somehow…
"S'm…" he rasped, between chattering teeth, the sound of his voice muffled by something covering his mouth.
"S'm…'m c'ld…"
Yeah, that sounded…wrong somehow. He seemed to have lost his vowels there...
Dean struggled to open his eyes, failing miserably.
"No, son…it's me. Dad. Just lie still, stop moving. You'll be alright."
Dad…right. Because Sam was gone. Dean had been hunting alone – and a black dog had gotten him… Dad had found him, saved him. But even the pain of the memory was subdued by the very real feeling of cold, his body seizing with shivers that were beyond his control.
"Your name is Dean Metcalf, you were attacked by a wild grizzly three days ago. You killed the animal, shot it with a flare gun and burned it to an unrecognizable heap. I'm John Metcalf, your father. You called me after you killed the bear and I came to get you, called the paramedics when I realized how badly hurt you were. You're in a hospital now."
John's voice was low and calm, yet fiercely imploring. Giving Dean the rundown, the details – most important to them. Who he was and what happened. They had to get their stories straight, their testimonies matched. If one of them said something wrong it might blow their whole cover, make people suspicious that had no business digging into their past, their lives. Dean was more than aware of how important it was to pay attention, to memorize his cover story. But it was so damn hard to concentrate.
"Dean, you got that? Did you hear what I said?" John's voice was still unnaturally soft, but Dean didn't miss the underlying urgency, the need for him to respond.
He still couldn't open his eyes.
And he was still so damn cold.
"C'ld" Dean repeated stubbornly, as another tremor made his teeth ground together viciously.
"That's just the anesthesia wearing off, Dean. You've been in surgery twice in the last two days. And you never do good with anesthesia, you know that. But you'll be feeling better soon…"
It sounded lame, like John knew he wasn't telling the truth.
"Twice…?" Dean pressed out between chattering teeth, hardly remembering anything after he'd been loaded onto the helicopter – the panic, the pain… He'd woken and had asked for Sam, he remembered that, and he remembered being told that someone would call him.
Shit – he'd have to explain that to dad…
Then – nothing for a while, despite hazy dreams – or maybe not so hazy at all… And then, even more pain…a ventilator in his mouth and down his throat, this unspeakable pressure in his stomach…
"They operated on your leg when you were brought in – had to fix some of the worst slashes as well as some rupture in your abdomen. You were out of surgery again for a while but wouldn't wake up. There was another rupture – you were bleeding into your abdominal cavity. They had to open you up again, fix it. You just woke up from that. I know it's hard, but you gotta just…"
John broke off, biting off the sentence that Dean could finish for him, easily.
You gotta just suck it up, sit through it, be a man about it.
At least he'd had the decency to not say it out loud.
"…you gotta just relax, try to not fight it, Dean. Just…stop fighting this for once, alright? I'm right here…"
It caught Dean by surprise a little, the gentle soothing tone, the apparent concern mirrored in his father's voice. Not that he hadn't known that dad loved him, hell no…of course he did. But usually the Winchester men showed their affection in a more subtle, a more roundabout way. Usually their concern was artfully masked behind gruff jokes and gentle reproach.
Sam had been the only one good at showing his girly side, as Dean had so often put it, had done the hugging and touching and caring routine on a fairly regular basis. While Dean had always pretended to be amused or even put off by it, had pretended to not need it, he really had yearned for the feeling of safety it had given him, the feeling of being important to someone.
Right now Dean would have done anything to have Sam by his side, would even let him hold his damn hand, if it was any comfort to the kid, let him do that absurd soothing talk thing that somehow, strangely enough, always managed to put Dean's mind at ease and lower his agitation a notch or two.
Dean wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.
Dad – not Sam.
Sam would know what to do – what to say to make Dean believe him, to make him feel better…
The next tremor tore another groan from him, and a heavy hand settled on his forearm, palm big and calloused…so much like Sam's.
And yet it wasn't.
"Gotta get better, kid, so we can get you out of here soon." John offered, quietly, and Dean knew it was meant as an encouragement, an incentive. He probably would have seen it as one, too, if he wasn't hurting so goddamn much. He'd most definitely see it as one if his brother was thrown into the mix somehow, if he'd be there once Dean managed to walk out of here. But right now it didn't feel like he was walking anywhere any time soon.
Dean wanted water, wanted water and a heater and something to make his body stop shaking like a newborn baby.
He smacked his lips, prepared to ask for something to drink as suddenly muscles seized along his back, pulling his head backwards, exposing his throat and pulling his lips back over his teeth involuntarily with the hiss of pain that was wrenched from his body.
"Easy…" John soothed calmly, his thumb on Dean's forearm running slow, warm circles on his oversensitive skin before abandoning the motion again quickly. As if touching his own son felt foreign to him… Given the past months estrangements…maybe it was.
"Thirsty…" Dean pressed out between chattering teeth, deciding to stick to one-word-sentences for the time being, just to be on the safe side.
"You know the drill, son – no water after surgery."
John's hand just lay on Dean's arm, lending strength and warmth and care, and still it wasn't enough.
Never enough.
Dean knew that it was more than he'd gotten most times he'd been hurting when growing up, knew it was all his dad knew how to offer. He knew that, for John, being there and touching him, soothing him meant more than Dean would have ever dared to ask for.
And still it wasn't enough. Not right now.
Sam would have known what to do.
He would have organized some ice-chips, or one of those water stick-thingies that would slowly dissolve inside his mouth – take the worst thirst off at least for a little while. Sam would have found another blanket, a hot-water bottle. He would have sat there and talked, senseless babble, most likely, but he would have known how much Dean relied on sound and noise to keep himself distracted, to keep him sane.
John never had been a good talker.
Besides arguing with Sam, that was.
And dishing out orders.
Those words John handled pretty damn well.
Once upon a time John had been a good singer, Dean remembered that, remembered his dad singing him a good night song every single night, humming to him softly when putting him to sleep, brushing the hair out of Dean's face while his deep timbre easily carried Dean away to whatever dream of childish wonders he'd still dreamed back then. And he still was a good singer, most likely, sure as hell hadn't lost his voice over night. The problem was, that he seemed to have forgotten how to use it to soothe his own sons, somewhere along the way.
Dean didn't remember his dad singing to either him or Sam for a long, long time. Maybe not ever again after their mom had died. He remembered, even as a kid of only four or five, still grieving the loss of his mommy, mute to the point where friends of the family told John to have the kid see a therapist, that he'd wondered how unfair it was that, now that he'd needed to hear his dad's voice the most, it was strangely absent most of the time.
His dad had been grieving, Dean had known that, and still he hadn't understood why John never hummed those wonderfully soothing tunes to baby Sammy when the kid refused to go to sleep long past his bedtime. And because it really wasn't Sam's fault, because he really shouldn't suffer for other people's misgivings, Dean had started to sing to his brother instead. He'd hummed the same tunes with his definitely childish and untrained voice and had found that, however much off kilter, however many times he'd had to repeat the same line over and over because he hadn't known the rest of the lyrics, Sam had come to cherish Dean's singing as much as Dean had cherished John's before.
And Dean, instead, had learned to depend on other sounds, on other words spoken by his father, be it gentle orders or soft inquiries on his little brother's well being at first. Later it would have been inquiries on how research was coming along, on how good he'd learned his Latin, how well he'd memorized a certain chant or summoning or exorcism. And, sometimes, there ha even been a little praise thrown in.
And when dad hadn't been there, Dean had relied on Sam's voice to keep him company, to keep him grounded.
With time, this voice had come to bear more importance, maybe, than dad's ever had.
But Sam wasn't here now.
He wasn't here and he wouldn't come, either.
Dean would have to learn to deal without his brother, would have to learn how to get through this without him. Even though he needed him – now more so than ever.
John was trying, Dean knew, knew from what little he remembered from those torturous hours in the wheatfield, hurt and confused and alone, that John hadn't completely forgotten his care and affection for his son.
He'd done all the right things when they'd mattered the most, when they'd been imperative to keep Dean grounded.
Dad knew how to do it, but he simply lacked the strength or the wisdom or the sentiment of when it maybe might not be imperative, but still necessary nonetheless, to Dean's state of mind if nothing else. Knowing that his dad loved him and cared about him in theory didn't help one bit as Dean lay there, drowning in his own thoughts, in his pain and misery, having no one there to keep him above water.
Dad's quiet affection was enough when Dean was up to par, when he was feeling as fine and stable as he was going to feel under normal circumstances. But somehow it wasn't enough now.
John was trying.
But Dean wondered idly if it ever would come to be enough.
OoOoOoO
Sam had called two more times within the last 24 hours.
This now made it call number three.
John sat on the chair next to his older son's bed, the phone blinking silently in his lap since he'd turned it to mute following hospital rules, staring at the screen that flashed a picture of Sam, hair sticking up at wild angles, cheek squished against the Impala's passenger side window.
John didn't remember Dean taking that picture – had to have been at a time when they'd already been riding separate cars. Ever since Dean had been given the Impala Sam had been riding with his brother. It had suited John just fine. Gave him more time to do research on his own, make some calls, inquire about the certain things without either of his sons listening in.
It had been the perfect arrangement at the time.
Didn't look so perfect now. He'd missed out on so much…
The phone was still flashing silently, tiny vibrations chasing through John's palm as he held the phone closer, staring at the picture of his lost son.
The sounds of bed sheets rustling had John up and aware again in a heartbeat and he instantly scooted closer to the bed, eyes intently trained on his son's face. It was almost as if Dean was feeling his brother's presence, even though it was just through the phone, his body reacting instinctively, it seemed as he quietly started to stir, his brow drawing in confusion and discomfort, lips working silently underneath the still present respiratory mask.
His face still looked a mess.
And John couldn't, try as he might, get the sight of his son's torn and bleeding body out of his mind, couldn't forget the broken voice that had begged John to come and save him…
At least he'd woken up now – hours after undergoing emergency surgery for the second time in a mere 24 hours.
Apparently, he'd regained consciousness while John had been gone to clear out their room, had woken up without really being aware, fighting against the ventilator, most definitely in a great amount of pain. When the doctors and nurses had managed to subdue him again, they'd realized that he was bleeding internally, his abdomen bloated and hard as stone. Bleeding so bad, as a matter of fact, that they had to rush him into surgery again, way too soon after he'd made it out of the first one. Something to do with his abdomen, spleen and kidney – the swelling there apparently more than just a bruise. The organs had bled into his abdomen – copiously, and they'd had to stop it.
Had to stop it so quickly, they hadn't even had time to inform John of it. Not that it would have mattered…but it had come as a shock to return to his son's bedside and find him cut open once more, hooked to even more machines, drugged on even heavier drugs.
But Dean was a fighter – if there'd ever been any doubt about that in John's mind, it had been relinquished now once and for all.
He was a goddamn fighter.
And after that second surgery, he'd finally woken up.
It hadn't been easy – far from it, had looked like it hadn't been a hole lot of fun to be sure, but he'd woken up and stayed aware long enough for John to bodily fight the urge to knock him unconscious again himself. Dean would never make anything easy on himself. John knew that. It was a trait that he both admired and detested in his eldest. It made him feel terribly helpless and in way over his head.
John had no idea how people did it, day in and day out, caring for their children without going absolutely insane.
His sons were good kids, both of them, there was no doubt about that. They were responsible and loyal, brave and strong. Mary would be so proud of them. And she'd most definitely kill John, slow and painful, for what he'd done to them in her name.
He was to blame that Dean was acting the way he was, always pushing himself farther, always trying to protect his family, thinking so little of himself at the same time as he sometimes just terribly overestimated his ability to carry everybody's weight on his own shoulders. He'd somehow got it into that thick head of his' that he only warranted his family's love if he put himself last, time and time again.
Dean shifted on the bed, his hand moving sluggishly over the blanket, creeping up towards his wounded side. John leant forward, laying a hand on his son's feverish hot forearm. He felt the muscles underneath his palm twitch and jump, the hand fighting against his weight for a second before going lax again, fingers still scratching against the bed sheet as if Dean was still trying to claw his way onwards, as if he was still on the run.
John moved his hand until his fingers covered those of his son, the gauze wound around Dean's hand and wrist soft against his palm, heat crawling its way even through the layers of bandages. At the initial contact Dean seemed to fight his grip even harder, tried to remove his hand from John's grasp. But this time John wouldn't let him.
He had enough of one of his sons trying to shy away from him, didn't want to let Dean go again, not now. The past days played themselves over and over in his mind, how he'd almost lost his eldest, how he'd nearly been too late.
Dean squirmed more viciously underneath his grip and John realized he'd gripped Dean's hand a little too tightly in his attempt to hold onto him. Funny, how he only seemed to be able to do this, show either of his son's affection when they were in dire danger or so sick they probably wouldn't notice. And, sadly, it was only the only opportunity that Dean let his father soothe him, lately.
John sighed as Dean finally ceased his fight, fingers going lax, parting slightly as if to allow his father's fingers to slip in between, to latch on more tightly. So he did. It felt strangely foreign yet so damn right at the same time.
It only served to show John how bad off Dean really was, letting his guard down like this, displaying a vulnerability, a need that he'd hardly ever showed out in the open ever since John had given him the responsibility of a little brother to care for.
Dean still was bad off, his body a wreck, a long, long way to go still.
But Dean was doing better now – the doctors had assured John of it, even though the kid had barely been awake for more than a minute or two at a time since coming out of surgery. For more than a day now he kept drifting in and out, but was also more aware, too, every time he woke up again.
He still needed time to heal, was in a whole world of pain, as the doctor had blandly yet accurately put it.
John knew that.
But he also knew that Dean would be able to beat this.
There was just no other option.
The phone finally stopped vibrating in John's other hand, the hand not clutching his sleeping son like a life line and John felt himself relax, watching carefully to make sure that Dean did the same. Dean once again shifted a little, lips working soundlessly underneath the mask before he finally drifted off again, remaining oblivious to his father's impending betrayal.
Once he was sure that Dean was out again John quietly opened the phone's call log, scrolling down the list of received calls.
He briefly fought the urge to just close the phone again and let it be when the sudden flashing sign of a tiny letter on the display informed him that a message had arrived. As if on autopilot, John pressed a button, holding the phone to his ear.
He felt like he hadn't heard his son's voice for decades, even though he'd only just spoken to him less than a day ago. Still the sound of Sam's rich timbre, slightly distorted by the phone's crackling static, had him flinching and trembling with unknown longing.
"Hey Dean, it's Sam. Uhm…but you probably know that anyways. I've been trying to reach you a couple of times, man, but you never called back. I…uhm…I know I haven't been really reliable myself with the whole calling back business, but… I just wondered how you were doing – you and dad. Don't know if he told you, but I talked to him…but I guess he didn't, or else you would have called back already. Anyways…I gotta run again, so…just, you know, give me a call when you find the time. I'm real busy – got exams and reports due and all, but I'll try and pick up this time…or at least call you back as soon as possible, I promise. Just…I hope you're Ok. And take care of yourself. Be safe – try to keep the risk as low as possible, that's all I'm asking. Ok, so, I guess…I'll talk to you. Bye."
A sharp beep announced the end of the message, a mechanical voice asking John if he wanted to repeat it or save it. John stared at the phone for a moment, fighting the urge to listen to his son's voice again, hear him one more time. Another quiet groan from the bed had him flinching again guiltily and he hit the delete button quickly, almost forcefully, waiting a moment to confirm that the message indeed had been erased.
Then he scrolled down the call log again, his thumb hovered momentarily over Sam's number, casting one last glance at his sleeping son before finally pressing the delete button, wiping out all traces that Sam had ever called at all.
Dean didn't need the distraction.
The doctor was right, he needed time to heal. In more ways than one.
He needed to worry about himself, didn't need to deal with the heartache.
Not right now.
OoOoOoO
tbc
AN:
I knew I was going to lose some readers as soon as the imminent-danger-part was over, maybe you still keep reading though, give this another chance. But I'm very grateful and glad that so many people still stayed with me on this.
About the scene where Dean wakes up from the surgery...I tend to wrap some of my own experiences into my stories every once in a while, and while I've obviously never been the victim of a black dog's attack, I've been through surgery twice in my life already (fortunately not more often...) and I react pretty badly to the anesthesia wearing off...it's acutally the part I hate most about the whole hospital thing (and I hate it plenty...so maybe I tried to process that - write it out of my system a little...
Those of you knowing my other stories know that I'm a sucker for details - which are sometimes too rare on the show, due to understandable problems with restricted airing time and all that, but I can't get out of my skin, so I couldn't cut this chapter short. I did make some changes to the course of the story, which you of course wouldn't know, since you don't know the original disaster, but I hope you'll find the story consistent (if that's the right word for it), and then it will have been the right choice I made. So, no worries, Dean is going to get better, and they are going to get out of the hospital in the next chapter, get on the road again. But there's still some things I need to take care of before I can wrap it all up nicely (I hope).
So, those who are maybe a little dissapointed that I don't just end this story after Dean get's saved from the field, I'm sorry I couldn't meet your expectations. To everybody else still reading and especially those honoring me with their reviews time and time again - thank you so much for keeping up the faith in me. I'll do my best to justify it!
I hope I can get the next chapter done till next week - have to make some reconstructions, but I'll do my best to not keep you waiting too long, if you hopefully want to come back for the next chapter!
So, as always, your reviews keep me going - and thank you all so, so much for your precious time!
take care!