When they finally tracked him down, it was John who found him first, following the trail of broken branches and trampled leaves until he located the corpse of the deer, and then heard the panicked breath of his son from a few yards off. Dean didn't need to breathe, of course, but it seemed to be a habit that not many vampires had broken in his experience. In that regard, his son really was no different than any of the other bloodsuckers he'd taken out over the years.
He walked up to his eldest, who was trembling and totally unaware of his father's approach. Shock had set in, it seemed.
"Dean."
Unresponsive. There was, John noted with mild disgust, a faint tinge of red around his son's mouth that remained after he'd fed. He took out his canteen of holy water and pulled the bandanna from his coat pocket. He doused the bandanna with the water. Might sting some, but that might actually be a good thing if it helped the younger man out of his catatonia.
"Here," he said, tossing the wet cloth, "Clean yourself up. You look like a goddamned animal."
Dean swallowed and shakily wiped the blood from his face. If he noticed the hiss and steam from his burning skin, he did not show it.
"You done?" John asked. It was a loaded question.
Dean nodded and got to his feet. With some of his strength restored, the act was less tentative than before, though his breath was still uneven. He passed the bandanna back to his father, who then looked pointedly at his son's hands.
Following his father's gaze, Dean realized his hands were still bloody. He self-consciously scrubbed at the skin until the burns started turning raw. John cleared his throat, and Dean stopped scrubbing, folded the cloth neatly, and presented it again to his father. John pocketed it.
"Look me in the eye," he said. Dean struggled to keep his expression from exposing the naked fear he felt at that tone of voice. He met his father's gaze with no small amount of wariness.
"You ever get that close to losing it again, and I will kill you. You threaten Sam again, and I will kill you. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
"You ever let it get that bad again, you're no different than what we hunt. And you know what I do to the things we hunt, don't you?"
Dean was choked by shame, unable to respond. Monster. Vampire.
"Speak up."
"Yes sir, I do," he whispered.
"So here's what's going to happen next. We're going to do two things. First, you're going to put on cuffs so I know you're not a liability. Second? We're going to douse you with another syringe."
Dean felt his heart leap into his throat.
"Please- please- Sir, the chains. Just not the blood, I can't—" he shuddered, "—I can't handle another dose. Please," he swallowed, "Dad, please."
"Take a look at that deer you killed."
Please, don't. Please.
"Look at it, Dean. Now."
He turned, saw the throat of the animal wide-torn, jugular, esophagus, muscle and sinew stripped open and exposed to the night air like some rabid predator had killed it. The eyes were bulged and glassy, unaware of the flies landing on and around them. Monster.
"Dean, when your mother died I promised nothing like that would ever happen to my family again. I'm sorry I couldn't save you, son, but if you threaten Sam or Bobby, if I even think for a moment they might wind up like that deer, I'll take your goddamn head. You understand me, boy?"
"Yes sir," he whispered.
"Put these on," John said, and the clink of metal cuffs landed near his feet. "Arms behind, not in front."
Dean didn't need the reminder; he knew how they cuffed on hunts. He slid the metal over his wrists, tightened each band while his father checked for slack and tested the strength of the chain.
When he was satisfied, John pulled out the syringe. Dean swallowed, and couldn't help his step backward. Fear trapped his breath in his chest.
"Dad, please," he begged, "not the blood. I'm in my right mind, I swear. I won't hurt anyone. I can't think straight when I'm dosed. I won't even speak, won't even move. Just don't inject me, please. Please."
"Spare him, for Christ's sake. Look at him, John. Don't you think he's been through enough?" Bobby's tired voice rang through the clearing. Sam arrived a moment later, saw the deer, and looked almost relieved.
"Let him go, Winchester, he'll be alright now."
Dean didn't dare speak on his own behalf. His father narrowed his eyes at his friend, but sighed.
"Fine," he said, and turned toward his eldest. "You heard me, boy. One wrong move, you're shooting up. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
It was Sam who pulled Dean to his feet, mindful of not twisting his cuffed arms. Dean's pace was steadier now that he'd fed, but Sam wasn't so sure he'd make it back to Bobby's without throwing it all up again. His skin was still clammy from the dead man's blood, but at least he noticed Dean's eyes and teeth had returned to their human state.
John took up his place behind Bobby and his sons as they walked back to the impala. Dean seemed back in control, if a little sick. They'd have to find a cure, and soon, though. It was becoming obvious that the situation was beginning to spiral out of control.
