AN: I'm so sorry everyone. I didn't mean to take longer than two weeks to update. I took a week of holiday, a week of getting something settled on my workplace and then I was planning to write something but two weeks away from this writing thing just put a hole in my head, nothing came up to write. But the good news here, I'm just checking on my folder and I really really am sorry, there is one more chapter betaed but totally forgotten. So here goes, the forgotten chapter :P. Sorry readers, my mistake. And thanks a lot for the bunch of awesome reviews. And about the next chapter, I'm working on it. Half of it was already done but I don't want to make another promise. Let's just hope that I can work it out okay.

Beta'ed: Green Raven 212. She's awesome and she's starting to write. I'm happy for you. Good luck!

Summary: See Chapter 1

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Distant and Faded

Chapter X

As the door was opened, John looked up from the floor to the guy in scrub who just walked out of the theatre to the waiting corner. For a while, he hesitated, not sure of what to do. He was itching to know about his son but at the same time, he was afraid of what he might hear.

He just arrived for about twenty minutes, rushing into the hospital just to find out that his son was under an emergency surgery. But the short wait felt like hours, draining his emotions as the time past.

"Mr. Martin?"

"Yes." He stood up. With experience, the response came out sincerely from his lips, as a reflex to the stranger name. He knew Dean was on that surname for the previous hunt, but he just hoped that he brought the right ID with him. Just in case.

They moved to each other, decreasing the parted length. He might be wrong, but the sign he saw on the doctor's face was nothing he wanted to see. He was good in reading faces, but lately—with Dean particularly—he felt like he was kind of starting to lose the ability. And he hoped it was the same thing happening right now.

"I'm Dr. Richard Sullivan, your son's physician. The surgery finally turned out good just like we like it to be. He'll be in recovery for 24 hours before we move him to his room, depending on his condition later. Don't worry, he's in good hands."

The late thirties doctor gave a small smile to his patient's family, expecting some kind of relief sign from the man in front of him. Normally, the information was enough to gain some good response from a concerned family but the frown he received from the guy slipped him away from his comfortable state.

"What do you mean 'finally turned out'? Did you expect anything else? What about the injuries? Don't leave any details here, doc. This is my son we're talking about."

The doctor nodded, knowing now that he needed to deal with this case another way. He pulled in a long breath before shoving out the information.

"The impact of the accident left him with fatal condition. When he arrived, he was really in a bad shape. Head injury, one fractured and three broken ribs. But the thing is, one of the broken ribs created a small cut to his artery, it was really small but just enough to give away a lot of blood from his system, slowly. His heart gave out twice on the table because of the lost blood. But we found the leak in time and repaired it. Hopefully, if there's no complication in his recovery, everything should be alright."

John took a big heavy breath before letting out a shaking sigh. He wanted to ask more when the door was opened for another time, revealing a patient on a gurney being rolled out before him. Too much tubes and wires surrounding the person just made him slip an instinctive question. "Is that my son?"

The doctor was just about to answer the man when John was already a few feet apart from him, launching himself to the kid on the gurney.

John got himself near his son, almost let out a small gasp as he saw the face. Dean was too pale and the white blanket enfolding his damaged body did not help anything to make the boy appear well. And the oxygen mask—one of the attendants kept pumping it—covering his lower face just made it worse. As they moved to the elevator, John let out his hand to his son, gripping the still arm as if he let go, the world would end on the spot. The pace was not that fast but he kept feeling that if they move any further, he might pass out himself.

Seeing Dean this vulnerable was not new to him, but this time, it was different. Their relationship was in a downhill and the guilt he felt was nothing to compare right now, not even with the way he let his younger son go to Stanford. The only thing he felt relief for right now was just how wrong Bobby was. His son was not suicidal.

If only he knew that he was the one who was totally wrong.

--

John stirred in his sleep, emergently feeling a danger. There was a figure standing not far from him, and his unconscious son.

Dean.

The name appeared in his head snapped his eyes open. He was in a hunter mode all of the sudden.

"Whoa, chill down there Johnny."

"Bobby?" the weight left his shoulder in a split second as soon as he knew who the person was. Bobby stood at the end of Dean's bed, giving him a greeting glance before pulling back their eye contact to continuously stare down to his son's still figure under the blanket.

"I came as soon as you called me." The words came out from the bearded older hunter, unconsciously brushing an appreciative feeling through the Winchester.

"Yeah, thanks for coming, Bobby." John said but he knew, Bobby was not coming for him, not for his son either. But he did it for himself. The bond between the friend and Dean was as close as a father and a son.

Thinking about that, a slight jealousy came through him but he swept it out as soon as it appeared. He has no right to feel something like that. Bobby was a good friend and he was lucky when there was still a person who cared and looked out for his son—both his sons—when he couldn't.

"How is he?"

John looked up again at the old hunter, inhaling a deep breath before landing his sight to his unconscious son. "Doctor said he's going to be alright. Maybe with a lot of pain for a couple of week because of the broken ribs, but he will live."

Bobby winced. Broken ribs were not fun. Hurting your limbs was better even if sometimes, they took longer to heal but ribs, no thanks. It was the last injury he would rather take.

Bobby scanned the still figure on the bed. If John was right, it did not sound too bad. But from what he heard from the nurse, the accident was kind of awful. The other guy was dead for God sake. He wondered what Dean might think about it, and even what was actually happened to lead the accident. Hopefully, it was not the boy's fault because if it was, Dean would never live through it. The boy had enough in his head, he didn't need another problem to mix in.

"What about the car?" Bobby asked, again carefully studying the injured boy. If the other driver was dead, must be the car that saved Dean. John didn't say anything about the Impala, not even asking him to clean up the trunk. And he doubted if the Winchester already took care of it because the man barely had time to get to this hospital. So, he wondered what happened to her.

"Nobody knows anything. The officer that took care of it was already gone when I'm here and they said, he might be here again tomorrow. I don't want to leave him just to find the car, Bobby. So, maybe I'd just ask the officer tomorrow." John rubbed his face with a sigh, leaning his head back, back to the chair.

Bobby was surprised at John's less concern about the weapons, not something he usually did. Yes, he should be with Dean but at least, let somebody else do the job. There were a few fellow hunters not far from there. And it was day—4.30pm—the visiting hours were not even over yet. "You don't think they'll find the weapons?" There was a little challenge in his voice.

"They might already do but if they did, they should be here right now, asking me questions and everything. So, I take it they didn't."

Bobby shook his head at the nonchalant statement. "Yeah, not yet. Whatever John, but I'll see what I can do."

--

Bobby pulled over his truck not far from the yard. He was asking about the Impala for ages at the police station—not really the Impala because he was afraid they already found out the weapons, so he asked about the other vehicle in the accident—before the officer there decided to tell him about this place. Damn freaking cop. He knew they need to file the report and everything but it didn't mean that the cars were theirs.

Bobby jumped over the fence, carefully made sure that the duffel bag he carried was not in his way. He moved in silence, not wanting anybody to see him. But it was dark so he really doubted about that. He didn't have to walk further inside, behind a few scrap metals, he found the black Chevy, dumped carelessly on the muddy yard. Parted by only a couple of yards, a red truck was laid unmoving. Must be the dead guy's.

Bobby walked slowly to the Impala, looking around for any disturbances before pulling the key out. The Impala was as good as a half-garbage but the trunk top was still looking good.

Slowly, he turned the key in the hole, ended with a click. The trunk was opened with a sound and Bobby pulled up the hard cover, mostly expecting the weapons. But what he saw just punching his gut, left him with a frown.

There was no such thing as small as a hunting blade in the compartment. It was nothing. Not even the sections. They were gone.

The weapons were gone.

TBC

Well, if some of you was wondering about the Sheriff, he will be back. Reviews are always welcomed.