Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
A/N: Thanks mimishell and CagedTroll for all of your help! Hope you all enjoy the chapter—let me know what you think! Oh, and please note the definition below in case you've never heard the phrase—it comes up in this chapter!
face-plant (fās'plänt) n., v. face-planted, face-planting. –n. 1. a fall in which a person lands face-first. –v. 2. to fall or land face-first into or against a surface.
Chapter 11: Cutting Words
Four states, six pills, and thirteen pit stops later, Dean knew he couldn't hide how bad he was feeling for much longer. While giving his father the cold shoulder had worked for awhile, John Winchester could only be held off for so long, and Dean was pretty sure they'd reached that point. His head ached so bad that he could scarcely hold it up anymore, and he could feel the sticky, cold sweat that had broken out all over his body, collecting at the base of his spine and at his hairline. I feel like shit. But as much as he didn't want to focus on how bad he was feeling, at least it was better than focusing on the words that kept replaying in his mind, his father's hurtful words from the night before that kept echoing in his thoughts.
No, don't think about that,Dean told himself, wrenching his mind away from those cutting words. Stay focused—hide the pain.
As long as he'd been asleep, he'd been okay, able to cover up the pain and the sick feeling that was sweeping through him. But time had taken its toll, no longer allowing Dean the luxury of sleeping through his misery. At least it's quiet, though—Braden's still sleeping off that Dramamine shit, and Aubrey and Sam have finally shut the hell up and gone to sleep, too. They'd spent the last two hours chattering, driving Dean silently crazy as he slumped in his seat, John totally oblivious to his oldest son's growing discontent. Now, if I could just get my brain to forget everything—how bad I feel, how much things suck out loud right now—just for a little while…if I could just make things better…but what do I say? How do I fix it? I don't know if I can…man, I feel like shit...if I didn't feel so bad, I could fix this, I know it…maybe…
He wanted nothing more than to open his mouth and tell his dad how bad he felt, but he just couldn't do it, his hurt and confusion too overwhelming to let him speak up. So Dean did what he always did—he suffered in silence. And all the while, his mind whirled, around and around, his father's words playing over and over in his mind like a broken record.
"What the hell is the matter with you?!" John yelled, as he slammed the bathroom door shut behind Dean and jerked Dean around to face him. "Have you lost your damn mind?!"
"I'm sorry," Dean began, but John cut him off.
"No—you don't speak now! You've done enough of that! This is completely unacceptable! The twins haven't even been with us two days, and you're already giving me shit! I expected better from you! I told you to quit—no, I ordered you to, and you deliberately disobeyed me—you're lucky I don't hand you your ass in a sling for such blatant disregard for my orders!"
Unable to look his father in the eye, Dean looked down at his feet, embarrassed and ashamed, but not having a clue how to make things better. Oh shit, this is bad.
"No, you look me in the eye when I'm speaking to you!" John continued angrily. "You know what it's like to lose your mom, Dean—how the hell can you talk to your sister like that? Are you that damn pissed at me that you can say something that hateful to her and not give a shit?"
Fix it, Dean. Fix it now.
"I didn't mean it," Dean murmured, but his father was not in a forgiving mood, and Dean felt a sudden, strange urge to cry as he stared into his father's angry face, an urge he fought down as he struggled not to give in to the weakness and pain, both emotional and physical, that were beating him down.
"I don't wanna hear it, Dean! Sam keeps sticking up for you, telling me that you don't feel good, that you're just talkin' shit to me because you're sick. But I'm tired of the excuses, Dean! There's no excuse for the way you spoke to Aubrey, and I'll be damned if I'll let you keep up this sort of childish bullshit!"
"I was just angry—I didn't—"
"You're pissed at me—I get that, it's fine! You deal with that however you can—I'm a grown man, I can handle it! But I'll be damned if I'll sit here and let you take your issues out on the rest of this family! Now you take care of this shit, because I'm gettin' pretty damn sick of it!"
"Dad, please, I just lost my temper, that's all! I didn't mean to—"
"No-I told you before, Dean, that I don't want your excuses! You think I don't know that this is hard for you?! You feel like hell right now—I get that, I do! But if you think that's an excuse for you to cock an attitude with me, you'd best think again! Too much is going on right now for me to have to deal with this sort of shit from you! I get enough of that shit from your brother—I don't need it from you too," he had told Dean angrily, staring over at his son with fire in his eyes.
"Dad, I—"
"No! Whatever problem you think you have, you get over it, and you get over it fast, because I'm not gonna put up with it! Rest assured, if I have to get involved again, sick or not, your ass will regret it."
"I just—"
"We're through," John said tightly, his jaw clenched as he visibly pushed away the hot, raging temper in favor of tightly-controlled anger. "This won't happen again. Is that clear?"
"I—"
"It's a yes or no question," John said coldly, and Dean looked down once more.
"Yessir."
"Good. Now you step up, and start acting your age."
"Dean, hand me that map out of the dash," John spoke up, interrupting the painful words echoing in Dean's mind. Dean could tell from the distracted tone of his father's voice that John wasn't even glancing his way as he held his hand out for the map, the older man's eyes remaining fixed on the road. "I want to re-check our route before we take the next exit," John was saying, unaware that his lecture from the night before continued to swirl around in Dean's head, a confused jumble of cutting words that was tearing his son up anew every time he recalled them.
Snapping back to the present, Dean barely suppressed a groan at his father's request, as complying meant he'd have to move. Using his elbow, he pushed himself away from the seat, barely catching himself before he face-planted into the dash.
"You think I don't know that this is hard for you?!" Squeezing his eyes shut to beat back the pain that was now radiating outward from his side, he panted, bracing himself against the dash as he tried to breathe past the pain.
"Dad, I think I'm gonna hurl," he murmured, desperately trying to swallow back the burning rush of vomit he could feel rising up his throat. Don't hurl in the car, don't hurl in the car, he told himself, barely aware as John pulled the car over.
Groping for the door handle, he managed to shove the door open and lean out just in time to avoid puking all over his beloved car's interior. Feeling like he was throwing up his insides, he fought to catch his breath, wishing it would all stop. He quickly threw up what little food was in his stomach, leaving him with the dry heaves that were so much worse. He could hear his father behind him, murmuring at him, and even though Dean couldn't focus on the words, it didn't matter…he knew what his father was saying. Ride it out, ride it out. It'll pass. On a good day, Dean supposed it was meant to be comforting, but at the moment, Dean wasn't feeling the comfort. For the miserable seventeen-year-old, John's little mantra had practically become synonymous with "suck it up and take it like a man." After what felt like forever, the dry heaves subsided, leaving Dean feeling drained and no less shitty than before. He sagged against the doorframe, lacking even the energy to wipe the tears from his eyes that throwing up always seemed to elicit.
"You feel like hell right now—I get that. But if you think that's an excuse for you to cock an attitude with me, you'd best think again…I get enough of that shit from your brother—I don't need it from you too!"
Feeling the familiar callused hand of his father come up to rest on his forehead, Dean leaned into it, relieved that, at least for a minute, he didn't have to hold his head up.
"Shit, Dean—you're burning up," John muttered, reaching out with his other hand to gently pull Dean back in the car. "Why the hell didn't you say something sooner?" he asked, pulling the door shut while holding Dean steady.
"Whatever problem you think you have, you get over it, and you get over it fast, because I'm not gonna put up with it!"
Through barely open eyes, Dean more sensed than saw his father fumble around in the backseat before grabbing up one of Aubrey's many pillows and sliding it between Dean's head and the door. Damn, that feels good, Dean thought with a sigh, distantly wondering just how many she had managed to bring along. Think she stole some from the motel…they're multiplying…gotta be, 'cause didn't she only have two when we started…or was it three?
"Dean, you with me, son?"
Blinking away the fogginess, Dean groggily turned his head to stare at his father blearily.
"Dean?" "Too much is going on right now for me to have to deal with this sort of childish shit from you!"
"You think I could take some of that Dramamine shit of Braden's?" Dean asked, ignoring his father's questioning look.
"What? Why?"
"It put him out cold…figured it'd be nice to swallow something strong enough to keep me from hurling…and knock me on my ass at the same time."
"I don't want anything else introduced into your system, Dean—between the antibiotic and the pain meds for your knee, about the only thing I'm willing to give you at this point is a few ibuprofen."
"That shit's not strong enough, Dad," Dean muttered.
"Look, when we get to Jim's, I'll see what I can do, but—"
"Just forget it."
"Dean," John began, but Dean shook his head, unwilling to argue or discuss it further. "I don't wanna hear it, Dean! Sam keeps sticking up for you, telling me that you don't feel good, that you're just talkin' shit to me because you're sick. But I'm tired of the excuses, Dean!
"Let's just go."
"Can you hold out until we reach Jim's place, or do I need to find us a place to hole up for awhile?" How about you shoot me and put me out of my misery—is that an option? Dean thought irrationally.
"I'm not some pansy-ass girl—I'll be fine," he said instead. "Just keep goin'," he mumbled, preferring to be sick and miserable at Jim's to being sick and miserable in some shitty motel room in the middle of nowhere.
"You sure?"
Since when do you care? You all but freakin' told me that you didn't, Dean thought, his father's words once again rushing back.
"You're pissed at me—I get that, it's fine. You deal with that however you can—I'm a grown man, I can handle it. But I'll be damned if I'll sit here and let you take your issues out on the rest of this family. Now you take care of this shit, because I'm gettin' pretty damn sick of it!"
"Dean?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the pain and the headache and the hot, achy feeling that he was feeling despite the shivers that were starting to wrack his frame, but it was all becoming too much for him. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, only to stifle a gasp as the seatbelt pressed against the hot, painful wound in his side. Annoyed and completely out of patience, Dean reached down and unbuckled his seatbelt, slinging it away from him angrily.
"What are you doing?"
"Hurts."
"Dean, I'm thinkin' maybe we should go ahead and stop somewhere for the night."
Well if you were just gonna go ahead and do what you wanted, then why the hell did you ask me what I thought in the first place? Dean thought angrily.
"Whatever, Dad," he replied, lacking the energy to argue. As though sensing Dean's true feelings on the matter, John sighed.
"Alright, look, if you're sure you can hold out for a bit longer, I guess we'll keep going. We're almost there, and if I can avoid forking out some cash for a motel room, I'll do it. Just try and get some sleep if you can."
With a grunt, Dean turned his face into the pillow John had stolen from Aubrey's stash, burying his face in it as he closed his eyes and tried to wipe his mind of all thought. Maybe it wasn't so bad when Sammy and Aubrey were yappin' in the backseat. At least then there was something else to focus on besides how shitty I feel or Dad's lecture from hell play over and over again in my head. Don't think about it—just breathe, he told himself. You're being a total bitch about this. Quit whining and suck it up. Shoving all thought aside by sheer force of will, he closed his eyes tighter and began to count. One, two, three…
He was asleep before he reached 100.
"Dean."
Opening his eyes, Dean gazed around in confusion, trying to figure out where the hell he was. His head felt like it was filled with sand, the thoughts slipping away before he could firmly grasp them. Blinking in an attempt to clear his mind, he frowned at his father, who was staring at him with worried eyes. Not moving anymore…car stopped…red light? Pit stop? Not worth moving…
"C'mon, Dean."
"Don't hafta go," Dean mumbled, not fighting the urge to slip back into sleep.
"What?"
"Don't hafta piss. 'M good," he murmured, pressing his face deeper into the pillows.
"No, son—we're not taking a pit-stop. We're at Jim's."
Growling at the annoyance of having to move, Dean shoved the pillow away and clumsily reached for the door handle, unable to stop a hiss of pain from escaping.
"Just wait here, Dean. I'll come back for you."
Sure, whatever, Dean thought, settling back in the seat, his hands limp at his sides. His eyes closed of their own accord as he listened to the familiar sound of the Impala's doors opening.
"Sam, wake up," he heard John say quietly.
"Ah, Dad, why'd ya' have to wake me up?" Sam grumbled. "I was havin' this really neat dream where…"
"Sam, it's 3 in the morning, son. It'll keep. Now make yourself useful—grab a bag or grab a twin, your pick."
"Um…I'll take a bag, I guess…"
Dean watched through veiled eyes as John lifted Aubrey out of the car and onto his shoulder before walking around to pick Braden up as well. Shouldn't do that, Dad—not leavin' your gun-hand free…stupid. Hearing the sound of a screen door slam, Dean turned his heavy head to see Pastor Jim walking toward the car, looking none the worse for wear despite the early hour.
"John, it's good to see you. I was beginning to worry," Jim said with a kind smile, his voice sounding muffled to Dean as he listened through the closed door on his side.
"Jim. Thanks for having us," John replied, and Dean would have rolled his eyes at the pleasantness of it, if he'd had the energy. Don't hurry on my account, Dad...
"Are you picking up strays now, Winchester? That's hardly like you," Jim said softly. Yeah, no kidding, Pastor Jim…too bad Dad didn't stay true to form when the twins came along with their stupid-ass rodent…
"Uh, yeah, about that," John was saying, "it's a long story, but they're mine, and well…they're with us now. I know I should have said something about it sooner, but…look, if you can't put us all up, I can find a motel."
"Don't be absurd, John—it's perfectly alright. We'll make do."
"You don't know how damn glad I am to hear that, Jim—I've got one kid drugged into unconsciousness, another running a fever, attitude comin' out the wazoo, and urine-stained clothes stinking up my trunk…"
"I won't ask about the clothing. Which one is running a fever?"
That would be me, Pastor Jim, Dean thought dryly, closing his eyes wearily. I'd raise my hand, but it doesn't seem to want to move right now…
"Dean."
"It's not the flu, is it? Quite a bit of that going around lately."
"No—infection. Run-in with a poltergeist a couple of weeks ago turned ugly. Kid's been through the wringer."
What a freakin' understatement, Dad, Dean thought testily, listening with growing irritation as his father conversed with the older man
"The wound in his side is lookin' pretty nasty," John continued, "and we've been pushing the antibiotics, but it's not doing much for him."
"Have you taken the boy to a doctor, John?"
"I'd rather avoid that route, if possible—leaves a trail, and people start asking questions. Look, I'm sure once I get him inside and get a good look at the wound that I can take care of it."
"Alright, John. Well, why don't you let me take the little ones and you get Dean into the house?"
"Yeah, alright."
A few seconds later, Dean heard his door being pulled open and felt his father's hand gently wrap around his bicep.
"C'mon, kiddo, let's get you to bed, huh?" Sounds good, Dad…in a minute…
John shifted his grip on Dean's arm to get a firmer hold before he began to ease Dean towards the edge of the seat. Dean's eyes flew open, and he couldn't hold back a gasp of pain as he was jostled.
"Easy, son, easy—I've got you. Let me do the work, alright?"
Wish I could just pass out already, 'cause damn, this hurts…can't decide which hurts worse, my knee or my side, 'cause right now, they both hurt like a bitch. Dude, it's like synchronized swimming, 'cept it's more like synchronized pain…all together now.
Sweat beaded on his brow, and he bit down on his lower lip as his father slowly maneuvered him out of the car and into a standing position.
"Don't feel so good," he mumbled, disoriented as the world seemed to start spinning around him. Oh, shit...His stomach clenched, the only warning he had before he started to throw-up once more. Tears leaked from his eyes as his stomach tried its best to eject its meager contents. Unfortunately, there was little left after his last bout of vomiting, so he ended up dry-heaving once again instead. This sucks worse than throwin' up…this just hurts…
"Hang in there, kiddo—it'll pass," he heard John murmur, and even though Dean was still angry as hell at his father, he was glad the man was there. As the oldest Winchester held his son up from behind, bracing him even as he practically held Dean up, Dean was willing to let go of his anger, at least for the moment. When his stomach finally returned to a semblance of calm, Dean spit weakly onto the ground before sagging against his father. Shifting his grip again, John tugged Dean's right arm over his shoulder, wrapping his own arm low around Dean's waist, avoiding the painful injury to Dean's side.
"Sam, grab the sleeping bags for the twins—make a pallet out of the bags instead of zipping 'em up separately," John called back over his shoulder as the younger of the Winchester teenagers came walking back from the house.
"'kay," Sam said with a loud yawn, before grabbing the two brightly-colored sleeping bags from the trunk and following after Jim. Hey, wow, Sammy didn't argue that time…wonder what the hell is wrong with him…
John began to move then, and a harsh sob escaped Dean as he struggled to stay on his feet and keep his eyes open.
"C'mon, Dean, you just gotta make it a couple hundred yards. If I have to carry you in a fireman's hold, you're gonna hurt a hell of a lot more, son," John said apologetically, pausing for a moment to allow Dean to gather his strength. Why does he always have to be right? Dean sucked in a breath, exhaling harshly as he began to force his tired, aching body forward.
"One step at a time, son. Take it easy, you're doin' good."
Time lost all meaning as Dean let his father lead him towards the door of Jim's house, his fingers clutching weakly at John's shirt. One step. Two steps. Three…He lost count, his mind too tired and his body too raw with pain to stay focused.
"Tired, Dad," he mumbled, his eyes dropping even as his feet kept moving painstakingly forward.
"I know, son, but trust me, it's not much farther."
But can I trust you?
Suddenly, Dean felt someone ease under his left arm, abruptly taking the brunt of the weight off of Dean. Startled, he jerked, fighting to open his eyes as his body tensed, preparing to fight off an attack.
"Easy, boy," Jim said softly, and Dean relaxed, letting himself go completely limp at the sound of the older man's voice, trusting implicitly that the pastor wouldn't let him fall.
"John, this isn't just a mild fever—the boy's burning up. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of him. You should have stopped hours ago and taken him to a doctor, regardless of the consequences," Jim scolded. Nice to know I'm not the only one who royally gets his ass chewed out …yeah, it's your turn, now, Dad…nobody can lay a guilt-trip on you like Pastor Jim…must be because he's a pastor…church folks are good at that…Dean was vaguely aware of the fact that his thought process was beginning to detour him all over the place, but he couldn't bring himself to care…I'll just go with the flow…yeah…The ebb and flow of conversation moved around him, but he couldn't seem to track all of it, only able to tune into bits and pieces of it, but not really minding, as the words hardly seemed to make sense anyway…
"Dammit, Jim—why are you rakin' me over the coals about this? Dean didn't want to stop—I trusted that he was telling me the truth when he said he could hold out until we got here!" Yeah, I guess I can lie with the best of 'em…guess it's my own damn fault, Pastor Jim…shoulda told Dad the truth…screwed up again…
"The boy is seventeen, John! Of course he's going to tell you that he's fine. They all think they're invincible at that age, and you should know that well enough. Besides that, he's your son—he'd just as likely insist that he was fine even if he was bleeding out from a gunshot wound to the chest! If nothing else, a Winchester can always be counted on to be foolishly mule-headed. You're his father—you should have forced the issue and taken him to a doctor."
"Things are pretty rocky between him and me right now," John admitted, and as sick as he was, Dean couldn't deny how reluctant his father was to acknowledge a problem to someone outside the family, even if it was Pastor Jim. "He's…he's pissed off at me, hurt…I didn't want to make an issue of it with him, not with things as they are right now," John told Jim softly, and Dean fought the overwhelming sense of guilt and hurt swirling inside of him. Everything's all messed up—nothing's right any more…nothing makes sense anymore…why can't things just be like they were before?
As the two men gently maneuvered him inside the house and deposited him on the edge of Pastor Jim's guest bed, Dean realized with a brief moment of clarity that he didn't even have the energy to hold himself up. He began to list to the side, only staying upright because Jim caught him before he sank to the mattress. With Pastor Jim maintaining a firm grip on him, Dean remained upright as John knelt down to remove Dean's boots. Good, I didn't wanna sleep in those, he thought offhandedly. It was the last thought he had before he finally succumbed to the pain and exhaustion that had been eating away at him for days. Because at least in sleep, for a little while, everything was okay.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who has sent a review—they mean so much to me! Thanks for taking the time to drop me a line! You guys are great!
Poppyflake: As far as Aubrey's uncompromising behavior, there's a reason for it…I realized last night while talking to one of my betas that I've never actually put it into words, though…it's like, I knew the reasoning behind her behavior in my mind, but I'd never really verbalized (or written) it…so stay tuned for more specific insight into her reasoning. And the EMF meter's reaction to Braden is definitely important…Anyways, as always, thanks for faithfully reviewing every chapter!
dilly: Hope this chapter fulfilled your Dean-angst quota. I'm so glad to hear that I've won you over! Thanks so much for reviewing—reviews make fanfic writing worthwhile! Looking forward to hearing what you thought about this chapter!
lilgurlgreen: I think Dean's mood is shifting from bad to worse here…I find myself identifying with him quite a bit, too! Thanks for reviewing—I love hearing from readers!
Hero Lily: Considering I'm one of two girls in my immediate family, the Chapter 10 scene you referred to in your review has never actually come up…although I'll admit to an outdoor incident in which I failed miserably at my first attempt to use the woods…in fact, I was probably about Aubrey's age when that happened. I guess it's true that we write what we know…of course, without brothers, I have to improvise on some of this. But I'm glad to hear that I'm doing alright! Thanks so much for reviewing!!
SamU1: Glad to hear you think I'm doing a good job—thanks for the compliment! Lots of family drama to come, so stay tuned! Thanks for sending me a review—I always like hearing from readers—it makes writing this worthwhile!
zuimar: It was so good to hear from you! I hope this chapter lived up to expectations! Braden definitely has a role to play in upcoming chapters, although I'm not sure if it'll be overly apparent until later. So what do you think—did I keep the Hurt-Dean fans satisfied with this one? Granted, it was more angst than actual hurt, but I think it came out alright…anyways, thanks for reviewing for me! I appreciate it!