Chapter 11
When John had been in Vietnam, the young marine was one of the many soldiers stationed in Saigon until the evacuation of the US embassies. During his time in the city, John met with little fire from the Viet Cong up until the last few weeks on the borders. One particularly warm day John and the rest of his company were on the outskirts doing a routine patrol when they had been ambushed. It was so loud that John thought he had gone deaf – he had never been in an urban skirmish before except in training and John and the rest of his men scrambled to regain control of the situation.
He had been a rifleman, and one of the best shots in his company – a trait that went on to help him while hunting a different kind of enemy. John got off a few rounds at snipers and the Cong attacking, enabling his company to take cover in one of the abandoned buildings and out of the direct line of fire.
John had been the last to move to cover, having set up across the street in order to get the best shots. In the corner of his eye, he saw Deacon at the door waving at him to haul ass to join the rest of them. John ducked behind the car he had been firing from, hurrying to pack his rifle away and time when he needed to move. John looked anxiously down the street, the scene quiet for a moment so he began to rush towards the rest of his company.
The marine didn't remember much after that, the car at his back exploded, sending John face forward into the dirt, John recalled blood dripping down his neck, dirt and blood caking his jacket, no doubt shards of hot twisted metal had made huge lacerations. John felt like he couldn't move – only lie there, utterly helpless as he watched his company abandon the shelter to attempt a rescue. Honestly John was surprised he wasn't dead, but every muscle in his body no longer hurt and it felt like he was watching the macabre situation from the comfort of a movie theatre. This was called shock… something John had seen in other soldiers but never experienced himself.
Deacon ended up being the one to reach him first, and the worry on his friend's face was evident. He shook John, jostling his fallen friend, and John winced as the pain in his back reignited. "Come on Kansas!" Deacon yelled, situating himself to be able to carry John back to the building.
When they retreated and got John to the hospital, Deacon tried to say something to John in order to distract the young man from the shrapnel being pulled out of his flesh. John blinked at Deacon, completely dazed, the explosion earlier knocking out any ability for the young marine to hear.
Later, John had the opportunity to read the medical report, mostly because he always had a slightly morbid curiosity. Turned out John had been a very lucky man – or unlucky if you looked at the fact he was in the situation at all. A five-inch shard of metal had embedded itself just shy of his spinal cord.
He supposed he was grateful for the few moments when he wasn't able to feel the splinter in his back, but the feeling was one John never wanted to experience ever again. He did, of course, although for different reasons – drinking himself into a stupor after Mary's death.
John could barely feel the pressure of hands against his face, but ice kept his eyes frozen shut so he couldn't see who was standing over him. Skin on his face felt rubbery and his limbs were utterly useless. He groaned, to at least let the person with him know he was awake.
"Johnny?" A feminine voice asked pleadingly. "Johnny, open your eyes."
He tried to, but ice and exhaustion prevented him from doing so.
"Damnit John…" John dimly felt as he was jostled and stripped of his wet jacket and shirt, replaced by a dry heavy cloth. "I'm going back to the car to call 911. Shit… just for a minute honey, I'll be right back," the voice reassured.
The hands left him, leaving cool, cutting air to brush against his face. John let loose another painful groan, using all his strength to try to sit up some. His back was against something, a rough stone or tree. He managed to crack one eye halfway open, his vision was blurred and the onslaught of colors made his head swim. It wasn't as though John hadn't been in this position before, a few hunts ago he woke up and found that he'd been out for about six hours. Than again, he'd been inside a haunted cabin, cut off from most of the elements. And he had been dry. That was a key part of his last brush with death.
His vision didn't get any better as the minutes ticked by, but a tingling sensation burned at his fingertips and his cheeks. He drew a rattled breath as he saw a reddish shape come into view. He couldn't form any words, but gave a shuddering groan. The hand returned to his face again, warm and comforting, alighting fresh round of stings where there was contact.
"Johnny? Johnny look at me. Come on honey, I know you can…"
"Mmhhh?" John mumbled. A wave of brown flashed before John and he felt the person wrap around his chest.
She shifted and placed a hand on his chest, the voice said apologetically, "Oh God… Johnny, Erin's on his way. Freakin'…" Mattie brushed a loose strawberry curl from her eyes. "Damnit… what the hell did you get yourself into?" The woman shivered, having given her winter coat to John, so she hovered close to the father. She tilted up John chin, steadying his jaw in her petite hands. "John? Look at me… John," her voice was firm and her eyes searched his face. "John," she repeated.
John managed to focus long enough, colors playing tricks on him. One moment everything was blurry and faded the next the bright red hair glowed.
"Drink this Johnny," she commanded, holding up a coffee mug. Mattie shrugged, "It's not the greatest coffee, but it's something warm." Matt tilted the mug and John struggled with the first few sips she tried to get him to drink. "That's it hun, doing good…"
His sight blurred again, and he felt the darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision. Mattie panicked, pitching forward to hold the side of the widowers face.
Minutes ticked pass and soon John was dimly aware of more dizzying movement but he didn't focus on anything in particular. Matt had been pulled away and John mind jostled to and fro with the busy buzzing of paramedics.
"Mattie? Matt! Are you okay? God, Matt you're freezing."
"I'm fine Erin…"
"You're going to ride with John then… … Troy! Reservation clinic, I'll follow behind you…"
"No! Erin, let them…"
"Sweetheart, you've been out here almost an hour. I want you to ride in the ambulance…"
Muddled sounds and colors played before John and after a few minutes he felt the small hand stroking his forehead once more, "It's okay Johnny… we got you." John's breath hitched, caught in his throat and the hand pulled away abruptly. A loud, unending ringing reverberated throughout the cabin of the ambulance.
John fumbled with his deadened hands, and weakly tried to grab a hold of Mattie's woolen jacket. Something's wrong… his head pounded and for a moment he wasn't sure where the pain was just that there was pain.
Ice-cold blood seemed to drag through his body, he could feel each tiny miniscule movement in his veins. Icy pains stabbed at his heart and John clenched his eyes in pain, a gravelly groan barely audible over the ringing. In a moment he was released, and floated in the blackness.
"I've got you… look at me John… look at me and don't you dare look away."
He was back in Saigon, marveling at a glittering gold before his eyes. He couldn't feel anything, and he could barely hear Deacon or the rest of his company over the overbearing silence. The voice though, the crystal clear feminine voice that was passive yet commanding. She sounded far away, but at the same time it was as though she was whispering right into his ear.
John slid his eyesight slightly, the sun temporarily blinding him but soon that passed and he could focus on the Mary's smiling face, lit from behind so her hair seemed to glow. "Mary?"
"Hey Johnny…"
"Am I…?"
"No, honey, you're fine. Everything's fine."
"Why are you…?"
"Angels are watching over you," she replied, although her voice was lined with slight sadness. She leaned in and kissed his forehead. Blinking through tears, she seemed to shimmer through the painful haze John was swimming in. "You promised me you'd come home, so I won't let you break that promise… even if…"
John gasped as Mary reached around and he felt a sharp pain in his back and he winced. She pulled her hand back, stained crimson with blood. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry John," she apologized, she looked fearfully over her shoulder before smiling at him, "When you come home we'll have everything we ever wanted…" She cupped his face and kissed him once more. "Won't that be nice?"
John awoke with the kiss still on his lips and a warm weight curled up at his side. The single father looked around, and an unfamiliar ceiling overhead greeted him with sterile whiteness. He tilted his head to find the curly dark hair of his youngest beside him and a small fist resting on his chest. "Hey kiddo…" he said with difficulty.
Sam looked up and blinked at John, his face stained with tears and eyes that threatened to cry again. "Dad?" He asked tentatively.
Doctor Holmes stood at John's left side and for the first time John noticed the heavy cast on his arm. The young doctor frowned professionally and began, "It's good to see you awake Mister Wallace.
"Good to be awake Doc," John groaned, pushing himself up so he was against the headboard.
Holmes smiled at Sam and said, "Sammy, why don't you go join Miss Mattie in the waiting room, I'm sure she'll get you an orange juice or something while I talk to your father." Sam looked at John uncertainly before walking out slowly. Holmes closed the door behind the boy and he crossed his arms. "Mister Wallace, when my wife found you, you had been in the water and had severe hypothermia, not to mention bruised ribs and your forearm."
John imagined he looked like hell, but that didn't matter. "Am I in trouble doc?" He asked sarcastically.
The doctor frowned and said flatly, "You went into cardiac arrest on the way here."
"I had a heart attack?" John asked. Holy crap, I…
Holmes continued, but John wasn't paying attention to him. John's mortality slapped him in the face, and suddenly the father felt very small. It was very dangerous, and very real… and worse Sam knew his father had almost died. This time Dean wasn't there to comfort the boy saying that their father was indestructible. What would've happened if I died? What would've happened to the boys Mary? If Sam lost Dean and their father? John shuddered at the thought.
"All I'm asking is you take it seriously John…" Holmes finished.
John suddenly felt very tired and Holmes retreated to the door, opening it so the youngest Winchester could rush in. He didn't say anything to Sam, I wouldn't know where to start Mary… and the father gently drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
--
A few days later John was out of the bed, although burdened by the addition of the large cast on his arm. Sam had taken the time to scribble a few small drawings on it when John let him, and the father added a few drawing of his own. Both were hopelessly bad at art, but the moment had tempered Sam's growing apprehension around the older man.
"Sam? Where did my journal go? Have you seen it?" John asked his son, not looking up from scrounging around in his duffle. He pushed aside clothes, salt, extra ammo… but he couldn't find the leather bound book for the life of him. In the time that Dean had fallen in his coma, John hadn't thought once about writing an entry, but he felt the urge to now – hoping that the act of collecting and organizing his thoughts on paper would establish a new direction to go in. Make sense of it or something.
"No, I haven't seen it," Sam replied, stretching his arms wide after closing the book he had been reading before John interrupted him.
John wondered how it was that Sam had the patience to read those long books at such a young age – he certainly didn't pick it up from John. Dean, while a smart kid, didn't like to read aloud, stumbling over a lot of the more complicated words. The words were just words for Dean, whereas they took Sam into a whole other world. Part of the reason, John surmised, was that Dean didn't have to imagine faeries, nymphs, poltergeists, hellhounds, and demons because he knew they existed – but that world was still fantasy to Sam, and he was able to believe in them with innocent wonder. Not wondering if they were out to get him, or that they killed his mother, or that threatened to take away his older brother too.
The father mused over Sam's curiosity, his mind off his missing journal for a few minutes. What would Sam make of it if he found it and decided to read it? Would he believe half the stuff taped, stuffed, or written in its pages?
It had been awhile since John had taken a look at his boys since the start of this hunt, and it surprised him how mature Sam looked while sitting next to his brother. It was Dean that frightened him, when John first brought him in Dean was pale and clammy, but still had some pink on his cheeks and moved in his sleep. He didn't anymore. Evans had put a breathing tube in for Dean, and he seemed almost as pale as the sheets he rested in. The only tell tale sign that his son was still alive was the rhythmic pulses from the vitals monitor and the occasional flicker of the eyelids.
"Found it," John said, shaking the book in his hand towards Sam for emphasis before sitting back in his own seat.
"Dad?" Sam's small voice asked from Dean's bedside after about a half an hour.
John placed the pen in the crease of the book and closed his journal, "Yeah Sam?"
"What are you writing about?"
The father looked at the journal sadly and turned to raise his tired eyes at his youngest. "Nothing important," he shrugged, the lie rolling off his tongue easily from practice. He dropped it in his duffle bag which he left on a plastic chair by Dean's bed. "Come on Sam, time for some exercise, we've been cramped up in here for too long."
Sam gave his patented six-year-old huff but he followed John outside. It was a brisk day, but the sky was clear and the sun shined high above them. Sam glanced at his father impatiently, knowing what was coming and probably eager to just get it over with.
"Do your warm-ups and we'll take it from there Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes and grudgingly did the routine that he had set up for his boys. They weren't as intensive as Dean's, but Sam was getting to be that age were John would really turn up the heat. The boy hated it, to be sure, but John had to be strong in his decision to train his boys. What didn't kill you made you stronger, so they said… and while John wanted to protect his boys from the supernatural, John would be damn sure they would be able to protect themselves if the worst happened to him.
"Pushups!" John ordered shortly once Sam had finished stretching.
Watching Sam push himself through the exercise made John beam with pride for a moment. They'd be alright, if he didn't screw it up first… he needed Dean back in action… "Okay that's enough kiddo," he sighed after a few minutes, waving Sam to get up.
Sam groaned as he rolled over to push himself up off the ground. He brushed off flecks of dirt from his jeans and glared daggers at his father, his indignation at having to train evident on his face.
"Come on champ, time's wasting. Hustle over here…" John barked. He motioned for Sam to come closer to him and messed with the kid's hair when Sam came with arms distance. "You up for some laps?"
The boy rolled his eyes and sighed in exaggerated six-year-old fashion. But protest was not on his lips as he sullenly replied, "Yes sir…" Much to Sam's surprise as he leaned into a starting position he found John doing the same, albeit altered due to the rather conspicuous cast on his arm. Sam looked at John and smiled boyishly.
"From here to the road… count of three…" John whispered. "One…"
"Two…" Sam continued anxiously.
"Three!" They both shouted as they took off.
Sam easily out ran John, who was burnt out from the past couple days coupled with the lack of sleep. With Sam long gone, John slowed to a jog before leaning over to catch his breath. Boy has some legs on him Mary…
The youngest Winchester turned around to look back at John, a triumphant grin plastered on his face. "I beat you old man!" He shouted.
--
Author's Note: So my brother wants me to write a NRFTW tag but be a parody, like having Dean come back and eating sunshine and crapping rainbows. Using his magic hell powers to summon unicorns and like… pulling superpowers out of his ass. As for me, this chapter has been so hard to rewrite, because it's insanely difficult for me to write descriptively while still only remain in John's POV – a task made challenging by the fact half the time he's borderline unconscious and concussed.
Also as for the reason I've been noticeably absent is because… I mean… I've been watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog about 24/7 since it came out.
So the next chapter should be up rather quickly (it's a short little special treat I have planned) Leave a review!
