The hands that prodded him, poked him, were insufferable on his skin. First burning hot like fire then freezing cold like ice. He looked down at his belly where most of the pain was concentrated and watched as whoever it was, whatever it was, pulled thin threads of his intestines painfully from his body. Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes blinding him and he opened his mouth to scream but found his tongue too thick and unwieldy. He could only utter a pitiful mewling. Oh, my God. Was that me, he wondered as he listened? He then heard a hushed, soothing voice offering comfort but belied by the cruel, vengeful hands.
Hours later he opened his eyes and saw her. Mary. Why? Why was she doing this to him? He had thought her always so kind, so caring. Now her hands brought nothing but pain. He watched her face and it blurred as tears filled his eyes and his chest suddenly constricted more painfully than his gut as sadness threatened to drown him.
The following day Mary's voice cut through the fog and asked, "Where are my children?" and when her visage become clear once again he saw she was beautiful but with a horrible secret. Her children? Then he remembered.
They'd had sons; beautiful boys and they had been so proud, so happy only to later be so cursed. He wondered again, why? But she didn't answer, just hushed him, her hands now gentle and soothing. My boys, he thought smiling and closed his eyes again. In his mind's eye he saw them standing before him, scared, beaten and bloodied and he just looked on, ashamed of what he had done. This time he heard the pitiful sound of his own howl and felt Mary's strong hands push him back down on what felt like a bed of nails. I would never hurt them, he avowed...but she would. She would and she had.
Jewels watched as tears slipped from beneath John Winchester's thick lashes and his face twisted in a misery only he knew. Five days he had lain like this and five nights she'd slept with one eye open, a gun within easy reach. Jewels wondered how much longer either one of them could hold out.
The fever still raged in him, his lucid moments almost non-existent. The morphine barely cut the pain and he called out plaintively for his dead wife one minute then reviled her with curses the next. On it went, hour after hour, day after day. Jewels hugged herself and rubbed her arms as much for warmth as to massage sore muscles and ease the pain of her bruises. John Winchester was a big man and, with Ray's help, she'd finally resorted to tying his wrists and ankles to the bedposts. A good idea, she thought absently rubbing the bruise on her cheek as she watched him pull against his restraints calling for Sam and Dean to move away from someone or something only his fevered mind could see.
Dean and Sam were safe, protected, in the care of Ray DiAngelo. Raymond 'Of an Angel', a real and true angel who kept the boys away and entertained them while their father ranted and raved and failed to heal.
Hours later and at her wits end the thought of calling in a priest to either exercise him or to give him Last Rites crossed Jewels' mind. She opened his journal and looked at the few phone numbers scribbled inside and wondered which one to dial and who would finally answer if she did. After reading through the book the possibility of 'what' might answer also crossed her mind.
Jewels returned the book to the dresser and began to pace the room again. Back and forth, back and forth until she heard her name followed by a plea for water. It was only a whisper but it was the first lucid thing he'd said in five long days. She turned and, seeing that his eyes open and clear for the first time in days, thanked God. Relief flooded through her and she smiled and told him she'd bring him water, or tea, or coffee or even a beer. Whatever he wanted.
"Water," John repeated then closed his eyes, drifting into an exhausted sleep.
Eyeing the fresh bag of fluids she'd managed to keep connected to his hand, Jewels knew that he was well hydrated and instead of getting him water she sat down in the antique rocker next to the bed and pulled her legs up in front of her. Resting her chin on her knees she just watched him as his breath, so labored before, flowed smoothly and quietly in and out of his lungs settling into the rhythmic pattern of someone sound asleep. They had made it over the first hurdle. His fever had broken and he would now recover from his wounds but there was one more obstacle to get by, one more test to pass. In twenty-two days, January 21st to be exact and four days before Dean's tenth birthday, the Full Wolf Moon would rise in the cold winter's night sky. Fitting, Jewels thought.
John Winchester had shown no signs of turning into a werewolf in the waning Cold Moon of December but, according to his research and his own handwritten notes, the older the werewolf transferring the 'virus', the purer the strain and an infected person could, and most probably would, change for only one night and one night alone in a single moon phase - the night of the full moon.
Jewels sighed and let her head fall back in exhaustion. Instead of celebrating Dean's tenth birthday they could very well be making funeral arrangements. They had won the battle but could, in the end, have already lost the war.