Seeing Double
Chapter Twenty-Five
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With Sam parked safely next to his brother's bed and Dean sleeping off the anaesthetic, Bobby finally felt able to make his exit, leaving the brothers in the enthusiastic care of a bevy of nurses. It didn't do a patient any harm, he decided, to be young and easy on the eye.
He burned rubber back to Singer Salvage in a way that Dean would definitely not have appreciated, although in the circumstances he would've surely done the same. Alec had sounded clear enough on the phone, but Bobby had picked up an underlying shake in his voice he didn't like and the youngster hadn't picked up a call since.
It was dark and quiet at the house and Bobby took the steps slowly, with his shotgun at the ready, trying to make up his mind if it was better to shout out or not. In the end he decided that, if there was a bad guy or an assassin transgenic waiting to shoot him, they would have to be deaf or half dead not to have heard the Impala. He sincerely hoped it wasn't the latter.
He gently toed the door open and slipped inside, nostrils twitching as they were invaded by the metallic odor of blood, overlaid with the sharper tang of antiseptic.
"Alec?"
There was a sleepy mutter from the direction of the front room as Bobby flicked on the light. The first thing he saw was the array of medical items on the table, shining in the stark light; blood soaked dressings trailed untidily out of the trash can. Bobby grimaced; Alec shouldn't have had to deal with this by himself.
He could see Alec's boot poking over the end of the couch in the wash of light from the kitchen bulb; his foot jerked a little and Bobby moved swiftly into the front room, turning on lights as he went.
He found Alec flat on his back on the couch, long legs propped up on the armrest, one arm trailing down to the floor, furled fingers inches from the abandoned cell phone. The other arm was arranged across his midriff on top of the old comforter. A piece of tape held the IV needle and tubing in place; the fluid bag hanging from the lamp was empty.
"Alec... balls...are you okay kiddo?"
Bobby approached cautiously, but Alec didn't stir again until he laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Alec?"
A little crease appeared between Alec's brows as he mumbled something inaudible. He was very pale, skin stretched tight across the fine bones of his face. Bobby increased the pressure of his fingertips, just a little.
"C'mon kid. Talk to me."
A small sigh and Alec was looking at him, his green eyes unusually dull.
"Bobby?" One soft word that held several questions.
"Yeah. Dean's okay, just gonna need to take it easy for a time. And Sam's doing okay too, take more'n a knock like that to addle that hard noggin of his."
A little smile curved the edge of Alec's mouth and his eyelids drooped back to half-mast.
"On the other hand, you ain't lookin' so good."
"I always look good." The little smile stayed in place.
Bobby huffed, exasperated, the familiar looks and response before him so like Dean that his hands automatically began a triage of damage. Alec made a small sound of protest but was instantly hushed.
"Keep still, y'idjit."
Alec stilled, unused to the attention but responding to the note of authority, finding an odd comfort in the passage of firm and caring hands. He was slipping back under when the cold touch of the thermometer in his ear startled his eyes wide.
"Runnin' kinda cold there, 'n y'blood pressure's still down." Bobby focussed on the fast trip of the pulse in Alec's neck. "I'm gonna give y'some more fluids. Let me check that wound first."
He helped the younger man to sit upright and gently undid the dressings. Alec bore it in silence, without giving away any sign of discomfort until Bobby pulled away the final gauze, then he shuddered and sighed and dipped suddenly forwards into Bobby's shoulder. Bobby cupped the back of his head, supporting him there until he came back to himself.
"It's okay," he said gently. "I've gotcha. Take y'time." After a while, Alec lifted his head, his eyes closed as he gave a grim nod for the procedure to continue. Carefully, Bobby continued his inspection. The wound was even nastier clean than it had been bloodied, but for all that it was clearly healing and there were no visible signs of infection.
"Y'could sell that blood of yours."
"Nah." Alec's face moved into a ghostly version of his normal smirk. "Leave you some though, when I go."
Bobby's calloused fingers paused in their application of antibiotic cream, then resumed. He cleared his throat, speaking with care.
"When you go?"
Alec winced slightly, reacting to both the words and the sting of the antibiotic.
"White would never have come here; he was after me."
"This ain't your fault kid."
"If I hadn't hooked up with the Winchesters, they wouldn't be in the hospital."
The loss on Alec's face tore at Bobby's heart.
"You don't have to go nowhere. We've got y'back."
"I know. That's why I gotta go, Bobby. Who knows what else is gonna follow me. You've got enough troubles here." Alec reached out, long fingers, Dean's fingers, fastening on Bobby's arm. "Keep it to yourself, but soon as Dean's up and about, healed, I'm outta here."
"Alec!"
"Made up my mind, Bobby. You've gotta help me. 'Sides, who knows what'll happen to those bozos in Seattle without my help, huh?"
Alec forced a cocky smile, his face a grey, sweaty mask that Bobby's experienced eye penetrated easily as he tied off the new dressing and draped a soft, blanket around the bundle of hurt and confusion on his couch.
"Stay put."
Minutes later a mattress was on the floor next to the couch and Alec was stretched out, propped by cushions and wrapped in warm bedding. Bobby set up a new drip in silence and settled himself on the couch with a bottle of whiskey. He took a slug, straight from the bottle, hissing a little as the burn tore at his throat.
"I shoulda stayed with ya."
Big green eyes turned to him, puzzled. "Why would you? The Winchesters are kinda like… sons to you."
"You would be too, y'jackass."
There was a flicker of gratitude and the tired, young face turned into the cushion. Bobby took another slug and capped the bottle, stretching himself out on his side and mentally cursing the self-sacrificing Winchester genes. He jammed a cushion under his head, tucked the whiskey bottle securely in the crook of his knees and dropped a hand down over the edge of the couch onto Alec's shoulder.
"Right here, kiddo. Get some sleep."
There was a small movement in response and then Alec went still, just the soft sound of his breathing in the cluttered room.
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Heat. Burning heat and the raw stink of sulphur. Ames screamed reflexively as the temperature seared his skin, the sound swallowed by the clamour of shrieks and the roaring of fire.
A dark haired man in chains turned a blood streaked face towards him and looked at him without recognition.
Ames threw up, choking, spitting. The man watched him, only vaguely interested.
Ames spat again, clearing his mouth enough to speak. "John Winchester. You're dead."
"Yeah." The man stared at him out of dark, bloodshot eyes. "You got me there. Right on both counts. Who in hell…" He snorted, bitter laughter. "Who in HELL are you?"
"I'm not meant to be here."
"Figured that. Helps if you're dead." John Winchester's tone was mocking, his instinctive dislike of Ames easily visible even through the streaks of blood.
Ames tore at the small cloth bag tied around his neck on a piece of cord. "Shit!" The cord snapped under his frantic tugs, leaving the small bag in his grasp. His skin was blistering, his eyes tearing with pain; he had nothing to lose. Ames aimed at the flames to his right and launched the little bag into the heart of the fire. It burst into flame instantly, destroying the remains of one John Winchester, late employee of Manticore.
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Dean had woken up to the dim illumination of a night-time ward, sliding effortlessly from terrifying red-soaked dreams into yellow light.
He could hear Sam breathing next to him. A small twist of his head brought the unruly mop of hair into view. His brother was slouched in a bedside chair, legs propped on another, asleep and snoring lightly. Okay then, or at least mostly okay.
Dean fumbled around until he found the bed control and slowly whirred up to a sitting position, stopping and easing back a few inches when the dressing on his thigh began to pull. His leg throbbed with a deep pulse of discomfort and his fingers found dressings over what must be stitches. Either side of the dressing his thigh shone bare and cool in the dim light, oddly numb beneath his exploring fingertips. Nerve damage then, perhaps, or just some pain relief.
He sat there for quite a while, trying to get his head in order. His fingers drifted repeatedly across the dressing, picking at the sheet as he breathed in and out through his nose, keeping the rhythm deliberate, under control.
When his jaw started to quiver, Dean bit down hard, grinding his molars, aware that his lip was trembling. He didn't get it; he'd been hurt worse. But there'd been something about that steady pulse of red pushing through his fingers. He had a vague memory of Sam holding his wrist, of Bobby rushing around, of Alec covered in blood. Then everything had gone grey and oddly distorted, sounds distant and toneless.
He worried about Alec until he couldn't stand it anymore, then reached across and shook Sam's knee. Sam startled awake, almost falling off the chair. In any other circumstances it would have been hilarious.
"Alec?" Dean asked, his voice croaking in his dry mouth.
"He's okay. Bobby called; he's looking after him." Sam rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and turned sorrowful hazel eyes to his brother. "He saved your life."
Dean nodded, shoving his hands underneath the sheet so Sam couldn't see the shake in his fingers. "I know."
Sam gave him a knowing look and scooted his chair forwards so he could casually drape an arm onto the bed, the edge of his hand resting lightly against Dean's hip. He caught Dean's troubled gaze and held it with the warmth of his own.
"Guess you're part cat now too, huh?"
The smile and the dimples warmed a part of Dean he hadn't realised was cold. He looked at Sam through his lashes, not sure what to say.
Sam's smile grew; there was a gentle pressure against Dean's hip, there and gone again. "Don't let it worry you dude, you're always out tom-catting around anyway."
And Dean breathed, properly, the tension in his shoulders soaking away into the pillow.
He smiled. Just with his eyes, but it was a start.
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Ames curled in on himself, pulling his knees into his chest. The ice cold air and concrete were shocking against his blistered skin. He whined, involuntary tears streaming from sore eyes, breath panting through his peeling lips.
The sharp snick of a round sliding into a chamber echoed in the cold, empty space.
Ames froze, barely breathing.
Slow, hesitant footsteps. A sharp intake of breath.
"Sir? Sir is that you?"
Ames turned his head… tried and failed to swallow the sob of relief.
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