Notes: I'm actually slightly surprised people are still reading/keeping up with this story after 2 years! That's kind of amazing. Also I forgot how kind all of you are, oh gosh...

Thank you for reading and giving me feedback, I appreciate all of it. I hope you enjoy ^_^

Chapter 25

"Dean." John said, his steps heavy as he walked around the hospital bed. Every time his boots hit the floor, Dean struggled not to flinch. With his free hand, he gripped the bed sheets tightly, trying to control his breathing. Beside him, he could hear the beeping of the heart monitor speed up with every second his dad was in the room.

He didn't know what to say to his dad. He wasn't even sure he could speak at the moment. Dean was still clinging to the wild hope that this would turn out to be a dream, but he knew that'd be too good to be true.

Everything at the hospital had been too good to be true. He should have known something was up from the second he saw Bobby enter the room. The universe was never on his side like that. Maybe he had dreamed up Bobby, and now he had to face reality.

"Dean," John repeated, stopped at the side of the bed to stare him down. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out beside a small sputter. An uneasy feeling pooled in his stomach, making him feel sick.

"You could have just stayed. We could have just waited until Sam left again, and everything would have gone to plan. But you just had to cause more trouble, didn't you?" John shook his head disappointedly. "You always have to cause trouble for everyone."

I'm sorry. Dean wanted to say it, but not to his dad. He wanted to say it to Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Sam. Everyone.

"You can't even kill yourself right," John noted, laughing. He looked at Dean's body, and it felt violating and humiliating. He shifted uneasily in the bed. "The easiest thing in the world, and you manage to do that wrong, too."

Dean looked at his lap, his ears turning red. His dad was right. He was the worst kind of failure there was. There had been a perfect plan in place before. Sam would have left and it all would have been over and fine. But of course, he had to mess it all up and go with Bobby, because he was selfish. He cared more about himself than he did for his own brother.

"You know, Bobby was thrilled when I showed up. He said, 'Thank God, take this shitty kid off my hands, please.' You've been such a burden on the poor guy, Dean. Were you even thinking? Bobby doesn't want to have to babysit you all the time. Don't you realize that?"

Dean shut his eyes, his throat knotting up. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "That's not true."

"Stop lying to yourself," John insisted, humor in his voice. "Stop pretending these people care about you when they don't."

Dean could feel tears stinging the backs of his eyes, but he fought to keep them down. He shook his head again, trying to get his dad's voice out of his mind. Bobby had been so kind to him, taking care of him and trying his best to keep him safe. Bobby cared about him. Ellen had been so sweet that night, and so welcoming both times he came to her home. She cared about him, too. And Sam, of course. He and Sam were always close, they'd stick together no matter what. Sam cared about him as much as Dean cared about Sam.

"They care," Dean whispered, his voice small and hoarse. He sucked in a deep breath and looked at his dad, meeting his eye. "They care about me."

John's expression grew cold. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward, putting one hand on the bed. His face was inches from Dean's, and his eyes were dark and unwavering. "What have you ever done in your pathetic life that would make them care about you?" Dean stopped breathing, focusing all his energy on not breaking his eyes away. "Do you know what they feel for you? Because it isn't care. It isn't love. It isn't whatever bullshit you've managed to come up with in your messed up skull. Do you really want to know what they feel?" Dean felt his entire body shaking, and his mind was struggling to keep up the confidence. "Pity."

Pity. Why would Bobby be trying so hard to help Dean stay safe? Maybe because he thought he was too pitiful to be able to do it on his own. And what must Ellen think, since this pitiful boy kept showing up on his doorstep, broken and bloody, before going off and getting into even more trouble. And what kind of pathetic older brother was he? How could Sam look up to Dean, who wasn't any sort of figure to be proud of? Did they just pity him?

Dean sucked in a shaky breath and turned his head down, squeezing his eyes shut. His mind reeled, and he tried desperately to play back everything each person had ever said to him. They had seemed so genuine, so kind. They had seemed to care so much.

No. He shook his head. His dad was wrong. His dad was the one that didn't care. What kind of father beat his own son, told him how horrible he was every two seconds, and threatened to kill him? That wasn't right. He had spent too much of his life thinking this was normal.

John stood up straight and walked to the other side of the bed, inspecting the machines he was hooked up to. Dean watched him, rage welling in his chest.

"I want you to leave," he said, trying as best as he could to sound strong. It still sounded pretty weak, but Dean didn't care. John looked at him and smiled.

"Oh, I'll leave," he admitted. "But not without you." John unplugged the heart monitor, leaving the room in chilling silence. He reached over and started unhooking Dean from everything, his movements more rough than they probably needed to be.

"No," Dean protested weakly. "Stop it." He tried to hold his dad back, but John grabbed his one good hand and shoved it into his chest. Dean gasped at the pain and tensed his body, unable to move. John ripped the tubes from his nose and tore the covers off his body. He found a wheelchair in the back corner of the room and unfolded it, setting it beside the bed.

"Get in," he ordered, gesturing to the chair.

Dean shook his head. His body felt like it was on fire, and he could barely breathe now that he wasn't being assisted with it anymore. John reached toward him, and Dean tried desperately to move away, but he had nowhere to go. Moaning, he was dragged off the bed and forced painfully into the chair. John grabbed the handles and leaned down to hiss into his ear. "Don't cause a scene."

The second his dad opened the door, Dean tried to call out for help. Unfortunately, he couldn't hardly get a single sound out. He could barely even draw in a large enough breath to say anything. John whacked him once in the head, hard, and Dean shut up.

Without anything to help his pain, Dean could feel every movement. His ribs ached, his wrist stung, and his entire body felt like it had been through the wringer. Well, it kind of had been.

His dad wheeled him swiftly through the hospital, and Dean desperately made eye contact with each person they passed, praying they would understand and save him. People seemed concerned, but confused enough to be unsure of whether or not to stop them. Dean tried again to speak up, but when he sucked in a breath, a sharp stab in his chest stopped him.

They got to the back door before anyone thought to ask what was going on. When John didn't answer them, they called for help. Dean closed his eyes, hoping that security would get to him in time.

John had parked the car out back, so he wheeled him up to the passenger door. With his healthy hand, Dean latched onto the wheelchair. He glared at his dad, anger and fear fighting in his mind for which emotion he was feeling most.

"I don't have time for this," John growled. He reached down and wrapped his arm around Dean's middle, squeezing tightly and lifting him from the chair. Dean would have gasped if he had been able to, but instead only released his hold on the chair in favor of grabbing his dad's shoulder and trying to adjust so he wasn't in agonizing pain. In one swift movement, John opened the car door, tossed Dean in gracelessly, and slammed it shut.

Dean could only sit frozen in the front seat, gasping for air and holding his torso tightly. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

"Dean?" He heard his name, but was only able to turn his head halfway around to see where it was coming from. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see a small figure crouched on the floor of the backseat. Jo. Jo?

Just before he could register what was happening, the back door was ripped open and Jo was dragged from her place, screaming. The door shut, and when John got into the driver's seat, Jo wasn't with him.

They drove away quickly, taking a small back exit from the hospital. Out of the rearview mirror, Dean watched as security filed out of the back door, just seconds too late.

Ellen was completely out of breath. She had actually been out of breath five minutes ago, too, but that hadn't stopped her. She had run through the entire hospital parking lot, searching desperately for that goddamn Impala, but it was nowhere to be found. Her heart kept skipping beats, and she shook out her hands, unsure of what to do.

She wanted to rip John Winchester's head from his body with her bare hands. She had seen what that man had done to his own son, and if he dared try anything like that on her daughter, he wouldn't see the light of day again. She would guarantee that.

The thought of John doing anything to hurt Jo gave Ellen another burst of energy. With nowhere else in the parking lot to try, she figured she could try the sides and back of the hospital. She felt like every second she spent running around was another second her daughter was in danger, but she didn't know what else to do. Bobby and Sam were on their way back, having turned around after Ellen told them to come back as quickly as possible. Ash was on his way, too, in another car. But until they got there, she was completely alone.

Ellen sprinted around to the back of the hospital, catching sight of a small crowd of people. They seemed to be huddled around something, but she couldn't see what it was. Fear spread deep in her chest, and she hoped to God it wouldn't be yet another thing to add to their list of bad news.

The closer she got to the crowd, the more anxious Ellen felt. When she caught a brief glimpse of blond hair, her heart nearly stopped. But when she realized the blond hair was moving, her vision blurred and she lurched forward.

"Jo," she exclaimed, shoving past the bodies in her way. She collapsed beside her daughter, pulling her into her arms. Jo was sobbing, and half of her face was covered in a bruised up carpet burn. A security guard leaned down and cut her arms free of rope, and Jo wrapped her arms around her mother, sobbing into her shoulder. Ellen petted her head soothingly, trying to calm her down. "I've got you, sweetheart," she whispered, over and over, more as a reminder to herself than to comfort her daughter.

Jo was alive. She was safe now, and very much alive. But she was hysterical, her arms had been bound behind her back, and her face was a mess.

Yeah. She was going to kill John Winchester.