A/N: There's a new (as of last week) Daddy Drabble up on my profile and I've got another one in the words. Stay tuned!
The morning after John left, Dr. Cantwell deemed Dean's lungs strong enough to get rid of the oxygen mask and Angie promised him as she fit his cannula that he was on his way to recovery.
"I think Dr. Cantwell wants to move you down to a regular room tomorrow. What do you think about that, handsome?"
"I think that sounds wonderful," Dean said. As grateful as he was for the constant care and supervision, he knew that a regular room would be more peaceful as he would share a nurse with other patients instead of having Angie or Marion waiting on him hand and foot every hour of the freaking day and night.
"Service isn't as good and the beds aren't as comfortable," she teased, connecting the oxygen tubes and wrapping them behind his ears, "But maybe this time you'll get a room with a view."
"I think I've forgotten what outside looks like," Dean said.
"Well, I think that in a week or two, you might be able to take a trip out to the back garden."
"You think so?" Angie adjusted his blankets and patted his leg.
"Absolutely. You're doing so much better. As long as we keep you on this oxygen and you can keep you heart rate down, you could be up and around in no time." She caught the eager look on Dean's face and shook her head. "I don't mean up and walking. I mean going to therapy, going outside, that kind of thing."
"Do you know where my Dad is?" Dean asked. "I haven't seen him in ages. Bobby said he left for a bit but has he been back? Was he here when I was sleeping last night?"
He knew something was up after he asked the first question, the way Angie refused to meet his gaze told him what her silence couldn't. Still, he forced himself to keep talking, to keep asking questions because he refused to believe anything otherwise. John hadn't left for more than a night's sleep since Dean was injured; he always checked in, always visited.
"I think your uncle is going to be in soon," Angie said.
"He's not around, huh?" Dean said, almost to himself. He let his head fall back against the pillow and Angie left the room without answering.
There wasn't much to distract him from his thoughts but Dean tried to keep his head as clear as possible until Bobby and Sam arrived a while later.
"We heard you're breaking free tomorrow," Bobby said while Sam grinned. "Just caught your doctor on the way out of here. He said you're looking good."
"Where's Dad?"
Bobby's mouth closed and Sam glanced at his uncle and then down at his hands and that's when Dean knew. John Winchester had left town, had left his crippled son lying in a hospital bed. And he had left without saying goodbye.
"When?" he asked quietly, blinking against a surprising amount of emotion. He was twenty-four for God's sake, he didn't need his father sitting by and holding his hand. Dean didn't need to be babysat. It had always been Sam who was upset with their father leaving, Sam who had pitched tantrums when he was young and later instigated those infamous screaming matches when John announced he was heading out on a hunt. Even now, he could see the familiar rage buried just under his brother's surface, evident in the way Sam's fingers were knotted together, in the way his knee was bouncing up and down.
"Yesterday," Sam finally said. "Yesterday morning. He left while I was asleep."
So John had left both his sons unbeknownst to them. It almost took Dean's breath away. Here he thought his father had changed in the last couple weeks, that they might have been coming back together as a family. He had been wrong. What was it about Dean that kept him hopeful even when his father continued to disappoint. Blood was thicker than water but someone was diluting the Winchester line.
"Why? Where'd he go?"
"I don't know," Sam said, glancing again at Bobby, whose lips were pressed so tightly together they were outlined with white.
"Bobby?"
"You know your daddy and how he feels about staying in one place for too long."
"Yeah," Dean said, staring at the wall across from him. It was a relief not to have the oxygen mask obstructing his face but the cannula was tickling his nose and it was itchy and Dean just wanted to rip it off. Would have if not for the ache in his chest every few breaths reminding him that he was a prisoner of his own body. "Yeah, I know."
"It's not an excuse," Sam said and the rage in Dean's little brother started to bubble over. The hazel eyes soared up to meet Dean's. "He shouldn't have left."
"It's what he does, Sammy," Dean said, almost whispering. His throat was too dry and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
"I'm going to grab a cup of coffee," Bobby said. "I'll be back in a bit."
As soon as he left, Dean let the tears spill over, unashamed of crying in front of his brother. He'd been strong for so long, had endured so much over the last few weeks and he just couldn't handle it anymore.
Sam reached for his hands – both of them – and held on tight with an almost bruising grip.
"I tried to get him to stay," Sam said and his tone was pleading, a beg in disguise. "Dean, I tried."
"It's okay," Dean said, turning his head away from Sam, dampening the pillow with his tears. "I'm just tired."
"Okay."
Sam didn't let go of Dean's hands, not when Dean tried to pull them away and not when Dean turned back toward him, tears replaced with confusion.
"Why?" Dean wanted to know. "Was there a Hunt?" What he was really asking was what was so important that John would have left him? What could possibly be out there that had precedence over Dean's life? He had almost died a few nights ago and then John had just up and ran. Maybe his father just didn't want to be around for his son's death.
"He said he wasn't doing any good here," Sam said flatly, letting go of one of Dean's hands to push his hair back. There were shadows under his eyes and his cheeks were flushed from anger. The result was a little terrifying. "That he wanted to go out there and do something instead of just sitting around."
"Make sense," Dean mumbled.
"No, it doesn't," Sam said. "And you don't have to pretend it does."
"Well, he wasn't doing any good sitting here," Dean shot back. "And neither are you."
"Yeah? What would you rather I do? Leave like Dad?" Dean shrugged despite the pain it caused.
"Dad's right. There's nothing for you guys to do here except watch me lay around. You've got school, Dad's got work, Bobby's got – Bobby's got whatever he's got."
"It's summer," Sam said. "So I don't have school. I opted out of my finals, I'll retake the semester."
"You didn't tell me that," Dean accused. He'd never meant to get hurt and he'd most certainly never meant to be a burden to his brother. To his father.
"Doesn't matter now," Sam said, waving a hand. "I'm not going anywhere. And Dad shouldn't have either."
"I don't want to talk about it," Dean said, shutting his eyes.
"Dean -,"
"I said I don't want to talk about it. I'm tired." He heard Sam's intake of breath then the release of a sigh. A minute later, the chair scraped backward against the floor and Sam's footsteps faded as he left the room. Dean twisted his fingers in his blankets, curled his toes as hard as he could, trying to hold on to anything around him. Not an easy task when everything was slipping through his grasp like coins through a parking meter. Part of him couldn't believe John had left but most of him found it way too plausible.
Of course he had left. He was John Winchester and right now, Dean was useless to him. As a son, as a Hunter, as a person. Dean let his weakened legs kick and almost started crying again at the fact he would now always be useless to his father; he would always be left behind.
Dean couldn't help but think how everything in his life had just been stolen from him by a man who carried his DNA.
xxx
His last night in the ICU was not a restful one. The night nurse kept coming in and asking if he wanted something to help him sleep but Dean glared at her each time until she left. It was two in the morning when he thought he had finally drifted off before being awakened by a voice in his ear.
"Dean? Dean, wake up." He struggled out of unconsciousness, annoyed that he was once again being woken up when all he wanted to do was sleep. He couldn't wait to get out the hospital and have everybody stop pestering him.
"Dean-o? Are you in there?"
He froze for the briefest second at the nickname, memories of the soft taunting flooding him and turning his skin into a patchwork of goosebumps. There was no sleepiness in his body as his eyes flew open and he automatically started crawling away from the voice…only to find that he could. In his shock, he hadn't realized that there were no wires, no tubes attached to him anywhere. He watched in amazement as his right arm helped crabwalk him up higher on the bed, his legs strong and steady underneath them.
"Congratulations," the voice said dryly. "And you're welcome."
"What did you do?" Dean asked. His chest was open and loose; no cough sat waiting in his throat. He'd forgotten how it felt to feel this healthy, this powerful.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," the demon said, backing away from the hospital bed and leaning up against the wall. Dean couldn't help it; he swung his legs over the bed and stood up. There were no bandages under his shirt, no hint of any wounds. As he was examining himself, his hospital clothes changed to jeans and a flannel, topped off with his favorite pair of work boots.
"This isn't real," he accused. The demon shrugged and picked at his nails. He looked the same as he had back in the cellar, hair slicked back, eyes murderous. He still wore the cowboy boots but this time they were paired with a pair of jeans and a white button down.
"Probably not," he conceded. "Unless I've decided to heal you of your ailments. Which seems unlikely seeing as I'm the one who caused them. A little counterproductive, don't you think?"
"I'm dreaming," Dean muttered to himself. He let himself be upset for a couple seconds and then moved on. So he was still crippled. Big deal. The demon shrugged again.
"Maybe, maybe not. I like to think I'm leasing your pretty little mind out, rent to own, one might say."
"Get out of my fucking head," growled Dean, taking two steps toward the demon. The man's eyes flashed yellow.
"Don't take that tone with me. I'm not your father or your brother and I'm not going to tolerate any disobedience."
"Too bad," Dean said. "Because there is no way in hell I'm doing anything you ask. You killed my mother."
"This isn't a democracy, Dean," the demon said, pushing himself off the wall with his foot. "It's a dictatorship. Guess who's in charge?" He grinned when Dean didn't answer. "I thought so. Maybe you're smarter than I gave you credit for."
"You'll have to kill me," Dean said.
"Tried that," the demon said. "Seems like my plan didn't quite work out, did it? Should have finished the job instead of leaving you for dead. I take full responsibility for that one. Trust me, next time I won't make the same mistake."
"Next time?"
"You think I'm just going to let Dean Winchester escape me like that? No. Plus – and I doubt this is a secret – I need you out of my way. I've got bigger plans and they do not include you." He moved over to the window, turning his back to Dean who was desperately trying to find a weapon but this imaginary room seemed to have been stripped of all useful instruments.
"What plans are those?"
"I don't think you're ready to hear that," the demon said without turning around. He ran one finger down the window, leaving a trail of frost in its path.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I want to know where your father is."
"I don't know what you're talking about." The eyes were yellow again when they finally met Dean's and he had to work hard not to step back as the demon made his way across the room and stood in front of him, only a couple feet away.
"Don't be a liar, Dean-o," he said softly. "I know John Winchester isn't around this hospital but I can't quite put my finger on his location. Be a good little boy, help me out." Dean forced out a laugh, sounding much braver than he felt.
"Why in the world would I help you? You're planning to kill me."
"Maybe I'll have mercy on you and kill you fast." He patted Dean on the shoulder before the Hunter could pull away. "You won't even feel it when I snap your neck. Not like last time."
"I'm not helping you," Dean said through gritted teeth. His flesh felt like it was burning where the demon had just touched him. He wanted a shower. The demon clasped his hands together, pursing his lips.
"What if I sweetened the bargain? What if I told you a secret about Sam?"
"What the hell does my brother have to do with any of this?"
"So much, Dean, so much. Sammy is the key to everything. All you have to do is tell me where to find your father and I'll tell you something about your brother that will make your insides squirm." Dean narrowed his eyes as he considered.
"You're lying," he said. "You're playing with my head." The demon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, a smirk curving across his lips. Dean's stomach flipped.
"Are you sure? Because you don't seem so certain."
Dean's wasn't sure. He didn't know whether this was a dream or a vision or if maybe it was real life somehow. He didn't know if the demon was telling the truth about Sam or if he was spinning lies like a seamstress. Dean was almost positive there was nothing about Sam he didn't know – he even had a pretty good idea of his brother's action at Stanford on account of all his drive bys and GPS tracking devices he planted on his brother in the last few years. There was only one thing Dean was one hundred percent sure of and that was that he was never going to sell out his father. For anything.
"I'm sure. And you're not getting anywhere near Sam," he said, turning away. The demon crept closer until his breath tickled the back of Dean's neck.
"Okay then. But don't say I didn't warn you. I'm coming for you Dean Winchester, I'll be there soon."
When Dean woke up a minute later, trapped in his bed by a thousand different machines and held there by a body that would never work right again, he couldn't help but notice how the room smelled faintly of sulfur.
A/N: Next week is a big chapter, in both length and plot progression. And I'm not saying someone might die but...well, you know. Someone might die. Any guesses?
