Fucking fuckity fucking fuck.
Dean clutched at his side and felt the blood sticking to his shirt. Fuck, it hurt. He didn't quite arrive at the hunt when he planned to; instead, he found the hunter just starting to take on the pack of werewolves. He couldn't just not help. And what did he get for it? Thrown across an old barn and through a wall.
The teen quickly assessed his injuries as the hunter started to burn the bodies further down the field.
Pounding in his skull, as if he had been hit by a train: probable concussion; monitor for signs of unconsciousness.
Blood on his left rib cage: surface wound from when he went through the wall; will need stitches and an alcohol cleanse.
Pain on his upper right arm: bruise from where the werewolf grabbed him; no treatment required.
Pain on his lower left arm: bruise from where the hunter saved his neck and pulled him out of the way; no treatment required.
"So, now that we're not in immediate danger, why don't you tell me why a kid is going on a werewolf hunt by himself. And how the hell did you even get out here?" the hunter asked Dean, not seeing a single mode of transportation that could've brought the boy to the outskirts of the city.
"Bartender gave me a lift. I told her you were my uncle, and she said you were looking into this place, so she dropped me off. And I'm not a kid, I'm almost an adult," Dean argued.
"Almost means not," the man scoffed. "Now tell me why you're here. The truth, too. I know when someone's lying to me."
"I need Bobby Singer's new number," Dean explained. "Please tell me you know it."
The man eyed Dean warily. "Why do you need it?"
"Because–because–Look. I'm trying to find my dad, and Bobby is the only one who would even know where to start looking." Dean sagged down the tree he was leaning against. His injuries really fucking hurt.
The man sighed, reached into his pocket, and threw something towards Dean. Reflex alone had him catching the object before it could hit him in the face.
"Pills?" Dean examined the bottle.
"Painkillers. Keep the bottle, you'll need them with the hit you took. They're pretty strong, but I'm sure you've had worse, right, Dean?"
The teen's head shot up so fast it took a moment for the world to stop spinning. "How do you know my name?"
"Everyone knows John Winchester, and his sons Sam and Dean, and you're too old to be Sam. I also happen to know that no one's seen John in a while." The man stuck his hand out in greeting. "The name's Rufus. Bobby and I go way back."
Dean slowly shook the man's hand as he took in the information.
"No one's seen my dad?"
Rufus sighed. "Sorry, kid. Not in a while. Although I haven't asked Bobby, he might know more than I do. You got a pen?"
Dean nodded and went to his backpack to retrieve one, while the man pulled an old receipt from his pocket.
Rufus wrote down the number from memory and returned the pen. "I really hope you find him, Dean. He's a bastard, but no kid deserves to be without a dad."
Dean didn't have a response for the man, so he gave him a forced smile and shoved the receipt into his bag. "Thanks, Rufus, and thanks for the–" He shook the bottle of painkillers in lieu of finishing the sentence.
"Yup. Need a ride back into town?" The hunter shrugged off the thanks in typical hunter fashion.
"Yeah, if you can. I'll catch a cab from there." Dean climbed into the man's truck, wincing at the pain in his side.
"For fuck's sake, take the damn pills, kid," Rufus scolded as he started the truck. Dean popped open the cap and downed three pills dry, too distracted by the prospect of finally getting some information on his dad to fully consider how many he was taking. Besides, the hunt was over and he was in pain, dammit! It wasn't until he was in the cab headed back to school that he realized three might've been too many.