Disclaimer, Summary & Rating: Please see Chapter 1.

MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP

Chapter 3

"…don't…fight…"

"Dean?" it was a soft, low voice, and something wonderfully cold brushed his lips, coating them in a sweet chill liquid that his tongue gratefully accepted as a small help to washing away the dead skunk…ice chips

His eyelids co-operated with all the smoothness of a rusted gate but he managed; his eyes felt gummy and dry and Dean realised that he still felt toasty and cosy and not that bothered about anything…must still have got me on a full dosage of the good stuff…But first -

"With dad…"

"Dean?"

"I dreamed…" Dean thought about it…what had he dreamed…something to do with trains…? "You had a fight with dad…"

"Wow, you dreamed I had a fight with dad…how weird is that? Let me call Ripley's Believe It Or Not…" the voice was amused, but then gentled. "Dad's not here, Dean. It's just me."

He'd dreamed it...oh well, hardly a surprise given the wealth of those kinds of memories his subconscious had had to draw upon. "I remember…you got the Chomp Thing…w'hap'n'd?"

Sam suddenly hove into view over him and for a moment didn't respond while he carefully fed Dean more refreshing ice chips. "I got you in the Impala and just drove off – somehow I got lucky with the direction and got you here."

"Where?"

"Winchester, New Hampshire…" Sam smirked at him, "I dragged you in and did the whole 'unprepared college kids hiking in the boondocks bad bear encounter' deal."

"They bought it?"

"Swallowed it whole…luckily these are thoroughly urbanised examples of the species homo sapiens; they wouldn't recognise a genuine bear attack from a hole in the ground."

Might as well find out while he was chemically cushioned from the shock, Dean supposed. "How bad is it?"

Sam lost his smile but didn't look away or down or refuse to meet Dean's admittedly glassy gaze. "Man, the Lord looks after innocents and fools…"

"So my clean living's saved me?" Dean managed to dredge up the quip.

Sammy snorted derisorily, "You were never innocent…but going by this, you're the dumbest guy alive."

"Ha-ha."

"Chomp Thing sliced you from shoulder to sole down your left side," Sam told him, "to the bone in some places…but by some miracle it didn't hit any major arterial vein in the process." Sam shook his head slightly as he gave Dean more ice chips, "Somehow it completely missed your femoral artery…"

Dean sucked the ice chips, well aware that if the Chomp Thing had got him there he would have been dead in the seconds it took Sam to decapitate the thing, turn to him and attempt to clamp the blood flow – especially with the blood loss from the rest of his injured body.

"…although if it had got you an inch more to the right, you'd have been eligible to join a male voice choir for the first time since you were thirteen."

"Twelve," Dean corrected automatically…It was Sam who hadn't started puberty until he was thirteen. "My nerves…?"

"I thought you didn't have any?" Sam taunted, but smiled reassuringly. "Again your ship of dumb luck came in. No nerve damage – not even a broken bone – just muscle and blood loss. The thing's claws were like razors, they just sliced sharp and clean through your muscles, which even with so many deep wounds is far easier and faster to treat that jagged tears. They've got you on some fully-loaded antibiotics against infection and I've been adding Holy Water to your saline just to take care of any paranormal pathogens."

Dean smiled slightly; other kids' dads took them to Little League games when they were kindergarteners…John Winchester had them in the middle of the woods making improvised IVs out of inner tubes, funnels and duct tape. "What do you think?"

"Well I doubt the Chomp Thing was into personal hygiene…it never scrubbed under those nails, but I think the Holy Water's taken care of any problems," Sam said confidently.

"Okay…" suddenly Dean found himself giving a massive yawn and someone promptly plonked those anvils back onto his eyelids again.

There was something he needed to ask…something important about Winchester, New Hampshire, but he was tired…

Chapter 4

If you squinted slightly, the cracks on that ceiling tile looked just like Yogi Bear's sidekick…whatshisname…Boo-Boo. Idly Dean wondered if he would get away with calling Sammy that nickname and realised probably not. Bears were relevant though – oh yeah, bear attack was their cover story.

Dean idled away a few minutes watching Boo-Boo but soon got bored. He was still feeling veeery happy with everything, and he couldn't feel any of his appendages apart from a sensation of dragging heaviness…which was probably a good thing. Dean was all too familiar with the 'wearing off of pain meds' experience. He considered trying to see but decided against it; moving around too much might bust some stitches or mess up something that was healing fine until Dean got St. Vitus' Dance…and Sammy would eat him raw and whole for a stunt that dumb. Not irritating the telekinetic bro' who could take a belt to your ass from across the room where you couldn't reach him was a sensible move at this point.

Although he should have asked Sammy about how hard the Chomp Thing had cracked his skull considering how dark his vision still was, though he could see those annoying lights that were shining in his eyes from over there –

Oh…ah, stars. The annoying lights were stars he could see through the window. It was dark because it was dark. Not a problem then.

Again, he realised that something had awakened him specifically, but he felt fine…he wasn't too hot, he wasn't too cold…hang on, most of him wasn't too hot. But his left hand felt as if it were resting on a hot water bottle?

Dean couldn't turn his head, nothing so heavy, but his eyes were a bit more enthusiastic about the whole opening thing and so he looked at his hand. It was a very peculiar shape and for a long moment he stared at it until the blob resolved itself. His hand was hot because it was being held – what was that sissy word they used in chick-lit novels? – clasped, yeah, clasped between two other hands, like ham in a sandwich.

They were not feminine hands, all soft and elegant and smooth, but were thick-fingered and tanned and callused. Dean's eyes followed the hands up the arms to a head…a man with greying dark hair, kicked-puppy brown eyes and a greying beard. John Winchester stared at his hands holding Dean's in his own as if they held the secret of life, the universe and everything…knowing John Winchester, they very well could.

Daddy?

This time he must have spoken aloud for his father looked up at him, and smiled. "Dean? Hey…"

"Dad…"

His dad smiled at him, "Don't call me on the stupid question, but how do you feel?"

"No pain…" Dean assured him, "…but then I am drugged to the eyeballs."

"You don't say?" Dad's tone was amused.

Dean smiled at him, his inner warmth increasing. How had dad found where he was? More, why had he come? After Chicago, and Meg Masters…I should've realised sooner that Meg was using Sam to attack you, dad…I dropped the ball and both you and Sammy were in danger…Dean was surprised that their dad wasn't still too angry to come considering how he'd messed up.

In fact, where was Sam? Dean realised he couldn't see his brother the room…it was just him and dad. "Sam?"

"He's asleep in a side-room down the hall," Dad supplied. "He was persuaded to take a quick break in the hospital cafeteria and he fell asleep practically in his food."

Dean got that – his own eyes were getting heavy again. However…was Dad really dad? Assuming that this wasn't some drug-induced hallucination flirted up by Dean's brain, considering what had gone down in Chicago, could that really be John Winchester looking at him so gently and fondly – so un-dad-like – from that chair and holding his hand for the first time in…twenty years?...like it was a Ming vase to boot?

Or was it something else? A skinwalker, a shapeshifter, a non-corporeal entity or just a plain old glamour-wearing demon who would gut him like a mackerel as soon as he fell to sleep; already he could feel the insistent whispering of Morpheus to close his eyes…? It was immaterial – in his current state he was helpless to defend himself.

"You were here…before," Dean said, struggling to stay awake and focus…it was highly unlikely that Sam would sleep the night through, exhausted as he was. The two brothers had spent the vast majority of their lives – at least up until Sam took off to college – sleeping about a foot-and-a-half apart from each other, even if dad hadn't always been similarly sleeping within about four feet of them. Such ingrained habits were deeply difficult to negate…

Uncharitably Dean had the thought that maybe Sam had been so quick to 'find' Jessica as a Stanford Freshman more because he simply couldn't adjust to sleeping without another human being in close proximity than any instant and overwhelming attraction. Nevertheless, the fact remained that sleeping alone was something neither Dean nor his brother did well; for himself Dean knew he didn't settle, fidgeting and tossing, unconsciously listening for the breathing, even sometimes the scent of a person that should be there, but wasn't.

"Yes…but I can't stay for much longer…" Dad said.

"Why…?"

Dad looked incredibly sad. "Sam…Sam doesn't know I'm here, Dean."

"Why?"

"Sam...Sam's banned me from seeing you, Dean…I'm not allowed to come into the room…"

Because he's furious with you for bullying me back to my feet before I'm well again like you used to do, or because he knows you're really some fugly monster that's gonna kill me if you can?

It was question Dean hadn't the cognisance to ask in his current state - or the ability to do anything about if he had and the answer was (b).

"…so I'll just come in and see you when I can…"

"Okay…" Dean agreed simply because he was unable to do anything else…he was just too tired to stay awake…I'm sorry Sammy, I can't keep my eyes open. I love you Dad, if it's really you…if not…I'm sorry Sammy, I tried, but I couldn't stay awake and it killed me…See you in the morning bro'…I hope...

Continued in Chapter 5…

© 2006, Catherine D Stewart