Chapter Ten – Injury

"Sam, get the whiskey and the first aid box. Put on some water to boil."

John helped Dean over to his bed and sat him on the edge. Sam brought the bottle and John broke the seal, twisted off the top and handed it to his son. Dean took a big gulp. It burned and his face contorted. He didn't like the taste, but if it alleviated any of his pain he'd drink it. John took Dean's hunting knife and cut back the end of the arrow that had splintered when Dean snapped it off. He then cut off Dean's t-shirt and laid him down.

"Dean, you know I'll need to cauterize this when I pull the arrow out."

"I was afraid you were going to say that." Dean tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace, his eyes betraying all the terror held tight.

"You think any ribs are broken?"

Dean shifted a little and pain shot through him. He couldn't decide what hurt worse his ribs or his shoulder, the truth was everything hurt. "Don't think so. They hurt like hell, but I think they're just cracked or bruised."

"Well, that's good news. I'll tape them later."

John left his son alone and went downstairs to the kitchen and pulled a smooth steel rod out of the cutlery drawer. It was about fifteen inches long and had a diameter just under a half inch. He took it over to the stove and called Sam over. He set the boiling water to the side and turned up the gas flame.

"Sam, keep this in the fire. I need at least ten inches sanitized. You'll need a pot holder to hold it."

Sam gave him one horrified look before he dutifully took hold of the steel rod.

John took the boiling water and some linens back up the stairs to Dean's bedside. He gently wiped the blood off of Dean's wound, front and back as best he could so he could get a better look at the injury. It was serious and in a perfect world he'd take his son to the hospital where he could have it taken care of properly, but bureaucracy didn't look kindly on the Winchesters and while it might prove dangerous, he at least needed to try to handle this on his own. Their world had proven far from perfect since the night Mary died and this was just one more instance where his sons suffered from the tragic trajectory of their lives since that fateful night.

Dean flinched and gritted his teeth, but no sound left his lips as his dad washed the wound. His eyes were wide as they followed every move John made, a stoic look of determination slowly building on his face, his jaw set and his brows furrowed as he tensed, concentrating on holding it together.

"Dean, I'm going to tie you down. I don't know how soon you'll pass out and I can't have you moving when I do this."

Dean nodded, his mouth opening as he started to pant, one more means to control his growing dread.

John went to the dresser drawer and took out a leather glove. He placed it on his son's right hand as Dean intently watched, his fingers flexing into a fist as the glove slid on and his dad tied the rope over the leather at the wrist. He then secured his wrist to the headboard. John then tied rope over his jeans at the ankles, pulling his body down until he was stretched taut on the bed before securing each leg as tight as possible to each side of the footboard.

John stood back to assess the sight before him and his gut seized, he'd immobilized his son the best he could and while it may have appeared barbaric, he told himself it was the best he could do. Once he started to cauterize the wound Dean would be plunged into a delirium of pain and agony and wouldn't be able to control his actions; this was the only way to insure he didn't cause himself further harm.

John left his son there, spread-eagle on the bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting while he went back to the kitchen to check on Sam's progress.

"It's almost ready. Sam, you're going to have to hold down Dean's left arm. I don't want to put any more pressure on that hurt shoulder by tying it off. Just use all your weight and keep him as still as possible. Son, can you do that?"

Sam blinked back his tears, the reality here and now with no escape.

John insistently repeated, "Sam, can you do that?"

Sam looked up and nodded, his own determination building. "Yes, sir."

"All right then, bring the rod when I tell you."

He returned to his older son, lifted his head and gave him another long shot of whiskey. It wasn't going to help much with this pain, but it was all he could offer him. "Dean, you ready?"

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, just a second to blank out what was about to happen. He opened his eyes and squinted into the overhead light, his eyes finding his dad's and forging a connection. "Yeah, Dad." He took a deep breath and released it, finding his courage and trying to put his dad at ease, as if that were possible. "Dad?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"I'm gonna have a cool scar, right?" His dad's bottom lip trembled then and the sight caused him to lose it, his own tears breaking free as he witnessed how devastated his dad was, knowing this whole mess was his fault and wishing he'd only followed his orders like a real soldier would have.

John grabbed hold of his right shoulder at the juncture with his neck and offered a comforting massage. He cleared his throat and in a gruff voice called out, "Sam, we're ready. Bring the rod."

Sam raced up the stairs with the rod and swiftly took his position beside his brother.

John placed a leather strap in Dean's mouth.

"Bite down on this. This will all be over soon, son."

Dean knew this was going to hurt like hell. He'd gotten a bad gash on his leg when he was twelve. His dad had cauterized that, and the pain was exactly what you would imagine a red hot poker burning raw flesh would feel like, but that had been a quick flash of pain on a three inch gash, hardly as intense as this promised to be. Still, he knew that although this would seem totally unbearable now, his memory of this agony would fade somewhat with time. He just wished it was a later time, and he only had to deal with the memory.

John placed his left hand firmly upon his son's chest to hold him down while his right grabbed the shaft of the arrow and quickly pulled it out. Dean lurched upward as blood started to spurt and John thrust the hot steel rod in to seal the wound.

Sam winced as the hot metal entered the wound. His gut tightened at the agony he saw in the eyes of his brother as his dad steadily pushed the rod into Dean's shoulder. The smell of burning flesh was nauseating. Dean's body tensed and thrashed against his bindings as muffled screams escaped from his clenched mouth. Sam prayed Dean would pass out soon, but he held on, his eyes flashing total anguish as his face contorted from his misery. Sweat beaded on his brow and the veins in his neck stood out as he twisted and strained from the intense agony his body was being subjected to.

John continued to push the rod through his shoulder until it came out the back and then he held it there, the flesh sizzling as Dean continued to fight the bindings, his left hand gripping at his brother holding him down, his fingers digging in as his chest heaved in a panic before giving one final thrust and then stilling, his eyes rolling back in his head as he fell unconscious. When it appeared the bleeding had stopped John eased the rod back out of his son's limp body. He'd done what needed to be done to burn out any debris to lesson the chance of infection.

Dean had remained conscious for longer than any of them had imagined possible. Mercifully, his body had finally relaxed and he'd drifted into oblivion. John carefully cleaned the wound, front and back, tenderly applying an antiseptic cream and dressing it with bandages. Gently arranging them just so, carefully taping the bandages in place and smoothing the edges. His hands constantly on his son, as if his touch could ease the pain he'd brought. Or perhaps to reassure himself that the chest was still rising, the heart still beating, his son's breath still entering and exiting his lungs, even as he lay silent and stricken, pale as death itself.

John had gotten medical field training in the marines. After he took up his vendetta against evil, he'd studied up on emergency medical care. They didn't have actual medical insurance, and the fake insurance cards were strictly for true emergencies, things he couldn't treat. Besides, certain injuries were bound to raise questions, so as much as possible he'd handled all of the boys' injuries over the years.

This had been the worst. The worst thing imaginable for any father is to see your son in pain, but to be the one inflicting that pain by pushing a red hot rod through your own son's body is unconscionable. He was a soldier faced with the horrors of war and he did what needed to be done. He prayed his son would be all right. He didn't believe in God, hadn't since that night, but for the memory of his Mary and to honor her belief in angels, and just because he had nothing else to hold on to, he prayed. He took the top off of the whiskey bottle and took a long swallow.

Sam was intently watching him, nervously standing by waiting.

It was going to be a long wait.

John gave him a casual comment, all he could think of to say.

"I'll need to rustle up some antibiotics for him. I'll go out in a bit."

Sam nodded, seemingly oblivious as his eye focused on his brother's still form.

John sat down in the chair by his son's bedside and watched him sleep. He needed a minute to still his nerves. His hand trembled as he took another shot of whiskey straight from the bottle.

He hadn't been sitting long when there was a knock at the door, which was precisely what the Winchesters didn't need. John was in no mood for nosy neighbors. He was tempted to not answer, but that might draw more suspicion since the car was parked in the driveway.

"Sam, stay with your brother."

He wearily walked down the stairs and opened the front door to find a pretty, blond, teenage girl.

"Hi! I'm Stacy Wheaton, Dean's friend. Are you his dad? Is Dean home?"

This girl was too perky for his mood and the hour of the morning, the sun had barely risen. "Hi, Stacy. Yeah, I'm his dad. Look, this is a bad time. Dean can't come to the door now."

"Well, would you just tell him thanks for me?" She smiled then, bright and cheery and it was almost too much happiness for John to handle right now. "I don't know if he told you, but he saved my life last night."

That comment got John's attention and he was instantly curious about this girl and his son, but for now, he just needed her to leave. There would be time enough later, after Dean healed to hear his version of this story. He distractedly turned away as he heard Sam calling to him from the bedroom doorway.

"Dad, can you come here?"

He offered her the best attempt at a smile he could muster as he excused himself. "Stacy, I need to go. I'll tell Dean you stopped by."

He closed the door and returned to the bedroom.

Sam was excited as he explained to his dad, "Dad, her father's a doctor. Maybe she can get us the antibiotics?"

"We can't trust her. How long has Dean known her? We can't risk her going to the authorities," John gruffly replied, never one to trust an outsider.

"She said Dean saved her life, so she kinda owes him. I really think we can trust her. It's not like we're gonna ask her for illegal drugs or something. Let me ask. Please? I know she'll do it for Dean."

John looked to his unconscious son, the weariness of the night and his worry combined with the insistence of his youngest and he reluctantly nodded.

Sam rushed out the front door and caught Stacy as she was getting in her car. He wasn't bad with a story either, he may have been young and he didn't have as much practice as Dean, but he had those puppy dog eyes that just screamed out in sincerity. How could Stacy not believe his lies? Somehow he convinced her to bring them a two week supply of antibiotics.

John never asked what he said to get Stacy to bring them; he simply accepted it as a gift from the gods and was relieved Dean had the medicine he needed.

Dean slept fitfully for the rest of the day and into the night. He developed a fever which John checked every hour. If his fever got too high or was sustained for more than a few days, they would have to seek professional care. John hoped that wouldn't be necessary. He wanted the best possible care for his son, but he also didn't want to risk losing custody of both his sons. As mature as Dean was, he was still a minor. John had that damn history with CPS, any more incidents, and they might try to permanently take his sons away from him. He would never let that happen, but he also didn't want to go on the run if it wasn't necessary.

Sam brought in his sleeping bag and laid it on the floor at the foot of Dean's bed as night fell. He wanted to be as close to his brother as possible. When he woke during the night, he wanted to be able to hear his brother breathing, to know he was right there and would still be there in the morning.

John sat in the chair next to Dean's bed all that day and night. Sam thought he was just like Atticus in that old movie Dean liked, To Kill a Mockingbird. John kept vigil over his son: checking his temperature, wiping his brow. It would have been just like the movie, if he didn't have the whiskey bottle on the night stand. By morning the bottle was half full.