Title: Chipping Away
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.
Summary: The calm before….
A/N: This was originally one long chapter that contained the ending. I had to break into two. Sorry. Needed to set the stage so to speak. Input always welcome. Can't live without you.
Alone Dreaming, frickin' brilliant, as always.
John signed the last of the release papers for Dean, including the AMA Dr. Hendrix insisted on, that released Dean against medical advice.
He pocketed the forms and returned to Dean's room where he was waiting impatiently with Sam.
Bundled in a heavy sweater, jeans, boots and his leather jacket to ward off the chill wind outside, Dean sat in a wheelchair fidgeting, clearly agitated. Being forced to use a wheelchair had grated considerably, but hospital rules, and John, had insisted. Deep down, Dean knew he wouldn't have made it under his own power. He had put on his best "Top of the world, Ma!" attitude but getting dressed had damn near killed him. Though Sam had helped him, while, of course, trying to be inconspicuous so as not to make Dean angry, he'd nearly collapsed by the end of it and had secretly been glad for the chair.
"Can we go now?" Dean asked the second John came back in the room followed by Carla. John found Dean's body language amusing but kept his smile to himself.
"Yeah, we're good to go. We have to get these prescriptions filled on the way home." He reached over and grabbed the inhaler off of the table and dropped it in Dean's lap. "Can't forget that." John said in response to Dean's obvious disgust. John followed as Carla pushed Dean's chair out into the hall and toward the elevators. Sam grabbed Dean's few other belongings and followed along behind.
"Sam," John continued. "I'll drop you off at work on the way home." Sam nodded.
Frowning, Dean said, "Work? What work? When did Sam get a job?"
Sam laughed. "I didn't get a job. I got your job. Dad talked to the warehouse manager and I'm filling in for you until your well enough to go back."
God, his job! Dean had totally forgotten it. The warehouse paid in cash and didn't ask a lot of questions. His family really needed the money, especially now. He felt bad about the added expense his illness meant even if it couldn't have been helped. Well, it was okay if Sam helped out until Dean was back in action. Anyway, they'd be moving on again soon.
Except Sam.
The thought choked Dean and he started coughing, wheezing in air to cough some more. The wheelchair stopped and John braced Dean with a hand against his chest.
"You okay?" John picked up the inhaler and held it out. His face meant business.
Dean, embarrassed, took a fast huff, forcing himself under control. He made a "Let's go," gesture with his hand and Carla started pushing him forward again.
John brought the car around and Dean was soon situated in the passenger seat with a pillow. Dean would never sit in the backseat unless he was unconscious or incapable of sitting up. He placed the pillow against the window and nuzzled into it, happy and relieved to be going home. He could hear Dad and Sam talking but made no effort to really listen. His eyes closed and he let the dull roar of the Impala's engine lull him to sleep.
He awoke to being gently shaken by John. "Wake up, Dean." John was saying it for the fourth time. He had parked right by the porch so Dean would not have to go far to get in the house.
"I carried you out, but I'll be damned if I'm carrying you back in. You've lost weight but your ass is just too heavy."
Dean rubbed his face sleepily and dragged himself out of the car with John's help. He stretched, looking at the house. Home Sweet Hovel, he thought. He took a cautious breath but the air had turned much colder while he had been in the hospital and it burned his battered lungs as he drew it in. It might have been May but it felt like November. He coughed helplessly into his hands, doubling over.
"Come on," John said, grabbing Dean's stuff from the car. "I want you out of this wind."
Dean hung back. "Where's Sam?"
John gave him an odd look. "I dropped him off at work after we got your meds. He'll be home later. You were sleeping, but we talked about it at the hospital. Don't you remember?"
"Oh," Dean said, face clearing. "Yeah, I guess I forgot. Sorry." He allowed John to pull him toward the house.
Dean walked slowly into the room, stripping off his jacket and dropping it on the back of the couch. He looked around with some satisfaction. Horrible as it was, it was still nice to be home.
John dropped Dean's prescriptions on the table and tossed the pillow from the car onto the couch. He picked up the inhaler and handed it to Dean. "You got two choices," he said. "The couch or your bed. Meds and therapy in two hours. I'll wake you up. You have to eat something because you can't take the pills on an empty stomach. You'll get sick again." John's staccato orders were as much for his benefit as Dean's. Giving orders and expecting them to be followed was what he was good at. And Dean followed orders well. It was perfect combination. Dean was dead on his feet already so John didn't expect any argument.
Predictably, Dean sank down on the couch. "I think I'll just stay here," he murmured. His bedroom was just too far away. He tossed the inhaler on the table, not wanting to bother with it. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. Man, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He coughed and cleared his throat, wincing slightly.
John went into the kitchen and returned with a tall glass of ice water and handed it to Dean. "Drink," he ordered.
Dean obediently took a long swallow. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was now that the IVs weren't hydrating him. John nodded at him as Dean sat back holding the glass. Turning on his heel, the oldest Winchester departed down the hallway. Dean's eyes were starting to fall shut. He took another drink of water before setting the glass on the table. Feet still resting on the floor, Dean pulled the pillow over onto the arm of the couch and lay down. A little later, he was vaguely aware of his boots being tugged off and his legs being lifted onto the couch. There was a soft whoosh of air as a blanket settled over him and was pulled up to his shoulders. He was asleep before he felt rough fingers brushing his forehead.
His eyes flew open and he jerked when his ear was violated by a hard object. John's hand gripped him on the shoulder. "Lie still." Dean heard a small beep and realized, stupidly, that John was checking his temperature.
"You scared the crap outta me," Dean complained hoarsely, pushing himself up on unsteady arms. He had that shaking sensation that came from being abruptly awakened out of a dead sleep.
"Sorry," John replied, checking the read out. 101.7. "You're still running a decent temp." He frowned at Dean. "It's time for your pills." He gestured at the capsules laying on the table and a brown bottle of cough syrup. "Eat first and then take this stuff. The doctor said steam would be good for your lungs. When you're done why don't you grab a shower? You can do those breathing exercises at the same time."
Dean nodded. "Yes,sir." He picked up the mug John had set down next the pills and sniffed it.
Mushroom soup. He raised an eyebrow in thanks to his dad for remembering his favorite. There was also a grilled cheese sandwich. He picked up the three aspirin and tossed them back with a mouthful of soup. At least the effect from those could be quickly felt. His head was pounding.
"What time is it?" he asked as John returned to the table where he was working on the laptop, papers scattered around him.
John glanced at his watch. "Going on 6:00. You got an appointment?" he settled back in his chair and retrieved his pen.
Dean laughed shortly. "No. I just wondered when Sam would get off." He drank some more soup and had a bite of sandwich, working his way through the pills as he ate.
John went back to making notes. "He gets off at 8:00 just like you did. He's catching a ride with someone." He paused, frowning and scribbling something down in his precious journal. Absently, he added. "I put some clothes in the bathroom for you."
"Thanks," Dean mumbled through a mouthful of soup. He poured some of the cough syrup into the spoon and swallowed it, trying not to get it on his tongue. He failed. Same with the second spoonful. He made a face and put the last bite of sandwich in his mouth to get rid of the taste. Not only did it taste awful, it did nothing to stop his incessant coughing. If anything, it made the coughing worse by loosening the congestion in his lungs.
He picked up his dishes and carried them slowly into the kitchen, pausing at the sink to look out the window. He could hear rain falling softly outside. He retraced his steps back to the couch, took a hit off the inhaler because he thought John wasn't looking and went toward the bathroom to suck up steam.
The shower turned off and John could hear Dean coughing through the door. It didn't last too long so John stayed where he was. Dean came out dressed in the sweats and black t-shirt John had found in the pile of clothes that he guessed was the clean stuff. Dean really was a pig sometimes.
John raised his eyes and watched as Dean moved slowly through the room. He stopped to pick up the water John had refilled and took a long gulp, carrying it with him over to the table. Sinking into a chair next to John, he sighed, ruffling his damp hair.
"You okay?" John asked without looking up from his notes.
"Yeah," Dean replied. "Just tired." He snorted softly. "Tired of being tired." He took another sip of water and sat back, eyes down. "Thanks, for springing me, Dad. I really hated being in there." He recalled too clearly how helpless he'd felt with his arms tied down and that fucking pipe down his throat.
John glanced at him. "I know, Dean. I just couldn't take you out until I thought it was safe for you."
Dean nodded. He reached out and pulled Sam's diploma to him, running his fingers over the cover.
John watched him in silence. As much as he hated the knock down drag out fights he and Sam had, he knew where he stood with Sam. Every other word out of Sam's mouth was 'Why?' He questioned everything, to John's complete annoyance. He never pulled a punch when giving his opinion of the way they lived and how badly he wanted out. Dean on the other hand, questioned almost nothing. He never had. If Dean had other hopes and dreams he kept them to himself. He did what he was told and did it well, ready for his next orders. He took what John and life threw at him and dealt with it in an almost robotic fashion.
Part of John was grateful for that unquestioning loyalty, the willingness to do or die because John had said that was how it needed to be. The other part of John that knew Dean was no robot would look into those enigmatic green eyes and wonder what was going on behind them.
What scars did his son bear, inflicted by both their circumstances and John himself? Dean would never tell, keeping everything that was wrong hidden from the world. John was certain of this even if he couldn't sense what Dean was thinking. John suspected even Sam, to whom Dean had so fiercely pledged his life so many years ago, probably didn't know what went on behind Dean's eyes. Dean, who had become a man at a very young age, was in so many ways still a confused, frightened child. What kind of man would he have been if this nightmare had never happened?
"Something on your mind?" John finally asked, putting down his pen.
Dean's mouth thinned into a line and he restlessly tapped his fingers on the diploma cover. His face was flushed and John knew his fever was going back up. "I need to talk to you…about Sam." Dean forced out, trying to convince himself what he was contemplating was not betrayal.
John's pulse quickened. "What about, Sam?" He tried to keep his voice casual. Something was obviously bugging Dean big time.
"It's just…when you and Sam start fighting…" Dean closed his eyes and made a frustrated sound. Jesus, this was gonna be hard. "He doesn't mean half of what he says, Dad. You know that." John's eyes narrowed. "He loses his head. He's just trying to figure out who he is, where he fits into all this…" Dean spread his hands. "I'm asking you to cut him some slack. I know he never shuts up, hell, I'd like to pound him myself, sometimes, for the assy stuff he comes up with- "
"Dean, I understand what you're trying to say," John interrupted. "but Sam needs to understand that we are both counting on him to do his job without question. Our lives depend on it. His life depends on it. I can't have him constantly second guessing me. He needs to realize how important he is to what we're trying to do. That his place is with this family." John, more agitated then he wanted to admit, went back to his note taking.
"Dad- " Dean tried again but John cut him off.
"Dean, there's nothing more to say on the subject." John ground his teeth together in an effort not to snap at Dean. "Go lie down. You need to rest. I can tell your temps up without even checking. That's an order," he added as Dean opened his mouth again.
Dean stared at John's head for a few seconds then pushed away from the table and got to his feet. "Yes, sir," he said quietly and went down the hall to his bedroom.
I'll post the last chapter tomorrow if you want it. If the site will let me. Let me know if you're up for the ending.