Dean spotted his father leaning against the side of his truck when Dean pulled the Impala beside it. He could tell his father had already reached the end of his patience. Dean swallowed nervously as he quickly climbed out of his baby, carefully hiding his injuries.
"What've we got?" Dean questioned quickly as he headed to the back of his trunk. They were in a boneyard which generally meant either ghouls or ghosts. He really didn't look forward to digging up a grave with bruised ribs again.
"Ghouls," John bit out. "Which means head shots. I think there are four but I haven't been able to pick them off. They are holed up in that mausoleum over there."
Dean swiftly got what he needed out of his trunk and hurried over to his father's side. John didn't wait for him to catch up before stalking over to the designated place. He hammered the lock off and they threw open the doors.
It was a blood bath but they quickly killed all the ghouls. Dean only got a couple more shots to the head and one to the ribs so he wasn't really that worse off afterwards. He did, however, have some trouble with the disposal.
John tossed him a shovel after they cut off all the heads to make sure. "You start digging while I get the gas from the truck."
Dean caught the shovel with a slight flinch and mentally steadied himself. "Where?"
John threw his arm out vaguely. "Over by the angel's good. Maybe it'll keep watch or something," he snarked sarcastically.
Dean smirked slightly then sighed as he trudged over to the appointed area. He propped his shotgun up on a nearby tombstone and started digging, ignoring the pain and discomfort the action caused. He stubbornly continued as nausea built in his gut and his vision blurred off and on.
Meanwhile, John dropped off the fire supplies and started pulling corpses out to burn. He dragged out with his second corpse when he noticed the silence. He frowned and turned to check on his son and found him leaning heavily on the shovel. "Dean?"
Dean slowly lifted his head and gave a short wave before he resumed digging. John shrugged and continued with the second corpse. When he got it close to the hole, he checked again, "You okay?"
"'M good," Dean huffed out softly.
John frowned slightly then reached into his bag and grabbed a bottle of water. He tossed as he called out, "Catch."
Dean snapped his head up and fumbled the water. Once he got a good grip on it, he laid the shovel handle against his shoulder and muttered, "Thanks." He broke the seal and drank some of the cool liquid.
John nodded slightly then offered, "Let me take over. You get the rest."
Dean knew leaning over and dragging out the nasty smelling ghouls wasn't going to help him and more than digging the hole. He actually wasn't sure which was better for him to do right now. He thought a minute as he took another drink. "Nah, I'm good."
"You sure?" John verified.
"Yea," Dean affirmed then tossed his water bottle on top of the jacket and overshirt Dean had placed on a tombstone earlier. Dean resumed shoveling so John went back to the mausoleum. Dean focused on his job and shut out the nausea and vision issues, knowing that when he was done he could crash but definitely not before. In fact, he repeated that mantra in his mind, willing his body to conform to his ironclad will.
John pulled out the last corpse when he noticed the repetitive sound had changed. It wasn't a shovel hitting dirt anymore. Someone was throwing up violently. He quickly searched the nearby area and didn't see anything but he knew. With a growl in his throat, he grabbed up the last corpse and hurried it over to the pile.
He found Dean in the grave, vomiting his guts out. He dropped in behind his son and gently put a hand on his shoulder. He felt Dean almost collapse at his touch and quickly grabbed his son under his torso. Dean let out a painful groan at the pressure and John demanded, "How bad, Dean?"
Dean spit out some more of the nasty taste in his mouth and breathed out harshly, "Concussion, bruised ribs on left side. Nothing major."
"You didn't take that much damage from them . . . Damnit, Dean. What happened before . . . aw, hell, never mind. Come on. Help me haul your ass out of this hole," John snapped irately.
Dean nodded and stood as well as he could. He helped as much as he could but the world had decided to speed up on him. Everything was weaving and spinning. Once he was out of the hole, he rolled to the clean side and closed his eyes, controlling his breathing.
"Dean?" John called again, squatting down next to him.
"Fine. Waiting for spinning to stop," Dean huffed out with a slur. "Finish it."
John growled at the order but saw the logic. "This ain't over, boy," he promised harshly then turned to finish the job. The hole was deep enough so he tossed the bodies in then salted and burned them. John checked on Dean after and managed to wake his son back up.
"Time to leave, Dean," John ordered firmly, grabbing up his son's stuff. He helped Dean sit up then stand. When Dean didn't weave too much, he handed him his stuff and prodded, "Can you make it?"
"Yes, sir," Dean replied firmly and started heading to the vehicles.
The fact that Dean walked mostly a straight line helped reassure John more than anything. John collected the rest of their stuff then hurried after his son. He dropped his stuff into the back of his truck before turning to see Dean open his driver's door. "Can you drive?"
"Yes, sir," Dean insisted, not meeting his father's eyes. He knew his dad was mad at him. He didn't need to see it to feel the anger from across the Impala's hood. Dean had always been hypersensitive to his family's negative emotions.
"Follow me," John commanded, "and if you even think you're going to pass out you pull over. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," Dean snapped respectfully.
They both got in their cars and headed straight for John's motel without any incidents. Dean pulled into the parking spot next to John and John was by his door before he even opened it. He yanked Dean out and hurried him into his room mindful of possible observers.
As soon as he slammed the door, he started in on him, "What the hell were you thinking? Showing up at a hunt injured? Not telling me beforehand? What if the hunt had turned south? I know you aren't the smart one but I never thought you were a moron."
John shoved Dean onto the second bed and ordered, "Take off your shirt now."
Dean shrugged it off while John continued, "I know that Sam leaving messed you up, hell, messed us both up, but you getting yourself killed isn't going to solve anything. Or were you just trying to get me killed because you blame me for all of it?"
Dean's face drained of all color and he flinched before shaking his head then groaning. Wrong move, moron , he growled at himself.
John didn't give him a chance to answer as his rant continued, "Well, I got news for you, boy. I'm not dying until I nailed the SOB that killed your mother so if you want to kill me, you have to get in line and wait your turn. Damn it, Dean. What the hell am I going to do with you? I can't keep this up. I don't have time to nursemaid your butt through this shit. If you miss Sammy so much, go be with him. I'd rather have you do that than you kill yourself this way. Why the hell didn't you go with him in the first place? It would have been easier than watching you this way. Slowly killing yourself. Hell, I thought I raised a fighter, not a freakin' girl."
All the while, John prodded the huge bruises that were forming on Dean's back and sides. Dean flinched slightly at the occasional physical pain but the mental pain his father's words were causing him cut much more deeply. He wanted to argue so bad but could tell that his father wasn't listening. Of course, his father hardly ever listened to him.
"Well, congratulations, genus. You have about three busted ribs and several more bruised. Looks like a pool stick got busted across your back so I can easily guess where all this came from. Bet you were drunk during the hunt as well, weren't you? Forget it. Don't answer that. Last thing I want to hear from you is any lies or apologies. Just go take your shower. This room is paid through the night," John finished wearily.
Dean glanced up at his father's closed face then just turned and went into the bathroom. Right before he closed the door behind him, he announced firmly, "Yeah, I was hurt, Dad, but I wasn't drunk. Regardless of what you think, I'd never do anything to hurt you, or Sammy."
As usual, his father hadn't given him a chance to explain or anything and he doubted John would even acknowledge Dean's statement. He'd screwed up again. And, once again, he'd pay for it. He knew before he finished his shower and opened the door that his dad wouldn't be there. Too bad, he was always right about the things that he didn't want to be right about.
