When I woke up in John's temporary room in Dad's house, I had a few thoughts flash through my head. The first was overwhelming satisfaction and happiness that I'd gotten to make love to him before he left. And then, glancing around the room a surge of panic hit. What if Dad had come in to wake him this morning and seen us together? I knew he hadn't because no amount of sexual exhaustion would have drowned out that shit hitting the fan. Another of course was, what if he'd gone looking for me in my own room first, and finding it empty had started a really fucking scary version of "duck, duck, goose" to find me?

Since I was looking at a few days alone, I started pulling off the bedding on John's bed. Then I went room to room repeating the action, even in both mine and Dad's. Screw it, I thought, laundry is one way to keep occupied while waiting for Dad to call, and hopefully John to text. I tossed a load into the machine, then walked around the house, smiling at the unlocked rooms that I'd never had access to before.

The library, or what Dad called his library, called to me. Standing in the doorway, I looked around the room. The controlled chaos, the books and papers and other paraphernalia that I'd seen pieces of when John visited me. He had a journal, Dad had a bookshelf worth. My fingers tingle, the urge to pick one up and look through it was almost unbearable, but then I stopped myself. What if whatever caused Dad to kill my mom was in one of those books? Did I want to see it? Did I want to read something my dad might have written about it and her? No, I thought, backing away and going to find my novel.

I read, while the bedclothes were washed, dried, and then I'd put them on the proper beds. After that self-imposed chore was finished, I washed the clothes I could find that would constitute as dirty. Dean had left a set of clothes behind on the floor, Sam's were tucked into a chair in his room, John's were on the top of his bag where he usually put them, and mine and Dad's were in the hamper. I checked the pockets of Dean and Sam, knowing that both John and Dad always emptied theirs before putting on a new set. In Dean's I found a couple condoms, a few scraps of paper, and some change. Putting it in a bowl from the kitchen, I checked Sam's finding some change which I put in his own bowl.

The clothes constituted a single load, so it took far less time, but with the multiple loads of bedding first, I'd pretty much tore through the day. My phone was always in my pocket. It didn't ring, it didn't ding, and I tried very hard not to start fretting. Once the clothes were back in the proper bedrooms, with any left behind pocket stuff, I took a long hot bath. I read my book. I grabbed a light dinner. And, as I was about to lay down and force myself to try to sleep. I got a call and a ding.

Dad offered an apology for the delay. "We got into a bit of a situation, nothing to worry about, just these people are less trusting than usual." He asked how I was doing, if I was finding something to occupy myself, and then he bid me goodnight. Promising to call me tomorrow, we said "I love you," and hung up.

John's text was simple. "I miss you. I'm fine. I love you."

I smiled and texted him back. "Miss you, too. I'm glad you're safe, stay that way. Come back to me. I love you."

Sleep came easy after that. My last thought before going under was how I hoped that it stayed easy.

They were gone for two more days. And each night, before I went to sleep, I'd get a call from Dad and a text from John. It helped keep me calm. It helped me sleep. And during the day it made finding things to occupy myself with easier.

I got a tense call that final day. Dad telling me in a tight voice where to find his first aid supplies, but not telling me who was hurt. He let me know that they were close, and I needed to be ready. And then he muttered, before hanging up, that he was so fucking happy I took those classes.

I found the kit where Dad directed. I rummaged through it to see if it was well stocked, and was pleased to see that it was better stocked than some that I'd seen in the infirmary at school. Not knowing what I'd need or who was wounded, I washed my hands and pulled out the box of gloves. I heard the roar of John's truck and the Impala that Dean as they barreled up to the house. Rushing to the front door, I yanked it open and my heart stopped.

Dean and Sam were pulling John from the backseat of the car. He was so pale, and there was SO much fucking blood it looked surreal. I had to fight to recenter myself, if I lost my shit and allowed my emotions to overrun, then I would be no fucking use to the man I loved. They carried him inside, and to the kitchen table. Laying him over it, with me on their heels and Dad coming from behind giving me a brief rundown of what happened, I had to do it again. Swallowing hard, and listening intently to what Dad was telling me, I moved forward and pulled on a pair of gloves.

The long and short of it was that he'd been taken down trying to cover Dad. Whatever evil they'd fought, I barely listened to that part, it had gotten him in the neck and shoulder area and just above his jeans, right under the ribs that I'd checked that first night.

I took a pair of scissors and cut through his shirts. Pulling them open to get a look at what I was working with, the wound on his shoulder looked far worse than it was, and the one above his jeans was deep, but heal-able. I worked fast, cleaning the lower wound first, despite the insistence from Dean that the neck was clearly the more severe. Once I could see past the flow of blood, I drew out needle and thread, and began the careful, even stitches that I'd seen our instructor show us. Having only been allowed to practice on fabric, using the curved needle through skin and tissue was a learning experience. I was scared, though, because John hadn't made a single sound while I worked. Stitches complete, I applied a sterile bandage, taping it tight against his skin.

Moving upward to his neck and shoulder, I cleaned it as thoroughly as I had the one on his abdomen. Then, taking the needle and thread up again, I started working, but this time while I worked I talked to him.

"John Winchester, you'd better wake your sorry ass up right now." I used the needle to close the wound, keeping the stitches as small as I could manage in the curve of it. "Do you hear me, John? You promised. You told me you'd come back to me. Well, you're here, but you're not here." I kept stitching, and my mouth kept moving, completely oblivious to my audience. "I swear if you don't wake up," I choked back a sob. "I'll kick your fucking corpse until you fucking do. Do you hear me?" I felt him twitch under my hand. "Keep still, I have a sharp object against your fucking jugular." I shook my head, but kept moving, feeling more motivated now that he'd moved. "You gonna open those eyes I love so much, baby? Come on, look at me." I was almost finished, and I was begging now. "John, come on, please, please wake up for me."

It took until I banaged his neck, but he finally fought against his unconsciousness to find me above him, taping another strip down. "Hey, sweetheart." His voice sounded rough, and I closed my eyes at the soothing feeling of hearing him again. "Fuck, what happened?" He tried to sit up, but Dean, Sam, and I held him to the table. "Ouch."

I chuckled and brushed a kiss on his dry lips. "Lay still, you fucking ass. I just stitched you back together in two fucking places."

And then, I heard Dad clear his throat, and glancing up I realized that now the cat was all the way out of the bag.