It was the third day of Dean's recovery that the absence of his father really started to weigh on the young man's mind. When Sam left his side to take a shower with some convincing and Dean was left with only Caleb in the room he broached the subject. "So, how pissed was John when you and Jim called him?" the hunter started attempting to sound nonchalant.
Caleb looked up from the magazine he was looking at, "I mean he wasn't happy…" he trailed off but continued when he saw that Dean wanted more details. "He was upset that we could be that stupid and he was concerned about you." Dean nodded, hoping to hear more. "We told him as much as we could about your injury but you were being prepped for surgery at the time so we didn't have a lot of details – he asked us to call when we were out." Caleb stopped glancing down at the magazine in his lap.
"So…" Dean prodded.
"So…" Caleb sighed a little knowing that Dean was measuring love in the reaction. "We called him after surgery. He was glad to hear that you were okay and asked us to keep him updated. Told us he owed us one."
Dean face fell for just a minute before he put on his usual swagger, "Figured. He was on an important hunt, thought he may have found a lead on what killed our mother."
Caleb nodded, "Yeah, that's what he said." Dean nodded as awkward silence filled the room - it was time to get up.
Dean saw and seized his moment of freedom that very night. It was dark out, Rebecca was working a shift at the hospital, and the other hunters in the house had called it an early night. The hunter slowly pushed aside the blankets that had covered him, and slowly eased his body up to a seated position. The pull on his stitches and the shifting in his abdomen made him hiss quietly and press an arm against the wound but it wasn't going to stop him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed up grunting twice with the effort it took and the pain it created. Grasping his IV pole, Dean slowly made his way through the one story house to the bathroom just getting there as he felt his body begin to shake, collapsing without grace onto the closed toilet lid. Dean panted heavily, his face ashen with the effort he just put forth and it was there on that toilet seat that Dean allowed his true emotions to rise to the surface: his Dad didn't come. He had almost died and his Dad didn't come. Dean felt a tear slip from his left eye and he angrily brushed it away. The truth was, this was his fault in the first place, if he hadn't agreed that they could handle the witch they never would've gone on the hunt and he should've known better than to take a gun to a witch hunt without spell backup. His Dad couldn't and wouldn't allow his son's stupidity ruin his chance at finding what killed his wife nor should he.
Dean rubbed his face, hard. How could he be so selfish?! To think that his Dad should be here to pat his head and sing Mary Had a Little Lamb with him when the injury had been his fault was ridiculous. He deserved what he had gotten; he had made a dumb choice and even worse was the realization that it could've been Sammy who was laid up or worse yet dead. The Winchester pushed himself up abruptly, almost relishing the pain that reverberated through his mid section; it only served him right for what he had done. Dean stared at himself in the mirror, his gray face becoming still whiter from his defiance of the life threatening injury. He peed as he had meant to and quickly pushed his way out of the restroom. The shaking already returning along with waves of pain but Dean pushed them aside confident in his shame; he deserved this, this pain and Dean was willing to pay the price.