A/N: We've had the Dean whump, and now here's the start of the comfort, John Winchester style.

Chapter 9 – lost and found

I don't want to start bawling like some bitch, but I'm close. My eyes feel funny, kinda gritty and wet. My muscles start shaking as I take a deep breath, about as deep as I can with all the duct tape Dad's got wound around me.

He didn't ditch me.

Damn…

This early in the morning there's not a lot of traffic out here. Dad's keeping one eye on me and the other on the road ahead. Well, duh. All night long I've been trying to kill him or kick his ass.

"You didn't leave me…"

Dad grunts and flicks a puzzled glance at me, and that's when I get it.

Damn. I said that out loud.

"Leave you?" Dad rumbles. "What made you think I left you?"

Right about that time "What" decides to open its big damn mouth.

"He only wants you around because you're his good little soldier," Dark yells inside my head. The sound of his voice digs into me like somebody put an icepick in both ears. I close my eyes and I can see the bastard standing on a street somewhere. He looks like me now. His eyes are pitch black, and his throat's ripped open from where I nailed him with that claw knife.

"He's playing Daddy now because he feels guilty."

I feel my mouth move. "Fuck you."

Dad's voice sounds far away, like it's coming from a distance. "Dean? What's going on, kiddo?"

"Don't you get it, you dumb sonofabitch?" Dark snarls.

Can't listen to him. I can't. I got to focus on something else…anything else…

"Those bastards opened you up," the other Dad told me, "but you can put everything in here back the same way it was before."

A good idea is a damn good idea.

Dark cusses and screams as the street opens up and swallows him up. The pavement closes up over his head and I can't hear him anymore.

"I got out of there," I hear myself whisper under my breath. "I'm clear. Got nothing to worry about anymore. I'm out. I'm clear." Doesn't matter that I'm saying this out loud. I haven't exactly been the poster boy for normal tonight. Dad thinking I've gone mental is the least of my worries.

" 'm out. I'm clear." I tell myself that over and over again for I don't know how long, and then it hits me all of a sudden that something's not right.

We're not moving anymore. I can tell we're not moving, and for some reason that scares the hell outta me.

I open my eyes and the Impala's parked on the shoulder of the highway. The engine's still running. The headlights are still on but the driver's side door is closed and Dad's gone.

Dad's gone…

This little voice fills my head, and it's weak and scared and it's not Dark but it's me and I didn't get out, I only thought I did and this is how it's all gonna end, me stuck here like this forever he ditched me Dad ditched me ---

Dark's laughing inside my head. I was so fucking stupid to think everything had changed. I close my eyes again. Dumb move, but I don't want to open my eyes either. I'm screwed either way.

Sam's gone, Dad left me, and I should have known better, this is all a joke, a fucking bad joke. My face is wet, and I'm crying and laughing at the same time. I can't move and it doesn't matter, 'cause nobody else is around ---

"Dean!" Dad barks, and I crack one eye open.

Dad settles onto the bench seat, pulls the door close behind him. "Calm down."

Huh.

This isn't real, you jackass. Dad left us, Dark's growling at me. He didn't come back. We're freaks, remember? Everybody who loves us, leaves us---

"Shut up." That only makes Dark laugh even harder. "Shut the hell up."

I jerk back when I see something coming right at my eyes. I blink some more, and then I see it, and why the hell is Dad's thumb in my face?

There's some kind of shiny stuff smeared on it, too. Smells like flowers.

"Wha ---what the fuck is that?"

"Language, dude, language." Dad's thumb is slick against my skin. He makes the sign of the cross between my eyes, and I wrinkle my nose up. The smell isn't that bad, but I don't wanna smell like damn flowers ---

"Lavender and rosemary oils," Dad shrugs. "Pastor Jim blessed it."

Dad stares at my face, watches me like a friggin' hawk. Geez, awkward much?

I put those bruises on him. I hit my Dad…

I drop my eyes down and stare at my knees.

"Dean?" Dad says softly. I flinch when he gently puts his hand out and lifts my chin up. "Hey, kiddo. Look at me, now. Stay with me."

The noise inside my head dies down.

Dad stares at me, hard. I don't know what he's looking for, or what he sees, but he nods like he just saw whatever the fuck he was looking for. "Good. Now drink this."

I push back against the seat and scowl as he pushes a blue water bottle towards my mouth, tilts it up just enough where I can take a sip. It's lukewarm, so I don't have to worry about cramping. I drink nearly all of it, real slow, and I never realized how thirsty I was before. I sit back when Dad pulls the bottle away, and he just sits there staring at me. The look gets weird and awkward in a heartbeat. Dad stares at my face, like he's waiting for something.

And a few seconds later I find out just what he's waiting for.

My gut does this slow greasy turn that pushes its way up my throat. My mouth tastes like burnt sulfur and I nearly lose it then. Everything I've eaten or drunk in the last twenty four hours is gonna come back up on me big time. Which probably includes any water I swallowed at the rec center, and…and…

I got tongued by a dead chick.

Anne Marie stuck her tongue in my mouth…

… and so did…

…so did that albino bastard with the tats.

Son of a bitch ---

I gag, clamp my lips shut and jerk forward, and Dad puts his hand on my chest, pushes me back while he leans over me. The passenger door swings open and before I know it we're outside on the shoulder of the road, some distance away from the Impala. Dad bends me over, holds me by my collar and my back waistband so I don't face plant and I start hurling, big time.

Damn stuff that comes up is thick, pale green and nasty.

When I come back to myself first thing I notice is that my throat's raw. Dad's sitting on the ground with his back against the car, and I'm sitting on the ground between his legs.

"Hey. Dean?" Dad's voice shakes a little, and that bothers me. I've been patching him up for years now, and I can tell when he's hurting or tired when nobody else can.

I saw him flinch as he pushed me out of the car. His jacket's still bloody from that hole in his shoulder. I got a damn good look at those bruises on the side of his face.

I did all that.

Me.

"You okay, bud?"

I do feel a little better, like I got emptied out. Throat's raw; and I'm almost afraid to ask, but I got to.

"What the… hell…was that?"

"A spew drink."

"Uh huh." Okay. Not doin' that again any time soon.

"Okay." Dad reaches back into the Impala and pulls out this other water bottle, a clear plastic one this time.

Crap. Not again.

I give him the eye. " 'm fine," I croak. I shake my head as I stare at the bottle. "Just super."

Dad laughs. "You're dehydrated, dumbass. This is regular water. Nothing added."

"Oh." I frown up when he uncaps the bottle and pushes it towards my mouth. I drink half and then we both sit there waiting.

Nothing happens, so I drink the rest.

We're back on the road a few minutes later.

Throat's still sore, and all I can say is one word: "Where?"

"We're a few miles away from the state line. Farmhouse's on the other side, remember? We can hole up there for a week or two."

Crap. I would have remembered that if my damn brain hadn't been scrambled.

The farmhouse is a gift from one of our clients. One of our extremely grateful, wealthy clients. I've got a set of keys, and so does Dad. The place is a little more high-end than we're used to. It's well maintained, just like the luxury hotels this lady owns. A while back Dad and I took care of a vengeful spirit one of her competitors sent after her family, and by the end of it Dad and I got rid of the damn thing and we'd made a friend for life. Sam had pneumonia that time, stayed with Pastor Jim in Blue Earth while we worked the job.

Sam and I got into it when Dad and I got back. Sam was pissed, said that living the way we do was gonna kill us, said that Dad didn't give a damn about anything but the hunt.

I told Sam to shut the hell up, and he got right up in my face. He stuck his chin out like he was daring me to hit him. I looked down, felt my right hand curl up into a fist.

I wanted to kick his ass, but he was still wheezing and shaky and I wanted to believe he didn't really mean what he was saying, so I left the house, took a long walk around Pastor Jim's place.

When I got back Sam gave me the cold shoulder for three whole days.

Couldn't understand it back then, and I still don't. We had a nice life. Hell, I thought we did. It was never enough for Sam, and I still don't get why.

Stupid sonofabitch.

I feel calmer. I do. I'm still duct-taped, and I can't blame Dad for that. Dark's rustling around inside my head, poking around at the edges, trying to dig his way out, but it's no good. He's in too deep, but I can still hear him.

I don't want to hear this now. I never…never would admit this to anybody, but…

'm…'m scared.

Scared the dark will drag me back inside.

Scared this isn't real.

"D-Dad? Talk to me?"

"What?"

"You mind? T-talk to me?"

Dad quirks an eyebrow at me. "Don't you want to go to sleep, bud? You had a long night."

"I don't…I don't wanna be inside my head right now. Please?"

"Okay. Pick your poison. What do you wanna hear?"

"Whatever you wanna talk about. I just…I wanna hear your voice."

Dad stares at me for a moment, then he shrugs. "Okay." He gives me this look, slightly wide-eyed, like he's seeing a whole new side of me he's never seen before.

Dad talks, and I focus on the sound of his voice.

He didn't leave me. No matter what other gruesome shit I've got running around inside this fucked up head of mine, no matter what I did to him tonight….he didn't leave me.

Dad…my Dad loves me.

I gotta believe that. Otherwise…what's the point? What's the fucking point of all of this?

I'm not crying about my life. I play the hand I got dealt. It just seems to me that I've lost so much, so fucking much, if I think about it for too long…

I try not to think about it. I might do something crazy if I do.

Dad talks about just about any and everything. He talks about the first time he saw me, right after I was born. He talks about chasing me around the house, playing hide-and-seek with me. I remember all that. I remember hiding in closets, hiding in the dark, trying not to giggle as Dad came prowling around, play-growling like a big bad wolf or a giant or something.

I didn't know how good I had it then.

Didn't know that the shadows really do have teeth.

I saw Mom the night she died. I never told anybody. Not even Dad. I saw her on the ceiling of the nursery, right over Sam's crib. She looked so pale and sad, and when she saw me staring up at her I think she said she was "sorry."

Sorry for what? I don't know. I was a kid, remember? Just a stupid little kid who had it good the first four years of his life, and then the rug got pulled out from underneath him.

I stare out at the road ahead, let Dad's voice carry me along. I get lost in it, and that's just damn fine with me. I listen to the sound of his voice, and it's almost as low as the rumble of the girl's engine. I feel safe when I hear it. I can deal. With just about anything.

My eyes are open, but I can see what's inside my head. I see all the dead people in there, all the ones I carried all this time, the ones I couldn't save. Even if they were stupid, and some of them sure in the hell were, no one deserves to die like that.

I know their names. I remember the places where they died, how they died.

I can put a name to all the things that killed them.

I listen to Dad's voice, and I block out their voices for a while. They curse and scream at me, and I start walling them back up, one by one. I don't get them all, but it's a start.

Dad talks, and it's not a Marine lecture he's giving me. He talks about me and Sam, and not on hunts either. Dad talks about the little things, the day to day stuff. Yeah, normal, nice even, back when Sam was Sammy and he was little and he didn't question or bitch about every damn thing.

It wasn't all about the hunt. I think sometimes Sam forgets that. There were times I took him to fireworks shows on the fourth of July. Once we even went to an air show at this air base over in Illinois. Walked around, looked at the planes. Food over there was as expensive as hell, but I had money I'd earned from hustling pool a couple of nights before. We ate hot dogs, cotton candy and junk all day, came home later that night grinning like idiots.

Later, though? When Sammy became Sam? Nothing satisfied him. Nothing. He'd pull that bitchface of his when Dad went out and bought the wrong kind of toothpaste. Towards the end, right before he left, Sam pushed Dad about damn near everything, and Dad pushed back.

It's just me and Dad now. Sam packed his duffel on that last day and he hasn't looked back since. I don't know if he hates me, but we haven't spoken for a while.

The way I feel about Sam is down there, in the dark. I can't hate my own brother. I just can't.

But sometimes…sometimes I do.

Dad talks about Mom, how beautiful she was, like an angel, the first time he ever laid eyes on her back in Lawrence. When she tucked me in for the night Mom used to tell me that angels were watching over me. I used to believe that.

I don't anymore.

Feathered bastards. I wasn't the one they needed to watch.

TBC and concluded this week.