Chapter Four
Pulling around a corner so fast Sam cried out when he was thrown against the door, John gritted his teeth. He had to get to Dean. It wasn't like he could afford to be too late – not with his own son. I'm coming, just hang on. He knew they had to be there soon. How big could the damned town be, anyway?
Sam cried out, pointing, "Is that the one, Dad?"
John glanced at the house. "No Sammy, it's not the right one." He felt his heart constrict and wondered if he should check it just in case. No. No time. It had to be the one with the run down Camino in the front. It had to be. There was no where else.
Amos pushed Dean's pants down from around his bruised and aching hips. Once they were low enough he pushed his foot between the boy's legs, stepping on his jeans and forcing them to the ground. Dean moaned softly when the rough boots scraped against his legs, chafing the already raw skin. He tried to struggle when Dillinger started on his boxers. Feeling Amos place his hand on the back of his neck Dean shut his eyes, trying to brace himself for the pain he knew was coming.
"When're you gonna stop fighting me, Dean? It'll be easier on you if you don't struggle. Told her that, and she fought me anyway. And look at what happened to her." Dean breathed wetly against the blood in his nose. "Oh come on, would I lie to you?" Dillinger asked gently as he forced Dean's boxers down. They were still damp from the combination of blood, urine, and water. "Looks like I didn't get you enough water yesterday," Amos chuckled, pushing his hips against Dean's to keep him up and against the table. Dean had no protests left to issue forth. The pain and head trauma had pushed him away, leaving his pain wracked empty shell of a body behind.
"The irony's beautiful isn't it, Dean? The event in my life your father used to ruin me will be the same one to ruin him. I just hope he's not too dense too appreciate the irony." He pulled Dean's head up from the table. "What'd you think? Too dramatic? Or too subtle? Because I think it's perfect," Amos smiled.
John looked at Sam, seeing the house. "When I get out of this car, you call Jim, tell him to come to the apartment," he said, looking his son straight in the eye. "And you don't come anywhere near that house, you hear me?" he asked, his voice forceful and cold, it was an order, not a request.
"Go," Sam replied, already crawling into the back to find the clunky cell phone to call the Pastor. John hadn't even waited for the response, grabbing his shotgun from the seat between him and Sam, and running to the house. The door was locked, of course, but the wood around the handle was rotted, and John twisted it hard, pulling out and simply ripped the knob from the door itself. Tossing it into the grass without a second thought, John entered, hating the screech of the rusted door hinges as he did his best to move silently. It wasn't like he wanted to startle Dillinger. Scoping out the house in case he had to make a quick exit, he couldn't risk rescuing his son just to get them both killed in a failed escape attempt. Not that he was sure he'd be able to leave Dillinger alive. But he was going to try.
He hunted monsters, not people.
Although, Dillinger was ten kinds of monster. But once he made one judgment call, he'd never stop, and he had enough on his plate with true demons. Nothing too dangerous in the house, other than the house itself. It was so dilapidated he doubted it would take much to knock it down. And John suddenly knew how to take care of Amos. Finding the stairs, he carefully let his weight down onto the first step nearest the edge where the support was strongest. Descending, he could see his son, and saw Dillinger working his own pants out of the way, his belt lying on the ground, the once shiny metal coated in glistening blood.
Dean could feel how much Amos wanted his revenge; in fact he could feel it pressing through the man's blue jeans and against his backside. Groaning was the best he could do before his body started to retch in fear, and blood swamped over his teeth and lips onto the table. Glad that at least his bladder was empty, he shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. He just knew that he couldn't let it break him. But he wasn't so sure that he wasn't already broken.
John didn't even think, he leveled his gun and fired into the only spot on Amos' body he could without risking Dean: his knee. Amos howled, falling to the floor heavily. Dean slipped boneless to the ground, the nail pulling away from the table, but not before tearing into the boy's hands even more. When his body hit with a soft thud before his head cracked against the cement without so much as a twitch, John felt his heart stop and shatter into a million pieces.
He doubted it would ever beat again.
Rushing forward, he hauled Dean into his lap, looking at his hands, and fighting the urge to vomit. He lost, and twisted himself away from his son while his stomach emptied itself further. Carefully pulling the nail out, John ripped his own shirt to make bandages to tie around Dean's hands. He almost threw up again. Dean pulled in a wet breath, and John felt relief crash around him in waves, supporting him. Touching his son's face, he felt blood and vomit flake and peel away from the skin. It matted down his son's hair on one side, probably where he'd been lying in it. Breathing through his mouth because he couldn't get enough air through his nose, John couldn't smell a thing, but he could almost taste the blood in the air.
"Hey there, hey buddy. C'mon," he whispered.
"Dad?" Dean croaked, his throat pulsed and his voice cracked.
"I'm here," he said gently.
"Knew…coming," Dean tried to smile.
"It's okay, it's okay," John said hurriedly when his son's lips cracked and bled. "Just stay quiet, I'm going to help you stand up for a second, we'll get your pants back on, and I'm getting you out of here, okay?"
"Dad," he started.
"Amos is dealt with," his voice hardened. Amos was still rolling in pain. Good. Pulling Dean up gently, "Here, lean on me," John told him softly.
Tugging up first his son's boxers, then his jeans, he realized Dean hadn't needed help dressing himself since about the time he'd been two, and every time anyone tried to help him he threw a fit. And if he managed to put his shirt on backwards, it was almost impossible to get him to put it on right. Except Mary could usually tease him and tickle him until she'd gotten it off, and then she'd hand it back, facing the right way, and Dean would put it back on none the wiser.
Doing the button and zipper, John noted they were damp, as were the remains of his son's shirt. Blisters were raised underneath the blood coating Dean's torso, and John figured it was just water. Hot water. "Son of a bitch," he growled, brown eyes turning cold with rage. Lifting Dean into his arms his son cried out in pain. "I'm sorry, I've got you, Dean, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry buddy."
Amos laughed. "Now what, John?" he asked, holding his bleeding leg. He would bleed to death without aid, and he couldn't walk. Not like that. John noted that Amos was still turned on by his son's pain, and stepped down, hard. Amos screamed, and John kept up the pressure until he felt something give way beneath his foot. It reminded him of the time he'd stepped on a slightly overripe tomato. Not trusting himself to say a word, John just walked out of the room and up the stairs.
Sam's white face appeared when John kicked the door down. "Sam, salt and burn it," he said, his voice so cold that Sam shuddered before running to the Impala to do as he was told. John found the hose, settling himself down in the grass, Dean in his lap. Turning it on the lowest trickle he could manage, he let it run over Dean's face for a few seconds, washing away clumps of vomit and hair that had been ripped out but plastered against his boy's skull with blood. When Dean licked at his lips, turning his face towards the water, John realized that more torture had gone on than he'd originally figured. Privation was not something he'd been expecting. Letting the water dribble over Dean's lips and into his mouth John found himself thankful the water still worked despite the condition of the rest of the house.
Dean coughed and choked before swallowing greedily. More water spilled over his cheeks than down his throat, but all the same, he felt better. Deciding he'd had enough, he curled into his father's chest, face pressed into John's flannel shirt. John turned the water off, looking for Sam. Seeing a blaze at the opposite corner of the house, John stood, and Sam was suddenly there.
"I called Jim, like you said. Then I told him to call Bobby to see if we could come stay," Sam said, lip trembling. He didn't want to leave, but one look at his brother told him they weren't staying. Too many questions would be asked about Dillinger's death and Dean's rescue. And in his heart of hearts, Sam wished that his father had let him face Dillinger to put him through the hell the man had put Dean through.
John knew his eldest was doing badly when he didn't even try to ask about Sammy. Glancing at his youngest, he nodded his head in agreement and thanks, before saying "Get in the car."
Not bothering to shift Dean despite any added driving hazard, John kept his son against his chest, ignoring the warm liquid soaking into his shirt, and knowing Dean was still bleeding. The first task would be to clean him off, John just wasn't sure how difficult it would be. It wasn't like he wanted to hurt his son worse. Sam sat white faced in the passenger's seat, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Dean was never quiet, and he hadn't made a sound.
"When did Jim say he'd be here?"
"As soon as he could, even if he got a ticket," Sam mumbled, wiping at his cheeks so his dad wouldn't see.
"He'll be okay, Sammy," John said as gently as he could, even though he wasn't so sure, himself. Not sure if his boy was sleeping or just unconscious, John slid from the Impala once they reached the apartment, and he moved as quickly up the stairs as he could without jostling Dean too badly.
"What can I do to help?" Sam asked, voice cracking on the last word.
"Get your brother some fresh clothes and put them on the counter in the bathroom, then start making soup, okay?"
"Okay," he nodded, reaching up lightly to touch his brother's hand before disappearing to do as he was told. For once, Sam was being perfectly obedient. Stripping off the remains of Dean's shirt, John threw them in the trash, making a mental note to throw it out before Sam could see. Working off the jeans next, he threw those out, too, doubting his son would want to see them again. Besides, they were almost as ruined as the top. Someone had forced things through the material and into his son's body, and John prayed to the god he despised that nothing would become infected. "Sam!"
"Yeah?" the boy was at the door answering breathlessly in a second.
"Med kit, now," he bit off, barely able to keep his emotions in check as he started running the water in the tub waiting for it to warm to a little over room temperature. It wasn't like he needed to aggravate the burns. When Sam returned, John looked at the woefully depleted kit. "Go to Mrs. Brown, ask for hers, when Jim shows up, ask him if he has his."
"I told him to bring it," Sam whispered, eyes downcast.
"Oh," John said, shielding Sam's view of his brother with his own body. "Uh, Sam?"
"Right, I'll go get Mrs. Brown's," he said, "What should I tell her?"
"The truth," John said softly. "We found Dean, and he's in bad shape. But he's back and that's all that matters."
"Yessir," and Sam was gone again. John knew he'd have to let his boys see each other soon, or Dean wouldn't bother to fight to live, and Sam would fade away. He just didn't think Sam needed to see Dean in that bad shape. Especially with his scalp torn and hair missing. He looked like road kill. Lifting Dean gently into the tub, his son woke up a little, startling badly.
"It's okay, shhh, I'm here," John whispered, one hand on the back of Dean's head, holding him up so he wouldn't drown. It wasn't going to be easy to clean Dean up one handed. Hopefully Jim would be there soon, he was the only other person on the face of the planet Dean tolerated well when he was incapable of caring for himself. They also had the longest history together out of anyone else John knew. Picking up the washcloth, he noticed the water was already pink. Putting the washcloth back down on the lip of the tub, John gently brushed his hand through Dean's hair, freeing more clumps of dried blood and vomit. Gagging a little, he noticed the rash across his son's lower half, and gently turned Dean's leg, noting it wasn't just blood. Scraping a hand over his jaw, he gently caught Dean's hand in his, not able to forget the sight of his son bent over the table, arms outstretched and nailed into the table with Amos behind him. Gagging again, John turned his thoughts away and into the present.
"Dad?"
"It's okay, don't try to talk, I'm here."
"Sam?"
"He's fine, too. I promise. Dean, I need you to tell me where it hurts the most, okay? Can you do that?"
"Head," his son whispered back, and John wasn't surprised. In fact he'd be surprised if the bone wasn't cracked.
"Okay, that's fine. We can fix that, we'll fix that," he knew he had to just talk quietly and easy and keep reassuring his boy. Letting the water drain from the tub, a bloody ring remained behind once the water was gone. Grimacing, John wiped at it with a hand, sighing when it stained his palm crimson. While it wasn't comforting, at least now his son's wounds were visible. Amos had forcibly torn hair from his head, taking away skin with it. It was going to hurt, and he had a feeling Dean would start wearing baseball caps. It would be fine, it wasn't like it was a bad thing. Some kids did it all the time.
Picking through the first aid kid, John found the betadine, wondering if there was enough of the substance in the world to get his boy clean. Pouring the yellow substance directly onto Dean's skin with one hand, the other was being used to keep Dean in a sitting position, he got it into Dean's hair, too before putting the bottle down. Rubbing as gently as he could while still being sure he was working the cleansing agent into the wounds. Betadine was a yellow orange color, and foamed into a light yellow usually. It was pinkish brown with blood by the time John had finished.
Dean groaned under his father's ministrations, the soap didn't burn, but his father's touch hurt. Especially on his chafed legs. The urine combined with his jeans had rubbed his skin raw.
"I'm sorry Deano, I'm so sorry," John found himself repeating like a mantra against his son's pain.
"Dad!" he heard Sam yell, as Mrs. Brown appeared in the bathroom. She was holding her first aid kit firmly, and Sam appeared right behind her out of breath. "I tried to stop her Dad, I just-"
"How can I help?" she asked, cutting Sam off. The little boy was on the verge of tears as he peered around her, trying to see his brother. Pushing past her, he shoved past his father, dropping to his knees by the side of the tub, ignoring everyone, he lightly touched his brother's bruised and swollen cheek.
"Hey Dean," he said softly, seeing the green eyes move slightly until they focused on him. A weak smile, at least Sam figured it was a smile, spread across Dean's face.
"Hey Sammy," he choked out.
Feeling the tears well up, Sam kissed his brother's forehead and fled from the room. He didn't want anyone to see him cry. Hearing a knock at the door, John swore, figuring it was the police checking up again to say no word of Dean. Instead he heard Sam's voice half shout half sob and John knew who was there.
"In here!" he said, and Jim appeared in the doorway, a small black bag with a red cross on it marking it as yet another first aid kit.
"Lord almighty," Jim whispered, ignoring Mrs. Brown, he moved in concern to get a better view, and started opening the kit. Jim was for once not wearing the suit and collar that marked him as a preacher. "John," he was down on his knees, looking over Dean critically. "We might need to take him to a hospital," he said.
"No, we can't." He leaned closer to his old friend, and Jim tilted his head to hear better, gently picking up one of Dean's limp hands. He didn't fail to notice the hole directly in the center. "I burned…I burned the guy's place to the ground, after reporting to the police my boy was missing. I can't take him in; they'll ask too many questions."
"So you take him to the next town over and have him treated there," Jim hissed, carefully trading places with John so he could support Dean's body and John could rinse the betadine off. It had to sit for three minutes before it got washed off. Otherwise it didn't do much good.
"P'st'r Jim," Dean rolled his head in an attempt to turn it to face his friend.
"Hey Dean, how you feeling?"
"Head hurts," he shrugged, before pain flashed across his brutalized features.
"Don't move, moron," Jim scolded, lightly smoothing his hair, before remembering there was a woman in the room. Seeing John otherwise occupied with pulling threads of what looked like blue jean from holes in Dean's legs, along with working dried blood off, he turned to face her. Now wasn't the time for introductions, but still. "Could you look out for Sammy for me?" he asked politely, assuming she was a friend. "I…I'm a bit tied up," not that he'd forgotten Sam at all. It was just that Dean was the one who was suffering in a he-might-die kind of way. Sam would be fine.
Placing the kit down by the other two, "Yeah, and I'll keep the kids out of here," she added. Jim frowned, wondering what kids she was talking about. Shifting Dean and his grip so that the boy's head wasn't hanging back on his neck, Jim slipped an arm around his shoulders, allowing Dean's head to rest against his chest. Emily slipped away and Jim found himself praying.
John cleaned the wounds out before rinsing Dean off, just at one point giving up on his son's mouth and handing the pastor the washcloth to hold against his boy's lips. Draining the water again, John glanced over at his friend. "We're gonna have to pick him up," he said.
"I got him, you get towels," came the calm reply. Dean shifted, displaying the first signs of consciousness since he'd acknowledged Jim's presence. It had taken over an hour before John had been satisfied his son was cleaned up and the wounds wouldn't get infected. "Come on, we're gonna get you up," he said gently, and Dean jerked his arm, trying to catch Jim's hand. He chuckled sadly. "No, I'm just gonna pick you up, okay? It's fine," it wasn't like tugging on Dean's arm was going to do him any good. He'd still fall over even if it helped him up in the first place.
"D'n'need t'b'p'ked 'p," Dean pointed out unhelpfully, trying to make the words take shape around his swollen lips.
"Well, we'll see about that," Jim said, lifting him out of the tub, John already lending his aid and wrapping towels around Dean. This time John lifted Dean.
"I'll take him into the bedroom, if you'll take the med kits," John said, almost asking. Piling the two white plastic kits on top of each other, Jim tucked the black bag under his arm before following John by way of answer. Lying Dean down on the bed, towels tucked around his body, Jim had also managed to grab the fresh clothes Sam had laid out earlier. He could smell the soup cooking, and just hoped Dean would be capable of getting it down. And keeping it down.
Dean fluttered in and out of consciousness, sometimes asking his father and Jim what was going on, and other times letting the waves of darkness take him away. When ice was placed on his body over the worst of the bruising, he jumped and twitched, trying to get away.
"It's okay Dean," Jim said gently, smoothing his hair. "It's okay." They knew Dean's ribs were broken, and so far they'd done their best to repair the puncture wounds from what Jim would bet money had been a screwdriver. There was something done with a serrated edge to various places on Dean's abdomen, and upper thighs. Packing ice carefully against the inside of Dean's thighs Jim winced when the boy moaned, trying to pull away, leg twitching. "I know, I know it's cold," he agreed, figuring he wouldn't want ice shoved up against his body there, either. Dean probably felt like his balls were trying to crawl up into his stomach to get away from the cold. Dean's arms were bandaged from wrist to shoulder, Amos having taken a blade and slashed him at random intervals and random depths. Some had required stitches.
There wasn't much they could do for his head beyond icing it, some bandaging had been pressed against the worst places where his scalp had torn, but…it wasn't like there was a cheap cure for what was starting to look like severe head trauma.
Stitches on his cheeks where the flesh had either split or been cut hadn't been fun, nor had stitching up the gash in Dean's forehead from various impacts with the table. The back of his head also had been stitched where it had become acquainted with the concrete.
Neither man had any doubts that Amos had used his own belt to beat Dean, using the buckle to make sure it hurt. Both were just thankful it didn't look like there would be permanent muscle damage. But neither one was a trained physician. They'd just stitched him up, and taken advantage of having to bandage his ribs as a way to bind the wounds on his back.
John had taken a damp washcloth and wiped Dean down again before they'd put bandages over anything they had to stitch. So far it looked like there was no fever. Ice rested under Dean's head, against his left temple, and on his forehead in an attempt to bring the swelling down.
Bobby walked in, Sam trailing behind him hesitantly about an hour after they'd finished ministering to Dean. "Oh god," he mumbled, looking over the young man he'd come to consider family. Sitting gingerly at the edge of the bed, he found Dean breathing peacefully except for a slight whistle, probably dried blood or something, Bobby figured. Glad that if this was what the young Winchester looked like cleaned up and bandaged, then he would never have been able to handle seeing him before. Emily walked in a matter of seconds later, brow furrowed with concern. Sam crawled carefully onto the bed, lying down next to his brother like a particularly possessive guard dog. He had curled up so close they were almost touching. A few times he reached out to lightly smooth his brother's hair, or tuck the edge of a bandage in better, but other than that he was perfectly still, afraid to jar his brother.
"What…you found him? What about the janitor?" she asked John. All eyes in the room switched to the man. He didn't blink.
"He left some stuff cooking. I didn't bother to turn it off and I had to shoot him in the leg to get him away from Dean," he shrugged. No remorse, no guilt. Nothing. Just a cold simmering anger that would last for years. Emily's eyes widened, especially when neither Jim nor Bobby reacted.
"We've got to get him out of here John, he needs a transfusion, look at him."
"Just needs some fluids he'll be fine."
"Oh yeah? How's he gonna get those fluids in his body? Because I don't see any I.V.'s lying around," Bobby snapped.
"He'll drink it. It's fine. He's fine," John ground out. Dean moaned in distress when they started fighting. Jim smoothed his hair, leaning over to whisper in his ear and calm him, telling him it would be okay. Dean managed to move his arm in a jerky circle to get it up to where Jim's hand was, fingers curling around the preacher's hand. Jim wrapped his other hand around Dean's, gently holding on.
"John, I swear to God," Jim started, frowned and restarted, "I promise that I'll hurt you if you keep arguing in front of him, Bobby you too!" Both men frowned at Jim, before Dean started choking. Jim had him on his side in seconds, Sam moving back out of the way when all he wanted to do was latch onto his big brother and refuse to let go. Rubbing gently at the back of his neck because the markings down his back were severe enough no one wanted to risk touching them, Jim did his best to soothe the boy in place of his father.
John's eyes rounded in fear, "Dean, c'mon buddy, just breathe," he said, feeling panic start to overwhelm him. "C'mon buddy, c'mon," he whispered, bending over his son feeling his heart shatter further until the boy heaved in a wet gasp of air, and started breathing more normally. "It's okay Dean, it's okay," he whispered, stroking his boy's hair. Looking up at his friends, "Could you just…just…I need…please?"
Bobby and Jim trooped out, Jim gently taking Sam's hand, Bobby pacing the living room of the apartment.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, I'm here. We've got some soup, so, if you're hungry, and I know you're thirsty."
"Make 't stop," he begged.
"Dean, I can't, I'm so sorry," he pulled Dean into a careful hug, wishing he could fix everything, or at least take Dean's hurts as his own. The ice shifted away, and John had a feeling Dean wasn't very concerned. But they'd have to go back once he laid his son back down.
"Why?"
John knew what he was being asked. Why hadn't he come earlier? Why couldn't he stop the pain? Not just the physical pain, but the emotional anguish his son was feeling, why couldn't he do more to make things better? How was John supposed to explain that there wasn't anything he could do, he'd done everything. Was doing everything. Except for a hospital. Dean hated those anyway.
"I'm sorry," he told him. And then Dean started to cry. John rocked him gently, feeling tears of his own slip over his cheeks. The sobs wracked the younger man's body, threatening to rip him apart, and in his current state, it wasn't entirely implausible. John mumbled inanities doing his best to find some words of comfort. He eventually realized nothing he could say would help, so instead he hugged his son as tightly to his chest as he dared, knowing it wasn't over.