Thanks to Mish for beta'ing. Thanks to Sushi for all her comment beta'ing. And you'd all better thank Mattie because A: I never would have finished this story ever, and even though I did a while ago, I would have NEVER bothered to update the rest. So, yeah. Reviews appreciated. I think this is the last fic I will submit, once this is done, I'm done.
Chapter Six:
John Winchester strode into the building at ground level, preparing to play a police officer rather than father when he saw Jim and Bobby sitting in the lobby, clearly waiting for him. Feeling rage bubble up inside of his chest, John quickly closed the gap between them and him in a matter of seconds.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled, fingers curling into Bobby's vest as he tugged the man to his feet in one angry movement.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Bobby snapped right back, biting off the words. "That boy was dying, and you were just willing to let him all for the sake of your damned pride and stupidity! Dean's just lucky to have people in his life who actually give a damn about him."
"You think I don't love my boy?"
"Your son, you say 'boy' to a dog, not a person," Bobby interrupted harshly, glad when John recoiled visibly. Jim was currently watching, knowing that he would be called to put an end to the fight before it turned physical. John was scared and unable to cope with the idea he was so easily hurt through his children, and that he had almost lost one. Just like he hadn't been able to control losing Mary. But at the same time he owed Dean a lot better than some home care. Jim had initially believed they were just prepping Dean for transport, getting him stable enough to risk the long drive to the hospital. But for all he loved the Winchesters, John was still the head of the family. In the end, Dean's suffering had become too great to ignore, and Jim had stepped in to help him, along with Bobby and Emily Brown.
The Browns were currently at home, taking a shift at sleeping before they would come and relieve Pete and Bobby, Jim had decided to stay 'round the clock, considering he felt he could handle John best.
Stepping between the two, Jim was glad that he wasn't shorter than both of them, just John. "Enough, you're in a hospital, and you don't get to yell and fight like dogs in here any more than you can in my parish. I won't have it, Bobby go get some rest, I'll deal with this." Jim met Bobby's eyes unequivocally. Bobby nodded once, adjusted his cap, and glared hard at John before leaving. Breathing a sigh of relief, Jim hadn't been sure Bobby would listen to him.
"Jim, I swear to God," John started before Jim cut him off.
"Dean was unresponsive almost the entire time you were gone, other than a few incoherent protests, he was still bleeding somewhere on the inside, John, because it wouldn't matter what happened to his mouth, there wouldn't be that much blood consistently in it," he kept his voice level as he could, trying to hide how angry and scared he had been. "Turns out there was swelling in his brain from all that head trauma, he would have died, John, or ended up severely impaired the rest of his life." Seeing how shaken John was, Jim moved to the side, silently offering John a chair. He sat quickly and hard, like a puppet with its strings cut, deflating entirely. "They were able to do a lot more for his hands than we could, the doctor thinks he might be able to use them again, probably with just as much skill as before. His handwriting might take a turn for the worst, though," Jim chuckled, bringing out a smile in John. Dean had never done much about his penmanship, considering he'd never really needed to. His hands were accustomed to the gun, not the pen.
John swallowed hard, but Jim wasn't done. "Not to mention the stitches he had earlier? From the surgery you didn't bother to mention? Well, on the inside those were torn and had to be re-done, they threw all this doctor speak at me and Bobby for what felt like hours, stuff about contusions and edemas, John. I only know what about half it means, but instead of yelling at Bobby, you sure owe him your gratitude because without him Dean would have been dead some time in the next ten hours. If you were lucky, that is," he clarified, wondering if he'd managed to get to his friend or if the typical Winchester stubbornness kept him from hearing what he needed to.
"I couldn't protect my son, Jim," John whispered, rubbing a calloused hand over his weary face. "It took me three days to find him. And then you ask me to just give him up to some hospital? How'm I supposed to do that? He hates hospitals, you know that. Sam does, too. Hell, no one likes hospitals. And you're asking me to keep both my boys here, because Sammy's too stubborn to leave Dean's side?"
"I think you should be proud of Sam," Jim interjected gently. "He's doing what you trained him to do."
"And what would that be?" John snapped, feeling his anger rise again.
"Help the helpless."
"Dean's not helpless!"
"Oh, okay," Jim shrugged. "So he'll finally be helpless once he's dead, is that it? John he needs help. He needs a doctor, trained medical professionals. You have field training, you admit that. You also say you've never killed anyone, John," he added. "Don't make your first kill your own son."
Opening and shutting his mouth a few times, John shut his eyes to hold back the tears. "I coulda taken care of Dean," he whispered as a mantra against his failure. He'd have to be harder on the boys, so nothing like this ever happened again. He'd make sure they could handle themselves against people, instead of just demons. "I need to see him."
It wasn't a request, it was a command, but Jim simply stared for a few seconds. "He might not even be conscious, he wavers." Usually because of the drugs, but scaring John a little might prevent him from deciding to do the in-home treatment again.
"I need to see my son."
Jim stood up and started walking, taking a left turn without looking back. John would either follow or he wouldn't.
Dean looked around the room with bloodshot eyes, processing Sam at his side –always at his side, and his father, and Jim. And his father. His father?
"Dad?" he begged. Please be real. No more dreams, no more daymares. He wanted his father.
"Yeah, it's me," John smiled weakly, at his son's bedside in an instant. "How're you feeling?"
"Better," Dean mumbled, more or less adding 'now that you're here' with his eyes and the slight tremble in his lip. John sat carefully on the edge of the bed, not wanting to jostle his sons before slipping an arm around Dean's shoulders. The boy winced before curling into his father's side, seeking comfort.
Pete had backed off when John came into the room, figuring there was something he could do for Dean to make his life a little easier. Getting up, he quietly told Dean goodbye; not wanting to interrupt anything or really make himself noticeable to John.
Dean pressed his face into his father's shirt, snuffling miserably before suddenly jerking his head away, leaving an arc of bloody mucous on the soft cotton. Feebly pawing at the stain, tears of shame rolled down his cheeks as a silent accompaniment to his pitiful attempt to fix John's shirt.
Lightly catching his son's hand, John did his best to soothe him, "It's okay, no big deal. It'll wash, okay? Besides, we both know I've had so much worse plastered all over me, huh Dean?" he grinned weakly. No real response. "It's fine, okay?" His other arm curled around Dean's middle from the top, carefully pulling him closer so that he would know nothing he did could make John leave.
Blood dripped from his nose pooling in the crease of his lips before spilling into the corners of his mouth to overflow and trail down over his chin in twin falls of blood.
"I got it, it's fine, sorry buddy, but this isn't going to feel good," John whispered, pinching down on the bridge of Dean's nose and getting one hand under the back of his neck to support his head. Dean stiffened and tried to tug away at the last touch. Remembering, John let go, instead putting his arm back around his son's shoulders in a loose half-circle of protection and warmth. No protest was issued, and by the time the bleeding stopped, Dean was asleep. Able to lay him down without waking him, John got up and soaked a washcloth in lukewarm water before returning to gently wipe the blood off Dean's bruised face.
Sam sat up, his tousled hair almost completely obscuring the upper half of his face. "Dad?"
"Yeah Sammy?"
"Thought you weren't coming."
"I'm here now. There were just some things I had to take care of."
"I know. Dean missed you."
"There were just some things I had to check."
"Was the body still there?"
"Couldn't get in to check, I'll have to go back at night."
"Dean won't like it."
"Dean'll just have to suck it up, Sam," John bit off, before looking down at his oldest and wishing he could take back those words. Even if it meant he had to cut his own tongue out, he would have done it. But it was too late for that. His youngest scrunched up his face in anger, and laid back down, his back curled into Dean's side as he deliberately denied his father the ability to face him. "Jim and Bobby are here, too, and Lily and Pete. And it looks like you stayed, Dean doesn't need me."
"You're wrong," Sam whispered, "you're always wrong," but John didn't hear.
He wasn't even listening.
two more chapters. Reviews welcomed.