This Chapter goes up solely for Tech4ever, or whatever your username is, I'm sorry I'm tired, and...finals, and...I have no brain left. Thanks to Mish for the beta. I give up on this story. Completely. So here pretend this is the end. I'm done.
Chapter 11
The smell of breakfast woke Dean a few hours later. He didn't realize that his exploration of the house had taken place around dawn, and that it was currently a more reasonable hour. Say, ten in the morning, rather than five. Tugging his jeans back on, he didn't bother to touch his bag, figuring they'd be heading to the church anyway, and he could shower and change there. There were the facilities for it in the bathrooms. Dean had asked why, a long time ago, and Jim said he figured it was so that people could clean up there and stay overnight. Same as they did now. It was a good enough answer that Dean'd never thought about it again, other than to wonder when would be a good time to take advantage of the facilities. Whatever Jim was cooking, it wasn't from a mix. When he padded quietly into the kitchen, he was surprised to know that the smell was bacon, and that there were pancakes. Pancakes. Real ones. No boxes in sight. Just some vanilla flavoring on the counter top, and a bag of blueberries that clearly hadn't been opened yet. Dean figured Jim was wondering if he wanted them in the pancakes, and shook his head a little when the pastor looked at him. It was fine, he didn't want to be adding to Jim's workload. He owed Jim, not the other way around.
Jim laughed, "Probably a good choice, I found those in my freezer today, and I don't remember buying them." He waved the spatula he was using to free pancakes from the pan he was cooking them in, since there's no rule about what pancakes have to be cooked in. Dean had used a skillet before. He had no idea what a griddle looked like, and figured what man would? Skillets were acceptable methods of making breakfast foods. Y'know, except waffles. Bacon was in a smaller frying pan. If there was a difference between the two, Dean figured there was, but wasn't sure. Either way, there was food. Real food, from a store. Like, a grocery store, not a gas station.
"Hey, you mind rinsing the plates off? I have no idea if they're covered in dust like everything else," he sighed.
Dean nodded, surprised at his own enthusiasm. Jim jerked his head at the appropriate cabinet, and Dean obliged by finding two plates of what looked like about the right size for some pancakes and bacon, before rinsing them in the sink and drying them. Looking around in the drawers, Dean also managed to find forks, figuring if Jim made the pancakes right, a knife would be an insult. "Napkins?" Dean could see syrup, and knew from living with Sam that syrup was a dangerous tool in the hands of the unwary.
"Pantry, middle shelf…I think."
"You think?" Dean teased, shaking his head, green eyes lighting up to match Jim's self deprecating smile. "God, you don't live here at all, do you?"
"Sometimes. If I can get away from work," Jim argued. But he was still smiling. Dean just shook his head again, trying to keep his face straight, and he couldn't do it. The kitchen was filled with laughter and good natured teasing all the way through breakfast, and the dishes were washed without even creating a pause in the banter. Dean knew why they hadn't gone to Bobby's. Here he could feel like a normal kid, at Bobby's surrounded by all sorts of books about the supernatural, all the markings on the walls, it wasn't exactly like a normal life. And right then, he desperately needed to feel normal. Even if he still hurt, and his undershirt was spotted with blood, and he had a feeling his jeans, if he turned them inside out, would have splotches of red on them, too. His chest hurt, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hide anything from Jim. And it felt good. Felt good having eaten, and having been treated like he mattered. Not that Dean would trade Jim for his father, not for all the world, but sometimes it was nice to feel like a son.
"C'mon, get your gear together," Jim said a few hours later. Dean nodded, not that it was hard to go pick up his duffel bag and cart it back. Jim grabbed it, and before Dean could even open his mouth to protest, Jim gave him a look. "You're limping, I can see you're bleeding through your clothes, and I know you're not feeling well. In fact, if you can even manage to stay awake through lunch I'll be impressed."
Dean did his best to glare, but it was half-hearted, and he knew he was too tired to care. And Jim was right. Jim was almost always right. Sometimes Dean hated him for that. But other times he was so glad that Jim was paying attention. Especially when it came to Sammy. Once back in the car, Dean was half passed out before they even managed to pull out of the drive.
"You realize that I'm taking you to a hospital later, right?"
"Yeah," Dean mumbled hazily, snugging his body closer to the passenger door, head against the rounded part just under the window, and was out cold.
Jim watched him for a matter of seconds before returning his attention to the road. Last thing he needed was to get them hit by some idiot driver. There ere more than enough of them. Dean made a few distressed noises in his sleep, but nothing like what had woken Sam so many nights. Jim glanced at him in concern, but figured they could talk in the church. Dean always seemed more receptive in the church. Maybe because he didn't like it, and was threatened, or maybe because he felt safer than he'd care to admit. Jim was fairly sure it was the latter. For one, most supernatural beings couldn't cross hallowed ground, which had to be comforting, and for another, even if Dean didn't believe in God, he had to believe in something or else Holy Water wouldn't have any effect on demons. Something had to give it power. And Dean knew it, whether he'd admit it or not.
Grabbing Dean's duffel from the back seat when they got to the church, he didn't bother to wake Dean up, figuring he could dump the bag in the dormitory styled room. It wasn't exactly like Dean wanted to be in the Pastor's quarters. Mainly because it was Jim's room, and Dean kind of seemed to have some sort of territorial thing where he avoided rooms that weren't his. Bobby knew that if the room wasn't 'public property' Dean wouldn't go in. Sam would be curious enough to go for it, but Dean wouldn't. He was always just uncomfortable. Not his place. When he got back to the car, Dean was just starting to wake up, and Jim noted the fear in Dean's face before he reached the car and rapped on the window. Dean startled, and then flushed a little before pushing the door open and getting out. He missed the creak of the Impala's door, but he knew he'd be trapped in the car soon enough, longing to get out before he tried to kill Sam to make him shut up. Not that he would admit to feeling like that, but sometimes after a good twelve hours on the road trapped in a car, Dean was ready to open the door and jump out and hope that he didn't break anything in making his escape.
Following Jim into the church, he shot his customary glance at the cross behind the pulpit, silently cursing God, and then looking around as if waiting for retribution. Jim was used to this as a matter of course. Leading Dean into the sleeping area, "Go'n, get some rest. You can shower before I take you to the hospital, or you can wait. But, for now, get some sleep. I have more paperwork to catch up, and I'm sure millions of phone messages," he grimaced, and ran a hand through his brown hair, starting to get the slightest touches of grey. Dean nodded, too tired to protest, and barely remembered to work his shoes off before flopping onto one of the beds. Generally they were now used for church overnight activities, when before they would have been for the priests and other necessary church personnel. It was an old Catholic church, even if Jim wasn't Catholic.
He slept well enough, waking up when he got an incredibly bad feeling, looking up at the small window, a shiver of pure unadulterated terror ran through him as he saw Amos' face staring at him through the glass. He stumbled out of the room so fast he caught his shoulder on the doorframe. Hissing in pain, he felt one of the various cuts split open, and felt the warm blood spreading down his sleeve and arm. He almost ran into Jim in his search.
Catching Dean by the shoulders, Jim looked at him, "You okay?" then he looked at Dean's arm, pulling away a hand coated in blood. He made a face, and Dean flinched. Jim caught the look. "I'm worried about you, not mad at you," Jim told him calmingly. "Why on earth are you running around anyway?"
Dean's face was so white and scared, he was shaking, then shook his head. "Nothing. It's nothing."
"Dean, I know I'm older than you, but it doesn't mean I'm an idiot."
"I…I know that!" his voice cracked slightly. "I…" he shrugged, forcing a watery smile. "I…I thought I saw Amos, through the window. I woke up, and I saw him, just…"
Jim wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders in a one armed hug, before Dean shocked him by turning it into a full hug and pressing his face against the black shirt Jim wore. They'd had a running joke about Dean's rejection of physical comfort for the longest time. Bobby had noticed the same thing. Surprised to feel Dean shaking against him, Jim pulled back the slightest bit, to see if he was crying. No, just scared. Placing his free hand gently on Dean's head to hold him closer and let him know it was okay, Jim stood there until Dean hauled in a shuddering breath and pulled back.
"Sorry," he said.
"It's fine," Jim replied. "Always is, always will be." Then he glanced at Dean. "Part of it's in the job description. Then, I just like you, so I don't have to suffer through it," he teased. "C'mon, you're bleeding pretty bad. And I'd rather just have you looked at by a doctor." God only knew what stupid thing John had done to fight back the fear. Either way there was no chance it hadn't hurt Dean. "I'll grab your duffel," he offered. "Any weapons I should know about to take out?"
"No, already stuffed 'em under the bed like usual," he said. There was a small chest under each bed for clothing and other personal items for whoever was staying.
"Why don't you grab the keys and go get into the car," Jim offered. Dean started to turn white again, and Jim realized he still wasn't over the shock he'd gotten. "Or wait right here for me, better yet sit down in a pew until I get back, don't think you should be on your feet any more than you have to be." He waited until Dean nodded weakly. When he returned Dean stood up.
"I…a…just figured…I…threw up blood a…" he flushed. "Not here, probably better now," he mumbled, but he'd made a promise, and he'd be damned if he didn't keep it.
"I'll take care of it," he said quietly, "And it's a good thing you told me."
"It was just the once," Dean added, sounding so eager to please Jim frowned.
"And all the same, it doesn't seem like something to forget about," he pointed out, walking towards the doors, waiting until Dean followed. "Anything else you need to tell me?"
"No. Not that I know of," he added hastily when Jim looked at him. "You can already tell the stitches didn't hold up."
Jim nodded a little, grinning some.
When they reached the hospital, Jim knew full well that there was no appointment, but given the amount of blood Dean was losing, Jim had found a rag in the car, thankfully clean, and had been holding it tightly to Dean's shoulder, despite his vehement protests that he could do it himself, and that Jim was hurting him. He was able to partially staunch the blood flow.
When he was able to talk to a nurse, Jim told her quietly that she might want to go with the more patient nurses and doctors, if they needed one, and that male doctors weren't going to be the safest bet for Dean. She frowned, and he told her frankly that the injuries had been inflicted by a man who had decided to get back at John by taking his eldest son. It hadn't been a good experience, and he was liable to be jumpy around strange men for a while. He didn't add the fact that Dean had almost been raped. It wasn't exactly something that he figured Dean would appreciate being shared, and since they were basically just going to fix stitches, not do a mental eval it shouldn't matter. Hopefully. Otherwise Jim would tell them a lot more of what happened.
Dean was taken, refusing the wheelchair point blank, just about to throw a fit, and the nurse Jim talked to caught his eye, silently agreeing that the more patient nurses were likely to be the best bet. Ones that weren't easily phased, either. Considering Dean didn't look like he was going to be easy to deal with. Jim followed, catching Dean's arm to support him, since he was going to put up a fuss. Leaning in, "They're trying to help you, not kill you," he told Dean gently. "And I'm going to tell them you need some ice, the swelling's not going down much," he said, and Dean knew he meant the place on his forehead where his skull had not only fractured, but he'd had to have stitches. That were still there. The back of his head still ached, and he had a feeling that was still swollen, too. He knew plenty of other places that were still swollen. And painful. Especially places where he'd been cut, or hit more than once or twice. His back was a mess of painful bruises. Mainly from being belted with the actual buckle. It was a huge part of why Dean had needed Sam's help with his shirt.
The nurse handed Dean what he knew was one of those damned hospital gowns. Why couldn't they have the pajama ones? Then again he knew that they actually needed to be able to get to the various stitches, and he really resented that. But Jim was right, and he was determined to not be as difficult as usual. It wasn't like it made anything any easier. And he didn't want the people with the sharp instruments to be angry with him. That was never a good idea, really. Looking at Jim, once the nurse left, he turned a dark red again. "I…"
"You want me to wait in the hallway."
"Yeah, but…"
"But?"
"I…can't get my shirt off," he mumbled, having already slipped off the flannel over shirt, but the grey tee wasn't something he could get off easily. Especially since he was already bleeding. The nurse had temporarily wrapped it so that he wouldn't bleed out until they could get him stitched up. Jim nodded, face filling with compassion as he helped Dean work the shirt off, making sure it didn't catch on any stitches, along with making sure Dean didn't tear any trying to get it off. Jim had to carefully school his face not to let on how shocked he was at how little Dean had healed in the past few weeks. Not letting the boy see his face, "I'll let you change the rest of the way."
"I hate these things," he pouted, holding up the gown, glaring at it.
"You rather be naked?"
"Not really."
"There you go, then," Jim laughed, leaving the room and shutting the door after making sure it didn't lock. Jim gave him a bit of time, not sure how long it would take. Considering if Dean's chest had looked that bad, god only knew how much it had to hurt to move his legs. It wasn't like Jim could forget the cuts and punctures turning soft flesh into Swiss cheese. He gave an involuntary shudder. It wasn't hard to close his eyes and remember the blood ringing the bathtub, how limp Dean had been, barely able to speak past swollen and cut lips. His face was still pretty battered, giving him a slightly mottled look. Jim wasn't sure when Dean was going to really starting looking the way he had before, even his eyes were different. They looked so much older, dimmer. Jim was forcibly reminded of John. He hoped the changes were only temporary, he was too young to look that empty. Knocking on the door, Dean said something that sounded like 'come in' and Jim settled himself in one of the chairs in the room.
"You gonna be okay?"
"Once they fix this," Dean muttered, pointing at his shoulder. "It hurts," he added, doing his best to sound nonchalant, but Jim could see the pain in his face.
"Not just your shoulder," he pointed out, before picking up a magazine, and looking at the date. "What the…? This is like a friggin' time capsule in here," he told Dean, pointing at the selection. It elicited a weak chuckle.
"Told you, these places are portals into hell."
"Yeah, and you were seven."
"So I've been smarter than you for a long time," Dean grinned.
"Whatever gets you through the night," Jim said fondly before flicking a balled up piece of paper at Dean.
"Hey what're you doing? Cheap shot, no fair!" He looked around for ammunition, and only found those crappy thin pillows and flung it at Jim with his 'good' arm. Jim caught it, considering it at least had come in his direction. Laughing a little, he watched Dean shift on the paper covering the 'bed' thing hearing it crinkle. He was looking for the paper thrown at him earlier. He knew Jim wasn't going to throw the pillow back at him, since it would probably hurt.
When the nurse walked back in, Dean noticed that her nametag read Juliette. Not Juliet like in Shakespeare, but Juliette. He wondered if she said the 'te' part. When she introduced herself, she did say Juliette, with the ettah and everything. He smiled a little. She was young, he would mark her in her thirties. Which given the nurses he'd seen was really young. He didn't really say anything, given he felt strangely uncomfortable. Jim glanced at him, quirking a brow. Dean shook his head slightly, he didn't want Jim to leave. Not yet, at least.
"Here, how about you pull that thing off your shoulder?" Juliette suggested lightly. Dean met her eyes, weighing her up, and decided that he could trust her. Something about how earnest her eyes were. That and her eyes were blue. Just like his mom's. Carefully shrugging his shoulder out of the wide neck, she looked at him, before lightly pulling it down and away. It still covered him easily from the end of his ribcage down, and he'd put his sweatshirt over his legs anyway. She had a tray of things used to suture up his shoulder, and he glanced at it nervously. But he was used to this. Usually without the blessing of anesthetic. "Looks like you got into a heck of a fight," she said, even though she knew that wasn't the truth, and he knew it, too.
"Yeah, he beat the crap out of me," Dean said, looking at Jim rather than his arm. Trying to ignore the strange tug of his skin as she closed the wound.
"This's pretty nasty," she told him softly, before she finished, and then lightly moved his arm, looking at the damage done to the length of it. "Didn't do this to yourself?" she asked.
He blanched. "No," he said, looking so shocked at the idea that she knew he wasn't lying.
"I have to ask questions like that," she pointed out. "It's part of my job. I'm supposed to ask you about school, your plans for the future, that kind of thing. If you have friends you can talk to, all that stuff. But I figure if you're friends with a pastor, you've got at least some of a church pulling for you, if not for the whole thing, right?"
"Meredith's good to Sam'n me," he admitted. Mostly Sam since he tended to avoid her because of how nice she was. But then again she'd been good to Sam from the start of things, and he respected that. "And there're other people," he added. He hurt. His arm throbbed where it hadn't been treated.
"You realize I've got to check you over, right?" she asked him gently. He nodded resolutely, face whitening, and as he bit down on his lip it started to bleed again. "Don't do that," she scolded, holding gauze to his mouth. "Here, keep a light pressure on that, okay?" Juliette waited until he nodded weakly. Then she looked at him, making sure he met her eyes. "You going to tell me what happened, or do I need to ask Pastor…?"
"Jim Murphy," Jim supplied, unwilling to really butt in, in fact he was hoping he would be able to leave. Not to put Dean in an awkward situation or leave him alone, but he'd rather be out of the way. "And it's up to Dean, not me. I've informed the doctor of all that I'm going to be sharing," he said, standing up and stretching out. "Dean? I'll come back in a few minutes, I'm going to see if there's any coffee or something, okay?" Dean just nodded, since he was busy trying to keep the gauze against his face.
Juliette gently pulled his hand away from his mouth, "Bleeding stopped. Looks like you're healing okay, then, since your blood's still clotting," she told him. He rolled his eyes at her, and she smiled. "Play that game all you want. I know you don't want to be here," she told him.
"Does anyone ever want to be here?"
"When they trust the doctors to make them better, yes, they do."
"So, they want to get sick so they can come in?" he asked sarcastically.
"No, and you know what I mean. When someone's hurt or sick, and they know that someone else can make it better they're happy to let that happen. You gonna fight me the whole way?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. He made a slight face, but shrugged. Then hissed in pain, wishing he hadn't done that.
"I'm going to ask you to lie down, okay? Doesn't look like you're having a lot of luck sitting up." She could see the exhaustion in his posture and the tightness of his face. "You get to pick, you want me to look at your chest or back first?"
By way of answer, Dean relaxed back onto the bed, allowing her to manipulate the stupid gown thing so that she could check him over, lightly pushing on his stomach to check the stitches. "Jim says you had surgery?"
"Pastor Jim," he corrected, and then flushed, feeling like his father. "Yeah. Took a bad fall a while back, doing some hiking," not technically a lie, "and then it got aggravated…"
"Looks like it might be aggravated again. I might have to get a doctor."
"What're you, then?"
"A nurse, and you knew that, too. I don't wear the white coat, remember?" He hissed in pain, wondering why on earth a nurse was doing any of this anyway. Wasn't a check-up the doctor's job?
"Well you're doing your boss' job," he muttered.
"Because my boss is in the ER trying to help cover for a lot of things going on. And because the interns are obnoxious." Gently smoothing his hair back from his forehead, she checked the stitches there, "this looks terrible," she told him. "I'm going to recommend some antibiotics, my job or not, and I'm going to get some ice. Try to get the worst of the swelling down. When did this happen?" she asked.
"A week ago, I think…maybe…" he had no idea. Time had stopped having as much meaning after his head had been slammed into the table the first time.
"Alright," she said, noticing the distress on his face. "You, stay put. Think you can do that?"
"Yeah…guess so. It might be real hard, though."
"Cute," she told him, shaking her head a little. Managing to get ahold of a doctor, Dean was surprised to see another woman. Didn't they staff men here? Then again, he wasn't sure he wanted any men anywhere near him unless he knew them. And they hadn't tried to kill him. 'Cause he knew Amos. Didn't mean he wanted him around ever again. Barely able to tolerate the doctor poking at him, even if she was gentle, when she reached his stomach, lightly pressing, he couldn't hold back a groan, or stop his back from arching slightly before he tried to curl around his stomach.
"Great," she muttered, glancing at him. "We've barely started, and we're already going to have to schedule him for surgery…seems like you've played this game a few times," she told him.
White lipped, he nodded, trying not to bite down again. Shutting his eyes tightly for a few seconds, when he opened them again Juliette had found some ice, and was gently settling it under the back of his head and then on his forehead. Looking at her in confusion, his eyes roved the room.
"You passed out for a bit, can't get you into surgery for a while, later today, hopefully, but you may have to wait. The doctor, Doctor Brant, finished her examination while you were out."
Dean turned crimson, and closed his eyes again. "How long?"
"Less than an hour, it's not a big deal. The pain probably got to you. We've got some fluids going to replace the blood you lost, and it's got some mild painkillers in there, and some antibiotics. See if we can make sure you don't get any infections."
"Y'know, I'm getting sick of being felt up by chicks I don't even know," Dean told her, trying to distract himself from what was going on, and what she was saying. "Thought I was doing okay here," he told her. "Y'know, survived all that stuff…"
"What stuff?"
"Can't you see what stuff?" he asked bitterly.
"I can see a lot of puncture wounds and cuts. What burned you?"
"How…" then he realized the skin was still healing, even if the blisters were gone, there were plenty of places that were still red and shiny. "Water. Just water."
"Must have been some hot water."
"No shit Sherlock," he muttered.
"Why don't you call me Juliette?"
"'Cause then I'd have to worry about being here for more than a few hours. First name basis with your basic health provider is never a good thing." As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd said the wrong thing. Normal people knew their doctors' names. Damn it.
"You really don't like us, do you?"
"What? People who stab me with stuff and make me hurt worse than I already did? No, I totally love you guys," he said. Then felt like an ass. All the same, Juliette had been chosen for her patience with people like Dean. Quite frankly he was downright pleasant next to some of the people she'd dealt with. He was just a kid, instead of an adult. And she knew he was terrified.
"You want me to leave you alone?"
"I'm not alone," he corrected, "Pastor Jim's coming back."
"Well until he comes back, you want me here or you want me to leave?"
"Depends, you going to keep asking me a whole bunch of questions?"
"Depends, you ever going to start answering them?"
"Depends on if I feel like it or not."
"What if I told you that things would get a lot better and easier if you would? And that I could help you, and be here for you, if you would just tell me what happened."
"And if I said that I wouldn't be here for long? Just staying until my dad comes and picks me up?"
"Then I'd tell you it would still help, and that it would be safer, right? You might never see me again, and then it would never matter what you said. And that I could give you my phone number, so that if you trusted me, and that you were sick of not sticking around for too long, you'd just be a phone call away from someone. That it would be one less person you'd have to leave behind."
He looked down, staring at his hands, contemplating the scotch tape holding the band-aids against the holes. She lightly held his hand, turning it over.
"What happened here? I need to clean it and re-bandage it," she gently and slowly peeled the tape off his hand. She'd get to the other one.
"Nails. Guess the guy figured it was a great joke about having a savior complex." Then he bit down on his tongue. If he hadn't hurt so badly, he'd be talking a lot less.
"Lucky I've still got plenty of stuff here with me," she told him, wincing sympathetically when she saw his palm, and saw the angry redness of the wound. Cleaning it caused him to whimper, and she gently spread some antibiotic cream over the wounds before bandaging his hand, a loop under his thumb, crossing with a loop above, on the web of index and thumb, to secure it so it slid around less. And would still hold. She'd used gauze pads and then kept them in place with a gauze wrap, figuring it was preferable to less forgiving cloth bandaging. Holding out her hand for his other hand, he placed it in hers without hesitation, and she knew he trusted her not to hurt him. Physically, at least. She was as careful as she could be cleaning out his left hand, since she knew it had hurt the first time. She felt that it was mostly just the sting of the antibiotics rather than any pressure on her part. Since she'd just dripped it over the wound, and done as much as humanely, and safely, possible to avoid touching the wounds.
"Went all the way through, didn't it?"
"Yeah," he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightening as he fought back pain. He'd admit she was gentle, that she wasn't hurting him all that much, but that it was finally starting to overwhelm him again.
"Need me to up the morphine?"
"No, I'm okay," he lied.
"Right," she told him, gently patting his knee, causing him to grimace, "You're doing just fine." Juliette stood and changed the dosage slightly. She didn't want him hazed out on the meds, or anything, but she didn't want him in constant pain, either. She waited until some of the tension left his face. "How bad does it hurt?"
"On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a two," he shrugged. She resisted the urge to poke his stomach, so he'd stop lying.
"Well your scale is warped, so I'm going to guess it's more like a twenty, then, I want you to lie back down, so we can keep ice on your face and head. Maybe the back of your neck, too," she said, looking at him in concern. "Wanna tell me about that?"
"Not really."
"Looks like a handprint on your neck."
"It is. Guess a neck makes great leverage for slamming someone's head into things."
"Guess it would," she told him, "Now lie down." She knew he was just barely willing to comply. Not that she felt she blamed him, really. He was trying to put on a hell of a show, and he wasn't doing too bad. Other than he'd passed out during the examination from pain, and she knew it. When she walked into the hallway to get more ice, she saw Jim. "You can go in, now, you could have a while ago," she said with a slight frown.
"Juliette, is it? I figured if I left you two alone long enough, maybe he'd talk to you at least a little. It's not like he would be able to use me as a buffer." He smiled at her, and walked into the room, wondering if they were going to move Dean to a real bed, or just leave him in the examination room. Then again they were going to drag him off to yet another surgery as soon as the O.R. was open. "See you haven't tried to kill anyone with a scalpel."
"I'm biding my time," Dean said, the pain starting to show through in his voice.
"You should have told me from the start," Jim told him, gently taking his hand, noting the bandaging. He hadn't looked at Dean's hands. If he'd seen the tape…
"I…I didn't…it was nice to just be normal," Dean whispered. Jim sighed, lightly smoothing Dean's hair back. He was grateful that it was growing back where Amos had torn Dean's scalp. The kid looked so much better.
"Dean, you're about as normal as you can be. Hear me out," he said, holding up a hand. "I didn't say your life was normal, I said you are. You care about your father and brother, most kids do, you help out with your sibling, again, pretty normal. Let's see, you still bleed when you get hurt. Pretty human thing to do, huh? Guess that'd be normal. You still feel things. And take stuff really hard, and sing along to the radio and tapes your dad has. Tell me what's not normal about you."
"I know…the things I've seen…my…Mom…that's not normal."
"So you're the only kid to ever lose a mom?"
"That's not what I mean!" Dean protested. "And…I just…"
"I know. But sometimes you kind of have to go the other way with these things, and see them for what they are. Okay?"
"I keep trying…"
"Kind of how you keep trying to forgive people?" Jim teased gently. Dean made a slight face, before yawning. "If you fall asleep, I'll be here when you wake up, okay?"
"Yeah…okay," Dean mumbled, startling slightly when Juliette returned with ice that she carefully settled against his head and neck. "S'cold," he complained.
"Well there are a lot of other places that could use ice, too, so take your pick," she told him gently, but he heard the sternness behind it all. She meant her threat.
"'S'good," he told her, there wasn't enough energy left in him to shift, and he knew he was falling asleep, and that he didn't want to, and that was the last thought he had.