Chapter 13
He looked so small in the bed, purple bruises and scorch marks stark against the pale skin. John sat in the chair close by, watching his son sleep. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of Dean's face, meeting the short diagonal line of stitches at his left eyebrow, and yards of white gauze wrapped his torso, disappearing below the crumpled sheet at his waist. A metal pole festooned with plastic bags sprouted clear tubing that tunneled under the bandages encasing both arms.
Yet none of this was what held his eyes, what made the scene surreal. No, the astounding strangeness of this tableau was that his son looked like the child he was. Dean had never been a child, their lives hadn't allowed that, and to see him as such rocked John to the core.
Another hour passed before Dean stirred, a subtle tossing of his head accompanied by dots of sweat that proclaimed his sleep no longer restful. The unswathed tips of his fingers twitched, fending off an enemy no longer there. Wisps of conversation moved his lips, words John couldn't hear and wasn't sure he wanted to.
It wasn't that John didn't recognize the throes of a nightmare, or even that he he was afraid of the dream per se. It was simply that he realized that for all the bad dreams that occured under the Winchester roof, only one member of the household had any skill at calming them. And he was the one having the nightmare. Dean had snuggled amd murmurred Sammy through evil teddy bears and creeping closet shadows, had silently brought a cup of coffee to an abruptly awakening post-hunt John. It had never occurred to him to wonder if his elder son ever needed someone to do the same. Hell, the more he thought about it, he was fairly certain that Mary had been the last one to coax Dean from the terrors sleep could bring. Had it been seven years since Dean had needed that? Or seven years since anyone had bothered.... I put too much on him, and he never questions....
The constrained tossing and turning continued, mumbles gaining volume if not coherency.
"No. Get away from him! No..... Dad?......No, can't take him......No!.......Derrick..........No, no.....wait.........Dad??........NO!"
"Dean? It's ok ace, you're ok. Shh, son, it's ok." God, why am I so bad at this? At what point did any and all comforting in this family become his job? "Wake up for me, Dean. Everything's ok." John finally concluded that between three days starvation, the beating of his young life, smoke inhalation and pain killers, his son would wake up when he was good and ready.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Jim Murphy paced the small motel room, seriously considering cursing his friend, status as a pastor not withstanding. John had left him with Sam at three in the afternoon, chasing a lead on Dean. Now it was nearly six in the morning. Fifteen hours that had been going poorly before the child refused to speak a single world to him. Before the local news announced a mansion burned to the ground. You know John just had to have something to do with that.
Jim wandered to the dresser, wondering if he could run enough water through the small coffee pot to ditch the bitter taste and make one of the packets of cocoa for Sam. Although knowing John, the child probably already liked coffee. Other than the water earlier, he'd had practically nothing, thinking the older man hadn't noticed the biscuit and jam disappear behind the bed after a single bite.
"AAAHHHHHH!"
The ceramic mug shattered against the counter as the pastor dropped it, forgotten as he wheeled to face the boy on the bed behind him. Sam stopped screaming before Jim could get to him, right arm cradled tight against his chest and further protected by drawn up knees as he rocked himself, hissing against against sudden pain.
"Sammy? What is it?" Jim could see nothing other than the suddenly flushed face, but the hiss was quickly disintegrating into a whimper. "Where are you hurt, son? Sam?"
Sam offered him nothing, blinking away tears and curling tighter, wanting nothing more than his brother.
"Sammy? Come on son, it's the arm, isn't it? Let me see it, ok?"
The soft words slowly reassured him enough to surrender the arm, permitting the priest his first startled assessment of a charred brand inside the wrist. A solid triangle slightly protruded from a two inch outline of a circle, seared bits of flesh flaking loose at the edges.
What on earth... Has to be the witch, but that fire would have burned down hours ago.... Murphy shoved his own concerns aside, focusing on reassuring Sam. "The wrist is burnt pretty good there, Sam, but the area's fairly small. I know it hurts, but I think you'll be ok if we put something on it."
He grabbed wet washcloths from the bathroom and ice from the bucket he'd filled earlier, then returned to lay the arm across his knees, flinching more than Sam did as skin came away with each wipe of the cloth. He applied a generous coat of burn ointment from the drawer and wrapped a clean t shirt around the arm, then piled on the bag of ice. Other than a few sniffles, Sam never made a sound.
Now he was curled in his bed facing the wall, pretending to sleep. Jim decided to let him play out the charade, wincing every time he heard the child mutter to himself. Sam didn't think his dad and brother were coming back.
Phones, Winchester, they make phones....
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Mid morning brought a louder shout that jolted the dreams in a way that John's reassurances had not, Dean's fingers closing around his father's hand in a half conscious haze on the way to true wakefulness. The ramblings of the most recent nightmare quieted and John allowed himself a tight smile. Seeking out his hand for comfort would be gone as soon as Dean fully opened his eyes. It wasn't that he wouldn't permit it. Dean wouldn't.
Dean felt the mattress below him, mentally surveying the aches coming from every inch, flexing muscles limb by limb. Right arm was still the worst, although a burning pain across his chest and side ran a close second. Nothing new beyond what he remembered then. The mattress wasn't as soft as a cheap motel, not as thin as the horror of the last few days. A bedrail pressed against his thigh. A hospital.
Awareness of the flesh against his hand came next. Softly held, but calloused fingers. Dad. Dean knew he should talk to him; it was one of the rules of their world. As soon as you know it's safe, report in. A commander can't make plans if he doesn't know what he has to work with.
Rules weren't holding much appeal for him at the moment. He wanted these few minutes, minutes when he was still sure his father loved him. Minutes before he had to tell him about Sammy. The last minutes before his father knew he'd failed.
Oh God. Get it over with, Dean. Just tell him. Nothing that happens can be worse than the fact that Sammy's gone.
"Dad?"
"Hey, you awake kiddo?"
"Yeah." Dean held his breath a moment, fighting down a cough and started again in a rough, low voice. "Dad, about Sam...."
John shifted in his seat, took a deep breath of his own. He'd been waiting for this, fearful of what he was about to hear. There had been no time to sort it out in the escape from the fire, but it wasn't lost on John that Dean hadn't so much as spoken his brother's name. Dean's first question was always about Sam. Always. What had he seen that had spooked him this much? He'd only spent a few minutes with his younger son before leaving him with Pastor Jim. Had he missed something that had happened? Something awful?
"Dean, your brother...."
"Dad, I tried. I swear I tried. I am so sorry. It's my fault..." Dean began to sob, terrifying John in a way the fire hadn't. "I tried so hard, but Derrick came for him.... I- I couldn't stop him Dad.... Sammy was calling for h-help and I... I couldn't do anything. He's g-gone, S-Sammy's gone..... I am so sorry...My fault…" Dean turned his head away, eyes tightly closed against the tears, sobs squelched into silence.
John looked away from his son, the torment of that basement all too easy to visualize. Then it registered, a swift kick that nearly stopped his heart. They were worried about two entirely different things. Gone.... but he hasn't asked to search for him, not once.... Dear God, he thinks his brother's dead.
"Dean. Look at me."
No response.
"Dean, now." The command of the words was at odds with a gentle tone that rarely fell from John's lips.
Dean focused his eyes on his father's face, steeling himself to find rejection there, surprised to find only a resigned sadness.
"I'm s-so sorry, Dad."
"Dean, listen to me. You are my son and you did everything you could to protect Sam. Everything I could expect of you and then some. None of this is your fault." He paused to let that sink in. "Dean, your brother is fine. I left him with Pastor Jim to come get you. He's alive, Dean, alive and fine."
"Wh-wh-what?" If Dean had ever prayed the sound of it was in that whispered word. "N-no, Dad. Derrick came and.... and he t-took him..and..."
"Dean. He's okay. I promise."
At first John thought the sobs had started again, an odd hicupping sound permeating the room. Then he realized his son was laughing, hysteria tinged laughter mixed with tears as Dean struggled to believe what John was trying to tell him.
"You going to be ok for a minute, son? I'm going down the hall to call Jim; I'll have him bring your brother. Sammy's fine, Dean." John knew his son didn't truly hear him, but that was ok. As soon as he got Sam here it would all be fine.
One of the hospital administrators stopped him as soon as he stepped outside the door of the room.
"Mr. Connor?"
"Yes." No sense volunteering information.
"There is a child protective services worker in my office who would like a few minutes of your time. I believe Dr. Taylor might have mentioned that?"
John plastered a sincere smile on his face before he answered. "He did as a matter of fact. A simple misunderstanding, I'm sure. Dean is a just waking up and a little upset about the fire. Perhaps we could do this tomorrow?"
"No, Mr. Connor, I think we should do this now."
Course you do...I mean why the hell do anything the easy way...."Of course. Now would be fine."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
John hopped the elevator to the hospital lobby, quickly dialing, not surprised when Jim picked up on the first ring.
"John, where on earth are you? Did you find Dean?"
"Hospital, and yes. He's more or less ok. Look, doc's a little suspicious and CPS is nosing around. Take Sammy and go."
"Go!??! Your son hasn't spoken to me, he thinks you aren't ever coming back, and you have the car." The pastor was trying his hardeest to remain patient with his friend, but it had been a long night for everybody.
"Jim, ah, maybe I uderstated a tad. CPS just officially took Dean. He'll be an inpatient another few days at least and I'll figure something out, but I can't risk Sammy. Steal a car and I'll meet you in Blue Earth." John sighed, aware both of his boys needed him at the moment. "Put Sammy on the phone."
"I'll rent a car and see you there. Here's Sam."
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
A/N: For any of you that saw this posted on another site last year, yes this is a little divergent from the original. I thought I rushed it a bit. Or maybe I'm just dragging it out now, lol. Either way, there's only a chapter and an epilogue now I think, barring serious plot bunny invasion.
Oh, and as someone reminded me in the reviews, I never got around to saying much about the witches names after I brought it up a few chapters back. Abigail Williams and Betty Parris were the two girls who started the hysterical accusations of the Salem Witch trials - seemed like a good name for evil here given the number of innocent people that died. Gallows Hill was one of the execution sites, so I borrowed it for the name of Abigail's estate.
Reviews pretty pretty please? Whoever said begging was undignified, right? Actually all of you have been great about reviewing and I really appreciate it! Thank you!!