9 – Dig Me Out

The hospital didn't completely buy their story of how Dean got injured, but they were so swamped with injuries it didn't matter much.

They assumed the weird internal burns he had in his throat were due to smoke inhalation, and not due to demon possession. John hadn't been aware of any internal bleeding either, but considering the beating Dean took previous to possession, he shouldn't have been surprised. The bullet wound was not terrible, so at least he got that right – it was a clean shot, and the bullet didn't fragment. But Dean had lost a lot of blood, and needed surgery, and needed to stay. John wasn't crazy about that, because he didn't know how many of the Taraka demon cult were still out there, and still looking for some revenge, now more than ever. So he was just going to have to camp out in Dean's room and make sure no demons got through. Sam was going to have to camp out too. He had no idea how he was going to pull this one off.

But the chaos of the fire/destruction might work for them here, as the hospital was small and being slammed. No one had time to police them. He expected nurses to complain about the salt lines, but what could you do? Except put them back after they broke them.

Sam was brooding. John ignored that, mainly because Dean was hurt and of course he'd brood about it. He was bound to be upset. John cut him some slack on that. But he was waiting for the explosion that he knew was bound to happen.

Finally it did. They'd finished putting a salt circle around unconscious Dean's bed, when Sam slammed the salt canister down. John sighed. "Sammy –"

"Why don't you leave now, Dad?" Sam snapped. "I can look after Dean. Let's see if these monsters will follow you this time instead of come after us."

"Sam, that isn't fair. If I knew they were still out there, I wouldn't have left you alone."

Sam scoffed. "Yeah. Because you never leave us alone."

He scowled. If this was Dean he could just bring up it was an order, and it would all be dropped. Sam may or may not drop it, depending on his mood. And John had a sense he was in no mood to drop it. "Not when I know there's something after me."

"Oh really? Kansas City? Portland? Collinsville? Do I really need to go on?"

"Dean caused that mess in Portland."

Sam grimaced and his shoulders set in a stubborn manner. "Oh, right. He saved that girl from a werewolf attack. How dare he."

John shook his head, shoving the canister of salt back in his rucksack. "He should have known better than to go up against an entire pack. He wasn't prepared, and it could have been a massacre. Both of you could have ended up turned or dead."

"But we weren't, and we saved some people, which is what you trained us to do. And we're so used to being without you we don't even think about it anymore." Sam's face was flushed, which told John he'd really worked up a head of steam. "I think you should go. Just do whatever the hell you were doing. Dean and I will be okay. I'll look after him."

He sighed, and sank back in a chair. "I know you're upset. But –"

"Goddamn right I'm upset! Dean needed you, and you weren't there for him."

That kind of threw him for a moment. "What?"

"I knew Dean was gonna come after me. I knew he was gonna save me or die trying. But who was supposed to save him? That wasn't fair, Dad, and it isn't right."

On the one hand, he was proud of Sam for sticking up for his brother. On the other hand, he wasn't crazy about the implications here. "I saved Dean. We saved him."

"Did we?" Sam gestured to Dean, who was still out cold in his hospital bed, nearly as white as the sheets, except where the bruises and scratches gave him color. He was surrounded by a small collection of machines and IV stands that at least implied steady recovery. "Did you know I had to watch him almost get beat to death in that cage? And I couldn't do anything. I could only sit there." Sam was crying, but they were angry tears, and he wiped them away with brutal efficiency. "If that ghoul hadn't brought in a knife to stab him, Dean would be dead. That fight was rigged. He couldn't have won it under any other circumstances."

"I'm really sorry that happened."

"Yeah, me too. But Dad, this is killing us. Either cut us loose or keep us with you. Stop throwing us to the wolves whenever you get a lead or a job you think we can't handle."

"I would never throw you to the wolves, Sam. Don't even insinuate that. You're my boys and I love you."

"So why are we the last thing you think of?" Sam then left the room, still wiping tears from his eyes, and John decided to give him a moment to pull himself together. His own stomach was in knots.

He looked at Dean's bruised, unconscious face, and asked him, "Do you think I failed you?" Of course he didn't answer. John didn't want an answer; he wanted the question to just hang there, rhetorical and damning.

If John was honest with himself, he knew this was no way to raise any kids, even if all he wanted to do was protect them from the monsters of the world, and hunt down the one particular one who might come back for them one day. But he also wasn't sure how to make this right.

He pulled out his phone, and made a call he really didn't want to make. But he didn't see that he had any real choice in the matter. "Bobby?"

Bobby heaved a heavy sigh over the phone. Bobby was probably the most knowledgeable hunter he'd ever encountered, but God, was the guy crabby. "Winchester. I take it this isn't a social call."

"Not as such. I'm out here on the West coast, looking for yellow eyes … but I was wondering if the open door policy for my boys still applied."

"Don't tell me you have the boys with you? Goddamn it, John, give them some stability in their life. They're just kids."

"I know. That's why I'm asking if you'll take them as soon as Dean gets released."

"Released from what?"

Oh, he'd just walked into that one. John had no one to blame but himself. "The hospital. He's okay, he just needs to build up his fluid levels."

Bobby made a noise like he'd been punched in the stomach. "What the hell, John? He's seventeen. How does he get dehydrated?" John wasn't going to tell him. He was wondering if he could think of a plausible lie, when Bobby figured it out. "Jesus fucking Christ, the kid bled out? How the fuck did – you know what? No. I don't care how it happened. Just bring the kids here ASAP. And just think about what you're exposing them to, you idjit." Bobby then hung up on him, which he kind of expected. As brusque and short tempered as Bobby could be with him, he really seemed to really like the boys, which was good.

John wondered if his boys would ever forgive him. Maybe someday.

Three Days Later

The one constant about Bobby's place was it was always an unholy mess. It was like a twister had dumped a demolition derby in his yard. And inside it could be slightly worse, although it was more like a tornado had dropped an old book depository in there.

Dean knew Sam and Dad had been arguing again because of the tense, frosty silences between them, but Sam only said it was the "usual shit", which basically meant a pissing contest between the two of them. In that case, he was happy to be left out.

He was still weak and hurt just about all over, but he was glad to be out of the hospital. He hated them, and he hated people sticking him with needles at all hours. Also, broken ribs healed at their own rate, and there was nothing that could be done for them if they weren't willing to constantly dose him with heavy painkillers. And apparently they weren't. Dean could never have any fun.

He didn't tell anyone, mainly because he wasn't sure he wasn't having some kind of breakdown, but one night he had a dream that he would have sworn was Taraka's, not his. It was all about blood and fire and losing an argument with another demon (?). Didn't make a lot of sense. But the next afternoon he parked himself in Bobby's library, trying to see if anyone else had ever had a dream after possession that wasn't theirs. That's where Uncle Bobby found him, in his library, pouring over a book so dusty it still made him sneeze while reading it.

"If you ever wanna talk about it, you can," Bobby said.

Dean was glad he'd hidden the beer he stole under the desk. Bobby would usually look the other way if he stole a beer, but he didn't like him stealing too many. "Talk about what?"

"Getting possessed by Taraka. That's not a normal possession." He was gazing at him like he knew something. What could he know?

"I don't remember a lot about it. I think they sacrificed demons as well as humans during the ritual."

Bobby grimaced before taking a swig from his own can of beer. "Yeah. Summoning him isn't as easy reading a spell from a book."

"I'm good, really. I've actually forgotten a lot about it. It's all kind of a blur." That was sort of true. What he remembered clearly was the powerlessness, which was the worst, until Dean turned the tables. He still wasn't sure how he did that, except his Dad shooting him helped a lot. Even though it left him with a gnarly chest scar. But chicks dug scars, right?

Bobby's look was dubious, but then again, it generally was. "You know you're the only one I've ever heard of who survived it, right? He generally rips his victims apart."

"He probably meant to, but he ran out of time." Dean turned away to sneeze – did Bobby never dust? – then added, "He was kinda pathetic. I almost felt sorry for him."

Now Bobby was giving him the disbelieving stare he usually reserved for civilians who had no idea what they were talking about. "You talked to him?"

"Near the end, yeah," Dean closed the book, but shoved his chair back so he didn't get enveloped in the dust cloud. "He got overthrown in Hell. He was just another demon, and it was driving him crazy. He was afraid of dying, but in a weird way, I think he wanted it to be over. Do demons get tired of their own shit?"

Bobby kept giving him that look. Dean suspected if he was in range, Bobby might hit him with his hat. "I don't think I'm drunk enough to have a philosophical conversation, son. You're aware this is all weird, right?"

"Yeah. Why do you think I'm in here, giving myself a headache?" Dean knew he needed to stop thinking about this, but it was just so strange. It was almost like Taraka was … not a person, but almost something like it. An epically fucked up, warped person, but still.

"Peterson just brought in his 'Vette, needs a carburetor rebuild. Wanna help me?"

Dean knew he was shifting the topic, trying to keep him from thinking about it, and he was grateful. Especially since Dean loved working on cars. He could do something simple, concrete, and forget about everything else. Was that what being a regular person was like? It was kinda weird. Not terrible, though. A hell of a lot better than getting possessed or shot. "Sure. I could use some fresh air anyway."

He followed Bobby out, and when they passed by a side table near the front door, Dean noticed a small package. "What's this?" It had Dean Winchester written on it in ink. No address, no stamps.

"Oh, yeah. Just found that in the mailbox," Bobby said. "I didn't know if it your Dad left it for you or what."

"Doesn't look like his handwriting." Dean opened the small box, and found within one of Dad's anti-possession charms, and a stack of Tarot cards.

Bobby frowned. "Who'd send you Tarot cards?"

"I think these are from Jade."

"The supposed fortune teller?"

"Yeah. I guess she made it out okay." Dad was never able to find her. He even went back to her shop, only to find it had already been shut down and cleared out, which was bizarre. Dean knew he hadn't made her up, and she'd definitely been in the car with Dad and Sam.

When he handed the cards off to Bobby, he found a folded up note at the very bottom of the small box. He opened it, only to find written, in the same scratchy pen, See you in ten years or so.

Bobby read the note over his shoulder. "What does that mean?"

"I told you she was the real deal. I guess I'm going to see her again." Dean was glad too, as she was kind of cute. Maybe by then, she'd be into younger guys.

The End