13

Bleeding Love

Everyone froze when they heard the loud BANG! from the bullpen, their heads whipping around toward the noise.

When Lisbon heard her name, heard Patrick scream it the way he did, she bolted out the door, drawing her gun.

"Shit!" Dean spat, taking out his own, more effective shot-gun and followed her, Sam not far behind.

Patrick was on the ground, his decomposing wife over him, covering his mouth to stifle his cries, visible to everyone else for the first time.

Lisbon stopped, her jaw falling. It was real. It was all real.

Sam and Dean acted quickly, seeing the bloody knife in the woman's hand.

"Hey, bitch!" Dean barked, aiming his gun at her. She looked up, her moss-strewn teeth bared, snarling. "Didn't anyone tell you the dead look went out with the nineties?" She let go of Patrick, her rage now centered on the hunters in front of her, as the Winchesters had hoped for.

They each fired without hesitation, watching as she dissipated into dust. She was gone, but definitely not for good.

It was the Lisbon gained her bearings and went to Patrick, who was shaking, bleeding and crying on the floor.

Dean knew absolute guilt when he saw it. He had felt it often himself. He knew that pain, that agony he was seeing in his face. Guilt spilled over sometimes, especially in a situation like this. He understood completely.

"Uh, Dean," Sam said, gesturing over his shoulder. "I think we have some explaining to do." He turned.

The rest of the CBI agents had followed them, curious as to both what was happening and what the brothers were going to do about it.

All of them looked just as shocked as Lisbon had, well, except for Cho, he looked about the same.

Dean looked from them to Patrick and then to his brother.

"He's gonna need stitches after what she did," he said quietly. "I'll stitch him up, you tell them what the hell they just saw." Sam nodded.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay," Lisbon soothed, wiping tears from his cheeks. "Shh, I know, I know it hurts, shh…"

She looked up at Dean when he approached them, looking almost as freaked out as Patrick did.

"We need to take him to a hospital," she said.

"We can't-" Dean began, but she cut him off.

"What the hell do you mean 'we can't'?" She bellowed.

"You wanna explain why he's so beat up and so freaked out to a doctor, then be my guest," he said. "But when he starts talking about seeing his dead wife and kid and they cart him off to Crazytown just remember what I said."

"What are we supposed to do?" She asked, her voice much quieter than before.

"I can stitch him up better than most doctors can," he said. "Trust me, I've had practice." She frowned, looking down at Patrick, who was still trembling, his face in her chest.

"Look, I'm not gonna hurt him," Dean assured. "When you don't have insurance cards or money you learn to adapt. Doctors always ask stupid questions anyway."

She hesitated a moment longer before nodding her approval.

Dean helped her get him up and back onto the couch.

"Shh…" she brushed his hair from his forehead. "Alright, Dean's gonna patch you up, okay?"

"N-no doctors?" He trembled, trying to smile a little. She smiled back.

"No doctors," she stood, reluctantly pulling away from him. "I'll be right back, alright?" He nodded, still shaking.

"I'll need a first-aid kit," Dean said. She nodded. Dean turned his attention back to Patrick. "You okay?" he asked. Patrick shook his head. Dean chuckled a little. "Stupid question, huh?"

Lisbon came back, handing Dean the first-aid kit.

"You should probably go in there with everyone else," Dean advised. "Sam'll be able to tell you what Bobby said and explain what you saw." She nodded, giving Patrick a sad look. "He'll be alright," he assured. "I promise."

She nodded and left the bullpen, looking back at Patrick at least three times before she did.

"Alright, Patrick, I have to get to those cuts, alright?" Dean said gently. Patrick nodded, his shaky hands going to the buttons on his shirt, still sniffling. He opened his shirt and moved his hands away. Dean grimaced.

The cuts on his chest were deep and long, as if that woman had pressed as hard as her spectral hand would allow. He was bruised from being thrown around so much, some of them blue. The scratches on his face were thin and had stopped bleeding a little while ago, but the blood was still there, diluted ad smeared by his tears.

Dean sighed, taking the peroxide and bandages from the box and snatching up his own bag. He dug through it, finally finding his and Sam's "custom" first-aid. He took out the needle and thread he would need as well as the bottle of whiskey nestled at the bottom of his bag.

He unscrewed the cap, carefully lifting Patrick's head. "Alright, just take a swig of this, okay? It'll help so it doesn't hurt as much." Patrick nodded weakly and swallowed a mouthful, grimacing when he did.

Dean laid him back down and threaded the needle, hating that he was about to do this. Patrick looked like hell, as if he'd been through it just as he had.

"This is gonna hurt," he warned. "But it won't take very long, I promise." Patrick nodded, closing his eyes and bracing himself.

He just wanted it to be over. His wife had carved into him mercilessly just a few minutes ago. He'd been forced to watch her take the greatest delight in making him scream, her iron grip over his now bruised mouth, teeth cutting into the inside of his lips from the force. She had hissed horrible, horrible things to him, blaming him for what he had done to her and what he had let happen to their child.

He tried to say he was sorry, but she would just press harder on his mouth, silencing him.

And now he was here, hissing and groaning in pain as the gashes were sewn together. But hey, at least he didn't have to go to the hospital.

Dean put bandages over the cuts once he was done, apologizing for the tenth time. "Alright, just a little longer, okay? Just a little longer and you can sleep." He cleaned the blood off of his face, made sure that his ribs weren't broken and took the bloodied shirt away.

"I'm not feelin' you up, I promise," he assured. Patrick nodded, tears in his eyes.

"It'll be alright," Dean assured, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. "It'll get better, I promise." Watery blue eyes met his own, looking curious. "My dad died because of me," he said quietly. "I know how you feel."

Patrick just looked at him, tears fresh. "Wh-why is this hap-pening to me?" He gulped.

"Because you feel guilty about what happened to your wife and kid," he explained. "Whatever this is attacks people like you. People who have lost someone and feel like it's their fault."

"S-so it could h-happen to y-you?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I guess it could."

And if that were the case, it could happen to Sam too.