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FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 27
Title: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Sam never was quite sure how they made it back to the house without killing themselves. They'd heaved Dean into the front seat- damned if they'd put him in the back again- and belted him in. Dad had slid behind the wheel, grabbed his cell phone and taken off.
Sam crouched in the space between the front seats, bracing himself on their arms. It was just asking the universe for another car accident, but frankly Sam couldn't sit the back while Dean was hurting like this. It was bad enough to be sitting in the car, watching Dean's blood pool on the seat and trickle down to seep into Sam's jeans. Dean's eyes were moving behind their lids, jerky and restless, the whites flashing every once in a while.
"We've got him."
His father's voice, sudden and stern, made Sam twitch. He glanced over his shoulder, watched Dad clutch the cell phone like a lifeline. There was a muffled answer from Andrew.
"Yeah." Dad exhaled slowly. "A doctor would be- thank you. We'll need a couple minutes to get him inside. We're looking at-"
Dean made a sudden hitching sound, his nails digging into the arm of the chair. He pressed back, the tendons of his throat stretching long as he shook his head. He made a sound, soft, desperate. Terrified.
"Hey," Sam murmured, touching Dean's arm, "we're here. It's okay."
Eyes darting over to Dean, their father swallowed hard, set his jaw and stared fixedly through the windshield. His voice was stronger when he spoke again. "Antibiotics, stitches, probably setting a few bones. Holy water. If you can get an IV-"
Dean's eyelashes fluttered, his lips parting on a strangled moan. He shook his head harder, frantic. "No," he whispered, voice coarse and exhausted, "no, no, no god please-"
Sam drew in a breath to talk to him, to say something hollow but vaguely reassuring. Then Dean twisted in his seat, nearly seizing. Sam moved, grabbing him by the waist, shoving him back against the seat, and felt the searing heat blister the inside of his arm. Not fever hot; brand hot.
He didn't have longer than a second to be horrified, because Dean's eyes snapped open. Wide, scared, wild eyes. "Don't touch me," Dean snarled, twisting in his seat, trying to get away, "don't-"
"Dean, hey- would you calm the hell-" As Dean tried to lunge over him, scrabbling for the door, Sam slammed both his hands down on the lock. Dean made a godawful sound and shoved his shoulder hard against the door, trying to break the window, trying to get out.
Without ceremony, John rattled off an address and turned to look at them. "Dean-"
Dean turned on him, wild eyed, and slammed his leg out to brace against the dashboard. He stayed that way for a long moment, staring at their father and nearly hyperventilating, his leg a barrier between John and Sam. "Don't," he repeated, panting. "Don't... not him."
"Shh." Heart pounding in his throat, Sam swallowed hard. "Shh, Dean, it's all right."
From the look on his father's face, it wasn't. Not by a long damn shot. John turned to look back at the road. His voice was steady, calm. "The code word's Ash. None of us are compromised. We're okay."
After a long moment, Dean let his leg drop heavily. He rasped, "It's not safe here. Amanda's coming. Call Bobby."
John sighed. "Amanda's dead, son."
Dean shuddered, head dropping forward. He rocked in place, shivering a little. "I need to go," he whispered. "I need to leave. Been here too long."
"We're going," Sam murmured, keeping his voice low. "We're going to go somewhere else. Somewhere with a doctor."
Dean's lashes fluttered. "Somebody sick?"
"Yeah, man. Nothing too bad, though." Carefully, Sam touched Dean's stomach, prying the blood-sticky shirt up. There were long bruises in the shape of fingers, carved on Dean's hips. Half-moon gouges cut in his stomach where they dug in.
"Don't stay." Dean's head fell back as he mumbled, "Don't let it touch Sammy."
Sam grimaced, lowering Dean's shirt. "It won't, Dean. It's okay. It's okay."
Quiet from Dean, his eyes focused on nothing.
As Sam started to settle back in, he felt his father's hand on his shoulder. He turned his head.
John looked back at him gravely, painfully. "Sam, I need you to do something, and I need you to not ask why."
"What?"
"I need you to keep your brother awake."
Sam winced. "I know. But he's exhausted, he needs to-"
John glared at him. "Sam, please. If he sleeps, he can't control the demon. It can get at him. And right now, I'd bet it's pissed."
"It can-" Sam turned a hard glare on his father. "It-"
"Keep him awake, Sam. Talk to him, slap him, hurt him if you have to. Just do it," John said tiredly.
It was going to be the longest fifteen minutes of his life, Sam thought. He wiggled until he was crouched in front of Dean, silently thanking the makers of the minivan for providing decent leg room. It wasn't comfortable by a long shot, but at least he could see Dean's half-open eyes.
Sam rested a hand on Dean's good shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey. Wake up, man. I need you to talk to me."
Dean stared at him blearily, trying to focus with an effort that made Sam's chest hurt. "Hey. Sam."
"Yeah." Sam managed a smile, bracing his hands on Dean's knees. His jeans were slimy with demon blood. Dean was down a pair of jeans, then, because demon blood was impossible to get out. And yeah, that was much easier than thinking about how much of that blood was actually Dean's. In the few clean places on Dean's face, he was pale enough to make Sam wince. "Hi."
"M'okay."
"Yeah, man. You're ready to run marathons. You're fucking fantastic." As Dean's eyes started to close, Sam winced and reached up to smack his face. When gentle didn't work, he did it again harder. "Dean."
Dean grunted, eyes jerking open. "Dude. Blinking. Slapped me."
"Yeah."
"Samantha." Dean grimaced as the van hit a pothole, then exhaled slowly. "'S next, hair-pulling?"
Sam laughed. It was more than slightly hysterical. "Maybe. What's with the blue, Dean?"
"Chicks dig it."
"If you're trolling Hot Topic after school- hey." Sam grabbed Dean's chin, dragging him back before his eyes could close again. "Look at me, all right? Talk to me."
For a long second, Dean looked like he wanted to pass out anyway. Whatever he saw on Sam's face, it made him draw in a shallow breath and brace himself. His throat worked as he swallowed. "You're a good kid, Sam. M'sorry."
Sam's heart lurched. He shook his head fiercely. "C'mon, don't give me that bullshit. We've lived through worse, all right?"
"Mmph." Dean raised his head off the seat, swore and let it drop again. "Friggin' wrecked my car."
"Yeah, they did. Sorry."
"Good car. Great car." Dean managed a slow smile. "Biiig back seat. Sound system..."
Sam shook his knee, realizing that Dean was fading again. "What gun did you teach me to shoot with, Dean?"
"Thirty-eight." Dean blinked at Sam. "Did you hit a demon with a statue?"
"Yeah."
"Shining."
"Pretty much." Sam grinned tiredly at the face Dean made. "Thought you were a special snowflake?"
"Ha. Man, you c'n have it." Dean's eyes wandered towards the door-handle, but he'd apparently decided he was too exhausted to get far. Laying his head back against the seat, he rasped, "Saw Mom."
Sam swallowed hard against a spike of panic, glancing at his father. From the flex of John's jaw, he'd heard that. "Almost there," John said, amazingly even. "Stay with your brother."
Dean's head turned enough that he could see John out of the corner of his eyes. "Hey, Dad," he murmured. "Sorry about bouncing you off the wall."
John spared a warm glance for Dean. "It's okay, son. Nothing to apologize about. It was a pretty wussy shove," he lied.
Dean lifted a hand to flip him off and sucked in a breath. "Fuck. Think that's broken," he wheezed. "Ow."
John quickly whipped into the driveway.
"Where we goin?" Dean asked.
"Missouri's. We set it up with her last night," Sam said softly.
A moment's puzzled silence. Then Dean grimaced, his eyes closing. "Her. She hates me."
"Don't worry, she's visiting one of her kids," Sam said. "Her oldest girl is pregnant on bedrest."
John pulled the van to a stop and grabbed the bag with the hourglass. "Can you get him to the bedroom?"
Sam nodded slowly. "I think so."
"Good. I need to bind this fucking thing. Keep him awake til I get back."
John hurried down the stairs, clinging to the rail to keep himself upright. Should have thought of this before. Should have had it ready. He'd been stupid.
He grabbed the paint pen and flipped his journal open to the diagram of the Seal of Solomon and dropped to the ground, sketching the fastest, yet most carefully perfect Seal he'd ever done.
It took minutes- an eternity- until he had finished, and could wrap his shirt around his hand, placing the hourglass in the center gently. Not even sparing a glare for the creature that had caused so much pain for his family, he dragged himself up the stairs.
It was over. The dead could rest. Now, it was finally time to see to the living.
Dean had a ways to go before he could be counted among them. Moreso than before, John was afraid for his boy. The demon was bound, but Dean had taken some of it into himself. Was it too much? Only time and a good exorcism would tell for sure.
But first, they needed to deal with the physical.
Dean eyed him muzzily as he stumbled in the room, giving Sam a quick nod. "Y'kay, sir?" Dean asked.
"I'm fine. How're you doing?"
Dean's eyebrow raised slightly. "Dad," he said dryly.
Even though he couldn't have imagined it, John felt a smile crease his face. "Stupid question. The doctor's on his way, but you know we need to get you a little cleaned up before then. And that it's going to hurt like a motherfucker."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, but the mulish expression said otherwise.
"I know you're tough, but it's going to kill me to hurt you like that. Sam, too." The dark look Dean gave John for that particular guilt trip made John's breathing easier. He continued, unrepentant, "So if you want, I can give you something."
Dean shook his head. "M'fine. Need my gun. Dropped it."
He hadn't so much dropped it as Sam had stolen it in the brief few seconds that Dean slept.
John pushed the shirt he was wearing over the t-shirt back, letting Dean see the nine millimeter holstered beneath his arm. "I've got it for tonight," he assured his son.
"Oh. Good." Dean considered it for a moment, then closed his eyes. His smirk was wobbly. "I'm not a pussy like Samantha here, but yeah. Whatever you've got."
Sam smiled at the jab, rumpling Dean's hair lightly as their father eased a needle into Dean's arm. There weren't many places on Dean that weren't bruised, patches of red and purple so dark they looked black, but Dad found one. "Where the hell did you get that?" Sam asked, mostly to distract himself from Dean's brief wince.
"While we were in the hospital. No one pays attention to the old man with a walker, Sammy," John muttered.
"I thought sedatives didn't work on him."
Dean smiled. "Don't. But a Thorazine and Valium cocktail kicks my ass."
John nodded, capping the needle and setting it on the nightstand. He rested a hand on Dean's good shoulder, and tried not to take it personally when Dean tensed. He held Dean's eyes, watched him fight the meds. Damned if Dean didn't always fight it. "Sleep, son."
Dean shot a sidelong glance at Sam, quiet desperation. John nodded, not looking away, and felt Dean sink grudgingly. Dean's eyes fluttered shut.
After a moment, Sam exhaled slowly and looked up at John. "Did the demon-" he broke off as John held up a hand. "What?"
"Not yet." John watched, waited. After another minute, Dean's face slackened, his breathing going steady. John carefully rubbed some of the blood off Dean's cheek and took his hand back. "Okay. Let's get him in the shower."
It took their combined muscle and wills to get Dean in the shower, and all of Missouri's hot water to get all the goop off him.
By the time they were finished, both John and Sam were soaked to the skin, and had a pretty good catalogue of Dean's various injuries. Even with the nearly empty adrenaline bottle John had found in the bag with the demon, it was amazing that Dean had managed to stay upright.
They'd just wrestled him into a pair of Sam's sweatpants when the doctor arrived, introducing himself as Rafe Santos, a friend of Andrew's from seminary.
He took one look at Dean and paled, which didn't do wonders for John's nerves. "I suppose I can't convince you to take him to the hospital?"
"No hospital," John said.
Rafe nodded. "I figured." He bent over Dean, lightly running his hands over the myriad of cuts, and bruises. "Two cracked ribs, not displaced. Broken wrist. Dislocated shoulder, put back in on his own, though. The harpy bite, of course. A couple puncture wounds. Amazing it's not worse, really." He quickly pulled some items out of his bag. "Sam, lift him up so I can bandage those ribs first." He eyed one particularly nasty slash wound on Dean's shoulder. "John, do you feel up to stitching that while I do the ribs?"
John nodded, scooping up one of the stitch kits and moving to kneel on the edge of the bed with his good leg. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would do.
"Also, are either of you the same blood type?" Rafe asked.
"Both, actually," John replied. "Mary was the same type as me."
"Good. He'll need it." Rafe picked up a contraption that looked like nothing so much as a corset. Sam made a mental note to taunt Dean later about it.
Even in his drug-induced sleep, Dean made a soft noise of pain as the binding went on.
As Sam gently lowered him back to the bed, Rafe glanced at John. "Andrew seems surprisingly fond of you and your boys," he said. "When you called, he basically called in every favor he'd ever done me, and a few he hadn't. It's unusual for him." While he spoke, his hands were moving at top speed, placing more stitches.
John shrugged. "Not a clue why."
"It's the Playboys," Sam said, still stroking Dean's forehead.
Rafe smiled and went back to casting Dean's wrist. "He's going to need broad spectrum antibiotics in an IV, and I'll start a saline drip, get him hydrated." Rafe reached up and tugged down his shirt collar, showing the priest's collar white against his throat. "Holy water, too, for the harpy bite. Sterile. I'd like permission to put in a feeding tube. He's dangerously low on reserves, and he's going to need them."
"Do it," John said shortly. "Whatever you need to."
"Any allergies?"
"No. Doesn't react well to sedatives."
"Andrew mentioned that. You have enough Thorazine and Valium?"
"I'll let you know," John said grimly.
Rafe nodded. "I'm going to suggest keeping totally under for the next two days. Hold off the exorcism till the third day, give him a fighting chance."
John said, "Got it."
"Who's lost the least blood?" Rafe asked, glancing between them.
"That would be me," John muttered. "Sam, go grab a dining room chair, would you?"
"Why?" Sam asked. He looked at the bed, hand still on Dean's.
"Because, I said so," John said, with obviously strained patience.
"Oh." Reluctantly letting go of Dean's hand, Sam hurried down the stairs, returning with a chair. "Here." He shoved it at John and went back to Dean's side.
John lowered himself with a wince that he somehow doubted Rafe had missed. "Okay."
Rafe set up Dean's end of the transfusion and turned to John, noting his sudden pallor. "You all right?"
"Just get on with it," John grumbled.
Sam looked up, alarmed at the tentative note in his father's voice. "Dad? You look like hell. Is everything okay?"
John dropped his head forward, mumbling something so softly that Sam was certain he hadn't heard him.
"What?" Sam asked.
"I. Don't. Like. Needles." John said clearly. "Rather be shot. But it's Dean, so I'm going to goddamn well suck it up."
"You don't like needles?" Sam asked, voice cracking on a slightly hysterical laugh. "Needles? Not... Daevas? Not hydras, or dragons or zombies? Needles? No shit?"
"Sam?" His father rubbed his eyes tiredly.
"Yes, great hunter?"
"Shut the hell up." John winced as the needle slid into his arm, opened his eyes and glanced down.
Sam's eyes widened as his father swayed slightly on the chair. "Dad," he said sharply.
John met his eyes and held them, looking anywhere but the needle sticking out of his arm. A moment later, Rafe patted his shoulder. "It's covered. Just take it easy. Won't take long."
"I'm almost sorry we sedated Dean," Sam mused. "I'll just have to tell him all about it."
"I'm your father, boy. Not exactly short on blackmail material." A smile tugged at John's lips. "Besides, Dean knows. He's patched me up more than once."
"How's that work out for you?" Sam asked, trying to keep his father's attention off the proceedings.
"Usually, I drink. Heavily. And pass the hell out." John looked at Dean, the blood sliding slowly along the tubing. Vaguely comforted, though not enough to look at the needle, he asked Rafe, "You want to teach Sam how to do this before you go? Dean'll need a few rounds."
"I'll show him when I come back with blood. Technically neither of you should be donating anyway. Andrew caught me without supplies." Rafe pressed the last bandage over the harpy bite, touched Dean's forehead and closed his eyes. He did a quick sign of the cross, then murmured something in Latin. Dean winced in his sleep, turning his head away. Rafe sighed and looked at John. "Now, are you going to let me look at your leg or not?"
John's jaw clenched. "Check Sam over, would you?"
Sam shot a look at him, but submitted to being poked and prodded. The doctor pronounced him in surprisingly good shape, except for deep gouges down one arm. Rafe wrapped those in bandages soaked with holy water, then switched the transfusion from John to Sam.
Then Rafe looked steadily at John, who finally cursed and slid his jeans down.
Sam sucked in a breath the moment the prosthetic came off. The sock that went over John's thigh to protect it was wet, red with blood. John didn't seem to notice, tugging it off with a grimace, only looking up at Sam's quiet, "Oh, Jesus, Dad."
Rafe studied the raw, abraded stump closely. "Nice job, John. You weren't supposed to wear it more than a few hours a day at first. This looks like you've run a marathon."
John shrugged. "It'll be fine."
"In about six months, if you behave yourself, it'll be close to fine. But since we both know better than to think you'll behave, you're looking at a year, maybe more."
John nodded stoically. "I'd guessed that."
Rafe sighed, pulling out a tube of ointment. "Use this three times a day, change the dressings when you apply it, and try to leave it off whenever you can."
John nodded, and allowed him to rebandage it. After he'd had shown the doctor out, with strict orders to call if they needed anything, Sam looked at his father. "Dad-"
"Don't start with me, Sammy."
Sam shook his head. "Wasn't going to. We did what it took to get him back." He suddenly looked very young. "The exorcism... it's going to be all right, right?"
John looked down. The quiet rasp of his voice was anything but reassuring. "It has to be."
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Sam never was quite sure how they made it back to the house without killing themselves. They'd heaved Dean into the front seat- damned if they'd put him in the back again- and belted him in. Dad had slid behind the wheel, grabbed his cell phone and taken off.
Sam crouched in the space between the front seats, bracing himself on their arms. It was just asking the universe for another car accident, but frankly Sam couldn't sit the back while Dean was hurting like this. It was bad enough to be sitting in the car, watching Dean's blood pool on the seat and trickle down to seep into Sam's jeans. Dean's eyes were moving behind their lids, jerky and restless, the whites flashing every once in a while.
"We've got him."
His father's voice, sudden and stern, made Sam twitch. He glanced over his shoulder, watched Dad clutch the cell phone like a lifeline. There was a muffled answer from Andrew.
"Yeah." Dad exhaled slowly. "A doctor would be- thank you. We'll need a couple minutes to get him inside. We're looking at-"
Dean made a sudden hitching sound, his nails digging into the arm of the chair. He pressed back, the tendons of his throat stretching long as he shook his head. He made a sound, soft, desperate. Terrified.
"Hey," Sam murmured, touching Dean's arm, "we're here. It's okay."
Eyes darting over to Dean, their father swallowed hard, set his jaw and stared fixedly through the windshield. His voice was stronger when he spoke again. "Antibiotics, stitches, probably setting a few bones. Holy water. If you can get an IV-"
Dean's eyelashes fluttered, his lips parting on a strangled moan. He shook his head harder, frantic. "No," he whispered, voice coarse and exhausted, "no, no, no god please-"
Sam drew in a breath to talk to him, to say something hollow but vaguely reassuring. Then Dean twisted in his seat, nearly seizing. Sam moved, grabbing him by the waist, shoving him back against the seat, and felt the searing heat blister the inside of his arm. Not fever hot; brand hot.
He didn't have longer than a second to be horrified, because Dean's eyes snapped open. Wide, scared, wild eyes. "Don't touch me," Dean snarled, twisting in his seat, trying to get away, "don't-"
"Dean, hey- would you calm the hell-" As Dean tried to lunge over him, scrabbling for the door, Sam slammed both his hands down on the lock. Dean made a godawful sound and shoved his shoulder hard against the door, trying to break the window, trying to get out.
Without ceremony, John rattled off an address and turned to look at them. "Dean-"
Dean turned on him, wild eyed, and slammed his leg out to brace against the dashboard. He stayed that way for a long moment, staring at their father and nearly hyperventilating, his leg a barrier between John and Sam. "Don't," he repeated, panting. "Don't... not him."
"Shh." Heart pounding in his throat, Sam swallowed hard. "Shh, Dean, it's all right."
From the look on his father's face, it wasn't. Not by a long damn shot. John turned to look back at the road. His voice was steady, calm. "The code word's Ash. None of us are compromised. We're okay."
After a long moment, Dean let his leg drop heavily. He rasped, "It's not safe here. Amanda's coming. Call Bobby."
John sighed. "Amanda's dead, son."
Dean shuddered, head dropping forward. He rocked in place, shivering a little. "I need to go," he whispered. "I need to leave. Been here too long."
"We're going," Sam murmured, keeping his voice low. "We're going to go somewhere else. Somewhere with a doctor."
Dean's lashes fluttered. "Somebody sick?"
"Yeah, man. Nothing too bad, though." Carefully, Sam touched Dean's stomach, prying the blood-sticky shirt up. There were long bruises in the shape of fingers, carved on Dean's hips. Half-moon gouges cut in his stomach where they dug in.
"Don't stay." Dean's head fell back as he mumbled, "Don't let it touch Sammy."
Sam grimaced, lowering Dean's shirt. "It won't, Dean. It's okay. It's okay."
Quiet from Dean, his eyes focused on nothing.
As Sam started to settle back in, he felt his father's hand on his shoulder. He turned his head.
John looked back at him gravely, painfully. "Sam, I need you to do something, and I need you to not ask why."
"What?"
"I need you to keep your brother awake."
Sam winced. "I know. But he's exhausted, he needs to-"
John glared at him. "Sam, please. If he sleeps, he can't control the demon. It can get at him. And right now, I'd bet it's pissed."
"It can-" Sam turned a hard glare on his father. "It-"
"Keep him awake, Sam. Talk to him, slap him, hurt him if you have to. Just do it," John said tiredly.
It was going to be the longest fifteen minutes of his life, Sam thought. He wiggled until he was crouched in front of Dean, silently thanking the makers of the minivan for providing decent leg room. It wasn't comfortable by a long shot, but at least he could see Dean's half-open eyes.
Sam rested a hand on Dean's good shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey. Wake up, man. I need you to talk to me."
Dean stared at him blearily, trying to focus with an effort that made Sam's chest hurt. "Hey. Sam."
"Yeah." Sam managed a smile, bracing his hands on Dean's knees. His jeans were slimy with demon blood. Dean was down a pair of jeans, then, because demon blood was impossible to get out. And yeah, that was much easier than thinking about how much of that blood was actually Dean's. In the few clean places on Dean's face, he was pale enough to make Sam wince. "Hi."
"M'okay."
"Yeah, man. You're ready to run marathons. You're fucking fantastic." As Dean's eyes started to close, Sam winced and reached up to smack his face. When gentle didn't work, he did it again harder. "Dean."
Dean grunted, eyes jerking open. "Dude. Blinking. Slapped me."
"Yeah."
"Samantha." Dean grimaced as the van hit a pothole, then exhaled slowly. "'S next, hair-pulling?"
Sam laughed. It was more than slightly hysterical. "Maybe. What's with the blue, Dean?"
"Chicks dig it."
"If you're trolling Hot Topic after school- hey." Sam grabbed Dean's chin, dragging him back before his eyes could close again. "Look at me, all right? Talk to me."
For a long second, Dean looked like he wanted to pass out anyway. Whatever he saw on Sam's face, it made him draw in a shallow breath and brace himself. His throat worked as he swallowed. "You're a good kid, Sam. M'sorry."
Sam's heart lurched. He shook his head fiercely. "C'mon, don't give me that bullshit. We've lived through worse, all right?"
"Mmph." Dean raised his head off the seat, swore and let it drop again. "Friggin' wrecked my car."
"Yeah, they did. Sorry."
"Good car. Great car." Dean managed a slow smile. "Biiig back seat. Sound system..."
Sam shook his knee, realizing that Dean was fading again. "What gun did you teach me to shoot with, Dean?"
"Thirty-eight." Dean blinked at Sam. "Did you hit a demon with a statue?"
"Yeah."
"Shining."
"Pretty much." Sam grinned tiredly at the face Dean made. "Thought you were a special snowflake?"
"Ha. Man, you c'n have it." Dean's eyes wandered towards the door-handle, but he'd apparently decided he was too exhausted to get far. Laying his head back against the seat, he rasped, "Saw Mom."
Sam swallowed hard against a spike of panic, glancing at his father. From the flex of John's jaw, he'd heard that. "Almost there," John said, amazingly even. "Stay with your brother."
Dean's head turned enough that he could see John out of the corner of his eyes. "Hey, Dad," he murmured. "Sorry about bouncing you off the wall."
John spared a warm glance for Dean. "It's okay, son. Nothing to apologize about. It was a pretty wussy shove," he lied.
Dean lifted a hand to flip him off and sucked in a breath. "Fuck. Think that's broken," he wheezed. "Ow."
John quickly whipped into the driveway.
"Where we goin?" Dean asked.
"Missouri's. We set it up with her last night," Sam said softly.
A moment's puzzled silence. Then Dean grimaced, his eyes closing. "Her. She hates me."
"Don't worry, she's visiting one of her kids," Sam said. "Her oldest girl is pregnant on bedrest."
John pulled the van to a stop and grabbed the bag with the hourglass. "Can you get him to the bedroom?"
Sam nodded slowly. "I think so."
"Good. I need to bind this fucking thing. Keep him awake til I get back."
John hurried down the stairs, clinging to the rail to keep himself upright. Should have thought of this before. Should have had it ready. He'd been stupid.
He grabbed the paint pen and flipped his journal open to the diagram of the Seal of Solomon and dropped to the ground, sketching the fastest, yet most carefully perfect Seal he'd ever done.
It took minutes- an eternity- until he had finished, and could wrap his shirt around his hand, placing the hourglass in the center gently. Not even sparing a glare for the creature that had caused so much pain for his family, he dragged himself up the stairs.
It was over. The dead could rest. Now, it was finally time to see to the living.
Dean had a ways to go before he could be counted among them. Moreso than before, John was afraid for his boy. The demon was bound, but Dean had taken some of it into himself. Was it too much? Only time and a good exorcism would tell for sure.
But first, they needed to deal with the physical.
Dean eyed him muzzily as he stumbled in the room, giving Sam a quick nod. "Y'kay, sir?" Dean asked.
"I'm fine. How're you doing?"
Dean's eyebrow raised slightly. "Dad," he said dryly.
Even though he couldn't have imagined it, John felt a smile crease his face. "Stupid question. The doctor's on his way, but you know we need to get you a little cleaned up before then. And that it's going to hurt like a motherfucker."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, but the mulish expression said otherwise.
"I know you're tough, but it's going to kill me to hurt you like that. Sam, too." The dark look Dean gave John for that particular guilt trip made John's breathing easier. He continued, unrepentant, "So if you want, I can give you something."
Dean shook his head. "M'fine. Need my gun. Dropped it."
He hadn't so much dropped it as Sam had stolen it in the brief few seconds that Dean slept.
John pushed the shirt he was wearing over the t-shirt back, letting Dean see the nine millimeter holstered beneath his arm. "I've got it for tonight," he assured his son.
"Oh. Good." Dean considered it for a moment, then closed his eyes. His smirk was wobbly. "I'm not a pussy like Samantha here, but yeah. Whatever you've got."
Sam smiled at the jab, rumpling Dean's hair lightly as their father eased a needle into Dean's arm. There weren't many places on Dean that weren't bruised, patches of red and purple so dark they looked black, but Dad found one. "Where the hell did you get that?" Sam asked, mostly to distract himself from Dean's brief wince.
"While we were in the hospital. No one pays attention to the old man with a walker, Sammy," John muttered.
"I thought sedatives didn't work on him."
Dean smiled. "Don't. But a Thorazine and Valium cocktail kicks my ass."
John nodded, capping the needle and setting it on the nightstand. He rested a hand on Dean's good shoulder, and tried not to take it personally when Dean tensed. He held Dean's eyes, watched him fight the meds. Damned if Dean didn't always fight it. "Sleep, son."
Dean shot a sidelong glance at Sam, quiet desperation. John nodded, not looking away, and felt Dean sink grudgingly. Dean's eyes fluttered shut.
After a moment, Sam exhaled slowly and looked up at John. "Did the demon-" he broke off as John held up a hand. "What?"
"Not yet." John watched, waited. After another minute, Dean's face slackened, his breathing going steady. John carefully rubbed some of the blood off Dean's cheek and took his hand back. "Okay. Let's get him in the shower."
It took their combined muscle and wills to get Dean in the shower, and all of Missouri's hot water to get all the goop off him.
By the time they were finished, both John and Sam were soaked to the skin, and had a pretty good catalogue of Dean's various injuries. Even with the nearly empty adrenaline bottle John had found in the bag with the demon, it was amazing that Dean had managed to stay upright.
They'd just wrestled him into a pair of Sam's sweatpants when the doctor arrived, introducing himself as Rafe Santos, a friend of Andrew's from seminary.
He took one look at Dean and paled, which didn't do wonders for John's nerves. "I suppose I can't convince you to take him to the hospital?"
"No hospital," John said.
Rafe nodded. "I figured." He bent over Dean, lightly running his hands over the myriad of cuts, and bruises. "Two cracked ribs, not displaced. Broken wrist. Dislocated shoulder, put back in on his own, though. The harpy bite, of course. A couple puncture wounds. Amazing it's not worse, really." He quickly pulled some items out of his bag. "Sam, lift him up so I can bandage those ribs first." He eyed one particularly nasty slash wound on Dean's shoulder. "John, do you feel up to stitching that while I do the ribs?"
John nodded, scooping up one of the stitch kits and moving to kneel on the edge of the bed with his good leg. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would do.
"Also, are either of you the same blood type?" Rafe asked.
"Both, actually," John replied. "Mary was the same type as me."
"Good. He'll need it." Rafe picked up a contraption that looked like nothing so much as a corset. Sam made a mental note to taunt Dean later about it.
Even in his drug-induced sleep, Dean made a soft noise of pain as the binding went on.
As Sam gently lowered him back to the bed, Rafe glanced at John. "Andrew seems surprisingly fond of you and your boys," he said. "When you called, he basically called in every favor he'd ever done me, and a few he hadn't. It's unusual for him." While he spoke, his hands were moving at top speed, placing more stitches.
John shrugged. "Not a clue why."
"It's the Playboys," Sam said, still stroking Dean's forehead.
Rafe smiled and went back to casting Dean's wrist. "He's going to need broad spectrum antibiotics in an IV, and I'll start a saline drip, get him hydrated." Rafe reached up and tugged down his shirt collar, showing the priest's collar white against his throat. "Holy water, too, for the harpy bite. Sterile. I'd like permission to put in a feeding tube. He's dangerously low on reserves, and he's going to need them."
"Do it," John said shortly. "Whatever you need to."
"Any allergies?"
"No. Doesn't react well to sedatives."
"Andrew mentioned that. You have enough Thorazine and Valium?"
"I'll let you know," John said grimly.
Rafe nodded. "I'm going to suggest keeping totally under for the next two days. Hold off the exorcism till the third day, give him a fighting chance."
John said, "Got it."
"Who's lost the least blood?" Rafe asked, glancing between them.
"That would be me," John muttered. "Sam, go grab a dining room chair, would you?"
"Why?" Sam asked. He looked at the bed, hand still on Dean's.
"Because, I said so," John said, with obviously strained patience.
"Oh." Reluctantly letting go of Dean's hand, Sam hurried down the stairs, returning with a chair. "Here." He shoved it at John and went back to Dean's side.
John lowered himself with a wince that he somehow doubted Rafe had missed. "Okay."
Rafe set up Dean's end of the transfusion and turned to John, noting his sudden pallor. "You all right?"
"Just get on with it," John grumbled.
Sam looked up, alarmed at the tentative note in his father's voice. "Dad? You look like hell. Is everything okay?"
John dropped his head forward, mumbling something so softly that Sam was certain he hadn't heard him.
"What?" Sam asked.
"I. Don't. Like. Needles." John said clearly. "Rather be shot. But it's Dean, so I'm going to goddamn well suck it up."
"You don't like needles?" Sam asked, voice cracking on a slightly hysterical laugh. "Needles? Not... Daevas? Not hydras, or dragons or zombies? Needles? No shit?"
"Sam?" His father rubbed his eyes tiredly.
"Yes, great hunter?"
"Shut the hell up." John winced as the needle slid into his arm, opened his eyes and glanced down.
Sam's eyes widened as his father swayed slightly on the chair. "Dad," he said sharply.
John met his eyes and held them, looking anywhere but the needle sticking out of his arm. A moment later, Rafe patted his shoulder. "It's covered. Just take it easy. Won't take long."
"I'm almost sorry we sedated Dean," Sam mused. "I'll just have to tell him all about it."
"I'm your father, boy. Not exactly short on blackmail material." A smile tugged at John's lips. "Besides, Dean knows. He's patched me up more than once."
"How's that work out for you?" Sam asked, trying to keep his father's attention off the proceedings.
"Usually, I drink. Heavily. And pass the hell out." John looked at Dean, the blood sliding slowly along the tubing. Vaguely comforted, though not enough to look at the needle, he asked Rafe, "You want to teach Sam how to do this before you go? Dean'll need a few rounds."
"I'll show him when I come back with blood. Technically neither of you should be donating anyway. Andrew caught me without supplies." Rafe pressed the last bandage over the harpy bite, touched Dean's forehead and closed his eyes. He did a quick sign of the cross, then murmured something in Latin. Dean winced in his sleep, turning his head away. Rafe sighed and looked at John. "Now, are you going to let me look at your leg or not?"
John's jaw clenched. "Check Sam over, would you?"
Sam shot a look at him, but submitted to being poked and prodded. The doctor pronounced him in surprisingly good shape, except for deep gouges down one arm. Rafe wrapped those in bandages soaked with holy water, then switched the transfusion from John to Sam.
Then Rafe looked steadily at John, who finally cursed and slid his jeans down.
Sam sucked in a breath the moment the prosthetic came off. The sock that went over John's thigh to protect it was wet, red with blood. John didn't seem to notice, tugging it off with a grimace, only looking up at Sam's quiet, "Oh, Jesus, Dad."
Rafe studied the raw, abraded stump closely. "Nice job, John. You weren't supposed to wear it more than a few hours a day at first. This looks like you've run a marathon."
John shrugged. "It'll be fine."
"In about six months, if you behave yourself, it'll be close to fine. But since we both know better than to think you'll behave, you're looking at a year, maybe more."
John nodded stoically. "I'd guessed that."
Rafe sighed, pulling out a tube of ointment. "Use this three times a day, change the dressings when you apply it, and try to leave it off whenever you can."
John nodded, and allowed him to rebandage it. After he'd had shown the doctor out, with strict orders to call if they needed anything, Sam looked at his father. "Dad-"
"Don't start with me, Sammy."
Sam shook his head. "Wasn't going to. We did what it took to get him back." He suddenly looked very young. "The exorcism... it's going to be all right, right?"
John looked down. The quiet rasp of his voice was anything but reassuring. "It has to be."
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