Fic: Three X's for the Stone 1/2
Jan. 15th, 2007 01:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Three X's for the Stone
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through "Hunted"
Pairing: Gen
Disclaimer: We don't own them, sadly. Though, really, we don't play nice with our toys.
A/N: This could be read as a stand alone. There will however, be future fics in this universe that will be Wincest, and MPREG-->genderswitch.
This was a bad fucking idea. It had been a bad idea when Dean had suggested it. It was a worse one now that they were here.
‘Here’ was Stull Cemetery, where the devil buried his child and the gates to hell were in reach. Sam could see their mother's gravestone from here, the rose marble bleached to gray in the moonlight. He'd brought flowers, a silent apology for what they were going to do. Dean gave the stone wide berth, barely glancing at it on his way past.
They were going to use the tomb of Elizabeth Burns, who died unmarried in 1819 at 22 and was buried next to a willow tree. Childbirth killed her, while she was still trying to tell whoever listened that she'd been raped in the night by the devil himself. There were no accounts of what happened to the child.
The air felt colder around her tomb, weighted. The willow tree was withered, half-dead, but it provided enough cover to hide what they were doing.
Sam stopped on his way for a rose to leave Elizabeth. Dead at 22; Jessica's echo felt like a cold hand around Sam's heart.
Dean laid out the preparations for the ritual, marking the scraggly grass in front of the tomb with the sigil for ‘gateway.’ He lit the black candle at the door. His voice was raw from the unexpectedly bitter night and from too many nights without sleep. “Elegba, open the gate, that I may pass and return.”
A generous portion of rum and a lit cigar helped to insure Elegba’s assistance. Nothing came free.
Nervously, Sam turned to the effigy they’d prepared. The vaguely human shaped doll was stuffed with herbs and sawdust, laying over the cement slab with its stiff arms folded over its chest. The white sheet was smeared with their blood, a jarring stain over the effigy's heart. The gold wedding band Dean had been wearing around his neck just peeked through the wrappings.
“You ready?” Dean asked sharply. It sounded like he'd been asking for a while.
Sam sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. He could feel the place where Dean had clipped away hair to add to the After a week of watching Dean torture himself over prep, Sam was surprised Dean hadn't hacked his own finger off for good measure. "Dean, maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“We’ve been through this,” Dean said curtly. “If you have another idea, this would be the time to mention it.”
“Did you even listen to what Bobby said?”
“Yeah. Good chance we’ll bring back a shell, if it even works at all." Dean stared at the blank face of the effigy, his expression closed. "At least he won’t be down there."
"You think I want to leave him there?" When Dean didn't answer, Sam pushed into the space between him and the effigy. Dean raised his eyes, deceptively calm if Sam ignored what was under that flat, even stare. "Jesus, Dean, it's Dad. Of course I don't, but-"
"Don't you?" Dean asked.
It was meant to throw Sam off. Sam didn't flinch. "-but it's not what he'd want."
"I don't give a damn what he'd want. Not now."
“I don’t know if I can do it.” There it was, Sam thought. The bottom line. When the chips were down, here he was, terrified.
“You’re the only one who can.” Dean got in his face, eyes dark with frustration. “Look, I can’t do this alone. And you’re the only one I trust. I wish I didn’t have to ask you to do this. But I do. So I am.”
“Dean-“ Sam took a deep breath, looking up at the midnight sky. His throat hurt. Dean had killed for him, had nearly died for him in Oregon, had stuck by Sam when anyone sane would cut and run. Dean needed this in a raw, bleeding way that Sam had never seen before. Dean had been killing himself by inches for months, and this might stop him where nothing else would.
“Okay," Sam said tiredly. "I’ll do it. Two minutes. No more.”
Dean nodded. “Okay. You ready?” He held out a strip of black latex.
“Yeah. I guess.” Reluctantly, Sam took the piece of rubber, turning it over in his hands. His fingers felt nerveless, clumsy as he watched Dean's breath mist up in the cold night air. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Reaching out, Dean thumped Sam's shoulder. "Short a few beers and Tawny Kitain-"
"Would you stop?" Sam shrugged, twisting the rubber into a tight knot. His voice was rough. "This sucks, Dean."
"I know. And if I could figure out a way around it, I would. But I need you here.” Dean's mouth tightened. "You're not getting any closer to that thing than you have to."
“I know,” Sam echoed. Some part of him wanted to tell Dean more in case-... in case. But if they screwed this up, if this was it, then there would be no more comfort in speeches than in silence. “Let’s get this over with.”
Dean flashed him a smile that shook on its edges. Perversely, Sam found it a little comforting that Dean was at least rattled. Dean laid down on his back next to the effigy, resting his hand over their father's wedding band. “C’mon, Sam," he said, almost gently. "Time to kill me.”
******
Dean fought. His chest heaved for air that wasn't coming. He struggled under Sam, twisting, scrabbling at Sam's arms and hands. His feet dug gouges in the muddy ground. He shuddered, tried to bite. The latex was pressed over his face in a weird mimicry of an executioner's hood, and Sam could only manage a sick gratitude that he couldn't see Dean's eyes as he slowed, stilled, and died.
Sam's face was wet. He let go of the latex, blindly tossing it aside, and grabbed Dean's limp hand. He was shaking as he leaned back against the tomb and started counting off the seconds, keeping them slow and measured as he watched Dean's lips turn blue.
He was alone. His arms ached from holding Dean down as he smothered him, burning where Dean's nails had dug long gouges trying to pry him away. Sam wanted those gouges to scar.
The graveyard was too still. They'd braced for the demon to attack now, when they were weakest. The ground around them was ringed in three circles of salt, protection sigils, white candles and iron fillings. All of it was desperation. If the demon showed, nothing was going to keep it from tearing through them like wet tissue paper.
Dean looked waxen, so much smaller than he'd been while he was breathing. Alive, Dean took up room and attention, stretching out his legs under the dashboard, pushing into Sam's space and making horrible jokes and guarding Sam with his life. Dead, Sam could see all the weight he'd lost and the sleep he'd missed. Sitting there, watching Dean crumpled and pale on the ground, it was like waiting for Dean to drop the match on their father's pyre. It was hell.
Thirty seconds. Forty. God, how could Sam think he could do this?
The effigy lay still and cold on the ground. Sam moved Dean's other hand back to its chest, over its heart. He did was he was ordered, tearing off a strip of duct tape with his teeth because he couldn't let go of Dean's fingers, taping Dean's hand to the effigy's chest. This was crazy. This wasn't going to work, and Sam sure as fuck wasn't going to do this twice.
If there was a twice. If he got Dean back. If-
Fifty seconds. Sixty. Sam rubbed his thumb over the palm of Dean's hand, catching on the gash where Dean had drawn blood for the effigy. He thought of Ouija boards and Reapers, pyres and shotguns and everything that brought them here.
I'll be the one to bury you. Right. Goddamn liar.
Minute and ten. A minute twenty.
Even if he got Dean back from this, would it be Dean? Forgetting the risks of no oxygen to the brain for at least two minutes solid, forgetting about whatever he might see in hell, if Dean came back empty-handed after all this... the only chance left was buried at the crossroads.
A minute thirty.
Fuck this. If Dean wanted to give him shit about not going all the way to two minutes, fine. At least he'd be alive to do it.
Sam steadied himself on the gravestone, trying to remember the CPR book he'd studied in preparation for this. Fifteen compressions, then two breaths.
His arms and back burned with the effort of each compression. Yeah, he'd probably pulled something there. With each compression he had to do, each moment Dean's chest stayed still, Sam pushed harder.
Dean had to live. Had to be there to turn the music up too high and steal Sam's socks and bitch about Sam being fragile, to drive while Sam slept and to fight beside Sam when the storms rolled in. Dean had to stay with him. Had to, because Sam couldn't do this without him.
"C'mon, Dean. Don't you dare leave me," Sam muttered, bending to blow two hard breaths into Dean's mouth, watching as his lungs inflated. As soon as Sam leaned back, the breath sighed passively out. Dean was still, blank as a flatline. "Come on, you son of a bitch."
He went back to compressions, counting under his breath. The words jerked up his throat, raw like he could taste blood. "Don't do this to me. Wake up!"
Two more breaths, and still no pulse. How long had it been? Two minutes? More?
More compressions. Fear made them harder, sharper. Sam thought he felt Dean's ribs creaking under the pressure. "Wake up, damn you!" Sam felt the tears sliding down his cheeks, felt the despair and panic rising. "Can't lose you, too. I can't do this without you." The echo of Dean's words to him on the night he'd shown up at Stanford made a sob bubble up in his throat. "Please," he whispered, bending to blow air into Dean's lungs again.
There was a hesitation, a long moment where Sam could feel Dean's body hold Sam's breath. Sam froze, his mouth just above Dean's, his hand gripping Dean's jacket tight, tight.
Dean coughed weakly, raggedly, his free hand thrashing on the ground. He turned his head away from Sam's, heaving in an ugly breath. Sam could feel him shivering, feel his body hitch painfully as he tried to suck in air.
"Dean?" Sam said, hating the fear in his voice.
Dean fumbled his hand up, gripping Sam's elbow and squeezing once. "Dude," he gasped, voice thready with abuse. "No tongue. Get off me, huh?"
Sam sat back on his heels, watching as Dean pushed himself up on his elbows. When Sam reached out to help him up, Dean smacked his hand away and rolled towards the effigy. He reached for the cloth bindings, and Sam held his breath.
Fuck. He couldn't handle this, couldn't handle watching Dean realize that it was for nothing. Sam took a breath, fighting the urge to pull him away, to let him hold onto that hope just for another moment. There had been no surge of power, no flash of light or brimstone while Dean was gone. Dean had died for a lump of clay and linen.
Then Dean ripped the thin fabric back from the effigy's mouth, and Sam's breath stilled in his throat. Where there had been clay, there was tan skin, the shadow of stubble, the familiar thin line of the scar on their father's cheekbone.
Dean made a guttural sound, tearing the rest of the cloth away.
"Dad," Sam breathed.
Their father lay there, his face still and peaceful.
Dean brought his head close to Dad's mouth, listening hard as if for instructions, and flashed Sam a shaky smile. "He's breathing."
Oh God, Sam thought wildly. He hadn't been prepared for it to work.
***
Getting Dad back to Bobby's had been fun. Between Dean shivering and clutching his ribs and Sam's back spasming, it had taken a bit more work than expected to get him into the car. John had laid in the backseat of the Impala, listing onto Dean's lap. He didn't wake when they moved him, didn't make any sign that he felt them jostling him.
Sam could still hear Dean murmuring apologies to their father every time they hit a bump.
Bobby came outside as Dean stumbled from the car, still shivering in the cold. "Jesus, boy! What the hell happened to you-" He broke off as he saw the silent form on the backseat. "Aw, Dean. What the hell were you thinking?"
"Shut up," Dean growled. "Help us get him inside, and call Joshua."
Joshua was one of the perks of hunting. He'd been a surgical attending doctor the night someone had brought in the victim of a Arachnis, a vicious spider-like demon that would pierce its target's stomach and lay a clutch of eggs in their intestines.
That night, the demon had been interrupted by John Winchester's gun, and the victim had survived the initial attack. But with the eggs still primed to hatch, John had been forced to sneak into the hospital, walking brazenly into the surgery clad in mask and scrubs, holding a sterile bowl that was filled with lighter fluid. Joshua was unimpressed until his hand had brushed against the clutch of eggs, which were by this time wriggling and distended, several of them pierced by hairy little legs.
Then Joshua had been more than happy to deposit them into the bin and watch them burn. After a bit of a discussion with John, he'd given up the hospital work and gone into private care.
Officially, Joshua hung his shingle in Iowa as a general surgeon, but to the hunting community, Joshua Steinberg was a fucking miracle worker. To them, a doctor who understood and would treat all manner of injuries and curses was worth his weight in gold. More important to Dean and Sam, Joshua was one of the handful of people that John Winchester had called friend.
Joshua breezed into Bobby's, pushing his round glasses up on his nose. "Okay, what did the boys get themselves into this time?" he asked.
Dean gave him a pale smile from the chair next to the bed. "Hey, Joshua."
Joshua stared at the quiet figure on the bed, watched John's chest rise and fall. "Oh, gehenem," he muttered. "God loves fools." He came to the bedside, quick fingers assessing John's condition.
Sam watched Dean's jaw tighten as Joshua poked and prodded, making soft noises to himself. Finally, Josh looked up. "I don't know how you did it, but he's alive, and in surprisingly good shape," he said.
"So he'll wake up," Dean said firmly.
Joshua shrugged. ""You're so far past the edge of the map on this one, I have no idea. I don't see a physical reason why not, but there's no way of knowing. Right now, he's in a pretty deep coma, but his vitals are good. I'll get him set up, show you how to handle a feeding tube-"
"Feeding tube?" Sam asked. He could hear the horror in his voice. Feeding tube. His father. Jesus.
"No way," Dean said curtly. "Dad has a living will-"
"And a DNR order, but you ignored the fuck out of that 'no heroic measures' thing, didn't you?" Joshua observed. "So honestly, Dean. Sit down and shut up, and let me do my job. He's not waking up in a few hours. Might be days. Weeks. Months."
Dean paled further, and Sam heard Bobby suck in a hard breath.
"Look," Joshua said, not unkindly. "Either I put in a feeding tube and give his brain a chance to reboot, or he starves. I don't know if you noticed, but he's a little on the malnourished side, boys."
"Put it in," Sam muttered, ignoring the look Dean shot him. "What else?"
"I'll put in a catheter, and show you how to change the bag. Eventually, you'll have to consider diapers, I'm guessing."
With a soft noise, Dean laid his head in his hands. "Fuck."
Sam sighed, touching Dean's shoulder lightly. Dean jerked away, rubbed roughly at his face, and sat up again.
Joshua nodded firmly. "But first, I'm going to look at you two."
Dean shook his head. "Dad first."
"He's stable. We do this my way, or not at all. Compared to you two, John looks like a goddamn beauty queen." Joshua's eyes pinned Sam. "Sit."
"Uh-" Sam started to back up as Joshua advanced towards him, wondering wildly why he was more afraid of this little man than he was most monsters. Then again, the monsters usually weren't as mean as Joshua. He sat quickly when Joshua's eyes narrowed. "Okay. Sure thing."
Dean snorted, muttering something that sounded distinctly like 'pussy'. Sam was too busy trying not to cower back against the wall.
One nice thing about Joshua was that he didn't feel the need to make nice with his patients. When you worked with hunters, small talk went by the wayside.
Instead, Joshua kept his questions concise. His fingers moved efficiently along Sam's shoulders, pressing in ways that made him see white sparks behind his eyes. "That's a tear," Joshua murmured. "Feels like you might have dislocated it along the way."
Dean, according to Joshua, was suffering from a couple cracked ribs and the equivalent of radiation poisoning from his time in Hell. Nothing to be done for it but bundling up and trying to keep warm until it passed. If it passed, and Dean didn't have Hell leeching off his body heat until the day he died.
"And fucking take it easy," Joshua muttered. "I'm leaving meds with Bobby for both of you. If you don't behave, he has my orders to tranq both your asses."
"Joshua-" Dean started.
"Shut up, Winchester. You're no good to your father or Sam if you overdo it and get really sick. Got it?"
Dean was silent for a moment, radiating anger. Then he swallowed and gave a jerky nod.
"Good. Now, let's get your dad set up."
Within a surprisingly short amount of time, Joshua had Dad set up, hooked to machines. One monitored his heart rate and blood pressure, one pushed fluid into his veins, another was there to monitor oxygen level. Tubes had been inserted into various places, and Joshua was instructing them on how to use the feeding tube, and how to change the iv bags and the catheter bag, and all manner of humiliating, degrading things that their father had been reduced to.
After the lesson was over, Sam walked out onto the porch, staring into the setting sun until his eyes burned. He told himself it was just the harsh spring sun that made his eyes water, the dust clogging his throat.
This wasn't right. Dad deserved so much better than this. Joshua said that there was no reason he wouldn't wake up, but--if he didn't, they couldn't leave him here indefinitely. Then what? Hospice? Nursing home?
What if he came back halfway? If he woke up, and everything that made him John Winchester had been burned out by the demon... could Sam handle that? Dad reduced to a vacant stare, drooling on himself? Or what if the body was damaged in some way they couldn't see? What if that fierce intellect and drive was left in a crippled shell?
Dean wouldn't be able to live with that. It'd kill him. Sam would lose them both.
"You all right?" Bobby asked gruffly, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder.
"You were right," Sam whispered tightly. "This was a mistake."
"Don't know that yet," Bobby said, voice even. "Hell, boy. I didn't think you'd get this far."
"We got a breathing corpse," Sam said bitterly.
"You've got your Dad. Give him a chance, Sam. I know he didn't raise you to be a quitter." Bobby clapped his shoulder. "Got leftover stew for dinner. Make sure Dean eats."
"Right." Sam felt the tug of surreality. Earlier he'd been holding Dean in the mud until he suffocated. He'd killed Dean, felt his breath stop, and now he was supposed to remind him to eat dinner. Because that had worked out so well right after Dad died.
They shouldn't have done this. He never should've let Dean try.
Scrubbing at his face, Sam sighed and went back inside.
****
The room where they kept Dad (Dean tried not to think 'the body') was the warmest room in Bobby's house. Dean still felt bone-deep cold. It might've been the hell radiation bullshit, but it probably had more to do with the passive blank of his father's face.
The monitors made steady noises. Dean gripped the rail of the bed in time, watching Dad's chest rise and fall. Watching what he'd done.
DNR. Dad had trusted him not to let it come to this.
Yeah. And Dean had trusted Dad not to make a deal with a fucking demon. Things were rough all over, weren't they?
The floorboards creaked softly behind Dean. He watched the regular spike of the heart monitor for a minute, not really trusting it to stay steady if he looked away, then made himself turn and face Sam.
Sam gave him a pale smile and held out the bowl of stew. He looked twelve, stripped down with fatigue. "Venison."
"Mm," Dean drawled. "Bambi."
"Breakfast of Champions." Sam set the bowl in front of him, then took up the chair on Dad's other side.
It felt like talking over a diner table. It felt like just them, alone with the furniture. Dad slept on, nobody home. Fuck, had they felt like this while Dean was out? Small wonder Sam had started with that Ouija board crap.
They looked at each other, but neither of them seemed to be able to do it for long. Sam reached out and took Dad's hand in among the tubes and wires, pressing his thumb to the pulsepoint.
Dean couldn't even touch him. He could change the IVs, deal with the necessary stuff, but handholding? No. No, that was Sam's thing.
John was warm. Alive. So goddamn close. So goddamn far.
Dean spooned at the thick stew, playing 'identify the small furry thing'. It was hot in his mouth, but it didn't even touch the gnawing cold in his chest or the pit of his stomach.
"He's gonna wake up," Dean said finally, too roughly.
Sam glanced at him. "Yeah. I know that."
"Okay." Dean jabbed viciously at a lump of venison. "Good."
Sam gave him that look, the mournful 'tell me your feelings' stare. Even without looking at Sam, Dean could feel it on his skin like an itch. When Sam spoke, it was only to say, "Maybe we ought to talk to him."
"Sam, we didn't really talk that much when he was upright."
Sam's expression could've murdered Dean from twenty paces.
"What?" Dean demanded. "Seriously, dude, how often did Dad just talk?"
"He talked all the time."
"About hunts. About strategy. Stuff we needed to know. We could cross states without a word from the man." Dean gave up on the bowl and set it aside. "I'm just saying. What do you want to talk about?"
"Voices help," Sam said tightly. "I talked to you."
Yeah. It all eventually came crashing back to that, didn't it?
Dean tiredly ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled. "All right. You're the one with the experience."
Sam cracked a grudging smile. "Just lucky, I guess." Absently rubbing Dad's wrist, Sam shrugged. "I could read to him. Bobby has enough books around."
So long as Sam had something to do to keep himself busy. Dean nodded, leaning his head in his hands. His bones hurt. Everything hurt, a dull tired ache.
"Hey," Sam said suddenly. When Dean glanced up at him, Sam said in that quiet voice, the one he used on victims and marks, "It's gonna be okay."
Neither of them bought it.
Dean pulled on a tight smile and lied, "I know."
***
Sam woke to a clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen. Four days. Four days of little sleep, of creeping dread.
Dad wasn't moving. He wasn't waking up. He just laid there.
Joshua had swung by the night before to check on Dad. He'd claimed that the coma was lighter, but Sam couldn't see it. In four days, the husk that was what was left of his father hadn't moved. Hadn't twitched.
Sam stumbled into the bedroom, somehow, not surprised to see Dean awake, stretched out on the cot that Bobby had dug up for them. "Morning," Sam muttered.
Dean didn't reply, his eyes fixed on something that Sam couldn't see.
"Dean?"
Dean glanced up, surprise leaving his face unguarded. He looked every bit as afraid as Sam felt, and so... diminished. Like this had finally done it. Finally broken Dean.
"Very good. And you're Sam," Dean muttered. "Now that we've cleared that up, what?"
"Why don't you grab a shower and breakfast? I'll sit with him."
Dean nodded and came to his feet slowly, his breath hissing out in pain when he moved a little too fast. "Yeah, okay. The iv's almost done."
"Got it." Sam settled onto the chair next to the bedside and reached under the cot for the box of books he'd picked up from the local thrift store. For the most part, they were utter shit--a mixed mess of trashy romance and weird horror. Dean had accused him of trying to make Dad wake up to get away from most of it. They'd worked their way through a cheesy bodice ripper romance novel with sex scenes that made Sam blush and skip pages.
Later, they were going to start Harry Potter, in the hope that it wouldn't suck quite so badly. Dad would’ve been horrified with the choice, but whatever. After that, Sam had a dog-eared, stained copy of "The Vampire Lestat" that he was planning on tormenting Dean with.
Really, wasn't this all for Dean? Dad sure as hell wasn't there.
His fingers hit a hard edge of a book, and Sam pulled it out, his breath catching as he pulled out the thin book he'd slid into the bag on impulse. Memories hit him hard.
They'd had a tiny apartment on the bad side of town. He'd been eight and sick, so goddamn sick. Dad had been sitting on the bed next to him, helping him eat a bowl of chicken noodle soup. The fever made his hands shake too much to hold the spoon. He remembered Dad's hands on his, resting cool and strong against the nape of his neck. Later, while they waited for the Tylenol to help, Sam remembered Dad's low, rough voice, reading a book that he'd kept from when Dean was little. It still had the tiny golden sticker, Dean's name written in pretty script that had to be their mother's. Sam wondered what had happened to it. Probably misplaced between one move and another, left behind for other people to throw away.
Opening the book, Sam reached through the rails to touch John's warm hand. "Hey, Dad. I figure we'll start Harry Potter later, but for now, we'll go with something short. I don't know if you remember, but you used to read this to me when I was sick."
Like Dad was just sick. Like this would pass with Tylenol and a good night's sleep, another injury for Dad to shrug off and keep going.
He waited for a moment, as though Dad would answer this time. When he didn't, Sam sighed, and looked down at the book. "The sun would not shine, it was too wet to play," he began.
John moaned low in his throat, voice raspy with disuse.
Sam froze, his fingers locking down on the hard spine of the book. He looked up slowly, half-expecting to see Dad staring back at him.
John's eyes were closed, lashes a dark slash across his cheekbones. There was a new line between his eyebrows, the faint furrow of pain or irritation. Sam sure as hell had seen the latter enough to recognize it.
Tentatively, like John detonate if jarred, Sam reached out and touched John's slack hand. There might've been a brief flicker of his eyelashes, a twitch under Sam's hand, but a few rounds of this had taught Sam a lot about his own level of denial. He could imagine a thousand tiny flutters of hope, but at the end of the day, Dad was still in a coma. Nothing changed.
Rubbing the back of John's knuckles, Sam set aside the book long enough to make a note for Joshua. Then he started reading again.
He hadn't even finished the page when John's hand jerked under his.
Sam's head shot up in time to watch John’s expression tighten briefly into a grimace. Sam put the book down and carefully untangled his hand from the nest of IVs, backing towards the doorway with his eyes locked on his father's vital signs. There was no change, steady as ever even as John bared his teeth and turned his face away from the door.
He moved. Oh Jesus. He moved.
****
The way Sam was yelling, Dean had expected more. Be it good or bad, he'd assumed there had been a big change. He'd really kind of expected to find Dad flatlining. But this--Dean wasn't sure if it was good or bad, or just...something. A lateral move, no ground lost or gained.
Dad's head tossed on the bed, face twisted in a grimace that looked like pain. He made soft guttural noises, lips moving in something that might have been pleading, or maybe just groans of agony.
You should hear the noises he makes. Can't even scream anymore.
Oh god, what had they done?
Dean was dialing his cellphone before he could think. "Joshua," he said shortly, the moment it picked up. "He's in pain, he's moving his head and his hands, and he's moaning, and-"
"Hey, sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message, and I'll call you back-"
"Goddamn it! Call me, Joshua!" Dean barked. "Something's wrong with Dad."
Dean hurried to the bedside to stand next to Sam. "Dad?" he said, like there would be an answer. He grabbed the syringe off its resting place beside the bed, uncapping it. His voice slid into a soothing register, simple brainless reflex. "Calm down. It's okay. I've got the morphine." Dean pretended that his hands weren't shaking while he slid the needle home into the port of the iv line. "There. You're all right."
After a moment, Dad's struggles slowed, his breath sighing out in a last groan. Then he was still again, expression gently troubled, and they were alone.
Dean stared at Sam, at the suspiciously bright eyes and trembling mouth. "It's okay, Sammy," he said, because it was all he could say.
Sam nodded, throat working hard. "I know," he finally managed, lowering himself back into the chair, and scooping up the stupid Dr. Seuss book. "Sorry about that, Dad. Where were we?"
Dean touched Sam's shoulder lightly, and let go when Sam flinched. He'd just startled Sam. That was all. "I'm going to get breakfast."
"Okay. On your way back, grab me one of the bottles, and I'll feed Dad," Sam murmured, then turned back to the book. "I sat there with Dean," he said, changing the names the way Dad always had.
Dean felt his throat tighten, and hurried from the room like hell was behind him.
It might well be.
They'd gotten Dad out. They'd brought the body back. Nobody said that the demon was going to let Dad go. Nobody told Dean that it wouldn't just lock Dad here, in his body, and torture him until Dad died again. Why the fuck not, right? Why not hurt him where Dean could see, where Sam could watch?
Dean hit the kitchen and stood there for a minute, staring at the potbelly stove and trying to remember what he'd come for. There had been something important.
Ensure. Food. Right. It was that time again, days stripped down to a ritual of feeding and meds and the tick of the heart monitor. They'd have to add morphine to the list of things to bleed into Dad's system.
This wasn't Dean's thing. Nobody would blame him if in a week or so, he slipped and gave Dad too much. They'd agreed on that, if Dad ever went down so hard they both knew he wasn't getting up again. Dad had made him promise. Dad had promised the same.
At least one of them hadn't lied.
Dean didn't hear Bobby until there was the gravel scrape of Bobby's voice in his ear, Bobby's hands warm on his shoulders. "Park it before you keel, boy."
His ass hit the seat of the kitchen chair. Dean blinked up at Bobby, trying to work up a good round of anger. The best he managed was a startled, "Ensure."
"Your dad'll manage a minute or two longer without that crap in his system. Sit." Pulling out his out chair, Bobby sat, their knees bumping. Bobby looked at him for a long, unnerving minute, then nodded. "I wrote you out a couple addresses. Hospices. They're clean and warded, run by decent folks. Good place for hunters who run into trouble."
Turned out that Dean could find energy to be pissed after all. "I'm not putting him in a goddamn home," he bit off.
Bobby didn't blink. "Didn't figure you were. Not yet. But if this doesn't let up, you boys might want to head back on the road. I'm telling you now, Dean: I love your daddy like my own kin, but I'm not doing this on my own again."
"Nobody's asking you to." Dean looked at his hands, resting loose on the scarred tabletop. "I'm not leaving until it's done."
The last word seemed heavy. Dean didn't clarify, and Bobby didn't ask. After a long moment, Bobby rose from his chair and went to get coffee. He came back with a coffee mug and a plate of food, both of which he pushed at Dean.
Dean took it, and poked at the country fried slab of meat. He'd assume steak, but Bobby was an equal opportunity carnivore. He was too hungry to worry about it. "You're trying to kill me," he griped, but picked up the silverware.
Bobby disappeared for a minute, returned again without the can of Ensure. Dean could still hear Sam reading, a steady rumble like the road under the Impala's tires. The blip of the heart monitor was almost as familiar, fading into white noise.
With a groan, Bobby sat again, broad arms folded in front of him. "Gettin' old."
"Never. You're too stubborn."
"Yeah, tell it to my back." Bobby eyed him, a faint smile riding the edges of his mouth. "Go on and ask, you nosy bastard. You're gonna get to it eventually."
It wasn't his damn business. Still, Bobby was offering, and Dean had nothing but hours to kill. "All right. What do you mean, do this again?"
"What I said," Bobby answered, then raised his hand to show Dean a battered gold band. "Me and your daddy, we've got plenty in common. Only difference is, Cindy died slow."
Sorry didn't help. Dean nodded, waited, and kept quiet.
"She was a good woman," Bobby said, after a minute. "Out of my league. Pretty, smart, flaky as all hell. Hippie. Her van broke down when she was following some band around, and I showed up to do the tow. She decided she liked my dogs. Said I had a good soul. So when it turned out the van was a loss, she told me she'd cook if I let her stay. I could have the couch, if I wanted, but she intended to sleep in my bed either way."
Dean grinned. "Nice. What'd you do?"
"Slept on the couch. That woman scared the hell out of me. Stop laughing before you ding those ribs, boy."
"What happened?"
Bobby smiled tightly. "Eventually, she won. I married her, and we started sleeping in the same bed. Well, hell, it was the seventies. Free love and all that. We went to a couple of parties, did a little swinging."
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open when his head started to droop. "Bobby, please never say those words again," he muttered.
"Sorry," Bobby said. "Anyhow, after about a year of being married, Cindy got sick. Doctors couldn't find anything, but she was just...fading. We went to a healer up on the reservation, he told me she was being attacked by something evil."
"I did some research, found a few of the hunters who were working back then. Elkins for one. He figured that it was an incubi of some sort." Bobby stood, went to the coffee pot and refreshed his coffee. "Hell, you know how much good that does. There's what? Eight varieties of succubi, each rarer than the last. But yeah, I went looking. Checked out every guy we'd spent time with."
"You find him?" Dean asked.
"Nope. Didn't find it until it showed back up. Fucking thing was the town kindergarten teacher. Succubi. Fucking carpet munching succubi," Bobby added. "The bitch brought us a casserole. Got caught on the Seal of Solomon in Cindy's room."
"Jesus," Dean said.
"It was too late, though. Cindy--it had taken too much. She died a week later."
It wasn't enough, but Dean offered a quiet, "I'm sorry."
Bobby's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and solid. "It was a long time ago."
"Yeah. Can I ask you a question? At the end. Did you...did you help things along?"
Bobby's grip tightened for a moment. "Might've."
Dean closed his eyes again. Concentrated on breathing, slow and steady. "Okay. Might, uh. Might have to ask you about that."
Bobby rubbed his shoulder, thumped him fondly like he was one of Bobby's old dogs. It was the highest compliment Bobby could pay a man. "When it's time," Bobby said, "you go ahead and do that, son. I'll be here."
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: R
Spoilers: Through "Hunted"
Pairing: Gen
Disclaimer: We don't own them, sadly. Though, really, we don't play nice with our toys.
A/N: This could be read as a stand alone. There will however, be future fics in this universe that will be Wincest, and MPREG-->genderswitch.
This was a bad fucking idea. It had been a bad idea when Dean had suggested it. It was a worse one now that they were here.
‘Here’ was Stull Cemetery, where the devil buried his child and the gates to hell were in reach. Sam could see their mother's gravestone from here, the rose marble bleached to gray in the moonlight. He'd brought flowers, a silent apology for what they were going to do. Dean gave the stone wide berth, barely glancing at it on his way past.
They were going to use the tomb of Elizabeth Burns, who died unmarried in 1819 at 22 and was buried next to a willow tree. Childbirth killed her, while she was still trying to tell whoever listened that she'd been raped in the night by the devil himself. There were no accounts of what happened to the child.
The air felt colder around her tomb, weighted. The willow tree was withered, half-dead, but it provided enough cover to hide what they were doing.
Sam stopped on his way for a rose to leave Elizabeth. Dead at 22; Jessica's echo felt like a cold hand around Sam's heart.
Dean laid out the preparations for the ritual, marking the scraggly grass in front of the tomb with the sigil for ‘gateway.’ He lit the black candle at the door. His voice was raw from the unexpectedly bitter night and from too many nights without sleep. “Elegba, open the gate, that I may pass and return.”
A generous portion of rum and a lit cigar helped to insure Elegba’s assistance. Nothing came free.
Nervously, Sam turned to the effigy they’d prepared. The vaguely human shaped doll was stuffed with herbs and sawdust, laying over the cement slab with its stiff arms folded over its chest. The white sheet was smeared with their blood, a jarring stain over the effigy's heart. The gold wedding band Dean had been wearing around his neck just peeked through the wrappings.
“You ready?” Dean asked sharply. It sounded like he'd been asking for a while.
Sam sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. He could feel the place where Dean had clipped away hair to add to the After a week of watching Dean torture himself over prep, Sam was surprised Dean hadn't hacked his own finger off for good measure. "Dean, maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“We’ve been through this,” Dean said curtly. “If you have another idea, this would be the time to mention it.”
“Did you even listen to what Bobby said?”
“Yeah. Good chance we’ll bring back a shell, if it even works at all." Dean stared at the blank face of the effigy, his expression closed. "At least he won’t be down there."
"You think I want to leave him there?" When Dean didn't answer, Sam pushed into the space between him and the effigy. Dean raised his eyes, deceptively calm if Sam ignored what was under that flat, even stare. "Jesus, Dean, it's Dad. Of course I don't, but-"
"Don't you?" Dean asked.
It was meant to throw Sam off. Sam didn't flinch. "-but it's not what he'd want."
"I don't give a damn what he'd want. Not now."
“I don’t know if I can do it.” There it was, Sam thought. The bottom line. When the chips were down, here he was, terrified.
“You’re the only one who can.” Dean got in his face, eyes dark with frustration. “Look, I can’t do this alone. And you’re the only one I trust. I wish I didn’t have to ask you to do this. But I do. So I am.”
“Dean-“ Sam took a deep breath, looking up at the midnight sky. His throat hurt. Dean had killed for him, had nearly died for him in Oregon, had stuck by Sam when anyone sane would cut and run. Dean needed this in a raw, bleeding way that Sam had never seen before. Dean had been killing himself by inches for months, and this might stop him where nothing else would.
“Okay," Sam said tiredly. "I’ll do it. Two minutes. No more.”
Dean nodded. “Okay. You ready?” He held out a strip of black latex.
“Yeah. I guess.” Reluctantly, Sam took the piece of rubber, turning it over in his hands. His fingers felt nerveless, clumsy as he watched Dean's breath mist up in the cold night air. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Reaching out, Dean thumped Sam's shoulder. "Short a few beers and Tawny Kitain-"
"Would you stop?" Sam shrugged, twisting the rubber into a tight knot. His voice was rough. "This sucks, Dean."
"I know. And if I could figure out a way around it, I would. But I need you here.” Dean's mouth tightened. "You're not getting any closer to that thing than you have to."
“I know,” Sam echoed. Some part of him wanted to tell Dean more in case-... in case. But if they screwed this up, if this was it, then there would be no more comfort in speeches than in silence. “Let’s get this over with.”
Dean flashed him a smile that shook on its edges. Perversely, Sam found it a little comforting that Dean was at least rattled. Dean laid down on his back next to the effigy, resting his hand over their father's wedding band. “C’mon, Sam," he said, almost gently. "Time to kill me.”
******
Dean fought. His chest heaved for air that wasn't coming. He struggled under Sam, twisting, scrabbling at Sam's arms and hands. His feet dug gouges in the muddy ground. He shuddered, tried to bite. The latex was pressed over his face in a weird mimicry of an executioner's hood, and Sam could only manage a sick gratitude that he couldn't see Dean's eyes as he slowed, stilled, and died.
Sam's face was wet. He let go of the latex, blindly tossing it aside, and grabbed Dean's limp hand. He was shaking as he leaned back against the tomb and started counting off the seconds, keeping them slow and measured as he watched Dean's lips turn blue.
He was alone. His arms ached from holding Dean down as he smothered him, burning where Dean's nails had dug long gouges trying to pry him away. Sam wanted those gouges to scar.
The graveyard was too still. They'd braced for the demon to attack now, when they were weakest. The ground around them was ringed in three circles of salt, protection sigils, white candles and iron fillings. All of it was desperation. If the demon showed, nothing was going to keep it from tearing through them like wet tissue paper.
Dean looked waxen, so much smaller than he'd been while he was breathing. Alive, Dean took up room and attention, stretching out his legs under the dashboard, pushing into Sam's space and making horrible jokes and guarding Sam with his life. Dead, Sam could see all the weight he'd lost and the sleep he'd missed. Sitting there, watching Dean crumpled and pale on the ground, it was like waiting for Dean to drop the match on their father's pyre. It was hell.
Thirty seconds. Forty. God, how could Sam think he could do this?
The effigy lay still and cold on the ground. Sam moved Dean's other hand back to its chest, over its heart. He did was he was ordered, tearing off a strip of duct tape with his teeth because he couldn't let go of Dean's fingers, taping Dean's hand to the effigy's chest. This was crazy. This wasn't going to work, and Sam sure as fuck wasn't going to do this twice.
If there was a twice. If he got Dean back. If-
Fifty seconds. Sixty. Sam rubbed his thumb over the palm of Dean's hand, catching on the gash where Dean had drawn blood for the effigy. He thought of Ouija boards and Reapers, pyres and shotguns and everything that brought them here.
I'll be the one to bury you. Right. Goddamn liar.
Minute and ten. A minute twenty.
Even if he got Dean back from this, would it be Dean? Forgetting the risks of no oxygen to the brain for at least two minutes solid, forgetting about whatever he might see in hell, if Dean came back empty-handed after all this... the only chance left was buried at the crossroads.
A minute thirty.
Fuck this. If Dean wanted to give him shit about not going all the way to two minutes, fine. At least he'd be alive to do it.
Sam steadied himself on the gravestone, trying to remember the CPR book he'd studied in preparation for this. Fifteen compressions, then two breaths.
His arms and back burned with the effort of each compression. Yeah, he'd probably pulled something there. With each compression he had to do, each moment Dean's chest stayed still, Sam pushed harder.
Dean had to live. Had to be there to turn the music up too high and steal Sam's socks and bitch about Sam being fragile, to drive while Sam slept and to fight beside Sam when the storms rolled in. Dean had to stay with him. Had to, because Sam couldn't do this without him.
"C'mon, Dean. Don't you dare leave me," Sam muttered, bending to blow two hard breaths into Dean's mouth, watching as his lungs inflated. As soon as Sam leaned back, the breath sighed passively out. Dean was still, blank as a flatline. "Come on, you son of a bitch."
He went back to compressions, counting under his breath. The words jerked up his throat, raw like he could taste blood. "Don't do this to me. Wake up!"
Two more breaths, and still no pulse. How long had it been? Two minutes? More?
More compressions. Fear made them harder, sharper. Sam thought he felt Dean's ribs creaking under the pressure. "Wake up, damn you!" Sam felt the tears sliding down his cheeks, felt the despair and panic rising. "Can't lose you, too. I can't do this without you." The echo of Dean's words to him on the night he'd shown up at Stanford made a sob bubble up in his throat. "Please," he whispered, bending to blow air into Dean's lungs again.
There was a hesitation, a long moment where Sam could feel Dean's body hold Sam's breath. Sam froze, his mouth just above Dean's, his hand gripping Dean's jacket tight, tight.
Dean coughed weakly, raggedly, his free hand thrashing on the ground. He turned his head away from Sam's, heaving in an ugly breath. Sam could feel him shivering, feel his body hitch painfully as he tried to suck in air.
"Dean?" Sam said, hating the fear in his voice.
Dean fumbled his hand up, gripping Sam's elbow and squeezing once. "Dude," he gasped, voice thready with abuse. "No tongue. Get off me, huh?"
Sam sat back on his heels, watching as Dean pushed himself up on his elbows. When Sam reached out to help him up, Dean smacked his hand away and rolled towards the effigy. He reached for the cloth bindings, and Sam held his breath.
Fuck. He couldn't handle this, couldn't handle watching Dean realize that it was for nothing. Sam took a breath, fighting the urge to pull him away, to let him hold onto that hope just for another moment. There had been no surge of power, no flash of light or brimstone while Dean was gone. Dean had died for a lump of clay and linen.
Then Dean ripped the thin fabric back from the effigy's mouth, and Sam's breath stilled in his throat. Where there had been clay, there was tan skin, the shadow of stubble, the familiar thin line of the scar on their father's cheekbone.
Dean made a guttural sound, tearing the rest of the cloth away.
"Dad," Sam breathed.
Their father lay there, his face still and peaceful.
Dean brought his head close to Dad's mouth, listening hard as if for instructions, and flashed Sam a shaky smile. "He's breathing."
Oh God, Sam thought wildly. He hadn't been prepared for it to work.
***
Getting Dad back to Bobby's had been fun. Between Dean shivering and clutching his ribs and Sam's back spasming, it had taken a bit more work than expected to get him into the car. John had laid in the backseat of the Impala, listing onto Dean's lap. He didn't wake when they moved him, didn't make any sign that he felt them jostling him.
Sam could still hear Dean murmuring apologies to their father every time they hit a bump.
Bobby came outside as Dean stumbled from the car, still shivering in the cold. "Jesus, boy! What the hell happened to you-" He broke off as he saw the silent form on the backseat. "Aw, Dean. What the hell were you thinking?"
"Shut up," Dean growled. "Help us get him inside, and call Joshua."
Joshua was one of the perks of hunting. He'd been a surgical attending doctor the night someone had brought in the victim of a Arachnis, a vicious spider-like demon that would pierce its target's stomach and lay a clutch of eggs in their intestines.
That night, the demon had been interrupted by John Winchester's gun, and the victim had survived the initial attack. But with the eggs still primed to hatch, John had been forced to sneak into the hospital, walking brazenly into the surgery clad in mask and scrubs, holding a sterile bowl that was filled with lighter fluid. Joshua was unimpressed until his hand had brushed against the clutch of eggs, which were by this time wriggling and distended, several of them pierced by hairy little legs.
Then Joshua had been more than happy to deposit them into the bin and watch them burn. After a bit of a discussion with John, he'd given up the hospital work and gone into private care.
Officially, Joshua hung his shingle in Iowa as a general surgeon, but to the hunting community, Joshua Steinberg was a fucking miracle worker. To them, a doctor who understood and would treat all manner of injuries and curses was worth his weight in gold. More important to Dean and Sam, Joshua was one of the handful of people that John Winchester had called friend.
Joshua breezed into Bobby's, pushing his round glasses up on his nose. "Okay, what did the boys get themselves into this time?" he asked.
Dean gave him a pale smile from the chair next to the bed. "Hey, Joshua."
Joshua stared at the quiet figure on the bed, watched John's chest rise and fall. "Oh, gehenem," he muttered. "God loves fools." He came to the bedside, quick fingers assessing John's condition.
Sam watched Dean's jaw tighten as Joshua poked and prodded, making soft noises to himself. Finally, Josh looked up. "I don't know how you did it, but he's alive, and in surprisingly good shape," he said.
"So he'll wake up," Dean said firmly.
Joshua shrugged. ""You're so far past the edge of the map on this one, I have no idea. I don't see a physical reason why not, but there's no way of knowing. Right now, he's in a pretty deep coma, but his vitals are good. I'll get him set up, show you how to handle a feeding tube-"
"Feeding tube?" Sam asked. He could hear the horror in his voice. Feeding tube. His father. Jesus.
"No way," Dean said curtly. "Dad has a living will-"
"And a DNR order, but you ignored the fuck out of that 'no heroic measures' thing, didn't you?" Joshua observed. "So honestly, Dean. Sit down and shut up, and let me do my job. He's not waking up in a few hours. Might be days. Weeks. Months."
Dean paled further, and Sam heard Bobby suck in a hard breath.
"Look," Joshua said, not unkindly. "Either I put in a feeding tube and give his brain a chance to reboot, or he starves. I don't know if you noticed, but he's a little on the malnourished side, boys."
"Put it in," Sam muttered, ignoring the look Dean shot him. "What else?"
"I'll put in a catheter, and show you how to change the bag. Eventually, you'll have to consider diapers, I'm guessing."
With a soft noise, Dean laid his head in his hands. "Fuck."
Sam sighed, touching Dean's shoulder lightly. Dean jerked away, rubbed roughly at his face, and sat up again.
Joshua nodded firmly. "But first, I'm going to look at you two."
Dean shook his head. "Dad first."
"He's stable. We do this my way, or not at all. Compared to you two, John looks like a goddamn beauty queen." Joshua's eyes pinned Sam. "Sit."
"Uh-" Sam started to back up as Joshua advanced towards him, wondering wildly why he was more afraid of this little man than he was most monsters. Then again, the monsters usually weren't as mean as Joshua. He sat quickly when Joshua's eyes narrowed. "Okay. Sure thing."
Dean snorted, muttering something that sounded distinctly like 'pussy'. Sam was too busy trying not to cower back against the wall.
One nice thing about Joshua was that he didn't feel the need to make nice with his patients. When you worked with hunters, small talk went by the wayside.
Instead, Joshua kept his questions concise. His fingers moved efficiently along Sam's shoulders, pressing in ways that made him see white sparks behind his eyes. "That's a tear," Joshua murmured. "Feels like you might have dislocated it along the way."
Dean, according to Joshua, was suffering from a couple cracked ribs and the equivalent of radiation poisoning from his time in Hell. Nothing to be done for it but bundling up and trying to keep warm until it passed. If it passed, and Dean didn't have Hell leeching off his body heat until the day he died.
"And fucking take it easy," Joshua muttered. "I'm leaving meds with Bobby for both of you. If you don't behave, he has my orders to tranq both your asses."
"Joshua-" Dean started.
"Shut up, Winchester. You're no good to your father or Sam if you overdo it and get really sick. Got it?"
Dean was silent for a moment, radiating anger. Then he swallowed and gave a jerky nod.
"Good. Now, let's get your dad set up."
Within a surprisingly short amount of time, Joshua had Dad set up, hooked to machines. One monitored his heart rate and blood pressure, one pushed fluid into his veins, another was there to monitor oxygen level. Tubes had been inserted into various places, and Joshua was instructing them on how to use the feeding tube, and how to change the iv bags and the catheter bag, and all manner of humiliating, degrading things that their father had been reduced to.
After the lesson was over, Sam walked out onto the porch, staring into the setting sun until his eyes burned. He told himself it was just the harsh spring sun that made his eyes water, the dust clogging his throat.
This wasn't right. Dad deserved so much better than this. Joshua said that there was no reason he wouldn't wake up, but--if he didn't, they couldn't leave him here indefinitely. Then what? Hospice? Nursing home?
What if he came back halfway? If he woke up, and everything that made him John Winchester had been burned out by the demon... could Sam handle that? Dad reduced to a vacant stare, drooling on himself? Or what if the body was damaged in some way they couldn't see? What if that fierce intellect and drive was left in a crippled shell?
Dean wouldn't be able to live with that. It'd kill him. Sam would lose them both.
"You all right?" Bobby asked gruffly, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder.
"You were right," Sam whispered tightly. "This was a mistake."
"Don't know that yet," Bobby said, voice even. "Hell, boy. I didn't think you'd get this far."
"We got a breathing corpse," Sam said bitterly.
"You've got your Dad. Give him a chance, Sam. I know he didn't raise you to be a quitter." Bobby clapped his shoulder. "Got leftover stew for dinner. Make sure Dean eats."
"Right." Sam felt the tug of surreality. Earlier he'd been holding Dean in the mud until he suffocated. He'd killed Dean, felt his breath stop, and now he was supposed to remind him to eat dinner. Because that had worked out so well right after Dad died.
They shouldn't have done this. He never should've let Dean try.
Scrubbing at his face, Sam sighed and went back inside.
****
The room where they kept Dad (Dean tried not to think 'the body') was the warmest room in Bobby's house. Dean still felt bone-deep cold. It might've been the hell radiation bullshit, but it probably had more to do with the passive blank of his father's face.
The monitors made steady noises. Dean gripped the rail of the bed in time, watching Dad's chest rise and fall. Watching what he'd done.
DNR. Dad had trusted him not to let it come to this.
Yeah. And Dean had trusted Dad not to make a deal with a fucking demon. Things were rough all over, weren't they?
The floorboards creaked softly behind Dean. He watched the regular spike of the heart monitor for a minute, not really trusting it to stay steady if he looked away, then made himself turn and face Sam.
Sam gave him a pale smile and held out the bowl of stew. He looked twelve, stripped down with fatigue. "Venison."
"Mm," Dean drawled. "Bambi."
"Breakfast of Champions." Sam set the bowl in front of him, then took up the chair on Dad's other side.
It felt like talking over a diner table. It felt like just them, alone with the furniture. Dad slept on, nobody home. Fuck, had they felt like this while Dean was out? Small wonder Sam had started with that Ouija board crap.
They looked at each other, but neither of them seemed to be able to do it for long. Sam reached out and took Dad's hand in among the tubes and wires, pressing his thumb to the pulsepoint.
Dean couldn't even touch him. He could change the IVs, deal with the necessary stuff, but handholding? No. No, that was Sam's thing.
John was warm. Alive. So goddamn close. So goddamn far.
Dean spooned at the thick stew, playing 'identify the small furry thing'. It was hot in his mouth, but it didn't even touch the gnawing cold in his chest or the pit of his stomach.
"He's gonna wake up," Dean said finally, too roughly.
Sam glanced at him. "Yeah. I know that."
"Okay." Dean jabbed viciously at a lump of venison. "Good."
Sam gave him that look, the mournful 'tell me your feelings' stare. Even without looking at Sam, Dean could feel it on his skin like an itch. When Sam spoke, it was only to say, "Maybe we ought to talk to him."
"Sam, we didn't really talk that much when he was upright."
Sam's expression could've murdered Dean from twenty paces.
"What?" Dean demanded. "Seriously, dude, how often did Dad just talk?"
"He talked all the time."
"About hunts. About strategy. Stuff we needed to know. We could cross states without a word from the man." Dean gave up on the bowl and set it aside. "I'm just saying. What do you want to talk about?"
"Voices help," Sam said tightly. "I talked to you."
Yeah. It all eventually came crashing back to that, didn't it?
Dean tiredly ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled. "All right. You're the one with the experience."
Sam cracked a grudging smile. "Just lucky, I guess." Absently rubbing Dad's wrist, Sam shrugged. "I could read to him. Bobby has enough books around."
So long as Sam had something to do to keep himself busy. Dean nodded, leaning his head in his hands. His bones hurt. Everything hurt, a dull tired ache.
"Hey," Sam said suddenly. When Dean glanced up at him, Sam said in that quiet voice, the one he used on victims and marks, "It's gonna be okay."
Neither of them bought it.
Dean pulled on a tight smile and lied, "I know."
***
Sam woke to a clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen. Four days. Four days of little sleep, of creeping dread.
Dad wasn't moving. He wasn't waking up. He just laid there.
Joshua had swung by the night before to check on Dad. He'd claimed that the coma was lighter, but Sam couldn't see it. In four days, the husk that was what was left of his father hadn't moved. Hadn't twitched.
Sam stumbled into the bedroom, somehow, not surprised to see Dean awake, stretched out on the cot that Bobby had dug up for them. "Morning," Sam muttered.
Dean didn't reply, his eyes fixed on something that Sam couldn't see.
"Dean?"
Dean glanced up, surprise leaving his face unguarded. He looked every bit as afraid as Sam felt, and so... diminished. Like this had finally done it. Finally broken Dean.
"Very good. And you're Sam," Dean muttered. "Now that we've cleared that up, what?"
"Why don't you grab a shower and breakfast? I'll sit with him."
Dean nodded and came to his feet slowly, his breath hissing out in pain when he moved a little too fast. "Yeah, okay. The iv's almost done."
"Got it." Sam settled onto the chair next to the bedside and reached under the cot for the box of books he'd picked up from the local thrift store. For the most part, they were utter shit--a mixed mess of trashy romance and weird horror. Dean had accused him of trying to make Dad wake up to get away from most of it. They'd worked their way through a cheesy bodice ripper romance novel with sex scenes that made Sam blush and skip pages.
Later, they were going to start Harry Potter, in the hope that it wouldn't suck quite so badly. Dad would’ve been horrified with the choice, but whatever. After that, Sam had a dog-eared, stained copy of "The Vampire Lestat" that he was planning on tormenting Dean with.
Really, wasn't this all for Dean? Dad sure as hell wasn't there.
His fingers hit a hard edge of a book, and Sam pulled it out, his breath catching as he pulled out the thin book he'd slid into the bag on impulse. Memories hit him hard.
They'd had a tiny apartment on the bad side of town. He'd been eight and sick, so goddamn sick. Dad had been sitting on the bed next to him, helping him eat a bowl of chicken noodle soup. The fever made his hands shake too much to hold the spoon. He remembered Dad's hands on his, resting cool and strong against the nape of his neck. Later, while they waited for the Tylenol to help, Sam remembered Dad's low, rough voice, reading a book that he'd kept from when Dean was little. It still had the tiny golden sticker, Dean's name written in pretty script that had to be their mother's. Sam wondered what had happened to it. Probably misplaced between one move and another, left behind for other people to throw away.
Opening the book, Sam reached through the rails to touch John's warm hand. "Hey, Dad. I figure we'll start Harry Potter later, but for now, we'll go with something short. I don't know if you remember, but you used to read this to me when I was sick."
Like Dad was just sick. Like this would pass with Tylenol and a good night's sleep, another injury for Dad to shrug off and keep going.
He waited for a moment, as though Dad would answer this time. When he didn't, Sam sighed, and looked down at the book. "The sun would not shine, it was too wet to play," he began.
John moaned low in his throat, voice raspy with disuse.
Sam froze, his fingers locking down on the hard spine of the book. He looked up slowly, half-expecting to see Dad staring back at him.
John's eyes were closed, lashes a dark slash across his cheekbones. There was a new line between his eyebrows, the faint furrow of pain or irritation. Sam sure as hell had seen the latter enough to recognize it.
Tentatively, like John detonate if jarred, Sam reached out and touched John's slack hand. There might've been a brief flicker of his eyelashes, a twitch under Sam's hand, but a few rounds of this had taught Sam a lot about his own level of denial. He could imagine a thousand tiny flutters of hope, but at the end of the day, Dad was still in a coma. Nothing changed.
Rubbing the back of John's knuckles, Sam set aside the book long enough to make a note for Joshua. Then he started reading again.
He hadn't even finished the page when John's hand jerked under his.
Sam's head shot up in time to watch John’s expression tighten briefly into a grimace. Sam put the book down and carefully untangled his hand from the nest of IVs, backing towards the doorway with his eyes locked on his father's vital signs. There was no change, steady as ever even as John bared his teeth and turned his face away from the door.
He moved. Oh Jesus. He moved.
****
The way Sam was yelling, Dean had expected more. Be it good or bad, he'd assumed there had been a big change. He'd really kind of expected to find Dad flatlining. But this--Dean wasn't sure if it was good or bad, or just...something. A lateral move, no ground lost or gained.
Dad's head tossed on the bed, face twisted in a grimace that looked like pain. He made soft guttural noises, lips moving in something that might have been pleading, or maybe just groans of agony.
You should hear the noises he makes. Can't even scream anymore.
Oh god, what had they done?
Dean was dialing his cellphone before he could think. "Joshua," he said shortly, the moment it picked up. "He's in pain, he's moving his head and his hands, and he's moaning, and-"
"Hey, sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message, and I'll call you back-"
"Goddamn it! Call me, Joshua!" Dean barked. "Something's wrong with Dad."
Dean hurried to the bedside to stand next to Sam. "Dad?" he said, like there would be an answer. He grabbed the syringe off its resting place beside the bed, uncapping it. His voice slid into a soothing register, simple brainless reflex. "Calm down. It's okay. I've got the morphine." Dean pretended that his hands weren't shaking while he slid the needle home into the port of the iv line. "There. You're all right."
After a moment, Dad's struggles slowed, his breath sighing out in a last groan. Then he was still again, expression gently troubled, and they were alone.
Dean stared at Sam, at the suspiciously bright eyes and trembling mouth. "It's okay, Sammy," he said, because it was all he could say.
Sam nodded, throat working hard. "I know," he finally managed, lowering himself back into the chair, and scooping up the stupid Dr. Seuss book. "Sorry about that, Dad. Where were we?"
Dean touched Sam's shoulder lightly, and let go when Sam flinched. He'd just startled Sam. That was all. "I'm going to get breakfast."
"Okay. On your way back, grab me one of the bottles, and I'll feed Dad," Sam murmured, then turned back to the book. "I sat there with Dean," he said, changing the names the way Dad always had.
Dean felt his throat tighten, and hurried from the room like hell was behind him.
It might well be.
They'd gotten Dad out. They'd brought the body back. Nobody said that the demon was going to let Dad go. Nobody told Dean that it wouldn't just lock Dad here, in his body, and torture him until Dad died again. Why the fuck not, right? Why not hurt him where Dean could see, where Sam could watch?
Dean hit the kitchen and stood there for a minute, staring at the potbelly stove and trying to remember what he'd come for. There had been something important.
Ensure. Food. Right. It was that time again, days stripped down to a ritual of feeding and meds and the tick of the heart monitor. They'd have to add morphine to the list of things to bleed into Dad's system.
This wasn't Dean's thing. Nobody would blame him if in a week or so, he slipped and gave Dad too much. They'd agreed on that, if Dad ever went down so hard they both knew he wasn't getting up again. Dad had made him promise. Dad had promised the same.
At least one of them hadn't lied.
Dean didn't hear Bobby until there was the gravel scrape of Bobby's voice in his ear, Bobby's hands warm on his shoulders. "Park it before you keel, boy."
His ass hit the seat of the kitchen chair. Dean blinked up at Bobby, trying to work up a good round of anger. The best he managed was a startled, "Ensure."
"Your dad'll manage a minute or two longer without that crap in his system. Sit." Pulling out his out chair, Bobby sat, their knees bumping. Bobby looked at him for a long, unnerving minute, then nodded. "I wrote you out a couple addresses. Hospices. They're clean and warded, run by decent folks. Good place for hunters who run into trouble."
Turned out that Dean could find energy to be pissed after all. "I'm not putting him in a goddamn home," he bit off.
Bobby didn't blink. "Didn't figure you were. Not yet. But if this doesn't let up, you boys might want to head back on the road. I'm telling you now, Dean: I love your daddy like my own kin, but I'm not doing this on my own again."
"Nobody's asking you to." Dean looked at his hands, resting loose on the scarred tabletop. "I'm not leaving until it's done."
The last word seemed heavy. Dean didn't clarify, and Bobby didn't ask. After a long moment, Bobby rose from his chair and went to get coffee. He came back with a coffee mug and a plate of food, both of which he pushed at Dean.
Dean took it, and poked at the country fried slab of meat. He'd assume steak, but Bobby was an equal opportunity carnivore. He was too hungry to worry about it. "You're trying to kill me," he griped, but picked up the silverware.
Bobby disappeared for a minute, returned again without the can of Ensure. Dean could still hear Sam reading, a steady rumble like the road under the Impala's tires. The blip of the heart monitor was almost as familiar, fading into white noise.
With a groan, Bobby sat again, broad arms folded in front of him. "Gettin' old."
"Never. You're too stubborn."
"Yeah, tell it to my back." Bobby eyed him, a faint smile riding the edges of his mouth. "Go on and ask, you nosy bastard. You're gonna get to it eventually."
It wasn't his damn business. Still, Bobby was offering, and Dean had nothing but hours to kill. "All right. What do you mean, do this again?"
"What I said," Bobby answered, then raised his hand to show Dean a battered gold band. "Me and your daddy, we've got plenty in common. Only difference is, Cindy died slow."
Sorry didn't help. Dean nodded, waited, and kept quiet.
"She was a good woman," Bobby said, after a minute. "Out of my league. Pretty, smart, flaky as all hell. Hippie. Her van broke down when she was following some band around, and I showed up to do the tow. She decided she liked my dogs. Said I had a good soul. So when it turned out the van was a loss, she told me she'd cook if I let her stay. I could have the couch, if I wanted, but she intended to sleep in my bed either way."
Dean grinned. "Nice. What'd you do?"
"Slept on the couch. That woman scared the hell out of me. Stop laughing before you ding those ribs, boy."
"What happened?"
Bobby smiled tightly. "Eventually, she won. I married her, and we started sleeping in the same bed. Well, hell, it was the seventies. Free love and all that. We went to a couple of parties, did a little swinging."
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open when his head started to droop. "Bobby, please never say those words again," he muttered.
"Sorry," Bobby said. "Anyhow, after about a year of being married, Cindy got sick. Doctors couldn't find anything, but she was just...fading. We went to a healer up on the reservation, he told me she was being attacked by something evil."
"I did some research, found a few of the hunters who were working back then. Elkins for one. He figured that it was an incubi of some sort." Bobby stood, went to the coffee pot and refreshed his coffee. "Hell, you know how much good that does. There's what? Eight varieties of succubi, each rarer than the last. But yeah, I went looking. Checked out every guy we'd spent time with."
"You find him?" Dean asked.
"Nope. Didn't find it until it showed back up. Fucking thing was the town kindergarten teacher. Succubi. Fucking carpet munching succubi," Bobby added. "The bitch brought us a casserole. Got caught on the Seal of Solomon in Cindy's room."
"Jesus," Dean said.
"It was too late, though. Cindy--it had taken too much. She died a week later."
It wasn't enough, but Dean offered a quiet, "I'm sorry."
Bobby's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and solid. "It was a long time ago."
"Yeah. Can I ask you a question? At the end. Did you...did you help things along?"
Bobby's grip tightened for a moment. "Might've."
Dean closed his eyes again. Concentrated on breathing, slow and steady. "Okay. Might, uh. Might have to ask you about that."
Bobby rubbed his shoulder, thumped him fondly like he was one of Bobby's old dogs. It was the highest compliment Bobby could pay a man. "When it's time," Bobby said, "you go ahead and do that, son. I'll be here."
