Broken
Broken
Word count: 1665
Genre: Canon-compliant gen, set pre-series
Characters: Bobby, John, Dean, Sam
Warnings: hurt Dean, show level violence
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but if I did I would probably write fanfic about it anyway.
Summary: "Well, last time we saw you, I mean, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot. Cocked the shotgun and everything."
"Yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people."
Dean's fever broke with the dawn.
John peeled back the top two blankets while Bobby gently patted away the sweat from the boy's face.
They continued to watch him in unspoken agreement, not yet trusting that the hours of delirium and fitful moans were finally over.
Half an hour later, when Sam startled them by appearing silently, Dean's breathing was still deep and even.
With instructions to watch Dean and wake the adults if they were needed, the two men each downed a glass of whiskey and finally staggered off to bed, leaving Sam sitting sentry.
Despite the fact he had been awake for about 24 hours, Bobby's sleep was anything but restful.
Every time he closed his eyes, he smelled wet fur and fetid breath. His chest heaved with the effort of running, a sharp pain blooming in his side, but he couldn't stop because the panting and the galloping footsteps were getting closer.
There was the terrible moment that he tripped, and he knew he was about to die.
Then, even more terrible, was the sound of a far too cocky young voice shouting "Hey, Alpo breath!"
The black dog had bounded toward Dean, leaving Bobby scrambling with his gun that had apparently gotten the safety switched on when he had fallen.
By the time Bobby had figured out what was going on and fired, John had gotten close enough to also shoot the monster.
When the smoke and the noise cleared and Bobby had managed to stand on his twisted ankle, the black dog and Dean were both down.
Neither of them made a move to get up.
John and Bobby had crashed into one another in their rush to get to the boy.
He was facedown, unconscious, covered in blood, but he was breathing. Thank God, he was breathing.
Bobby frantically swiped at the blood, trying to determine where Dean was bleeding, while John slapped his son's face and shook the boy, trying to rouse him.
Most of the blood had apparently come from the black dog, as Dean only had a few minor cuts and scrapes. There was a goose egg knot at the edge of his hairline above his left eye, and he got up holding his left side. His chest was deeply bruised at the least, very likely a rib or two cracked, but John palpitated the area and determined that there weren't any displaced fractures.
John lectured him all the way back to the truck and threatened to beat his ass, cracked ribs or not, if Dean ever did anything that stupid again.
The next morning, when John decided to run down to Lincoln for supplies, he left the boys with Bobby, probably because he was more concerned about Dean's mild concussion making him carsick in the Impala than he was concerned about Dean's comfort, riding three and a half hours each way.
Caleb must have had a bottle waiting, because John didn't make it back for two days.
Bobby had been manning the phones for Rufus while running research for Travis, so he hadn't stayed after Dean and made sure the young'un did his deep breathing exercises like you're supposed to do after a chest injury. By the time John returned, Dean had a fever and the deep, rattling cough that comes with a respiratory infection.
Bobby gave the boy a couple antibiotic tablets that were left in his first aid kit, made him drink whiskey with honey and lemon, and put a pot of salt water and camphor leaves on a hot plate on the dresser.
John wrestled Sam out of the room bodily and threatened to hog tie him in the backseat of the car if Sam didn't leave his brother alone so Dean could get some rest.
Sam just narrowed his eyes and said as he walked away. "I could get loose. Dean taught me how."
Bobby bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing because that little shit was just as hard headed as his dad.
The next morning Bobby half expected Dean to bounce into the kitchen, grab a cup of coffee, and wolf down half the canned cinnamon rolls that Bobby would never admit that he only made when the boys were around.
Instead, Sam appeared alone and silent at the foot of the stairs, his face screwed into the thoughtful frown that usually meant the kid was about to explain how he had figured out the origins of the Shroud of Turin or that D. B. Cooper was a shifter or some other shit way too complex for the average sixth grader to worry about.
What came out of his mouth, however, was four simple, horrifying words.
"Dean is really sick."
John and Bobby exchanged worried glances before pushing past the kid and up the stairs.
Dean was burning up with fever, his eyes glassy and unfocused, grimacing in pain as violent coughing racked his sore chest. One arm was wrapped around his middle, clutching his other side, but his left arm was held angled up against his chest as if it was broken.
John grabbed the arm to check while Bobby pressed the back of his hand to Dean's forehead and cheeks, trying to hazard a guess as to how high his temperature was.
"Bobby." John said grimly, turning the inside of Dean's arm into view.
An inch and a half long cut that neither of the men had thought deep enough to stitch, was now swollen and inflamed, with red streaks branching out from the wound.
"Balls!" Bobby swore softly.
What followed was hours of John alternately trying to cool Dean's fevers and bundling him up when the chills set in, while Bobby mixed herbs into a colloidal silver solution and coaxed Dean to drink sips of them, as he was barely conscious and certainly not able to take the horse pill sized antibiotic tablets Bobby had downstairs.
There was only one brief argument between Sam and John about taking Dean to the hospital, which Sam amazingly let drop after John reminded him that this would be the second time in less than two years Dean would have been to the same hospital with chest trauma, and "Do you want social services to take him away?"
Bobby led Sam out of the room, took him downstairs and instructed him to cut fresh onion, which they were going to put on the soles of Dean's feet to draw out the toxins. It gave the boy something to do, to feel like he was being helpful.
It gave Bobby a chance to toss back a couple shots and tell himself that right now, the only thing that mattered was making sure Dean recovered from this.
There would be plenty of time later to dwell on the fact that he had screwed up on two hunts that resulted in the boy getting hurt.
Time passed in a blur of taking care of Dean, to the point that Bobby was surprised to realize it was dark outside when Sam brought in a plate of sandwiches. Despite the boy's insistence that he could take a turn caring for Dean, John ordered his younger son to bed.
Bobby had asked John twice if he was sure they didn't want to take Dean to a hospital. Sioux Falls General might not be a good idea, but they were only a little over an hour from Mercy in Sioux City and he had heard the new hospital in Windom was really nice for a small town. John flinched slightly, clenched his fists so tight his knuckles were white, but still insisted they should just give it a little more time.
That stubborn old bastard had been right after all, because Dean's fever had broken at day light.
Bobby and John left Sam to watch over his brother, and stumbled off to get some rest.
Bobby had finally fallen into a decent sleep around noon, only to be awakened shortly after by some kind of commotion downstairs.
Bobby peeked into the room down the hall to find it empty.
Afraid something had happened to Dean, he ran down the stairs. Sam was carrying his and Dean's duffles, while John carried Dean.
"What's wrong?" Bobby asked.
"Dean's stable, so we're headed out." John answered tersely.
"What?" Bobby shook his head. "John, he was critical a few hours ago! Unless you're taking him to a hospital, just let him rest here a few more days. If there's a job that can't wait, just go on, and I'll watch him and Sam until you get back."
"Like you watched him on that hunt?" John snapped. "I've taken Dean hunting with you twice and almost didn't bring him home both times!"
"You think I don't know that?" Bobby shouted back. "Yes, we should have done more recon before we went on that vampire hunt! But the black dog was just a hunt gone bad! It would have happened whether we had Dean there or not! And I'm not the one who told him to use himself as bait!"
"Open the door, Sam." John gestured at the kitchen door with his head.
The younger boy obeyed, with a look at Bobby that pleaded with the older man to do something.
"John, get your head out of your ass!" Bobby said. "We can fight about whose fault it was later, but right now, Dean needs to be taken care of."
"That's what I'm doing." John sneered, angling to get Dean's long legs through the doorway. "I'm taking my son away from here. Away from you. Because your old man was right. You break everything you touch."
The shotgun was in Bobby's hands and cocked before he realized what he had done.
"Don't you ever, ever, come back here, Winchester." Bobby told him calmly, sighting down the barrel of the gun. "Or I'll empty both barrels between your eyes."
He never did.
That was the last time Bobby saw John Winchester.
A/N - the references to a previous hunt gone bad are from my story The Great Divide.