Left Behind (part 3)
Summary: Part of a larger series of one-shots; this one focuses on John and Dean in the aftermath of Sam leaving
Category: Angst, h/c, family
Characters: John Winchester, Dean Winchester
Dean screams, a sound so unlike any he's ever made that it has the hair on my arms standing up. I think I've never run so fast in my entire life, which, considering the intensity of some of the situations I've found myself in, is fast. I'm still not fast enough to stop the nightmare that greets me.
Dean is lying on the cold cement, screaming, a piece of rubar protruding from his abdomen, and there's no way it missed all his vital organs. I drop to my knees and am suddenly reminded of a time when I was no older than he is in a country far from home, watching a buddy die, wooden stakes skewering him in a death trap set by the Viet Cong. The urge to vomit hits me hard and fast, and it takes all my willpower not to heave; Dean doesn't need that. He needs to me to be strong.
He's pale, his lips a sickly gray, and tears are streaming down into his hair and onto the ground. Dean is sobbing.
"Aw, shit, Dean," I murmur under my breath, running a hand through his sweat and tear-soaked hair.
I should've seen this coming. Hell, Bobby told me not a week ago to look out for my son, but I'm a stubborn-ass bastard and thought -wrongly- that I knew what was best for Dean. Holy shit…
It's been six months. I thought we were both doing fine, I honestly did. We both dealt with it in our own ways, though mine may have been a bit more isolating than is healthy. I screwed up. I've been turning to the bottle, and I've been running. Running from Dean, running from the whole damn situation, pretending that I hadn't kicked my youngest son out, as good as disowned him.
I thought we were both doing fine.
Dean gasps for breath and I start thumbing his forehead in rhythmic circles as I try to figure out what to do. Obviously, getting Dean medical attention is an absolute must at this point, but pulling him off the rubar is going to set off a chain of effects I don't think I can deal with, and if I try to get help here, in an off-limits construction site, the cops are going to be all over our asses.
Shit.
I have to think logically. I have to think. I take a deep breath and make my decision. I'll have to bust the gate open, but I've got wire cutters in the Impala, and then I'll bring the car around, and then I'll get Dean off the piece of damn metal, and then I'll get him to the hospital.
Shit.
It's a crappy plan, and I know it, but it's the best I've got.
"Dean? Hey kid, I'm gonna go get the Impala, bring it right back, okay?" Dean doesn't answer, blinks up at me with glazed eyes, pain tightening his features.
"Dad," he slurs, and I wince at the obvious confusion and lack of focus in his voice.
"I'm gonna go get the Impala," I repeat, hoping it will get through to him. There's so much blood…
"Don' go," he whispers brokenly, and I nearly cry.
"Dean-"
"Daddy. Don' leave m'," he repeats, and I haven't heard him call me that since he was a frightened four-year old.
"I'm not leaving, Dean, I'll be right back," I say, looking straight into his eyes, praying for him to understand.
"Sorry," he whispers slowly, "'bout Sam. My fault." His voice trails off and he starts to go limp in my arms. Tears are actually streaming down my face now. He blames himself for the crap that's been the last six months.
"Dean. That is not your fault, you hear me?" I say firmly, tapping his temple. He looks at me blearily.
"You need to stay awake. Awake. That's an order, son, you got that?" I use my best Marine voice, the one that gets instant results. Dean struggles to comply, blinking lazily in an effort to clear his head.
"There you go, stay awake, okay? I want to know every album put out by Metallica, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath when I get back, okay Dean?" Dean makes a grunt of agreement, even managing to roll his eyes slightly, and then I'm running, scrambling out of the building and over the chainlink fence and out to the Impala, ripping the wire cutters out of the trunk and hastily applying them to the gate.
I'm still taking too damn long. My hands are trembling by the time I get the keys into the ignition, wondering for the billionth time how in the hell we got into this crap.
Bobby tried to warn me. He told me to look at Dean, take a good look at him. He hasn't been eating, hasn't been sleeping, has slow reflexes. I didn't want to listen to him. Didn't want to believe that I was so distanced from my own son that I didn't notice his clearly failing health, didn't want to really have to think about why he was so distraught. Because if I admitted that Dean was unwell, I would also have to admit that it was because of Sammy, and then we'd have to talk about it. And talking is something we Winchesters don't do so well.
So I ignored Bobby and pushed Dean, made him go on a hunt with me to a construction site (over an old cemetary- even without supernatural knowledge, you'd think people were smarter than that) made him distract an angry spirit while I frantically tried to salt-and-burn his bones, didn't even notice when he ended up on a rickety platform above my head. I did notice when he yelled, surprised by the spirit, damn reflexes that Bobby warned me about making themselves known as he failed to get out of the way in time and crashed to the floor.
Which leads me to now, running from the Impala in a desperate dash for my son, skidding to a stop at his side, feeling my heart sink as I take in his white, still form.
"Dean!" I cry, tapping his temple again, knowing better than to shake his shoulder. Dean stares up at me, a brief smile crossing his pinched face.
"Led…Zeppelin," he murmurs, and I nod, terrified that he's losing it. But he continues, slurring. "Led Z…Zeppelin T-Two…L-Le-Led Zepp…elin Th-Three." I smile for a second, relief flooding over me. Then I'm back to reality as his voice falters and hitches in pain. He groans, and I wince.
"I have to get you off of that thing, Dean," I whisper, and his eyes are so filled with fear and pain and trust that I'm overwhelmed. I position myself as carefully as I can, squatting next to him and sliding my hands under the curve of his butt and midway down his back, and holy shit am I actually doing this? I take a deep breath, and lift, as vertically as possible.
Dean's scream and subsequent limpness send me running to the car, tears trickling and goosebumps on my arms. His breathing is ragged and hitching, and he doesn't move. Ohshitohshitohshit…
I'm at the car faster than I realize, digging through the med kit and pulling bandages frantically out, wrapping the wound as tightly as I can. Dean remains unconscious, moaning slightly. I slide him into the back seat, placing his head on my lap, roaring away from the construction site even as I dial 9-1-1. Police be damned, we're meeting up with an ambulance on the way.
His breathing is stuttering more frequently now, hitching enough to send me into a frenzied panic as I wonder how much longer before we meet the medics.
We should've just talked about Sam. Should've just admitted that we miss him like hell, that we aren't the same without him, not even close to the same, but that maybe together we can move on. But I think we were both a bit delusional, just assumed that we were okay, that we could handle it. And now it's too late, and I'm terrified that I'm losing both of my sons and it's my damn fault. Both of them.
Then the ambulance is there, and EMTs are streaming around me, gently gripping Dean and sliding him onto a stretcher, shouting to one another and starting IV lines, telling me hurriedly that they've called for a MedEvac, then roaring away.
The drive to the hospital is long and lonely. Guilt and worry are eating me up, and I realize that Sam should probably know. That Dean would want him to know if…if the worst were to happen. I flip my phone open, thumb hovering over number two where Sam's number is speed dialed in, but indecision plagues me. What if Sam doesn't answer? What if he's unwilling to even pick up? But Dean needs him. I clench my jaw and close the phone, tossing it onto the seat beside me. I'm too selfish to even call my own damn son. I'm the worst damn father on the face of the planet.
I pull into the parking lot, run to the waiting room. We're trying to stabilize him, they say, and then we'll take him straight up to surgery. Small intestine got impaled, they say, and he's lost a lot of blood. We'll let you know when we know, they assure, have the tenacity to pat my shoulder. You'll need to wait here. They walk away, and despair overwhlems me.
I let my head sink onto the arms bunched up on my knees, sobs wracking my body. It's gonna be a damn long wait.
Category: Angst, h/c, family
Characters: John Winchester, Dean Winchester
Dean screams, a sound so unlike any he's ever made that it has the hair on my arms standing up. I think I've never run so fast in my entire life, which, considering the intensity of some of the situations I've found myself in, is fast. I'm still not fast enough to stop the nightmare that greets me.
Dean is lying on the cold cement, screaming, a piece of rubar protruding from his abdomen, and there's no way it missed all his vital organs. I drop to my knees and am suddenly reminded of a time when I was no older than he is in a country far from home, watching a buddy die, wooden stakes skewering him in a death trap set by the Viet Cong. The urge to vomit hits me hard and fast, and it takes all my willpower not to heave; Dean doesn't need that. He needs to me to be strong.
He's pale, his lips a sickly gray, and tears are streaming down into his hair and onto the ground. Dean is sobbing.
"Aw, shit, Dean," I murmur under my breath, running a hand through his sweat and tear-soaked hair.
I should've seen this coming. Hell, Bobby told me not a week ago to look out for my son, but I'm a stubborn-ass bastard and thought -wrongly- that I knew what was best for Dean. Holy shit…
It's been six months. I thought we were both doing fine, I honestly did. We both dealt with it in our own ways, though mine may have been a bit more isolating than is healthy. I screwed up. I've been turning to the bottle, and I've been running. Running from Dean, running from the whole damn situation, pretending that I hadn't kicked my youngest son out, as good as disowned him.
I thought we were both doing fine.
Dean gasps for breath and I start thumbing his forehead in rhythmic circles as I try to figure out what to do. Obviously, getting Dean medical attention is an absolute must at this point, but pulling him off the rubar is going to set off a chain of effects I don't think I can deal with, and if I try to get help here, in an off-limits construction site, the cops are going to be all over our asses.
Shit.
I have to think logically. I have to think. I take a deep breath and make my decision. I'll have to bust the gate open, but I've got wire cutters in the Impala, and then I'll bring the car around, and then I'll get Dean off the piece of damn metal, and then I'll get him to the hospital.
Shit.
It's a crappy plan, and I know it, but it's the best I've got.
"Dean? Hey kid, I'm gonna go get the Impala, bring it right back, okay?" Dean doesn't answer, blinks up at me with glazed eyes, pain tightening his features.
"Dad," he slurs, and I wince at the obvious confusion and lack of focus in his voice.
"I'm gonna go get the Impala," I repeat, hoping it will get through to him. There's so much blood…
"Don' go," he whispers brokenly, and I nearly cry.
"Dean-"
"Daddy. Don' leave m'," he repeats, and I haven't heard him call me that since he was a frightened four-year old.
"I'm not leaving, Dean, I'll be right back," I say, looking straight into his eyes, praying for him to understand.
"Sorry," he whispers slowly, "'bout Sam. My fault." His voice trails off and he starts to go limp in my arms. Tears are actually streaming down my face now. He blames himself for the crap that's been the last six months.
"Dean. That is not your fault, you hear me?" I say firmly, tapping his temple. He looks at me blearily.
"You need to stay awake. Awake. That's an order, son, you got that?" I use my best Marine voice, the one that gets instant results. Dean struggles to comply, blinking lazily in an effort to clear his head.
"There you go, stay awake, okay? I want to know every album put out by Metallica, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath when I get back, okay Dean?" Dean makes a grunt of agreement, even managing to roll his eyes slightly, and then I'm running, scrambling out of the building and over the chainlink fence and out to the Impala, ripping the wire cutters out of the trunk and hastily applying them to the gate.
I'm still taking too damn long. My hands are trembling by the time I get the keys into the ignition, wondering for the billionth time how in the hell we got into this crap.
Bobby tried to warn me. He told me to look at Dean, take a good look at him. He hasn't been eating, hasn't been sleeping, has slow reflexes. I didn't want to listen to him. Didn't want to believe that I was so distanced from my own son that I didn't notice his clearly failing health, didn't want to really have to think about why he was so distraught. Because if I admitted that Dean was unwell, I would also have to admit that it was because of Sammy, and then we'd have to talk about it. And talking is something we Winchesters don't do so well.
So I ignored Bobby and pushed Dean, made him go on a hunt with me to a construction site (over an old cemetary- even without supernatural knowledge, you'd think people were smarter than that) made him distract an angry spirit while I frantically tried to salt-and-burn his bones, didn't even notice when he ended up on a rickety platform above my head. I did notice when he yelled, surprised by the spirit, damn reflexes that Bobby warned me about making themselves known as he failed to get out of the way in time and crashed to the floor.
Which leads me to now, running from the Impala in a desperate dash for my son, skidding to a stop at his side, feeling my heart sink as I take in his white, still form.
"Dean!" I cry, tapping his temple again, knowing better than to shake his shoulder. Dean stares up at me, a brief smile crossing his pinched face.
"Led…Zeppelin," he murmurs, and I nod, terrified that he's losing it. But he continues, slurring. "Led Z…Zeppelin T-Two…L-Le-Led Zepp…elin Th-Three." I smile for a second, relief flooding over me. Then I'm back to reality as his voice falters and hitches in pain. He groans, and I wince.
"I have to get you off of that thing, Dean," I whisper, and his eyes are so filled with fear and pain and trust that I'm overwhelmed. I position myself as carefully as I can, squatting next to him and sliding my hands under the curve of his butt and midway down his back, and holy shit am I actually doing this? I take a deep breath, and lift, as vertically as possible.
Dean's scream and subsequent limpness send me running to the car, tears trickling and goosebumps on my arms. His breathing is ragged and hitching, and he doesn't move. Ohshitohshitohshit…
I'm at the car faster than I realize, digging through the med kit and pulling bandages frantically out, wrapping the wound as tightly as I can. Dean remains unconscious, moaning slightly. I slide him into the back seat, placing his head on my lap, roaring away from the construction site even as I dial 9-1-1. Police be damned, we're meeting up with an ambulance on the way.
His breathing is stuttering more frequently now, hitching enough to send me into a frenzied panic as I wonder how much longer before we meet the medics.
We should've just talked about Sam. Should've just admitted that we miss him like hell, that we aren't the same without him, not even close to the same, but that maybe together we can move on. But I think we were both a bit delusional, just assumed that we were okay, that we could handle it. And now it's too late, and I'm terrified that I'm losing both of my sons and it's my damn fault. Both of them.
Then the ambulance is there, and EMTs are streaming around me, gently gripping Dean and sliding him onto a stretcher, shouting to one another and starting IV lines, telling me hurriedly that they've called for a MedEvac, then roaring away.
The drive to the hospital is long and lonely. Guilt and worry are eating me up, and I realize that Sam should probably know. That Dean would want him to know if…if the worst were to happen. I flip my phone open, thumb hovering over number two where Sam's number is speed dialed in, but indecision plagues me. What if Sam doesn't answer? What if he's unwilling to even pick up? But Dean needs him. I clench my jaw and close the phone, tossing it onto the seat beside me. I'm too selfish to even call my own damn son. I'm the worst damn father on the face of the planet.
I pull into the parking lot, run to the waiting room. We're trying to stabilize him, they say, and then we'll take him straight up to surgery. Small intestine got impaled, they say, and he's lost a lot of blood. We'll let you know when we know, they assure, have the tenacity to pat my shoulder. You'll need to wait here. They walk away, and despair overwhlems me.
I let my head sink onto the arms bunched up on my knees, sobs wracking my body. It's gonna be a damn long wait.