In Memory (Part Four)
Part Four
John was in a nightmare.
“Dean... oh God! Oh son of a bitch! No… no!” He grasped the old woman, shaking her so hard her head threatened to fall off. “Where’s the other bottle? You’ve got another one around here, don’t you? I wanna know where it is now!”
The witch merely grinned, blood pooling from her mouth, coating her teeth and dripping over her lips down to her chin, making her look like a demented rabid dog. “Where is it?” John demanded, smacking her so hard he hard bones rattle in her body. Dean’s own head bobbed against the floor even in his unconscious state.
“Looks like… I’ve got my… sacrifice… after all, sugar,” the witch sputtered between coughing and choking blood.
A particular violent cough jarred the witch’s chest and her pendant sprung out noticeably against her tattered clothes. John spied a tiny etching across it matching the symbols from the witch bottles. He yanked the chain from her neck and threw the pendant on the floor, stomping on it repeatedly as he felt it crumble to pieces against the sole of his boot, sounding like the crunch of bone as blood from the bottle bubbled up and splattered his boot. “Over my dead body, you evil, evil little bitch.”
The witch’s hair grew even longer and she visibly shrunk an inch or two, hunching over. Her skin was falling off her face, her teeth falling out of her mouth.
“Go to hell, Clara,” said John as he stuck the knife in her again, this time right in her heart. “Go to hell.”
Clara smiled one last time before coughing up a gallon of blood and then literally disintegrating into bones as she collapsed on the floor. John knelt next to her, pulling out Dean’s lighter and ignited her long hair. Her body began to smoke and smolder, the smell of burning hair channeling across the room in a pungent stink.
John took one last glimpse at Clara and then tore over to Dean to get a better look at him. Blood was flowing freely from his chest and he could hear the gurgling of his son’s breath, surmising that the knife might’ve hit one of his lungs. John ripped off his jacket and pressed it against the bloody wound, desperate to get the bleeding under control. “Dean, hey buddy, come on, open your eyes, son. Come on.”
Dean didn’t respond. He continued to lay limp against the floor, his chest just barely rising and falling, his face nearly translucent it was so pale.
“Okay, it’s okay. I’m gonna get you out of here,” John assured, not even concerned with the smoke billowing through the cabin as the fire burned through Clara and moved to her furniture. John bent down and scooped Dean into his arms, taking care to keep his jacket firmly pressed against the gaping wound in his chest.
The house flamed around him as he walked out of the house with Dean in his arms, smoke swirling through the air and flames catching the trees.
John didn’t give a crap if the whole forest burned down. All he cared about was getting his son to safety. It was three miles back to the car. It had taken them two hours to get up to the house days earlier but that had been all uphill. John estimated he could make it in an hour. He sped off down the rocky trail, his senses sharp, his body thrumming with pure adrenaline, barely feeling Dean’s weight or the rocks and stones stabbing at his feet as he hustled down the slope. He had to get Dean to the car as quickly as he could. Failure wasn’t an option. Dean wasn’t going to die. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He’d give him his own lung if he had to. Didn’t matter. He was going to live. He had to live. Damn it he had to live.
“You stay with me, son. Come on. You’re not gonna make me call Sam with that kind of news are you? Hell, you’ll hear that fight from heaven. And Mary, god, wherever she is, she’ll visit me in the night and haunt my ass for the rest of my life. Come on, Dean. Fight, son. Fight. I can’t do this without you. I can’t. You’re my heart, boy. You always have been.”
He stumbled on, feeling like he was walking over and over in the same spot. “Fight damn you, you fight! You do every damn thing I say, so you listen to me now. You’re going to live, you hear me, live god damn it!”
John dared to glance at Dean’s face and all he could see was his son as a little boy. Tears pricked at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. For your mom and this life and the crazy crap I put you through. And I’m sorry for Sam. That was my fault, Dean. I could’ve done a million other things, said a million other things and maybe gotten him to stay. I’m sorry you had to lose him. It’s not fair on you, Dean. None of it’s fair. And you handle it like a soldier. You are so strong and such a good man. I wish I could take credit for that, but I can’t because that’s all you. I’m so proud of you, son. For the man that you’re gonna become and the helluva man that you already are. I love you, son. I love you so much.”
Seconds passed and then minutes, a half hour and then an hour. John’s brain was numb and his legs were Jell-O. When he saw the Impala and then the flat tires, he felt his spirit wither up and die inside him.
John collapsed to the ground, burying his face into Dean’s hair and simply wept. For Mary and for the life they never had together, for the bleak life he had without her, for Sam and for the life he’d forced him to live and finally for Dean and the life they might not live together. He clutched Dean tight, his faith in everything dissolving, his strength, his resolve, gone; feeling so helpless as his son’s life slowly ebbed out of his body. “Dean,” he pleaded, running his hands over his son’s broken body. “Dean please…you’re all I’ve got left,” he sobbed, his hand finally resting over Dean’s heart. He could feel it beating. Slow.. very slow. But beating. Just like it had after the beatings and the fall down the stairs. Like it had Dean’s whole life despite everything.
Dean hadn’t given up. Not yet.
That meant John couldn’t give up either.
With renewed fervor, John gathered Dean tightly in his arms again and stood up, shuffling to the main road. He’d walk until a car came along or until he had made it to the nearest hospital, whichever came first. That was all there was to it. Dean wouldn’t give up on him if the situation was reversed and he definitely wouldn’t have given up on his brother. Dean would work himself until he was six feet under and would continue burrowing around in his grave until he realized he was dead.
Dean wouldn’t let his family down. John wasn’t going to let Dean down.
As it turned out, John didn’t have to walk even a mile in Dean’s shoes. It was more like 100 yards. He saw a crappy yellow Toyota speeding down the road. John hurried into the center of the pavement, daring the car to pass him. The car screeched to a halt and John nearly collapsed in relief when he saw Joey scurry out to them.
“Dean!” Joey yelled.
Mike was just behind him. “Joey came running into the house and said you’d helped him get away from the lady that took him. He led me here.” She started when she saw Dean. “Oh gawd, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s still alive,” John said, hurrying to the car. “He’s still alive.”
Mike nodded and dashed back to the driver’s seat. “Joey, help them into the back!”
Joey pulled the back seat up so John could get in with Dean. John collapsed into the seat, his body weary and sore, Dean slouched against him like a sack of bones. “Mike, you gotta get us to the hospital now. He doesn’t have much time.”
“You got it,” said Mike as she let Joey settle into shotgun and then screeched down the road.
Hopefully towards Dean’s salvation.
**
John sat in one of the E.R.’s plastic waiting room chairs, numb and in complete shock. He’d been sitting there ever since he’d stumbled in with Dean’s bleeding, broken body cradled in his arms. When it had come time for the doctors to take Dean away from him, he’d had a hard time letting him go. He was terrified it would be the last time he’d ever see or feel his son alive again. He’d crumpled in the chair and waited , ignoring his own injuries, telling Mike and Joey that he didn’t need any help or food or a place to stay, sending them home. He just needed Dean. He needed him to be okay.
God, please just let him be okay.
“Mr. Winchester?”
It took John a moment to realize the chubby blonde doctor who looked like Miss Piggy was talking to him. He’d been so frazzled coming in that he’d been unable to come up with a decent alias and gone with his God- given name instead.
“Yeah… yeah, that’s me,” John said, stumbling to his feet on weak and sore legs. “How’s Dean? Did he make it?”
“He’s alive,” she assured with a sweet, sympathetic smile.
There was a rush of relief that ran through John’s body so intense that he almost passed out. Tears welled in his eyes and a huge lump choked his throat. A buzzing sound went through his ears, causing him to strain to hear the diagnosis.
“His injuries were quite extensive as you know…”
His ears roared again, but he caught punctured lung, six broken ribs, concussion, dislocated shoulder, contusions on the kidneys, nicked artery, emergency surgery to repair the damages, chest tube.
“Will he be okay?” John asked after collecting his wits.
The doctor nodded. “Barring any complications, he should make a full recovery. He’s very strong.”
John laughed at that. “Yes he is.”
“I’ll take you to see him now if you’d like.”
“That’d be great,” John said, limping after her.
“Sure you don’t want to get checked out?” the doctor asked, observing his pain and weakness.
“I’m fine,” John assured her. “Really.”
“Alright,” said Miss Piggy. She led John through some double doors and then down a long corridor until finally she stopped at room 1851. He followed her inside and saw Dean laid out pale on the hospital bed, about a million tubes and indicators strapped to him.
It was the most beautiful thing John could ever recall seeing.
“He’s going to be out for quite awhile. You may want to go home , grab some food and a shower. Maybe get some sleep. Come back in the morning.”
John sat down in a chair set out next to Dean’s bed and grabbed his son’s hand, taking it in his own, marveling at its warmth and the steady pulse of life beating through it. “I’ll be good here.”
“Okay,” said the doctor. “If you need anything, his call button is right there,” she said, indicating a corded box resting on the blanket covering Dean.
“Thanks.”
The doctor left them alone and John grasped Dean’s hand even tighter, staring at his son’s face, mapping all the freckles and scars and lines once again, grateful for the chance to do so. He fell asleep five minutes later with his head tucked next to Dean’s side, his hand still firmly gripping his son’s.
TBC
John was in a nightmare.
“Dean... oh God! Oh son of a bitch! No… no!” He grasped the old woman, shaking her so hard her head threatened to fall off. “Where’s the other bottle? You’ve got another one around here, don’t you? I wanna know where it is now!”
The witch merely grinned, blood pooling from her mouth, coating her teeth and dripping over her lips down to her chin, making her look like a demented rabid dog. “Where is it?” John demanded, smacking her so hard he hard bones rattle in her body. Dean’s own head bobbed against the floor even in his unconscious state.
“Looks like… I’ve got my… sacrifice… after all, sugar,” the witch sputtered between coughing and choking blood.
A particular violent cough jarred the witch’s chest and her pendant sprung out noticeably against her tattered clothes. John spied a tiny etching across it matching the symbols from the witch bottles. He yanked the chain from her neck and threw the pendant on the floor, stomping on it repeatedly as he felt it crumble to pieces against the sole of his boot, sounding like the crunch of bone as blood from the bottle bubbled up and splattered his boot. “Over my dead body, you evil, evil little bitch.”
The witch’s hair grew even longer and she visibly shrunk an inch or two, hunching over. Her skin was falling off her face, her teeth falling out of her mouth.
“Go to hell, Clara,” said John as he stuck the knife in her again, this time right in her heart. “Go to hell.”
Clara smiled one last time before coughing up a gallon of blood and then literally disintegrating into bones as she collapsed on the floor. John knelt next to her, pulling out Dean’s lighter and ignited her long hair. Her body began to smoke and smolder, the smell of burning hair channeling across the room in a pungent stink.
John took one last glimpse at Clara and then tore over to Dean to get a better look at him. Blood was flowing freely from his chest and he could hear the gurgling of his son’s breath, surmising that the knife might’ve hit one of his lungs. John ripped off his jacket and pressed it against the bloody wound, desperate to get the bleeding under control. “Dean, hey buddy, come on, open your eyes, son. Come on.”
Dean didn’t respond. He continued to lay limp against the floor, his chest just barely rising and falling, his face nearly translucent it was so pale.
“Okay, it’s okay. I’m gonna get you out of here,” John assured, not even concerned with the smoke billowing through the cabin as the fire burned through Clara and moved to her furniture. John bent down and scooped Dean into his arms, taking care to keep his jacket firmly pressed against the gaping wound in his chest.
The house flamed around him as he walked out of the house with Dean in his arms, smoke swirling through the air and flames catching the trees.
John didn’t give a crap if the whole forest burned down. All he cared about was getting his son to safety. It was three miles back to the car. It had taken them two hours to get up to the house days earlier but that had been all uphill. John estimated he could make it in an hour. He sped off down the rocky trail, his senses sharp, his body thrumming with pure adrenaline, barely feeling Dean’s weight or the rocks and stones stabbing at his feet as he hustled down the slope. He had to get Dean to the car as quickly as he could. Failure wasn’t an option. Dean wasn’t going to die. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He’d give him his own lung if he had to. Didn’t matter. He was going to live. He had to live. Damn it he had to live.
“You stay with me, son. Come on. You’re not gonna make me call Sam with that kind of news are you? Hell, you’ll hear that fight from heaven. And Mary, god, wherever she is, she’ll visit me in the night and haunt my ass for the rest of my life. Come on, Dean. Fight, son. Fight. I can’t do this without you. I can’t. You’re my heart, boy. You always have been.”
He stumbled on, feeling like he was walking over and over in the same spot. “Fight damn you, you fight! You do every damn thing I say, so you listen to me now. You’re going to live, you hear me, live god damn it!”
John dared to glance at Dean’s face and all he could see was his son as a little boy. Tears pricked at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. For your mom and this life and the crazy crap I put you through. And I’m sorry for Sam. That was my fault, Dean. I could’ve done a million other things, said a million other things and maybe gotten him to stay. I’m sorry you had to lose him. It’s not fair on you, Dean. None of it’s fair. And you handle it like a soldier. You are so strong and such a good man. I wish I could take credit for that, but I can’t because that’s all you. I’m so proud of you, son. For the man that you’re gonna become and the helluva man that you already are. I love you, son. I love you so much.”
Seconds passed and then minutes, a half hour and then an hour. John’s brain was numb and his legs were Jell-O. When he saw the Impala and then the flat tires, he felt his spirit wither up and die inside him.
John collapsed to the ground, burying his face into Dean’s hair and simply wept. For Mary and for the life they never had together, for the bleak life he had without her, for Sam and for the life he’d forced him to live and finally for Dean and the life they might not live together. He clutched Dean tight, his faith in everything dissolving, his strength, his resolve, gone; feeling so helpless as his son’s life slowly ebbed out of his body. “Dean,” he pleaded, running his hands over his son’s broken body. “Dean please…you’re all I’ve got left,” he sobbed, his hand finally resting over Dean’s heart. He could feel it beating. Slow.. very slow. But beating. Just like it had after the beatings and the fall down the stairs. Like it had Dean’s whole life despite everything.
Dean hadn’t given up. Not yet.
That meant John couldn’t give up either.
With renewed fervor, John gathered Dean tightly in his arms again and stood up, shuffling to the main road. He’d walk until a car came along or until he had made it to the nearest hospital, whichever came first. That was all there was to it. Dean wouldn’t give up on him if the situation was reversed and he definitely wouldn’t have given up on his brother. Dean would work himself until he was six feet under and would continue burrowing around in his grave until he realized he was dead.
Dean wouldn’t let his family down. John wasn’t going to let Dean down.
As it turned out, John didn’t have to walk even a mile in Dean’s shoes. It was more like 100 yards. He saw a crappy yellow Toyota speeding down the road. John hurried into the center of the pavement, daring the car to pass him. The car screeched to a halt and John nearly collapsed in relief when he saw Joey scurry out to them.
“Dean!” Joey yelled.
Mike was just behind him. “Joey came running into the house and said you’d helped him get away from the lady that took him. He led me here.” She started when she saw Dean. “Oh gawd, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s still alive,” John said, hurrying to the car. “He’s still alive.”
Mike nodded and dashed back to the driver’s seat. “Joey, help them into the back!”
Joey pulled the back seat up so John could get in with Dean. John collapsed into the seat, his body weary and sore, Dean slouched against him like a sack of bones. “Mike, you gotta get us to the hospital now. He doesn’t have much time.”
“You got it,” said Mike as she let Joey settle into shotgun and then screeched down the road.
Hopefully towards Dean’s salvation.
**
John sat in one of the E.R.’s plastic waiting room chairs, numb and in complete shock. He’d been sitting there ever since he’d stumbled in with Dean’s bleeding, broken body cradled in his arms. When it had come time for the doctors to take Dean away from him, he’d had a hard time letting him go. He was terrified it would be the last time he’d ever see or feel his son alive again. He’d crumpled in the chair and waited , ignoring his own injuries, telling Mike and Joey that he didn’t need any help or food or a place to stay, sending them home. He just needed Dean. He needed him to be okay.
God, please just let him be okay.
“Mr. Winchester?”
It took John a moment to realize the chubby blonde doctor who looked like Miss Piggy was talking to him. He’d been so frazzled coming in that he’d been unable to come up with a decent alias and gone with his God- given name instead.
“Yeah… yeah, that’s me,” John said, stumbling to his feet on weak and sore legs. “How’s Dean? Did he make it?”
“He’s alive,” she assured with a sweet, sympathetic smile.
There was a rush of relief that ran through John’s body so intense that he almost passed out. Tears welled in his eyes and a huge lump choked his throat. A buzzing sound went through his ears, causing him to strain to hear the diagnosis.
“His injuries were quite extensive as you know…”
His ears roared again, but he caught punctured lung, six broken ribs, concussion, dislocated shoulder, contusions on the kidneys, nicked artery, emergency surgery to repair the damages, chest tube.
“Will he be okay?” John asked after collecting his wits.
The doctor nodded. “Barring any complications, he should make a full recovery. He’s very strong.”
John laughed at that. “Yes he is.”
“I’ll take you to see him now if you’d like.”
“That’d be great,” John said, limping after her.
“Sure you don’t want to get checked out?” the doctor asked, observing his pain and weakness.
“I’m fine,” John assured her. “Really.”
“Alright,” said Miss Piggy. She led John through some double doors and then down a long corridor until finally she stopped at room 1851. He followed her inside and saw Dean laid out pale on the hospital bed, about a million tubes and indicators strapped to him.
It was the most beautiful thing John could ever recall seeing.
“He’s going to be out for quite awhile. You may want to go home , grab some food and a shower. Maybe get some sleep. Come back in the morning.”
John sat down in a chair set out next to Dean’s bed and grabbed his son’s hand, taking it in his own, marveling at its warmth and the steady pulse of life beating through it. “I’ll be good here.”
“Okay,” said the doctor. “If you need anything, his call button is right there,” she said, indicating a corded box resting on the blanket covering Dean.
“Thanks.”
The doctor left them alone and John grasped Dean’s hand even tighter, staring at his son’s face, mapping all the freckles and scars and lines once again, grateful for the chance to do so. He fell asleep five minutes later with his head tucked next to Dean’s side, his hand still firmly gripping his son’s.
TBC