Fic: Picking up the Pieces (SPN) Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Dean gripped the wheel tighter to stop his hands shaking. He’d managed to get out of bed, have a shower and get his clothes on, sneak past the nurses and out of the ward down to the parking lot, where he’d found an unlocked car, hotwired it, and was home free. Except his brain was foggy from the meds and his worsening cold, he was having trouble catching his breath, the pain in his right side was still lingering, his back was in knots, and he wanted nothing more than to investigate the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.
Belatedly he thought about the trunk of this car he’d swiped, and how it wasn’t choc full of weapons like Baby was. That was okay. All he needed was salt and some matches… and a shovel, and a shot of whiskey, and salt, and whiskey…
He coughed towards the back of his wrist, trying to keep the car straight as his vision blurred.
“Come on, Dean,” he groaned, blinking hard, trying to focus.
Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe he would end up back in hospital, worse this time. But right now, this seemed like Dean’s only option.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and pressed the accelerator a little harder.
…
Bobby was walking in the main doors of the hospital when his phone rang.
“Hello,” he said, picking up the unknown number.
“Hi, Mr Singer?”
“Yeah,” he said gruffly, pressing the button on the lift.
“It’s Jennifer, one of the nurses looking after Dean.”
Bobby’s heart dropped.
“What’s wrong? Tell me the situation.”
“He, uh, he’s gone.”
“… What?”
“His bed is empty. His clothes are gone. We haven’t been able to locate him on the ward or in hospital grounds.”
“Son of a bitch.”
…
Sam had a feeling something was wrong. He was sitting in the back on his lunch break, staring at his phone with unrelenting intensity. He should call them, right? Make sure everything was okay? He shook his head. It was stupid to worry this much. The hospital would take care of him. It’s not like they would kick him out if he had a nightmare. Everything was fine.
Everything’s fine…
But it wasn’t fine. Sam had an ache deep in his stomach, a niggle in the back of his head. Dean was in trouble.
He was about to dial when Bobby started calling. His heart was in his throat.
“What is it?” he answered, his voice panicked and shaky.
“Dean’s done a runner.”
“Son of a bitch.”
…
Dean had the car pulled over on the side of the road. His hands were shaking so much now that driving was almost impossible. He wrapped an arm around his midsection, crumpling forward from the pain. He rested his head on the steering wheel. Every breath burned.
This was a bad idea.
His phone rung for the tenth time. Sam and Bobby had been calling him constantly. He silenced it but decided to send Sam a text, just to let him know he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.
There’s something I gotta do. Be back in a few days. - D
He threw his phone on the passenger seat and started the car again. He just needed to stop off at a hardware store, and a liquor store. Salt, matches, shovel, whiskey. Salt, matches, shovel, whiskey…
…
“Excuse me. I need you to help me grab a couple of things,” Dean asked, voice almost giving out entirely.
The young boy behind the counter of the hardware store looked up at him with immediate panic on his face.
“Are you alright, sir?” he blurted out.
Dean nodded, impatiently, “I’m fine. Now help me out.”
“Sure. Of course,” he replied, still looking like he was about to reach for the phone and dial 911.
“I need a bag of salt, matches or a lighter, and a shovel.”
“We usually only sell salt during the winter time…”
“Just get me some salt.”
“Okay. Yes, sir,” the kid said, and hurried off out the back.
Dean leaned on the counter, letting a cough escape. It sent stabbing pain through his chest and he thought he was going to vomit. He felt sweat prickle on his upper lip. He just needed a drink. Once he got a whiskey in him, he’d be fine.
“I found a bag out the back… mister?”
Dean lifted his head and the world tilted. He stumbled outside and threw up in the gutter. Surprisingly, the kid followed him.
“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
Dean straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Nah, I’m good. You got the stuff?”
“Well… yeah.”
“Okay,” Dean pulled a wad of cash out of his wallet, spoils from his pool hustling days, and handed it to the kid, “Put it in the trunk.”
…
“He was here when I came in to take his obs and do his meds at quarter to six. He told me he wasn’t feeling well, he’d come down with a cold. I brought him some tissues. That was all,” Jenny shook her head as if trying to recall some minor detail that would have sent Dean running for the hills.
Sam chewed his bottom lip, “And he just, what? Up and left? Without anyone noticing?”
Jenny’s cheeks reddened, and Bobby put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“No one saw him leave, but we are running one short tonight.”
“Did he take anything with him? You said his clothes were gone,” Bobby took a step forward, trying to be a barrier between Sam and the nurse who’d let his brother unplug himself and walk off the ward.
“That’s all. He didn’t have much with…” she stopped as she looked around, “The paper’s gone.”
“What paper?” Sam gushed.
“I brought him today’s newspaper to read. He looked so bored, and I though it would help him take his mind off things. It was on his table. It’s gone now.”
Sam huffed out loud, not really annoyed at Jenny anymore, just annoyed at his stupid, pigheaded brother… and so ridiculously worried. “Have you got another paper?”
“In the nurses’ station,” she nodded.
“We’re gonna need that, honey,” Bobby added.
Jenny headed off, leaving the boy’s alone in Dean’s room.
“He wouldn’t, Bobby,” Sam shook his head, “He couldn’t.”
“Well, I’ll bet he did. Whatever he saw in that paper I hope the boy hasn’t got himself in too deep. Last thing he needs is a knock to the head.”
“He can’t have got far, he doesn’t have the impala and the arsenal in the trunk.”
“He’ll make do. He’s resourceful.”
“Dammit, Bobby. What the hell is wrong with him?”
“Kid’s hurting, Sam. He’s hurting bad.”
“And going hunting, in his state is going to fix that? How does that make sense?”
“It does to him.”
…
Dean took a swig from the bottle of whiskey and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He felt renewed, alive, and, yeah, that probably wasn’t a good thing but he needed energy right now. He needed strength. And if this worked then bottoms up.
He pushed the car door open and swung his legs around. It pinched his back.
“Unnnngg,” he groaned.
He’d almost forgotten about the pain in his back… almost.
He pulled himself from the car, sniffing hard. He sneezed against his arm, grabbing a hold of the door to remain upright.
Sam hadn’t stopped calling since he’d sent the text. He’d even sent back one of his own.
Come back to the hospital, Dean. Please.
Dean had ignored it, just like all the phone calls. Sam didn’t understand. Sam didn’t understand hell. He didn’t know hell like Dean did. And Dean never wanted him to find out. He wasn’t the same person anymore. He was walking around right now carrying the weight of the world, and it was crippling. It was suffocating. He had souls upon souls piled on his shoulders, their faces in his dreams, their cries ringing in his ears. He needed to do this. He needed to do some good, however small, he needed this, just to get him through another night.
He slammed his door shut and straightened. He couldn’t even begin to catalogue the pain anymore. He decided not to think about it and headed round to the trunk where the kid had loaded up his supplies.
Popping the trunk he leaned both hands on the back of the car, feeling the car give under his weight. He coughed openly, feeling the familiar tearing pain in his ribs. God, he needed a massage. He rubbed a hand across his chest.
“Alright,” he croaked, “We got work to do.”
…
Dean gripped the wheel tighter to stop his hands shaking. He’d managed to get out of bed, have a shower and get his clothes on, sneak past the nurses and out of the ward down to the parking lot, where he’d found an unlocked car, hotwired it, and was home free. Except his brain was foggy from the meds and his worsening cold, he was having trouble catching his breath, the pain in his right side was still lingering, his back was in knots, and he wanted nothing more than to investigate the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.
Belatedly he thought about the trunk of this car he’d swiped, and how it wasn’t choc full of weapons like Baby was. That was okay. All he needed was salt and some matches… and a shovel, and a shot of whiskey, and salt, and whiskey…
He coughed towards the back of his wrist, trying to keep the car straight as his vision blurred.
“Come on, Dean,” he groaned, blinking hard, trying to focus.
Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe he would end up back in hospital, worse this time. But right now, this seemed like Dean’s only option.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and pressed the accelerator a little harder.
…
Bobby was walking in the main doors of the hospital when his phone rang.
“Hello,” he said, picking up the unknown number.
“Hi, Mr Singer?”
“Yeah,” he said gruffly, pressing the button on the lift.
“It’s Jennifer, one of the nurses looking after Dean.”
Bobby’s heart dropped.
“What’s wrong? Tell me the situation.”
“He, uh, he’s gone.”
“… What?”
“His bed is empty. His clothes are gone. We haven’t been able to locate him on the ward or in hospital grounds.”
“Son of a bitch.”
…
Sam had a feeling something was wrong. He was sitting in the back on his lunch break, staring at his phone with unrelenting intensity. He should call them, right? Make sure everything was okay? He shook his head. It was stupid to worry this much. The hospital would take care of him. It’s not like they would kick him out if he had a nightmare. Everything was fine.
Everything’s fine…
But it wasn’t fine. Sam had an ache deep in his stomach, a niggle in the back of his head. Dean was in trouble.
He was about to dial when Bobby started calling. His heart was in his throat.
“What is it?” he answered, his voice panicked and shaky.
“Dean’s done a runner.”
“Son of a bitch.”
…
Dean had the car pulled over on the side of the road. His hands were shaking so much now that driving was almost impossible. He wrapped an arm around his midsection, crumpling forward from the pain. He rested his head on the steering wheel. Every breath burned.
This was a bad idea.
His phone rung for the tenth time. Sam and Bobby had been calling him constantly. He silenced it but decided to send Sam a text, just to let him know he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.
There’s something I gotta do. Be back in a few days. - D
He threw his phone on the passenger seat and started the car again. He just needed to stop off at a hardware store, and a liquor store. Salt, matches, shovel, whiskey. Salt, matches, shovel, whiskey…
…
“Excuse me. I need you to help me grab a couple of things,” Dean asked, voice almost giving out entirely.
The young boy behind the counter of the hardware store looked up at him with immediate panic on his face.
“Are you alright, sir?” he blurted out.
Dean nodded, impatiently, “I’m fine. Now help me out.”
“Sure. Of course,” he replied, still looking like he was about to reach for the phone and dial 911.
“I need a bag of salt, matches or a lighter, and a shovel.”
“We usually only sell salt during the winter time…”
“Just get me some salt.”
“Okay. Yes, sir,” the kid said, and hurried off out the back.
Dean leaned on the counter, letting a cough escape. It sent stabbing pain through his chest and he thought he was going to vomit. He felt sweat prickle on his upper lip. He just needed a drink. Once he got a whiskey in him, he’d be fine.
“I found a bag out the back… mister?”
Dean lifted his head and the world tilted. He stumbled outside and threw up in the gutter. Surprisingly, the kid followed him.
“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
Dean straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Nah, I’m good. You got the stuff?”
“Well… yeah.”
“Okay,” Dean pulled a wad of cash out of his wallet, spoils from his pool hustling days, and handed it to the kid, “Put it in the trunk.”
…
“He was here when I came in to take his obs and do his meds at quarter to six. He told me he wasn’t feeling well, he’d come down with a cold. I brought him some tissues. That was all,” Jenny shook her head as if trying to recall some minor detail that would have sent Dean running for the hills.
Sam chewed his bottom lip, “And he just, what? Up and left? Without anyone noticing?”
Jenny’s cheeks reddened, and Bobby put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“No one saw him leave, but we are running one short tonight.”
“Did he take anything with him? You said his clothes were gone,” Bobby took a step forward, trying to be a barrier between Sam and the nurse who’d let his brother unplug himself and walk off the ward.
“That’s all. He didn’t have much with…” she stopped as she looked around, “The paper’s gone.”
“What paper?” Sam gushed.
“I brought him today’s newspaper to read. He looked so bored, and I though it would help him take his mind off things. It was on his table. It’s gone now.”
Sam huffed out loud, not really annoyed at Jenny anymore, just annoyed at his stupid, pigheaded brother… and so ridiculously worried. “Have you got another paper?”
“In the nurses’ station,” she nodded.
“We’re gonna need that, honey,” Bobby added.
Jenny headed off, leaving the boy’s alone in Dean’s room.
“He wouldn’t, Bobby,” Sam shook his head, “He couldn’t.”
“Well, I’ll bet he did. Whatever he saw in that paper I hope the boy hasn’t got himself in too deep. Last thing he needs is a knock to the head.”
“He can’t have got far, he doesn’t have the impala and the arsenal in the trunk.”
“He’ll make do. He’s resourceful.”
“Dammit, Bobby. What the hell is wrong with him?”
“Kid’s hurting, Sam. He’s hurting bad.”
“And going hunting, in his state is going to fix that? How does that make sense?”
“It does to him.”
…
Dean took a swig from the bottle of whiskey and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He felt renewed, alive, and, yeah, that probably wasn’t a good thing but he needed energy right now. He needed strength. And if this worked then bottoms up.
He pushed the car door open and swung his legs around. It pinched his back.
“Unnnngg,” he groaned.
He’d almost forgotten about the pain in his back… almost.
He pulled himself from the car, sniffing hard. He sneezed against his arm, grabbing a hold of the door to remain upright.
Sam hadn’t stopped calling since he’d sent the text. He’d even sent back one of his own.
Come back to the hospital, Dean. Please.
Dean had ignored it, just like all the phone calls. Sam didn’t understand. Sam didn’t understand hell. He didn’t know hell like Dean did. And Dean never wanted him to find out. He wasn’t the same person anymore. He was walking around right now carrying the weight of the world, and it was crippling. It was suffocating. He had souls upon souls piled on his shoulders, their faces in his dreams, their cries ringing in his ears. He needed to do this. He needed to do some good, however small, he needed this, just to get him through another night.
He slammed his door shut and straightened. He couldn’t even begin to catalogue the pain anymore. He decided not to think about it and headed round to the trunk where the kid had loaded up his supplies.
Popping the trunk he leaned both hands on the back of the car, feeling the car give under his weight. He coughed openly, feeling the familiar tearing pain in his ribs. God, he needed a massage. He rubbed a hand across his chest.
“Alright,” he croaked, “We got work to do.”
…