Fic: Picking up the Pieces (SPN) Chapters Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Dean was tired. He felt like he’d never been so tired in all his life. His bones ached, his muscles ached, his skin ached. The exhaustion was deep. Crippling. Suffocating.
“Go to sleep, boy.”
Dean’s eyes scanned over to Bobby, who was sitting to the side, looking like he hadn’t said a thing. The lights were off in the hospital. Sam had left for work long ago. The room was being lit by the bedside lamp, which was providing just enough light for Bobby to read whatever old book he was flipping through.
Dean cleared his throat, “Not tired.”
It sounded ridiculous even to him. His voice was about two octaves lower than usual, thick with congestion, and raw.
Bobby snorted in attempt at a laugh.
“There’s nobody here to fool, son.”
Dean went to speak again but coughed instead.
“Urrrgh,” he groaned when he’d finished. He ripped a tissue from the box on the bed beside him, fitting it over his nose delicately. He blew a mass of mucus into it. The disruption to his sinuses made him sneeze forcefully.
“Gesundheit.”
Dean blew his nose again and then muttered a thank you under his breath.
Some time passed before Bobby spoke again.
“Hard to sleep with your eyes open.”
Dean sighed. He’d thought about closing his eyes. He’d thought long and hard about it. He’d had a sleep while Sam was there, after their talk with Dr Reid. He honestly hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open. But even though he woke quietly, hours later, without anyone having shaken him awake to stop him screaming, it didn’t mean he hadn’t lived in hell for that short time. And Whittaker was right, it wasn’t just when he dreamed, it was whenever he closed his eyes. Now he was terrified to do even that.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself if you try to think any harder,” Bobby said, gruffly, but with a hint of fondness.
Dean tried for a smile, “Why don’t you dust off that book and read it out loud? Then we might both learn something.”
The sentence left him out of breath, but he’d needed to say it. Because he could feel the panic creeping back in, wrapping it’s sticky tentacles around him. And if he had to lie there just listening to himself breathe he’d go crazy… ha, too late.
“You want me to read to you?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow, humour evident in his voice.
Dean didn’t need to speak again before Bobby started reading out loud. Bobby knew him damn well, knew that he was too exhausted to form a response to that question, knew he was too broken to try and attempt to justify himself, knew he was hanging on by a mere thread.
Bobby spoke in his usual gruff tone, so steady, so familiar. It didn’t even matter what he was saying, Dean just held onto his voice and focused on keeping his eyes open, lulled by the scratchy sound of pages turning as the night grew darker and darker around their little pocket of light. His sinuses were full of congestion and he occasionally distracted himself by emptying them into tissue upon tissue, steadily making his way through the box at his hip. Eventually though the box was empty, and Dean couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer… but Bobby never stopped reading.
…
Dean woke panting, literally dripping in sweat. He instinctively brought his hands to his chest to check that it wasn’t ripped apart, that his organs were still inside his body. When he realized where he was he let his head flop back against the pillow, chest still heaving.
“You okay?” Bobby asked from somewhere beside him.
Dean took five more breaths before he answered, “When are we getting out of here?”
“Not so fast. We’ll think about going when you’ve stopped panting like you just ran the Kentucky derby.”
Dean hadn’t got to sleep until they were well into the next morning. Now it was sunny outside, lights on, door open, staff bustling by. Time to go.
“I’m good. When’s Sam coming?”
“He’s already here. Just went down to the pharmacy to get your meds.”
Dean tried to focus his attention on the here and now.
“Does he have enough money? I have a card -“
“Don’t you worry about that.”
“Bobby…”
“You think I can’t look after my boys?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow.
Dean didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything. He was filled with a kind of warmth at Bobby insinuating that he was their father, but he was also gutted that he had taken so much from him.
“Dean,” Bobby started, knowing Dean was still recovering from his recent night terror.
“I just want to go home, Bobby,” he sounded worse this morning because his voice was going, requiring even more energy to make a sound.
Bobby took a while to respond, “I know, son.”
Dean stared out the window, hoping that it was the last time he’d have to look out that window.
“Katie came by about an hour ago but you were sleeping.”
“Oh.”
“I told her you were checking out today. She said to wish you all the best and she’ll see you in rehab.”
Dean nodded, swallowing past his tender throat.
…
Sam stood staring at the stuffed teddy bears with ‘get well soon’ plastered across their bellies. They were fluffy and brightly coloured, black glossy eyes staring back at him. Sam felt a sinking feeling in his gut, thinking back to coming in and finding Dean in the hospital that night, so sick.
“How did this happen?”
“Well, the combination of the alcohol and the prescription medication caused his liver a great deal of stress and inflammation.”
“But he’s freaking yellow! How did I not notice he was so sick? What kind of a brother am I?”
“Sam, this didn’t come on over night. The skin change would have been progressive, and for someone seeing him every day it wouldn’t have been significant enough to even take note of.”
“I still… I just can’t…”
“This isn't your fault, Sam. Your brother has been actively hiding his issues from you, he’s admitted that much. We can move on from this, and do everything we can for Dean, okay? Sam?”
“… Sam Winchester?”
Sam cleared his throat, turned around to face the counter where they were calling his name. He signed for and collected Dean’s medications, at least ten boxes and bottles in a zip lock bag.
…
“This is ridiculous,” Dean muttered, as the orderly pushed him down the hallway in a wheelchair.
“Relax, man. Consider it being chauffer driven. You’re certainly not gonna get this kind of attention at home,” Sam laughed.
“I friggen hope not,” Dean mumbled, then coughed, then decided to stop talking. His decision didn’t last very long though until he saw Bobby swinging Baby up the driveway to the pickup area out the main doors.
“Well, hello, Baby,” he grinned.
“Woah, is this your car?” The orderly asked, pushing Dean up close to her and locking the wheels.
“Sure is. Beautiful, isn’t she?” Dean reached a hand out to drag a finger down her sleek hip.
“She certainly is.”
“Do you want to lie down in the back?” Sam asked, opening the door.
“No way. I’m sitting up front.”
…
Dean hadn’t slept. Sam was ready to take him back to the hospital. Maybe slip a pill into his food. He’d been home a full day, a full night, and now it was the next evening. He mostly ambled around the house like he was lost, or like a tiger in a cage, pacing, wanting to get out, wanting something to kill. But now it’d been so long since he’d slept. He was cranky. He snapped at anything anyone said. He groaned in pain when he moved, not trying to hide it. He held onto the walls when he walked, in favour of using the forearm crutches that the physios had sent him home with. Sam knew he was feeling sick, in pain, emotionally scarred, but it was all being compounded by the fact he wouldn’t sleep. He was sure a good nights sleep would help. It had to.
“Dean?” Sam approached the couch where his brother lay, aggressively flipping through channels.
“Hm?” he groaned, seeming disinterested.
“Maybe you should try going to sleep again…”
“Maybe you should shut up.”
“Dean… listen to your brother.”
Dean turned the TV off and slammed the remote on the coffee table.
He tried to sit up.
“Need a hand, dude?” Sam leaned in.
“Don’t friggen touch me,” Dean forced out through gritted teeth.
“Son, you better watch your mouth,” Bobby said.
Dean managed to get standing by himself, face red.
“You’re not our father. Stop pretending to be.”
Sam watched, mouth gaping, as Dean wandered down the hall, listened to the sound of the back door opening and swinging shut with excessive force. Then his eyes found Bobby, who was sitting in the armchair, a look in his eye he couldn’t quite read.
“Bobby, he didn’t mean that.”
Bobby took some controlled breaths before he spoke, “Yeah… I’m gonna go to bed…”
“Bobby…”
“Watch out for your idjit brother,” he said as he passed him on his way to his room.
Sam sighed and rubbed his temple. Dean was beginning to be impossible to handle. Like a hurricane.
…
Dean sat down on the stairs at the back of the house, gritted his teeth as it sent pain shooting up his spine. He let his head fall into his hands. Tears burning behind his eyes, but he didn’t cry, there was nothing left. No emotion to muster up. He couldn’t cry if he wanted to. So his eyes just burned, and burned, and burned. He sniffed hard. Light rain began to fall on his head and he looked up, waiting for the drops to fall in his eyes.
He sneezed messily into his palm.
Shouldn’t be out here, Winchester.
He snuffled indignantly, trying to silence the voice in his head.
He didn’t know anything anymore. He’d just said one of the worst things he’d ever said to one of the most important people in his life. This was it. This was rock bottom. Because now it wasn’t just what was happening to him that was the problem. Now he was the problem.
Once again he dropped his face into his hands, and he did something he hadn’t done for a while. Because he didn’t know what else to do.
“Cas… buddy. I need help. Please.”
There was a gust of wind. He was almost too exhausted to lift his head.
Cas was standing in the middle of the back yard, trench coat reflecting the moonlight, blue eyes glinting.
“So now you show up,” Dean mumbled.
“Dean… you know I never wanted to leave you here.”
“Cas… I’m tired.”
“I know, Dean.”
“No, Cas… I’m really tired.”
Cas cocked his head, then stepped towards him, “Very well.”
He reached out, and with two fingers, pressed them against Dean’s forehead. The touch spread a warmth through his body, and then there was nothing.
…
Dean was tired. He felt like he’d never been so tired in all his life. His bones ached, his muscles ached, his skin ached. The exhaustion was deep. Crippling. Suffocating.
“Go to sleep, boy.”
Dean’s eyes scanned over to Bobby, who was sitting to the side, looking like he hadn’t said a thing. The lights were off in the hospital. Sam had left for work long ago. The room was being lit by the bedside lamp, which was providing just enough light for Bobby to read whatever old book he was flipping through.
Dean cleared his throat, “Not tired.”
It sounded ridiculous even to him. His voice was about two octaves lower than usual, thick with congestion, and raw.
Bobby snorted in attempt at a laugh.
“There’s nobody here to fool, son.”
Dean went to speak again but coughed instead.
“Urrrgh,” he groaned when he’d finished. He ripped a tissue from the box on the bed beside him, fitting it over his nose delicately. He blew a mass of mucus into it. The disruption to his sinuses made him sneeze forcefully.
“Gesundheit.”
Dean blew his nose again and then muttered a thank you under his breath.
Some time passed before Bobby spoke again.
“Hard to sleep with your eyes open.”
Dean sighed. He’d thought about closing his eyes. He’d thought long and hard about it. He’d had a sleep while Sam was there, after their talk with Dr Reid. He honestly hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open. But even though he woke quietly, hours later, without anyone having shaken him awake to stop him screaming, it didn’t mean he hadn’t lived in hell for that short time. And Whittaker was right, it wasn’t just when he dreamed, it was whenever he closed his eyes. Now he was terrified to do even that.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself if you try to think any harder,” Bobby said, gruffly, but with a hint of fondness.
Dean tried for a smile, “Why don’t you dust off that book and read it out loud? Then we might both learn something.”
The sentence left him out of breath, but he’d needed to say it. Because he could feel the panic creeping back in, wrapping it’s sticky tentacles around him. And if he had to lie there just listening to himself breathe he’d go crazy… ha, too late.
“You want me to read to you?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow, humour evident in his voice.
Dean didn’t need to speak again before Bobby started reading out loud. Bobby knew him damn well, knew that he was too exhausted to form a response to that question, knew he was too broken to try and attempt to justify himself, knew he was hanging on by a mere thread.
Bobby spoke in his usual gruff tone, so steady, so familiar. It didn’t even matter what he was saying, Dean just held onto his voice and focused on keeping his eyes open, lulled by the scratchy sound of pages turning as the night grew darker and darker around their little pocket of light. His sinuses were full of congestion and he occasionally distracted himself by emptying them into tissue upon tissue, steadily making his way through the box at his hip. Eventually though the box was empty, and Dean couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer… but Bobby never stopped reading.
…
Dean woke panting, literally dripping in sweat. He instinctively brought his hands to his chest to check that it wasn’t ripped apart, that his organs were still inside his body. When he realized where he was he let his head flop back against the pillow, chest still heaving.
“You okay?” Bobby asked from somewhere beside him.
Dean took five more breaths before he answered, “When are we getting out of here?”
“Not so fast. We’ll think about going when you’ve stopped panting like you just ran the Kentucky derby.”
Dean hadn’t got to sleep until they were well into the next morning. Now it was sunny outside, lights on, door open, staff bustling by. Time to go.
“I’m good. When’s Sam coming?”
“He’s already here. Just went down to the pharmacy to get your meds.”
Dean tried to focus his attention on the here and now.
“Does he have enough money? I have a card -“
“Don’t you worry about that.”
“Bobby…”
“You think I can’t look after my boys?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow.
Dean didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything. He was filled with a kind of warmth at Bobby insinuating that he was their father, but he was also gutted that he had taken so much from him.
“Dean,” Bobby started, knowing Dean was still recovering from his recent night terror.
“I just want to go home, Bobby,” he sounded worse this morning because his voice was going, requiring even more energy to make a sound.
Bobby took a while to respond, “I know, son.”
Dean stared out the window, hoping that it was the last time he’d have to look out that window.
“Katie came by about an hour ago but you were sleeping.”
“Oh.”
“I told her you were checking out today. She said to wish you all the best and she’ll see you in rehab.”
Dean nodded, swallowing past his tender throat.
…
Sam stood staring at the stuffed teddy bears with ‘get well soon’ plastered across their bellies. They were fluffy and brightly coloured, black glossy eyes staring back at him. Sam felt a sinking feeling in his gut, thinking back to coming in and finding Dean in the hospital that night, so sick.
“How did this happen?”
“Well, the combination of the alcohol and the prescription medication caused his liver a great deal of stress and inflammation.”
“But he’s freaking yellow! How did I not notice he was so sick? What kind of a brother am I?”
“Sam, this didn’t come on over night. The skin change would have been progressive, and for someone seeing him every day it wouldn’t have been significant enough to even take note of.”
“I still… I just can’t…”
“This isn't your fault, Sam. Your brother has been actively hiding his issues from you, he’s admitted that much. We can move on from this, and do everything we can for Dean, okay? Sam?”
“… Sam Winchester?”
Sam cleared his throat, turned around to face the counter where they were calling his name. He signed for and collected Dean’s medications, at least ten boxes and bottles in a zip lock bag.
…
“This is ridiculous,” Dean muttered, as the orderly pushed him down the hallway in a wheelchair.
“Relax, man. Consider it being chauffer driven. You’re certainly not gonna get this kind of attention at home,” Sam laughed.
“I friggen hope not,” Dean mumbled, then coughed, then decided to stop talking. His decision didn’t last very long though until he saw Bobby swinging Baby up the driveway to the pickup area out the main doors.
“Well, hello, Baby,” he grinned.
“Woah, is this your car?” The orderly asked, pushing Dean up close to her and locking the wheels.
“Sure is. Beautiful, isn’t she?” Dean reached a hand out to drag a finger down her sleek hip.
“She certainly is.”
“Do you want to lie down in the back?” Sam asked, opening the door.
“No way. I’m sitting up front.”
…
Dean hadn’t slept. Sam was ready to take him back to the hospital. Maybe slip a pill into his food. He’d been home a full day, a full night, and now it was the next evening. He mostly ambled around the house like he was lost, or like a tiger in a cage, pacing, wanting to get out, wanting something to kill. But now it’d been so long since he’d slept. He was cranky. He snapped at anything anyone said. He groaned in pain when he moved, not trying to hide it. He held onto the walls when he walked, in favour of using the forearm crutches that the physios had sent him home with. Sam knew he was feeling sick, in pain, emotionally scarred, but it was all being compounded by the fact he wouldn’t sleep. He was sure a good nights sleep would help. It had to.
“Dean?” Sam approached the couch where his brother lay, aggressively flipping through channels.
“Hm?” he groaned, seeming disinterested.
“Maybe you should try going to sleep again…”
“Maybe you should shut up.”
“Dean… listen to your brother.”
Dean turned the TV off and slammed the remote on the coffee table.
He tried to sit up.
“Need a hand, dude?” Sam leaned in.
“Don’t friggen touch me,” Dean forced out through gritted teeth.
“Son, you better watch your mouth,” Bobby said.
Dean managed to get standing by himself, face red.
“You’re not our father. Stop pretending to be.”
Sam watched, mouth gaping, as Dean wandered down the hall, listened to the sound of the back door opening and swinging shut with excessive force. Then his eyes found Bobby, who was sitting in the armchair, a look in his eye he couldn’t quite read.
“Bobby, he didn’t mean that.”
Bobby took some controlled breaths before he spoke, “Yeah… I’m gonna go to bed…”
“Bobby…”
“Watch out for your idjit brother,” he said as he passed him on his way to his room.
Sam sighed and rubbed his temple. Dean was beginning to be impossible to handle. Like a hurricane.
…
Dean sat down on the stairs at the back of the house, gritted his teeth as it sent pain shooting up his spine. He let his head fall into his hands. Tears burning behind his eyes, but he didn’t cry, there was nothing left. No emotion to muster up. He couldn’t cry if he wanted to. So his eyes just burned, and burned, and burned. He sniffed hard. Light rain began to fall on his head and he looked up, waiting for the drops to fall in his eyes.
He sneezed messily into his palm.
Shouldn’t be out here, Winchester.
He snuffled indignantly, trying to silence the voice in his head.
He didn’t know anything anymore. He’d just said one of the worst things he’d ever said to one of the most important people in his life. This was it. This was rock bottom. Because now it wasn’t just what was happening to him that was the problem. Now he was the problem.
Once again he dropped his face into his hands, and he did something he hadn’t done for a while. Because he didn’t know what else to do.
“Cas… buddy. I need help. Please.”
There was a gust of wind. He was almost too exhausted to lift his head.
Cas was standing in the middle of the back yard, trench coat reflecting the moonlight, blue eyes glinting.
“So now you show up,” Dean mumbled.
“Dean… you know I never wanted to leave you here.”
“Cas… I’m tired.”
“I know, Dean.”
“No, Cas… I’m really tired.”
Cas cocked his head, then stepped towards him, “Very well.”
He reached out, and with two fingers, pressed them against Dean’s forehead. The touch spread a warmth through his body, and then there was nothing.
…