Looking Round the Bend
Disclaimer: Supernatural and certain characters belong to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.
In this place, he decides against going to Stanford for Sam.
He follows the leads, but his timing's always off. He gets picked up by the cops, and it's only after several hours of questioning that they leave him alone in the room. Dean picks the lock on the handcuffs and gets out, but it's a close call. Very close.
After the job's done and he's figured out Colorado's the next stop, he briefly thinks of stopping for Sammy again, but. . . he doesn't. Just keeps driving, moving forward, not looking back.
It's his kind of gig all right, but Dad's not here. Dean hadn't really let himself think beyond just reaching the coordinates in the journal, but now he can see it's obvious. Dad's blown him off. He's just sending Dean on a wild goose chase, and didn't really bother to disguise it even.
The wendigo is taken care of, but it too is one helluva close call. Dean feels pretty badass when all's said and done, though. He's just knocked out a Woman in White and a wendigo and it's not even Thursday yet. So maybe Dad's blown him off, but he must be pretty confident that Dean can handle this stuff, too. He wouldn't send Dean these leads if he didn't trust him to deal with 'em. Dean just looks at it like he's graduated his apprenticeship. He is now a Jedi master.
The jobs from Dad eventually stop trickling in, but it's okay. Dean's got the gist of tracking these fuckers down pat, and the extra work isn't as bad as he'd made it out to be in his head. Research kinda sucks, but the payoff of icing nasties makes up for the hours and hours of banging his head against a wall. He gets the hang of it.
He gets the hang of it until he follows a nasty into a basement and somehow in the heat of the moment winds up electrocuting himself. The critter was taken out, though, so it's not a total bust.
It only takes a few hours and Dean's proven wrong. Fucking doctors and nurses and tubes, wires, needles, and turns out he's fucked. His heart's on its last leg and fat chance of getting a replacement. He's told he's got weeks. Weeks.
Three days he's been here playing the good patient, the good citizen, the good soldier, the good fucking son who always does what he's told and gets the job motherfucking done. He calls and leaves a message, and he doesn't call again. He knows the drill. One gets the point across. Any more and it's just a waste of everybody's time and energy. "Call, spit it out, and hang up the phone. Then wait, Dean. I'll get back to you. I swear, okay?"
Day Four rolls in and Dean can't do it any longer. Hospitals and worrying and all the anxiety ain't doing his heart any fucking good, that's for sure!
He opens his Contacts list and scrolls down, down, and before he left Sam had shouted at Dad to see things from his point of view. "How would you feel?!" he'd shouted, over and over again.
Dean keeps replaying that in his head. How would he feel? How would Dean feel if it were Sam in the hospital and he never got a call telling him there were only weeks left? Weeks.
But then he remembers the rest of that argument, and Sammy going on to scream, "I can't live like this anymore! I can't. I hate it here, Dad! I hate it!" And that pretty much makes Dean's mind up for him.
Dean hits Send after awhile and the phone starts ringing. He brings it up to his ear just when the voice sounds over the line.
"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean at 866-907-3235. He can help."
Dean doesn't leave a message. He already left one three days ago.
Dad'll get back to him. . . when he can.
Mirror Up and Past