And the Ground Shook (16/22)
Disclaimer: I don't own them, they own me.
Rating: Gen, with very mild language.
Category: Gen.
Pairings: None.
Characters: Hurt!Dean, John, Sam.
Summery: "Dad, come on, we have to get going. Wake up, we need to go!" he said more urgently. He would have jumped on the bed, but he was feeling queasy as it was.
Comments: Are loved and coveted.
Notes: Pre-series, AU. Not a deathfic. Lots of Dean-whumping, though. Will be updated regularly.
And the Ground Shook
Chapter Sixteen - Seeking Help
The storm died down slowly. It was still raining, but not very heavily. The roads were slippery, though, and John wished he'd trusted Sam's driving abilities as much as he'd trusted Dean's at that age. It was probably his own fault, John knew. He didn’t really give Sam a chance to prove himself. On the other hand, he'd never really given Dean a chance, either. Dean just took it.
John glanced in the rear view mirror. Sam was resting his head against the window, blindly staring at the darkness outside and the fat raindrops as they trailed across the window. Dean had his headphones on, listening to something loud; loud enough that John could hear it.
John expected Dean to fall asleep as soon as they got in the car, he expected Dean to sleep through the entire drive. Instead, Dean seemed the most energetic of the three Winchesters. He was bobbing his head to the music, tapping his hands to the beat, looking outside with interest. He had offered to take over the driving three times now, and as much as John was glad to see his son feeling better, he couldn’t help the feeling that it was just the eye of the storm.
"Dad, are you sure you don’t want me to drive?" Dean offered again, catching his father's red eyes in the mirror. "I don’t mind, really." John covered his mouth as he yawned. He was fighting to keep his eyes open.
"Why don’t you try to get some shuteye?" John offered instead. Dean shrugged.
"Not tired." He said. "I am hungry, though. Anyone packed anything to eat?" he asked, looking from his father to his brother. Sam shrugged, yawning.
John stopped at the first place he could, letting the boys grab a table while he took his time in the bathroom. He had to wash his face several times to get the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he couldn’t keep driving for long. He hasn’t slept the previous night; at least not a restful sleep, and he hasn’t slept the night before, either. He was running on empty, and if he didn’t get some sleep soon, there was a real possibility that he'd crash the car.
He cancelled Dean's order the minute he sat at the table. Dean protested, saying John didn’t even know what he'd ordered. John simply told him he didn’t care and ordered him a salad and whatever had the least amount of grease on the menu. Dean gave him dirty looks all throughout dinner, but emptied his plate; a sure sign that he was indeed hungry.
A twenty minute drive got them to the motel the waitress told them about. John and Sam seemed more than happy for the break, but Dean wanted to keep going, again volunteering to drive. John ordered him to shut up and go to sleep.
"Mmmm…" John grunted in his sleep, shaking his shoulder to be rid of that annoying hand trying to shake him awake. The hand was persistent. "Go back to sleep Sammy. Or watch some cartoons. Or go bug Dean, he doesn’t mind getting up early." John muttered, pulling his pillow over his head, but quickly put it back once he realized sleeping on his Glock wasn’t all that comfortable.
Dean raised a brow. I knew it! I knew he put Sammy up to it! I hate getting up early! "Dad, wake up." He said again, giving his old man another shake. John grunted again.
"Five more minutes." Dean closed his eyes, taking as deep a breath as he could. He pressed both hands to his head. He could really use not having a headache right now.
"Dad, come on, we have to get going. Wake up, we need to go!" he said more urgently. He would have jumped on the bed, but he was feeling queasy as it was. His father groaned, opening one, very reluctant eye.
"What time is it?" he asked. Dean glanced at the clock on the wall.
"Twenty past four." He answered.
"In the morning?" John asked incredulously, turning in his bed again. "Go to sleep." He ordered.
"No, Dad, get up. We have to go. Now. We need to hit the road." Dean insisted.
"Road'll still be there at seven. Now get back in bed and let me sleep." John demanded.
"Look, I can drive for a while if you're too tired, but we have to leave." Dean persisted. John gave another disgruntled grunt, propping himself up on one elbow and glaring at his firstborn.
"Dean, bed. Now." He ordered, no room for compromise, not listening to anything farther.
"But…"
"NOW."
John was asleep again in minutes.
He woke up about two hours later, cursing. He had to pee, but really didn’t want to, because it meant getting out of this nice, somewhat soft, warm bed, and out into the freezing cold air and frozen tiles of the bathroom. He lay awake in bed for a couple of minutes, trying to decide if he could hold it in just a little longer or if he had to freeze to death answering nature's cruel wake up call. Nature won. Damn nature. Always hated camping anyway.
John cursed as he washed his hands with frigid water and dashed back to bed, hoping he could get warm again. The bed was cold already. Dammit. He curled in bed, shivering and pulling the covers tighter around himself. It took him a moment to realize someone was watching him. Instinct took over.
Dean didn’t even flinch when his father's gun pointed at his head. He was sitting in his own bed, back against the headboard, arms crossed across his midsection. He looked tiredly at his father until the older Winchester shook his head, putting his gun away.
"Jeez, Dean, what's with the staring? I nearly put a bullet through your head." John admonished.
"Safety's on." Dean noted.
"So not the point." John grumbled, fluffing his pillow.
"Are you awake? Can we just go now?" Dean asked in a tired, little voice. John stopped, frowning, looking at his son.
They'd been on the road for three days now, driving up to fifteen hours a day. Dean seemed to be doing better somehow. He was eating whatever he got his hands on, looking healthier and more alert than he's been in weeks, even playing practical jokes on his brother again. But not now. Now he seemed sick again, tired, weary. John sighed.
"Have you slept at all?" he asked. Dean gave a little shrug. John studied him a moment longer, and then got out of bed. Damn, it was cold. It wasn’t raining, but it was just making it worse, because the temperatures kept dropping and there was more than a little chance of getting snow. "Does it hurt?" John asked, running both hands through his hair, trying to make it stop standing in funny angles. Time for a haircut; something Sammy should learn to recognize.
Dean shrugged again. "Not too bad." He said. John let out his breath.
"But enough to keep you from sleeping." He said. Dean gave another small shrug.
"It's impatient." He said by way of explaining. Only it explained nothing.
"What does that mean?" John demanded. It came out a little harsher than he intended to, but it was too damn early. Dean rubbed his eyes, scratching his eyebrow.
"I don’t know," he said wearily, "I just… We need to get going. It gets better when we're on the road." Dean said. John studied him a moment longer, then gave a slight nod.
"Alright." He said, and started getting dressed. Dean remained in bed, under the covers, his eyes following his father. "Why won't you wake up your brother, I'll get our things ready." John suggested.
Dean gave a small nod, pushing the covers away and getting slowly to his feet. He tried to hide his unsteadiness, but the older hunter still noticed. He kept watch over his oldest, albeit from the corner of his eye. Dean was a little wobbly, his face a shade between pale and green. His usual grace was missing; he seemed heavy, practically dragging himself along.
"Maybe we should stay here for a little longer, let you rest, gather up some strength?" John suggested. Sam looked from his father to his brother, frowning. Dean shook his head, running his fingers through his short hair.
"No, we have to go. It's impatient." Dean repeated, making John frown.
"You've said that before. What does that mean? What's impatient?" he asked. Dean just stared at him for a moment, then looked down at his chest, and then quickly up at his father again. John sighed, sitting heavily on his bed. "How do you know?" he asked. Dean tossed him the keys to the truck, hinting that it was just as easy to drive and talk as it was to sit and talk. John conceded, getting up slowly. "You didn’t answer my question." He noted as they got in the car and Sam went to the main office to check them out. Dean stared at him, shaking his head a little. "How do you know the Leech's impatient?" John repeated his question just as Sam got in the car.
"Because it hurts that way." Dean answered, and could he be any more cryptic?
"What does that mean?" John demanded as he started the car.
Dean sat in the passenger side this time. John wanted to keep a closer eye on him. Besides, Sam was more than content to have the backseat to himself so he could go back to sleep. They snagged the blankets from the motel, and good thing, too, because even though the heating was on, it was still damn cold.
"I don’t know how to explain it." Dean said after a moment.
Dean still looked pale and tired, exhausted. John kept glancing at him every now and then. He pulled the car over by a roadside diner. He hasn’t had his coffee yet. He didn’t mind not eating, but there was no way he could start his morning without coffee.
"You can at least try." The older Winchester said as he killed the engine. Dean thought about it for a moment, but then just opened the passenger side door, getting out of the car. His father and brother followed.
The overhead bell jingled when Sam pushed the door open. A few of the diner's patrons turned their heads to look at the newcomers, but quickly turned away to their own business. Sam slid into a booth in the back, Dean sitting down next to him, across from their Dad. The older man scanned the place, satisfied there were no visible threats.
"So, it hurts like it's impatient." John prompted again, not letting this go. Sam glanced at his older brother over his menu. Dean sighed tiredly.
"Yeah, I guess." He said, rubbing his eyes.
"As oppose to?" Hesitation. Dean busied himself with the menu for a long moment before putting it aside. He really didn’t think he could eat anything anyway.
"As oppose to when it's angry." He said finally. Sam stared at him, and then at his father. The older hunter clenched his jaw.
"How can you tell the difference?" Sam asked in a small voice.
"Oh, I can tell, no problem." Dean said quickly. A large waitress with frizzle brown hair and a scowl dropped her notepad on their table.
"What will it be?" she asked, uninterested. Both Sam and John ordered the breakfast special and coffee, milk for Sam. Dean just asked for a hard boiled egg. The waitress gave him a funny look, but wrote it down anyway and left.
"You're not hungry?" John asked. Dean just shook his head, leaning both elbows on the table and resting his head on his hands. "And it's… impatient now?" John asked, getting back on track. Dean just gave a slight nod.
The waitress returned a couple of minutes later with John's coffee and disappeared again. She came back nearly ten minutes later with the two breakfast specials; scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and some jelly, and Dean's hard boiled egg. Sam reminded her of his milk and she glowered at him, but said nothing. She was so going to spit in his milk.
"You sure all you want to eat is a hard boiled egg? Maybe you should get some toast or something?" Sam asked.
"Oh, I'm not going to eat it." Dean said. "It's just the only way I could think of to explain." John straightened.
"Explain what?"
"Well," Dean held the egg gently between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up for his Dad to see. "It's always there. The pressure. It usually… I don’t know, I can usually ignore it. But then it gets impatient." Dean said, putting just enough pressure on the egg to crack the shell, hard enough for tiny pieces of shell to come off. Sam swallowed hard, suddenly wishing for his milk, even if there will be spit in it.
"See, when it's angry… it's different. Angry means," and Dean crushed the egg completely in his hand. Crumbs of shell and egg littered his hand and the table, making a mess. Sam paled, eyes going wide. John gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. Dean didn’t have to say that if it got impatient enough, it got angry. He got up quietly, going to the bathroom to clean himself up.
John asked for his and Sammy's breakfasts to be packed to go, along with another order, just in case Dean got hungry later on. He'd also asked for more coffee. They only waited in the diner long enough for the surly waitress to bring them their food, and then hit the road.
Half an hour into the drive, Dean was fast asleep, looking as peaceful as he could while sleeping in an uncomfortable seat of a moving truck.
John only stopped driving three times after that, for gas, food and bathroom breaks; all done at the same time.
John parked the car at the end of the gravelly road, killing the engine. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the headrest for a few seconds. He was so tired, he figured he could probably sleep for twelve hours straight. He was starving, too.
John took a deep breath and looked at both his sons. They were both sleeping, which was the only reason he actually got away with the music he was listening to. He may have made the 'driver picks the music' rule, but between the two of them, Sam and Dean were experts on driving him crazy until he changed the station.
"Boys, wake up, we're here." John said in a tired voice. He was glad to see Dean woke up just as quickly as Sam. He hadn’t complained about any pain since they got on the road, but on the other hand, it was Dean, and he wasn’t one to complain unless things got really bad.
Dean blinked a couple of times as Sam pushed out of the car, eager to stretch his bones. "Pastor Jim's?" he asked as he took in the familiar house. John got out of the car slowly, working the kinks out of his neck and back. The cold made him shiver. Dean followed him out of the car slowly, tugging his coat tighter around himself and shivering nonetheless. "Are we picking up the books and stuff?" Dean asked. John looked at him for a moment.
"No, we're staying here." He explained. "I already called Jim, he said he'd be happy to have us. It'd be easier, too. Not to mention cheaper." John's lips tugged up in a small smile. Dean frowned.
"But just for a while, right? We're just doing the research here or something, and then go to a motel, right? We're not staying here, we're staying in a motel, aren't we?" he asked, and the sudden tremor in his voice made John raise a brow, made Sam look at him in the way Dean hated.
"Why?" John drawled, "Is that a problem?"
"He's a priest!" Dean snapped, almost accusingly.
"Yes?" Dean shook his head.
"I'm not staying there!"
"Dean, it's just Pastor Jim." Sam said, as if it made everything alright.
"I don’t care, he's a priest!" Dean insisted, his eyes darting from his brother to his father, to the house and back to his father. "I am not staying there!" John let out a long breath.
"I explained everything, Dean. You don’t have to worry, he won't try to exorcise it or anything. It'll be better this way."
"No!" Dean cried, wincing as the Leech reacted to the adrenalin in his body, the pressure suddenly overwhelming.
Dean started wheezing, doubling over, the frigid air hurting his lungs. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Dean looked up at his father, still gasping for breath, hand pressed against his chest. John's lips were moving; his father was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear anything but his own breathing and the rushing of blood in his ears.
And, huh, that was funny, the way the world suddenly became… fuzzy. Out of focus. Like someone ran the world through a photo manipulation program and softened all the edges, water stained and smeared everything.
Dean blinked, shaking his head. This was really starting to freak him out. His Dad was there now, holding him by the shoulders, talking to him. Only he looked like someone had erased his features, leaving only smudges of blurry colors. Too many colors, and no sound. And no air. He couldn’t breathe.
"Dean!" he whirled around. He had heard that. Someone was there.
Sammy.
Sammy was calling for him.
He could hear Sammy, even when he couldn’t hear anything else. Dean swallowed hard, trying to find his brother. There, so close, but so far. Smudgy, like everything else, yet a little more defined, the lines a little sharper.
"Sammy," Dean breathed.
"I'm here. Dean, I'm right here. Can you hear me?" Dean blinked. He could hear something. Words. But they made no sense. Too slurred, blending into each other. At least he hasn’t gone deaf, that's a plus. Though it didn’t help staunch his rising panic.
Sam. Just think of Sam. Hold on to Sam, he told himself as he fought to stay on his feet, as he fought for consciousness. Hey, that was strange, how the blurry colors shifted, tilted. That's probably what acid flashbacks are like, Dean thought to himself, only he's never done acid, so what the hell was going on?
Everything came to a sharp focus for a moment. Sam's hand was on his shoulder. His brother's worried face inches from his, his father right behind him. There was a sudden burst of sound, so abrupt Dean felt like his eardrums were going to pop. And just as suddenly as it came, it was gone, and everything went dark.
TBC
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