(no subject)
Title: Judgment
Author: telaryn
Giftee: whiskyinmind
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Eliot, John W., Dean W.
Word Count: 1433
Spoilers: Pre-series
Warnings: Hospital Setting
Disclaimer: No money made, no ownership implied.
Summary: Eliot faces the judgment of one John Winchester while they wait for word of Dean's recovery.
Notes: A "mod gift" for whiskyinmind - originally posted at leveragexchange.
Eliot Spencer was reasonably sure the word hadn’t been invented yet to cover how much he hated hospitals. Especially in situations like this, where all you could give as a reason for the blood, torn flesh and shattered bone was “hunting accident”, and even though it was technically the truth, everyone in hearing distance knew the phrase didn’t entirely cover the amount of damage done.
Actually Doc, it was a wendigo. Fast sons of bitches, fond of turning their victims into coleslaw. Suddenly restless again, Eliot got up from his seat and went to the observation window of ICU. The curtains were still drawn around Dean’s bed, giving him no indication what the doctors were looking at, or how the examination was going.
”Don’t you fucking die on me, Winchester.” He still wasn’t sure how he’d kept Dean alive long enough for the rescue team to find them. The attack had seemed to come out of nowhere; Eliot had driven the beast off, but not before he’d been drenched in Dean’s blood. They’d offered him scrubs in the emergency room after checking him out and treating his own relatively minor injuries, and he hadn’t refused. The clothes he’d been wearing were in some hamper now, waiting to be disposed of with the other biological waste.
Dean had gone immediately into surgery, and then into ICU. Not being family Eliot had only been given the most general information - but he’d known going in his friend’s condition would be touch-and-go. A sympathetic RN had let him know that she’d personally called Dean’s father from the emergency contact information in his wallet and that “Mr. Jackson” was on his way.
Eliot wasn’t necessarily looking forward to that conversation. Dean had told him a couple times over a shared campfire that his father didn’t trust other hunters as a rule. Eliot had pushed for specifics about his own situation - he’d met John Winchester in passing, and as far as he wasn’t concerned it hadn’t been long enough for either of them to get a decent measure of the other.
Dean had nimbly dodged the question, hedging his own answer enough that Eliot immediately understood the senior Winchester thought he’d seen more than enough of Eliot to form an opinion.
The possibility of just leaving the hospital rose in his mind again. He’d escaped the attack relatively unscathed. Dean was being taken care of, and his family was on the way - there was nothing keeping Eliot on the scene, especially if Dean’s father wasn’t going to thank him for his vigilance.
In the end he returned to the plastic covered seat he’d been using, wincing as he tried to find a position that didn’t ache. This wasn’t about him - and it wasn’t about Dean’s father. Dean was the one who’d nearly bled his life away on a forest floor; Eliot knew he wasn’t leaving until he was sure his friend was all right.
***************
Dean…hospitalized… He’d driven two hundred miles with a death grip on the steering wheel of his truck, unable to think of anything past getting to his son as quickly as possible.
I never should have let him start taking these jobs on his own. It was an irrational, reactionary response, but John couldn’t stop the thought and the barrel of self-recrimination that came with it. It was the same response he had whenever he heard of something bad happening to Sam at Stanford, and his youngest son was arguably as safe as any normal human being on the planet.
Dean was a grown-up, and as stubborn as Mary when he put his mind to something. If John had tried any harder to keep him at his side, he knew he would have lost his son for good.
ICU…internal trauma…medical coma… The nurse who’d finally reached him had been frustratingly light on the kind of information he needed. “His chart says it was a hunting accident,” she’d told him. That much John believed. “He’s sustained a lot of injuries - the doctors are saying it was a mountain lion. That left John with a long list of possible assailants - each more deadly than the last.
Once he reached the hospital, John managed to resist the temptation to pull his truck up to the valet station and leave it for somebody else to deal with. All they’d need is for some bored, curious teenager to start poking around, and then they’d been dealing with more law enforcement types than John would be able to handle on his own.
He parked in the visitor lot, and forced himself to verify that everything was secure before heading for the building at a dead run. Finding his way up to ICU was easy and mercifully quick; almost before he realized it, John was heading for the nurse’s station. “Edward Jackson,” he said to the startled blond that looked up at his approach. “My son Dean was brought in…something about a hunting accident?”
The young woman sifted through the folders in front of her. “Mr. Jackson - yes. Right here.” Her eyes narrowed as she read the contents of Dean’s chart, but her sympathetic smile was firmly back in place when she looked up at him again. “Why don’t you have a seat over there,” she said, indicating a small waiting area. “The doctors should be finished examining him in a couple of minutes.”
Doctors - plural. Fuck. John started to beg the nurse for anything she could tell him, but as delicate as she looked at first glance the woman was politely resolute.
“The doctor will be out shortly,” she repeated. “Please just have a seat.”
Numb, John nodded and headed in the direction she told him. The small cluster of chairs had only one other occupant - a tired looking man in scrubs, sporting several bandages of his own. “What the hell happened?” John asked once he was in earshot.
The man got to his feet. He looked vaguely familiar, but John couldn’t peg where he might have seen him before. “Wendigo,” he said, pitching his voice low. “It got the drop on us.”
John looked the man over pointedly. If Dean was in ICU, it was clear who had gotten the worst of things, which meant as far as John was concerned that there was no “us” in this equation.
Whoever the man was, he wasn’t a fool. He straightened up almost automatically against John’s withering gaze. “Before we start something we really can’t finish, sir,” he said, “may I suggest that you weren’t there, and as such don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about?”
**********
He’d thrown the man off his self-righteous stride. Eliot could tell Dean’s father hadn’t expected to be challenged on what he was thinking. “Eliot Spencer,” he said, extending his hand - even though he kept the military stance he’d unconsciously fallen into. “I’m a friend of your son’s.”
Even though he shook Eliot’s hand, the way the older man’s eyes widened on hearing his name confirmed Eliot’s suspicions as to what John Winchester really thought of him. “I wasn’t aware Dean was hunting with anybody,” he said.
Not an officer, Eliot thought, falling automatically into the mode of analyzing the man and what made him who he was. Dean had never said much about his family, but Eliot was an expert in picking up the million little clues people gave off every day without even realizing it. John Winchester was a non-com - probably some sort of sergeant. Definitely the sort of man other officers turned to in a crisis.
“Your son didn’t think you’d approve,” Eliot said finally. “Although he wouldn’t tell me why.” He wasn’t sure what he would do with whatever information John felt like sharing with him, but he suddenly realized that he wanted to know what it was about him that had made Dean’s father dismiss him after a split second encounter.
John studied him for a long moment, and Eliot realized the older man knew what he was asking beyond the simple observation. “My son is impulsive,” he said finally. “Follows his heart and trusts more easily than he should.” He sighed. “I’ve seen men like you before, Eliot. It’s in your eyes - you’ve seen too much. Done too much - maybe. I was in Vietnam, I know better than to ask.”
He scowled. “You’re going to end up on the wrong end of your own gun one day. Every single man I knew had that look in their eyes ended up eating their weapon. You’re a dead man walking, Eliot Spencer, and I won’t have your blood on Dean’s soul.”
Author: telaryn
Giftee: whiskyinmind
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Eliot, John W., Dean W.
Word Count: 1433
Spoilers: Pre-series
Warnings: Hospital Setting
Disclaimer: No money made, no ownership implied.
Summary: Eliot faces the judgment of one John Winchester while they wait for word of Dean's recovery.
Notes: A "mod gift" for whiskyinmind - originally posted at leveragexchange.
Eliot Spencer was reasonably sure the word hadn’t been invented yet to cover how much he hated hospitals. Especially in situations like this, where all you could give as a reason for the blood, torn flesh and shattered bone was “hunting accident”, and even though it was technically the truth, everyone in hearing distance knew the phrase didn’t entirely cover the amount of damage done.
Actually Doc, it was a wendigo. Fast sons of bitches, fond of turning their victims into coleslaw. Suddenly restless again, Eliot got up from his seat and went to the observation window of ICU. The curtains were still drawn around Dean’s bed, giving him no indication what the doctors were looking at, or how the examination was going.
”Don’t you fucking die on me, Winchester.” He still wasn’t sure how he’d kept Dean alive long enough for the rescue team to find them. The attack had seemed to come out of nowhere; Eliot had driven the beast off, but not before he’d been drenched in Dean’s blood. They’d offered him scrubs in the emergency room after checking him out and treating his own relatively minor injuries, and he hadn’t refused. The clothes he’d been wearing were in some hamper now, waiting to be disposed of with the other biological waste.
Dean had gone immediately into surgery, and then into ICU. Not being family Eliot had only been given the most general information - but he’d known going in his friend’s condition would be touch-and-go. A sympathetic RN had let him know that she’d personally called Dean’s father from the emergency contact information in his wallet and that “Mr. Jackson” was on his way.
Eliot wasn’t necessarily looking forward to that conversation. Dean had told him a couple times over a shared campfire that his father didn’t trust other hunters as a rule. Eliot had pushed for specifics about his own situation - he’d met John Winchester in passing, and as far as he wasn’t concerned it hadn’t been long enough for either of them to get a decent measure of the other.
Dean had nimbly dodged the question, hedging his own answer enough that Eliot immediately understood the senior Winchester thought he’d seen more than enough of Eliot to form an opinion.
The possibility of just leaving the hospital rose in his mind again. He’d escaped the attack relatively unscathed. Dean was being taken care of, and his family was on the way - there was nothing keeping Eliot on the scene, especially if Dean’s father wasn’t going to thank him for his vigilance.
In the end he returned to the plastic covered seat he’d been using, wincing as he tried to find a position that didn’t ache. This wasn’t about him - and it wasn’t about Dean’s father. Dean was the one who’d nearly bled his life away on a forest floor; Eliot knew he wasn’t leaving until he was sure his friend was all right.
***************
Dean…hospitalized… He’d driven two hundred miles with a death grip on the steering wheel of his truck, unable to think of anything past getting to his son as quickly as possible.
I never should have let him start taking these jobs on his own. It was an irrational, reactionary response, but John couldn’t stop the thought and the barrel of self-recrimination that came with it. It was the same response he had whenever he heard of something bad happening to Sam at Stanford, and his youngest son was arguably as safe as any normal human being on the planet.
Dean was a grown-up, and as stubborn as Mary when he put his mind to something. If John had tried any harder to keep him at his side, he knew he would have lost his son for good.
ICU…internal trauma…medical coma… The nurse who’d finally reached him had been frustratingly light on the kind of information he needed. “His chart says it was a hunting accident,” she’d told him. That much John believed. “He’s sustained a lot of injuries - the doctors are saying it was a mountain lion. That left John with a long list of possible assailants - each more deadly than the last.
Once he reached the hospital, John managed to resist the temptation to pull his truck up to the valet station and leave it for somebody else to deal with. All they’d need is for some bored, curious teenager to start poking around, and then they’d been dealing with more law enforcement types than John would be able to handle on his own.
He parked in the visitor lot, and forced himself to verify that everything was secure before heading for the building at a dead run. Finding his way up to ICU was easy and mercifully quick; almost before he realized it, John was heading for the nurse’s station. “Edward Jackson,” he said to the startled blond that looked up at his approach. “My son Dean was brought in…something about a hunting accident?”
The young woman sifted through the folders in front of her. “Mr. Jackson - yes. Right here.” Her eyes narrowed as she read the contents of Dean’s chart, but her sympathetic smile was firmly back in place when she looked up at him again. “Why don’t you have a seat over there,” she said, indicating a small waiting area. “The doctors should be finished examining him in a couple of minutes.”
Doctors - plural. Fuck. John started to beg the nurse for anything she could tell him, but as delicate as she looked at first glance the woman was politely resolute.
“The doctor will be out shortly,” she repeated. “Please just have a seat.”
Numb, John nodded and headed in the direction she told him. The small cluster of chairs had only one other occupant - a tired looking man in scrubs, sporting several bandages of his own. “What the hell happened?” John asked once he was in earshot.
The man got to his feet. He looked vaguely familiar, but John couldn’t peg where he might have seen him before. “Wendigo,” he said, pitching his voice low. “It got the drop on us.”
John looked the man over pointedly. If Dean was in ICU, it was clear who had gotten the worst of things, which meant as far as John was concerned that there was no “us” in this equation.
Whoever the man was, he wasn’t a fool. He straightened up almost automatically against John’s withering gaze. “Before we start something we really can’t finish, sir,” he said, “may I suggest that you weren’t there, and as such don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about?”
**********
He’d thrown the man off his self-righteous stride. Eliot could tell Dean’s father hadn’t expected to be challenged on what he was thinking. “Eliot Spencer,” he said, extending his hand - even though he kept the military stance he’d unconsciously fallen into. “I’m a friend of your son’s.”
Even though he shook Eliot’s hand, the way the older man’s eyes widened on hearing his name confirmed Eliot’s suspicions as to what John Winchester really thought of him. “I wasn’t aware Dean was hunting with anybody,” he said.
Not an officer, Eliot thought, falling automatically into the mode of analyzing the man and what made him who he was. Dean had never said much about his family, but Eliot was an expert in picking up the million little clues people gave off every day without even realizing it. John Winchester was a non-com - probably some sort of sergeant. Definitely the sort of man other officers turned to in a crisis.
“Your son didn’t think you’d approve,” Eliot said finally. “Although he wouldn’t tell me why.” He wasn’t sure what he would do with whatever information John felt like sharing with him, but he suddenly realized that he wanted to know what it was about him that had made Dean’s father dismiss him after a split second encounter.
John studied him for a long moment, and Eliot realized the older man knew what he was asking beyond the simple observation. “My son is impulsive,” he said finally. “Follows his heart and trusts more easily than he should.” He sighed. “I’ve seen men like you before, Eliot. It’s in your eyes - you’ve seen too much. Done too much - maybe. I was in Vietnam, I know better than to ask.”
He scowled. “You’re going to end up on the wrong end of your own gun one day. Every single man I knew had that look in their eyes ended up eating their weapon. You’re a dead man walking, Eliot Spencer, and I won’t have your blood on Dean’s soul.”