Roaming the Land While You Sleep 5&6
Chapter 5
As gently as possible, John deposits Dean on the sofa bed and this time Dean manages to stifle any pain filled groans and whimpers.
Sam wraps a couple of their cleaner towels around his brother's torn arm, knowing that they have to take care of the head wound first.
John wipes a wet towel over the cut above Dean's left ear and decides that yup, this is definitely gonna need stitches. Dean flinches away from even the soft touch of the towel. Great. Going at it with a needle is gonna be fun.
"Hey, buddy, how's that old gray noodle doing?"
Dean blinks a couple of times. Not confused, just trying to take stock and come up with a truthful answer.
"Hurts…no concussion though."
John nods and is suddenly overcome by guilt. He has one thirteen-year old who is expertly running a needle through the flame of his zippo and one seventeen-year old who can tell him instantly that the hammering pain in his head is not enough for a concussion. What did he do to these boys? What would Mary think of him..? Ruthlessly, he forces the feelings back down where they belong. He can revisit them later and have an in depth discussion about them with his old friend Jack Daniels. Right now he has to focus.
No concussion is good. Means he can give the kid something for the pain. He grabs a couple of Codeine from where Sam put them on the table and Dean dry swallows them before he can reach for a cup of water.
Blood is still lazily leaking out of the cut, leaving a dark red trail down the back of Dean's shirt. John needs to start with the stitches now.
"Drink." He orders crisply and pushes the whiskey bottle that he keeps under the bed into Dean's hand. Dean makes a face and pushes the bottle back.
"'m feelin' sick already."
"Didn't ask about your feelings, son." John basically shoves the bottle between Dean's lips. "Drink."
It looks like it's taking all of Dean's strength to force down even two small sips and John feels like the biggest asshole in the world for doing this, but they need the added effect of the alcohol to make the pain meds kick in before Dean loses even more blood.
John settles behind Dean and runs a tequila-drenched cloth over the deep cut. He has barely managed to put in the first stitch when Dean lurches forward and there go the whiskey and pain pills.
"Sorry…" Dean mumbles once he's done throwing up and Sam tells him it's alright, all the while wiping up the mess from the floor.
John pulls Dean back up into a sitting position, the needle and thread still stuck in his scalp and quickly finishes the stitches. Thick blood is still clotted in his hair, but the blood flow has been stemmed.
He settles Dean against the back of the couch and uses the machete that's still sticking out of the cushions next to Dean's head to cut off Dean's yellow flannel shirt. He thinks he sees a small smirk on the kid's face when it hits the floor. He's always hated that ugly thing.
Noting that they need to find a Goodwill store soon to get some new warm clothes, John moves on to Dean's arm, trying to decide which of the injuries to take care of first. There's too many to choose from, really.
"I'm gonna set your shoulder, now." He announces with more confidence than he feels. "Need anything?"
Dean takes a few shallow breaths, not really feeling like opening his mouth after his stomach decided to turn against him like that.
"Belt." He forces out through barely moving lips.
John nods curtly. He knows it's gotta be bad for Dean to admit that he might need anything to deal with the pain. Wordlessly, he takes off his belt, folds it and gently puts it between his son's waiting teeth.
He thinks about feeding him some line about 'we're gonna do this on three' and then pull the shoulder back into place before he's reached 'two', but there's really no point. This is at least the fifth time that Dean has dislocated his left shoulder. Five times in ten years! The goddamn thing has been popping in and out of its joint ever since Dean completely fucked up his shoulder and arm, shooting his new Mossberg at a werewolf in '86. The thing was about to rip John's heart out. Dean's back was against a wall, the recoil practically shattered the joint, but it distracted the werewolf enough to give John the time to waste it and that was enough for Dean. He was seven years old, god damn it.
Moving quickly, John forces the arm back into its original position, trying not to put pressure on the break in Dean's forearm. Dean groans and bites down fiercely on the thick leather in his mouth.
Sam has curled up on his brother's other side now, wiping a wet towel over the bloody crusts on Dean's face, cooing the kind of nonsense into his ear that John is way too worked up to come up with.
He slowly turns Dean's arm and practically hears the tense muscles in his shoulder scream with the effort.
"That thing bit you." He observes after removing the makeshift towel bandages that are soaked through with blood anyway. Dean nods and John curses. Ghost germs infected bite wounds. Fan-fucking-tastic. "Bite down again."
Dean follows the command without question and then his face loses all last traces of color when John empties his flask of holy water over the bleeding flesh.
John hopes that that's enough and swipes the tequila-soaked cloth over the kid's arm. Sam gives a little yelp when his brother reflexively clamps his hand, probably almost crushing Sam's smaller fingers.
"Almost done here." John grumbles and puts a few stitches into the deeper gashes and wraps the last of their bandages around Dean's arm.
He gives all of them some moments to catch their breath and works on ignoring the silent tear tracks that are running down both his sons' cheeks.
"Anything else, Dean?" he asks, needing to know if there are any potentially life threatening injuries he might have overlooked.
"No, sir."
John really hates himself for what he has to do next, but this has to happen.
"Good, then you tell me right the fuck now what on earth happened in here!"
Chapter 6
The tone in John's voice is as drill sergeant as it gets and Dean finds himself responding to it without a second thought.
"I was asleep. Thing woke me. I tried to get it with the machete. Didn't work. Chewed on my arm for a bit, then threw me into a wall. I got it with some salt. That kinda worked. Then I passed out."
Damn it. He is supposed to be stronger than that. He isn't supposed to pass out like a little pantywaist bitch just because of a little bump to the head. Dad scoffs and Dean knows he agrees with him.
"How'd it get in here?"
Dean feels a stab of guilt when he realizes he doesn't have a precise answer for that. Much less one that his dad is gonna like. Dean glances over at Sammy whose eyes are wide and he looks all of ten years old. Dean knows somehow the salt lines got screwed and Sam didn't want to check them and then Dean forgot and he wants to say how sorry he is, but his dad isn't looking for an apology here. He's looking for a report. Short, precise answers.
"I didn't check the salt lines tonight, sir."
He tries to push himself into a more upright position on the couch, square his shoulders, own up to his guilt, like his dad taught him to.
Dad gives Dean a look that speaks of worlds of disappointment and that promises that they'll revisit the issue once he's back on his feet.
"Where was your brother?"
Sam grinds his teeth. Dad already knows where he was. Sam told him and they had a screaming match over it not an hour ago. Dad is just asking Dean to keep torturing him.
"He went out, sir. I told him it'd be okay."
Sam figures that that's about as close to lying to their dad as Dean's gonna get.
"Out where?"
You. Already. Know.
Sam wants to scream. This is so ridiculous and unfair. Dean is barely managing to stay conscious and Dad keeps throwing these pointless questions at him like it's not enough that Sam already told him. He needs to hear it again from his brother because of this stupid chain of command bullshit. God forbid anyone would simply believe what little Sammy tells them.
Dean's eyes are all over the place, when he answers "He was at the arcade down the road."
"Yeah, and what's your track record like when it comes to taking off and playing video games, huh?"
Sam doesn't know why, but Dad's quiet question turns Dean's pale face completely white, freckles standing out like dark bruises, eyes red and incredibly wide.
They continue with their stupid question and answer game for several minutes. Dad never raises his voice but somehow that quiet accusatory tone is exactly what's needed to take Dean apart, flinging pieces of him all across the room. Sam tries to intervene like Dean usually does when Sam and Dad are having a go at each other but he quickly gets shot down by both older hunters.
Yeah, Dean, way to go. Stick up for the guy when he's already beating you down.
"We're done with this conversation." Dad finally announces and Dean is impossibly grateful when he's ordered to drag his sorry ass into his own bed. He doesn't think he can stand the blame and disappointment in his dad's eyes any longer. He thought they left those behind in a filthy motel room in Wisconsin, swore to himself that he was never gonna cause that look on his dad's face again...
Dean makes it halfway off the couch before Sam decides to butt in again.
"What? You're just gonna send him off to bed? He needs a hospital, Dad!"
Dean settles back down, because he doesn't have the energy to run interfere and without that he's pretty sure that this…discussion is going to take some time and at the very least he'll be able to physically throw himself between the two of them before it gets really ugly. The mere thought of throwing himself anywhere makes his insides curl…he'll throw himself slowly.
"I say when your brother needs to go to a hospital, Sam."
"He broke his arm!"
Sam's youthful indignation is adorable, really. You break your arm, obviously you must go, see some quack with a messiah complex about it. That's what the normal people on TV do so it must be the universal truth.
"I patched him up."
"Normal people take their kids to a hospital when they get mauled by a wild animal."
"Yeah and whose fault was that in the first place?"
Dean tries to disappear into the cushions. Pointing out how much of a screw up Dean is, is only gonna catapult Sam even higher up into the spheres of misplaced protectiveness and the added volume that comes with that might just be too much. He's not concussed, he doesn't think, but that doesn't mean his head needs that much noise right now.
"I was the one who left, you realize that, right?"
"Yeah, but you're not in charge here, Sammy!"
"Wow, you're such an unreasonable, fu-reaking obsessed SOB."
Dean smirks when Sam pulls back the expletives at the last second. Good survival instincts there, kiddo.
"You're this close to getting your ass handed to you, boy."
Yeah, 'cause threats of violence work so well on Sam. Dean grabs his idiot brother's hand just in case, anyway.
Sam takes some deep calming breaths, like it's taking a huge effort to keep his voice level, then huffs "whatever. I still think he needs to see a doctor."
Oh, so we've downgraded from hospital to doctor now. Way to back paddle, Sammy.
"Dean, do you need to see a doctor?"
Dad is still staring at Sam and Dean dutifully shakes his head no.
Dad huffs in a way that makes him sound almost like Sam - or has Sam unconsciously adopted Dad's huffs? - and pulls the sling they kept from Dean's last run in with a dislocated shoulder (just your run of the mill cafeteria brawl and somehow Dean's shoulder didn't get along so well with one of the tables he'd been shoved into and the meddlesome school nurse wasn't satisfied with just popping it back in place. He had to walk around wearing that goofy sling for a week afterwards.) out of their medi kit.
Unceremoniously, Dad wraps the thing around Dean's left arm and shoulder and gives Sam a smug 'happy now?' glare, then sends Dean off to his own bed for the second time that night.
Dean gets up again and Sam tries to shove some Codeine into his free hand. Dean eyes the pills, thinking that he could really need some pain relieve right now, but he catches his dad's frown and shakes his head.
Dad's right. Just because Dean is a little big for him to put over his knee doesn't mean he shouldn't be in pain because of his spectacular screw up.
Thinking that the dull, burning cold ache in his arm is probably gonna keep him up all night, he limps into his room.