Roaming the Land While You Sleep 7-10/10
Chapter 7
The throbbing shoulder and freezing hot arm wound spend a good portion of the night in an epic battle with his foggy head.
One minute Dean's so groggy that he can't even form a coherent thought and then his eyelids droop and when he's almost gone, enter: lightning stabs of pain in his arm that make the mere thought of sleeping impossible to comprehend.
Dean listens to Sam and Dad clean up his mess in the living room and he thinks that he should be doing that job, but Dad said to go to bed, so who's Dean to question that? At least Sam has dialed down the bitchy-ness to a level that Dad can just about tolerate and after a while it almost seems like they're getting along again.
("Dad, there's something on the floor."
Heavy boots, walking right past Dean's door.
Dad's voice, quietly explaining something. Almost Patiently.
"Ectoplasm? That's a real thing?"
"From where I hit the thing with the flamethrower."
"Wow."
"Yeah. Don't see that every day.")
The cleaning up takes well over an hour. Dean knows, because every time his arm distracts him from nodding off, he counts the seconds, minutes it takes for the pain to subside. When the door finally opens and Sam slips inside to fall into his own bed, Dean manages to get his labored breathing somewhat even.
"Dean, you still awake?"
In, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4. In, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4.
Sam buys the act, because Dean is stealthy and was trained by the best and Sam's just a kid.
"This wasn't your fault, you know. One of the salt lines by the window wasn't right…"
Sam talks to his sleeping form, because Sam is just a kid.
Dean can hear the rustle of his brother's blankets. Sam's asleep within minutes. Well yeah, Dean figures. It's past midnight and it's not like Sam has discovered yet that teenagers like to stay up late.
Dean is focusing on his brother's even breathing and it calms him down enough to close his eyes and he's just drifting off, when Jesus fucking Christ, his arm is turning inside out. It's tearing and something's ripping and the broken bone is throbbing and it feels like someone is pouring liquid hydrogen over the burning flesh. Fresh bite wounds really aren't supposed to feel that cold.
The light in the living room hasn't been turned off yet, which means Dad's still up, which means Dean must do anything humanly possible to keep from crying out in agony.
He lies awake for most of the night. The light shining in from underneath the door never disappears. Dean notices that his heart is having a hard time beating regularly, but that's probably just shock. Sometime in the early morning hours, the burning in his arm dulls to a cold pounding and his head has stopped hurting completely and Dean thinks that he wants it back. Because he deserves to be in pain. He has one job in this life and he doesn't even manage to do that. What if Sam hadn't gone out? What if Sam had been back early? What if Dean being too lazy and stupid to check the salt lines had got his baby brother killed?
Outside, the sky is finally taking on a grayish white-blue color and Dean figures it might be acceptable to get out of bed. He didn't bother with his clothes last night, so all he needs to do is force another butt ugly flannel shirt over his stiff frame and man, it's torture, moving his arm out of the sling, into the sleeve, back into the sling. Good.
Taking special care to keep the door from creaking loud enough to wake Sam, Dean limps into the kitchen. (Wait. What the fuck is wrong with his feet? Oh, right. Boots. Cuts and blisters all over his feet. Totally forgot about that for a moment) There is a half empty coffee pot on the counter and Dean can tell that it's been sitting there for the better part of the night. His nose crinkles in disgust and he decides that he doesn't need coffee anyway.
"How's the arm, son?"
Sonuvabitch, how did Dad suddenly materialize behind him? He should have heard him come up to him, Dean berates himself. What sort of help can he be to his family, if he lets his defenses drop like that, just because of a little pain and exhaustion?
"Better." He croaks. "Cold, though." Wow, what happened to his voice? He really needs some coffee. But none of that sludge on the counter. Nu huh. Not gonna happen.
Dad nods and pours some of the nasty liquid into the cup he's been holding.
"Coffee?"
"Sure."
Dean accepts the mug and forces down some of the vile tasting, cold stuff. Dad doesn't look too happy with his own cup, either. Looking a bit closer, Dad doesn't look too happy, period. He looks rugged and disheveled and every bit as exhausted as Dean feels. He remembers the light that kept shining in through the crack beneath the door to the living room and figures Dad probably didn't get any more sleep tonight than Dean himself did. He wonders what kept his dad up all night, but can't come up with the right words to ask.
They awkwardly drink their coffee, neither one willing or able to actually get a conversation going. Sam emerges from his and Dean's room some time later and he immediately starts his embarrassing concerned little brother routine ("Oh my God, you look awful!", Change bandages and gasp over the painful looking stitches, randomly keep touching Dean's shoulder, "You should really go to a hospital!", "Bla blablabla, blabla!"). Dean lets Sam fuss over him for a couple of minutes, but stubbornly refuses any painkillers.
"You need anything?" Dad asks out of the blue and Dean shakes his head.
Something to make his heart stop beating so freakin' fast, maybe. Or a ghost ball to toss out the door in case the ghost dog returns. But this so isn't the time to be mouthing off to Dad.
"Still feeling like being sick?"
"No, sir."
Dad does that thing again where he is standing in front of Dean one minute and then at the other end of the kitchen the next. Wow, this whole sleep deprivation thing is a pain in the ass. Two small pills are pressed into Dean's free hand. Dean frowns in confusion. What's he supposed to be doing with the Darvocet? Last night, Dad said…Dean is supposed to be…Dad wants him to be…
"If you're sure you won't hurl all over the place again, then take it."
Oh…
Movements are still kinda blurry and then there's Dad's warm hand on the back of Dean's neck, squeezing, making sure Dean is alright and Dean feels himself blushing.
"Try and get some sleep, son."
Dean nods and Dad forces down another cup of the crazy disgusting coffee and snaps his fingers at Sam.
"We're going to the library."
Sam looks positively excited by the idea. Then he realizes that Dean's not moving.
"What about…?"
"Your brother will be fine."
That cold detachment from last night is back in Dad's voice and Dean tries to tell himself that he is just distracted or tired or something. Isn't really sure if he can belief it, though.
"Well, I'm staying here with Dean."
"Sam, I'm not leaving the two of you alone together. Look how well that turned out yesterday."
"But what if the thing comes back for Dean?"
"Not during the day, it won't."
"You don't even know what it is!"
"That's why we're going to the library."
"Well, then why can't Dean come, too?"
"Sam, I swear to God, you move your ass into the car or I'm gonna start fucking counting!"
Sam turns the full on Bitch Face on Dad and Dad's already on edge and Dean knows this is gonna turn ugly if he doesn't do something about it, quickly.
"I think I'm gonna watch the Beavis and Butt-head marathon." He announces. It's not the best interference strategy he's ever come up with, but hey, he's not exactly on top of his game here. "Wanna keep me company?"
Sam scoffs and makes a disgusted face. He probably realizes what Dean is doing but decides to humor him and follows their father out of the house.
Dean is left, standing somewhere between the kitchen and the living room and tries to tell himself that he's okay with hearing the growl of the Impala, taking his family away to carry on doing the job without him.
Chapter 8
It is one of the quirks of living life Winchester style. You spend so much time perched together in tiny motel rooms and crammed back seats, that pretty soon you think that you're about to smash your family's brains out if they don't leave you alone for one goddamn minute. Problem is, the moment Dad and Sam took off for the library, Dean couldn't help noticing how much being left alone sucks.
Not that it doesn't make sense to leave him behind; Dad has to figure out what exactly came after them last night. Someone has to watch Sam and Dean just proved that he sure as hell isn't up to that job, so off the two of them went. And Dean has to stay at the house because…because he can't look at ancient books with his messed up arm? Because he can't ride in the Impala with his non-concussion? Because…? Dean has to stay at the house because Dad said so. There you go.
Dean stares at the fridge for several minutes. He's not really hungry, but if he's supposed to be any help for his family then he needs to stay strong, so he forces down some untoasted white, squashy bread.
He thinks that he should probably get out of the bloodstained T-shirt he's still wearing under the flannel and maybe take a shower and get rid of the clotted blood that is making the hair on the left side of his head all spiky, but the painkillers he finally took are making him drowsy and he really doesn't have the willpower to do much more than go back to his room, lie down on the bed and feel sorry for himself some more.
He doesn't know how long he just keeps staring at the puke colored stain on the ceiling right above his head. He knows that it's long enough to make his back hurt like a bitch, though (seriously, what kind of crazy morons sleep on their back voluntarily? Dean would do about anything right now to just be able to turn over and mash his face into his pillow and sleep like a normal person. Fucking sling with the fucking broken bone inside.)
Then all of a sudden there's a hand on his good shoulder and Dean's eyes snap open.
Open? Why were they closed? He wasn't sleeping. He can't keep watch when he's asleep.
"Easy, Dean. C'mon, get up."
It's Dad's voice and there, there's Dad's face in the dark (dark? Holy fuck, how long was he out?) and he doesn't even look all that pissed and disappointed anymore. Distinctly worried, though, and he keeps staring at Dean's cold arm. Holy crap, his arm is freezing.
"What's wrong?" he asks and follows his dad into the living room where Sam is working his way though this week's M&M's. The table by the sofa bed is overflowing with books.
"The thing that attacked you," Dad starts, pointing at a photograph of a pretty crappy drawing of a furless dog. "was a qiqirn."
John sees the confusion in his eldest's eyes that quickly turns into eagerness when he realizes that they're about to discuss the supernatural, before it morphs into something new altogether, when he remembers why they are discussing this particular supernatural fugly in the first place. But the kid does a pretty good job of putting his feelings aside for the moment.
"Aren't qiqirns supposed to be scavengers? Bobby said they run from humans."
"Yeah, well this one doesn't."
Dean nods. John is glad that he doesn't have to have the longwinded discussion he and Sam had over that particular subject at the library a second time 'round. Dad says it's a qiqirn. It's a goddamn qiqirn, no questions asked. Good boy.
"How're we gonna waste it?"
"We aren't gonna do one goddamn thing." John hates himself so fucking much right there. "You finish this."
John can tell that he could be driving white hot daggers into the boy's back right now and couldn't possibly be hurting Dean any more than what he just said. Because what John is essentially saying is that it's Dean's fault he almost got turned into monster chow last night. What he's saying is that Dean won't be forgiven for letting something get past the salt lines until he himself has gotten rid of the thing once and for all. What he's saying by extension is that the same goes for what happened seven years ago in Wisconsin. And John doesn't mean any of it, but he can't bring himself to tell the kid about the chapter he read on what happens to qiqirn bite wounds if the goddamn dog isn't immediately killed by the victim, can't make himself repeat the words, so he lets Dean think whatever Dean is gonna think.
Dean takes in his father's words and whispers a dejected "yes, sir."
John figures he should tell him his reasons, but the pictures the old shaman conjured up of frozen limbs turned a sickening black, before fouling off completely are still too fresh in his mind and he doesn't need to scare the kid with the prospect and anyway, it won't be the end of the world if Dean thinks he needs to prove himself again.
Dad points at the picture again and starts filling Dean in on all he needs to know. Bobby told them everything he knows about qiqirns and keeluts and other stupid dog beings last year, but this time Dean is actually interested.
It's a furless ghost dog. Feeds on blood. Usually dead blood, but this one has apparently moved on to live prey. It's essentially your run of the mill vengeful spirit, only it's a dog so salt'n'burn isn't gonna be an option. They - Dean needs to summon it, trap it inside a pictogram made of hemlock, burn the hemlock and puff, down goes Cujo. Dad is going to help him, be his backup, but he makes it absolutely clear that this is Dean's mess to clean up.
John drops several bags of rock salt, their flasks of holy water and a couple of iron knives in the backpack on the table (just in case) and nods for Dean to get his jacket.
"You ready to go?"
"Wha- now?" Dean can't stifle the surprised yelp.
He can see by the way that Sam's shoulders tense that he and Dad already had at least one shouting match over Dad's plan and Sam is ready to stand by Dean if he decides to mention that he can't really walk or move his left arm.
"We can wait until the qiqirn actually kills somebody, sure."
But we won't, because by the time that happens, your whole arm will have turned into frozen ectoplasm and fuck, no!
Dean drapes his jacket over his shoulders and grabs for his boots. His right foot makes it halfway into boot number one, then one of the sharp edges cuts right into one of the many blisters and the thought of walking around in two of these instruments of torture is just a fucking thrilling idea.
Maybe he can borrow a pair from Dad. Wait, Dad doesn't own more than one pair of boots at a time. Well, Dean's not gonna bitch and moan that he needs new shoes and can he please kill the son of a bitch tomorrow night?
He kinda wants to die when he forces his foot to fit into the tiny piece of hell that is his right boot and he can't hold back a high pitched, girlish squeak.
"Something wrong, son?"
"No, sir."
John nods and Dean tries to walk without moving his feet and Sam carries their supplies and they all file into the Impala and drive out into the night.
Chapter 9
Sam can tell that Dean is too damn close to freaking out.
He is sitting stiffly in the passenger seat in front of Sam, that one muscle in his jaw working overtime. From time to time it looks like he wants to settle back against the door but then something in his shoulder screams at the added pressure and he jerks back into an upright position. His breathing is all weird (weird as in: you can actually hear Dean breathe), he's tapping his right hand against his knee in an uneasy inner rhythm. At one point Sam is almost sure he hears his brother humming.
Dad is bound to be noticing it too. Not like Dean is doing a particularly good job of keeping his anxiety low key. Being flung across the room by a homicidal naked dog spirit does that to you, Sam figures.
"Settle down, Dean."
Dean stills.
Wow, Dad can be such an ass sometimes.
This whole suicide mission just goes to prove it. Sure, let's throw Dean in the ring with the crazy thing that tried to eat him not 24 hours ago. Oh, don't worry, Sammy, I'm gonna be standing right next to your brother and watch him and I won't do one single fucking thing to help him. Oh, he can't use his left arm? Well, he's just shit out of luck then.
And like always, Dean just sits back and takes it. So what if one of these days his crazy mission to carry out their father's orders will get him killed?
Sam tried to talk them out of this half assed plan. Oh, and how well that turned out. Dean just parroted their father's lines from earlier. 'This thing might actually kill someone if I don't end it right now. Dad's right, it was my fault the qiqirn came after me in the first place.' Never mind that neither of them checked the salt lines. Never mind that if Sam hadn't left to play some stupid video game, they could have taken care of the thing together and Dean's arm wouldn't have been torn to shreds. No, his stupid brother just has to throw himself in front of Sam and take the brunt of their dad's anger and convince himself he deserves it. Sam kinda wants to bang his stupid thick skull against the car window and knock some sense into him. Just, you know, Dean's skull is kinda banged up as it is, so Sam has to content himself with thinking about it real hard.
He mentioned his misgivings to Dad earlier, at the library, after Dad had called some contacts and worked his way through every single one of the giant volumes about Inuit canine ghosts (and Sam's still flummoxed that there is more than one kind. Seriously, what kind of crappy mythology needs five different vengeful dogs?). Sam told Dad that there was no way in hell that Dean was up to fighting that thing right now and Dad told him that he had his reasons and that he wanted to get the fuck out of this town and if Sam didn't shut the hell up they could continue this conversation with Sam over John's knee.
Yeah, threatening your teenage kid with physical violence in a public library. Classy.
Anyway, at the end of the day Sam is the only one in this screwed up family that is capable of rational thought, but why would anybody listen to him, so yeah, they are all stuck in the stupid car, driving out into the wilderness so Dean can summon a qiqirn that has randomly decided that it wants live prey, preferably Dean. Makes perfect sense…
They keep driving for almost an hour. The gravel covered asphalt slowly morphs into gravelly back road without asphalt, which in the end becomes nothing more than a frozen path and finally John pulls the car over.
Dean heaves himself out of his seat. Kid is dead on his feet. John figures he should help him out, but they didn't come here for a cozy family outing, so he stays on his side of the car. Anyway, Dean looks freaked out enough by his brother hovering at his elbow. He doesn't need his daddy to hold his hand.
John calls the boy's name and Dean looks confused for a minute, then nods and walks off in the direction of a couple of hemlock trees. There is something off with his gait John notices and can't quite figure out where the limp could be coming from. If Dean somehow got it into his head last night that he should be hiding his injuries, he's got another think coming.
Sam shuffles after his brother and John thinks about calling him back to wait in the car, but he's got a feeling that all the yelling and threats in the world won't get these two apart tonight and it's not like they're at the dangerous part of the ritual yet. If Sam is for once actually interested in helping out on a hunt then John won't hold him back.
Dean has some trouble unsheathing his Bowie knife with only one hand, but it looks like he waves off his brother's help and somehow manages to cut several branches, arrange them under his good arm and put the knife back into his belt.
John walks them over to a small area, covered with dead, frozen grass, where the flames of the banishing ritual won't be able to harm any of the surrounding trees or - more importantly - the car.
John brought the book he and Sam smuggled out of the library and he watches as Sam quietly hands his brother the paint for the pentagram, all the while shooting hateful glares in John's general direction. John gets why the boy is mad at him, he does. It's not like he doesn't hate himself for making Dean go through all this, but Dean needs to be doing this because otherwise his arm is about to turn into a black icicle and besides, he needs to learn his lesson that he can't just let things get past their defenses without consequences and he needs to learn it now, because John needs to get out of this fucking town that houses these sons of bitches that go around trying to eat his kids.
Dean is already groaning with the effort of putting the hemlock branches in the correct position inside the pentagram and John figures it won't do anyone any good if the boy collapses before they ever get to face the bastard dog, so he gets down on his knees and places the fur talisman and protective herbs on their respective places within the circle. Dean holds out his right hand and John uses his knife to make a small incision on the inside of the kid's palm.
Dark blood drops onto dead wood.
Dean keeps his eyes averted from the blood and starts reciting the short summoning ritual that John made him memorize on the way here. Not that either of them are experts on the pronunciation of this particular tribe's language, but it seems to be close enough.
The temperature drops to several degrees below freezing and wind starts blowing, carrying a high pitched howl and John pulls a struggling Sam back towards the car, just as Dean finishes his incantation with a growled "c'mere, Fido. Here, puppy, puppy. C'mere so I can torch you, motherfucker."
Chapter 10
Dean clamps his fist tightly around the Zippo in his right hand. It's against the sudden cold. Not because his hand is shaking violently and his palm is clammy and he thinks that he might just drop the lighter if he doesn't cling to it with all he's got. Nope. Definitely the cold thing.
The wind is getting stronger, making a few stray leaves and gravel inside the pentagram swirl skyward. Dean squints against the freezing breeze that's whipping his button-less jacket in every direction.
The ear piercing howl rises in volume and timbre until Dean wants to clutch his hands over his ears. Problem is, he kinda only has one hand right now and that's busy holding a lighter and anyway, he isn't some whiny little girl that's scared of the things that go bump in the night.
"C'mon you rabid son of a bitch." Dean growls and as if on cue the wind and the howling stop and there's the qiqirn standing in the middle of his carefully painted pentagram.
It cocks its head slightly to the side in a classic dog-like show of confusion. Again, it reminds Dean of Cohen, Bobby's old guard dog and he makes a mental note to stay away from the salvage yard in the near future. He might just succumb to the overwhelming need to trap one or all of the dogs inside the barn and set it on fire.
Speaking of setting things on fire.
Time to torch the fucker. Dean hasn't come here tonight to play patty cake or make polite conversation. He's here to burn the thing and be done with it.
He tries to step closer to the qiqirn. He sees a flicker of recognition in the beast's eyes and then, remembering its failed hunt, it lets out an infuriated screech and lurches itself at its prey. It doesn't get far. The jump continues for about one foot, then it crashes against the invisible walls of the pentagram, holding it firmly trapped.
But that doesn't matter, because Dean is a whiny little girl and the moment he hears the screech and sees the thing flying towards him, the Zippo slips from his fingers and he is stumbling backwards and he wants to do nothing more than crawl all the way back into the Impala and hide under the emergency blankets with Sammy while their daddy takes care of the big bad wolf.
Images from last night are flashing through Dean's mind in no particular order, screaming with bright colors and the qiqirn screams with rage when it still can't get past the walls of the binding spell. Dean's heart is working itself into a frenzy, beating against the compounds of his chest, trying to jump out through his throat and he figures that he might be well on his way to giving himself a stroke. If strokes are caused by an overly erratic heartbeat. Dean isn't really sure.
His right arm, still immobilized by the sling suddenly feels like shards of ice are trying to slice through the skin and broken bone, all the way up to his throbbing shoulder. The flesh is burning cold and feels like it might be wrapped too tightly over his bones.
The qiqirn makes a new whining sound low in its throat and the cold gets ten times worse and Dean feels about ready to pass out.
Dad said he was going to be his backup, Dean remembers and shoots a quick, panicked glance across his shoulder. Dad is standing rigid against the backdoor of the Impala, effectively blocking Sam's view from the inside. He has a death grip on the flamethrower and a giant iron dagger in his right hand, but he isn't making any move to venture over and give Dean a hand anytime soon.
His lips are moving though and Dean is vaguely aware that he should be able to make out his dad's voice, hear something, but everything gets drowned out by the sound of blood rushing though his ears and the qiqirn's furious howling.
Dean needs to end this. Now. Because he's pretty sure that he doesn't have much time left before he embarrasses himself even more and actually faints.
One last look at Dad. Still not able to hear one fucking word he's saying. Just pretend it's something encouraging, okay? C'mon, son, you're almost there. You're doin' real good. The sucker doesn't stand a chance against you, dude. There you go.
John has spent a good portion of his life locking away his heart behind a series of iron clad walls. It's what made him get through Vietnam, helped him keep on living after Mary. It's what makes him a great hunter and most of the time a piss poor father. Right now though, it's saving his son's live. Because if John let his feelings get the better of him for just one second, he'd be across the meadow, wrapping his terrified kid in a giant hug and send the motherfucking dog on its way to hell. And then Dean would be safe for all of one day and then he'd lose his arm and it'd all be John's fault for being too damn emotional. So he digs in his heels and holds on to his emergency weapons and yells over the qiqirn's ruckus for Dean to keep going.
He watches as Dean bends on trembling legs to pick up his lighter from where he dropped it on the ground. The boy takes a shaky step towards the trapped spirit, then another. It takes him several tries to open the Zippo and keep the flame burning in the ice cold wind. The qiqirn yelps a terrified bark, realizing that it can't escape, that its prey has finally gotten the upper hand. Dean throws the Zippo on top of one of the gas drenched hemlock branches and for a few moments the world is engulfed in the dying screams of the burning spirit and John feels his feet running in the direction of the black, burned circle on the ground before he ever makes the conscious decision to do so.
Within seconds he's at his boy's side. He is lying on the ground, curled into a tiny ball, shaking, clutching the arm that is still trapped inside the sling.
John tries to get him to sit up and gets a quiet whimper and more trebling in return. He scoops the bundle that seems entirely too small to be his brave, almost grown soldier up in his arms and impossibly, the weight seems even lighter than last night.
Once they have reached the safety of the Impala, John manages to coax Dean into uncurling enough to get rid of the sling and bloody bandages. Other than that, Dean's eyes stay closed, his mind somewhere between passed out and too terrified to move.
Sam turns on the headlights and scrambles out of the car to clutch his brother's good hand.
John takes in the state of his kid's arm in the new bright light and he figures there's enough damage to make even the most hardened of warriors pass out. Much less a seventeen-year old boy. The stitches from last night have been ripped out of the skin in all but two places. Blood is running down the arm again, but they'll deal with that later. The banishing ritual has gotten rid of the curse, but it hasn't undone the damage that has already happened. The flesh looks dark and dead in some places. They'll have to cut it out. In the same places the blood has already turned into ectoplasm that is, now that the qiqirn is dead, oozing lazily out of the open wounds, leaving behind sickening, black trails down Dean's arm.
Sam is babbling again and John works on ignoring him. Dean is fine. His arm is fine. Well, a little south of fine, but it'll get there.
John wipes away all the ectoplasm he can reach and empties another flask of holy water over the open wound, relieved when this time there is no burning, hissing flesh in response.
Dean's eyes flutter open while John is working on resetting the sling. Green orbs, clouded and glassy with exhaustion and fear and pain. Delirious doesn't even begin to describe it.
"'m sorry…" He mumbles, voice so much like a little kid, John feels his heart get ripped to pieces. "s'll my fault…"
"No" John all but shouts, clutching his boy against his chest. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no. It's okay now. You're okay."
He figures he's sending mixed signals to the kid what with what he told him just an hour ago, but he couldn't give a fuck about that right now if he tried.
Why is it that he can only show affection to his boys when they are dying or out of their minds with pain? Something to do with that whole locking away his heart business he guesses. Well, if that's the case then he might as well go full out while he's at it.
John scoops him up again and deposits Dean on the backseat, wrapping their blankets tightly around him.
"It's okay, Dean-o. You did real good."
Dean makes a sound that's vaguely reminiscent of a content, sleeping child and what the fuck if John presses a quick kiss on top of the kid's head. The short locks haven't seen a trace of hair product in days and except for the part behind his left ear, where it's all spiky and dark with clotted blood, it feels soft and fair and slightly curly and Mary.
John gives him a last pat on the cheek, then follows Sam into the front seat and John turns the key in the ignition. Sam has put in a Black Sabbath tape. That's certainly a first.
It's straight back to the crappy rented house, John decides. Put the boys to bed, cover Dean in any and all available blankets, smother him with M&M's and chicken broth and hot chocolate once he wakes up, take care of the arm again and then get the fuck right out of fucking Alaska.
John has had enough of Alaska to last a lifetime. The boys pretty much had enough of Alaska the moment John announced they were going there.
"Hey, kiddo" John whispers, turning around, one hand on the steering wheel eyes on the backseat (because it's nobody's fucking business how he decides to drive on deserted back roads.) "Caleb's working a poltergeist gig in Venice Beach. Waddaya say?"
And Dean smiles that bright, though slightly loopy, smile of his that says 'Sun? Beaches? Chicks in bikinis? Where do I sign?'
He shivers slightly and shifts under his blankets and starts humming along to 'Fairies Wear Boots'.