Picking up the Pieces (SPN, Dean)

[ID2006]

Thanks for this. Nice to have a distraction for a little while. And, obviously never having gone through anything near as bad as Dean, so many things in this fic make me feel not so alone.

[telltale]

Your updates are always a thing of beauty.  Loved this sad but tender chapter.

[Ciel]

This is so good, I'm glad I found this! 

(Can someone link me to the prequel? Thanks ^^)

[MissBayliss]

For some reason it's not letting me quote individually? But anyway...

Ickydog2006: Comments like that just warm my heart. If what I'm writing inspires someone that no matter who you are and what you're going through, you can draw strength from inside yourself to keep fighting, then that's more than anything I could have ever hoped for. And i have some important words for you. Always keep fighting. You are not alone. Love yourself first. And you are enough. 

Love you. God bless.xx

telltale: Thank you for the unwavering support. I love reading your comments.  

Ciel: Thanks for dropping by! I'm glad you like this one  The (very long) prequel is here: 

 

[MissBayliss]

Chapter Seven

 

 

 

When Sam went to bed that night he was running over in his head the cost of Dean staying in hospital another week, when his next pay cheque was coming and how much he'd earn if he started working double shifts. Even then he'd need to work hard for tips too... Okay, that was fine. He'd work till late, hustle pool in his breaks. Shit. They still would never have enough money.

Maybe I should get another job, he thought. But working two jobs and looking after Dean? That would be near impossible.

He lay his head down on the pillow and thought about where Dean could be hiding bottles through the house. He'd have to have stashed the stuff everywhere for easy access. He wasn't the most mobile these days. He'd need to find it and tip it down the sink, all of it. He would not bring Dean back into a house that had alcohol. That was it. He was done.

The alcohol and the money situation aside, Sam started worrying that he’d made a mistake leaving Dean in the hospital. Sure, Bobby was there, but Sam liked to keep an eye on him himself, make sure things didn't get worse. And he knew when Dean was really vulnerable, distressed, and caught in a PTSD flashback, he needed his brother.

Sam swallowed, breathed out long and hard, forced his eyes to close. The sooner he got some sleep, the sooner he could get back to Dean.

 

...

 

Sam woke up to the loud trundle of the garbage truck coming down the street. It was after 9 o’clock. He cursed and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. No messages. He sighed. He knew Bobby wouldn’t call him anyway, even if things had gotten worse, because Bobby was trying to look after both of them. I’m not the one that needs looking after, Sam thought sullenly. He dialed Bobby’s number before he’d even got out of bed.

“Mornin’,” Bobby greeted.

“How is he?” Sam said, sleep still in his voice, forgoing the formalities.

“I’m fine, Sam. Thanks for asking,” Bobby replied.

“Sorry, Bobby.”

“It’s alright, son.”

 

Sam heard some talking in the background, knives and forks against plates, “Where are you?”

“I just went to grab some breakfast.”

 

All Sam could think was you left him alone. I trusted you to watch out for him and you left him alone. He could feel his jaw getting tighter as he gritted his teeth.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. He had a visitor.”

 

“A visitor?”

“Yeah, some girl from rehab or something. Pretty little thing.”

 

“Oh, that’ll be Katie…”

“That’s her.”

 

“Um… okay,” Sam tried to get his mind straight after that strange new development, “But how is he? How was last night?”

“Not the best.”

 

I knew it.

 

“He spent most of the damn night hurling. At one point his temperature was almost 104. He calmed down a bit after they put the cooling blanket on him.”

 

“What about the nightmares? Did he have any incidences?”

“A few. Kid seemed pretty distressed any time he closed his eyes. But what’s new? He did have a bit of a panic attack this morning. Something on the TV set him off but I didn’t see what. Took him a while to come round from that one.”

“Could have been anything,” Sam thought out loud, a lot of things set Dean off these days.

“Dr Reid is coming in today to see how he’s doing.”

 

“Great. Okay, well, I’ll be up there in about an hour. I just want get rid of the booze in the house, call Riley and maybe see if she can give me some more hours.”

“Sam,” Bobby said, an element of sternness in his voice, “Don’t you go working yourself into the ground.”

 

Sam sighed and lowered his head, “Do I have any other option?”

 

…

 

By the time Sam was in the car, heading to the hospital he received another call from Bobby. He kept the car steady, focused his eyes on the road as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

“What’s going on?” he answered.

“Boy almost passed out he was hurting so bad.”

 

Shit.

 

“His back?”

“Yeah. He’s had some morphine now and is out cold.”

 

“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

Sam hung up and drove just a little faster.

 

…

 

Dean could hear Sam’s voice. He wanted to wake up. Mostly because from what he could hear of Sam’s tone, he was worried, stressed, frightened, and he needed to assure him that everything was okay. That he was okay. But he couldn’t wake up. The morphine had knocked him around. He was completely out of it. Couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t move his body. He didn’t hurt though. At least he didn’t hurt. But he was nauseous, and felt just generally unwell.

“The doc give you an update?”

 

“Yeah, they, uh, have to take more blood today to check his liver, possibly a chest xray too.”

 

“What about his back? Are they worried about that?”

 

“Dr Reid said he’s sending a physio down here to assess him. They’ll have to give him some exercises… Ideally he should have been walking but he’s been too weak to get much further than to the bathroom.”

 

“Well, when he’s up we can try and get him moving. See how he does.”

 

“Bobby…”

 

“… He’ll be alright, Sam. It looks bad, but, I promise, it’ll be alright. We just need to keep focusing on our next move.”

 

Dean struggled. He couldn’t listen to anymore. He couldn’t have his little brother this on edge about him. Dean was the caregiver. Dean was the provider. Dean looked out for Sammy. That was it. That was his job. His only job. And dammit, Bobby was right, he had to stow his crap, for everyone’s sake.

“Dean? You awake?”

 

Dean managed to moan, shift in the bed.

“Easy, boy.”

 

The morphine clouded his head, made him even more sluggish, but he got his eyes open and locked onto Sammy.

“Hey, little brother.”

Sam smiled, looking pained and exhausted, but it was a friggen beautiful sight nonetheless.

“Hey, Dean. How ya feeling?”

“Like roadkill,” he joked.

“Well, you look like it too,” Sam laughed back.

“Gee, thanks, Sammy. Kick a man while he’s down.”

Bobby stood up, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder, “I’m gonna grab a coffee, boys.”

Dean nodded at Bobby, being silently thankful for everything he’d ever put himself through for them.

“I talked to your doctor,” Sam said, face turning sour.

“Yeah? When ya springing me?” Dean sniffed, glanced around the room.

“Dean…”

“Seriously, Sam. Let’s get outta here.”

“Would you stop?” Sam said.

“What?” Dean looked at him with honest confusion. As if he wouldn’t have known Dean would want to get out as soon as possible.

“This is serious,” Sam raised his voice a little, “Do you realise how sick you are?”

“Oh, come on, Sam. So I went a bit hard on the booze, I think I’m entitled to that considering.”

“You know it’s worse than that.”

“I know! Alright? I know! What I don’t need is you reminding me 24/7!”

Dean knew the minute the words had left his mouth that he’d said the wrong thing. For a moment neither of them said anything. From the look on Sam’s face he was still in shock. Dean was suddenly on edge, angry, bordering on furious. And it was only because he was so terrified. God, I need a drink, he thought, licking his lips.

A nurse came in. A new one for today. She introduced herself but Dean just sort of grunted in the affirmative and didn’t pay any attention. She took his vital signs, and looked between him and his brother.

“Your blood pressure is a little bit higher than normal, are you stressed about anything this morning?”

Bless her, she didn’t understand. She hadn’t met Dean and understood that he was stressing about something 100% of the time.

He mustered a smarmy grin, “Not any more than usual.”

“Okay,” she nodded, rechecked her figures, and then took his pulse and blood pressure manually.

Dean rested himself back, tried to calm down. He could feel his heart pounding and knew that was probably what she was panicking about.

When she finished she said, “I’ll get Dr Reid to come down and see you shortly.”

“Thanks, Jenny,” Sam smiled as she left.

Ah, so Sam was paying attention.

“You alright?” Sam asked.

Dean rubbed his fingers across his forehead, “Headache,” he mumbled.

“Uh, Katie came and visited you?”

Dean looked up with the sudden change of conversation.

“Yeah, she did.”

“Huh,” Sam hummed, “So, what’s going on with that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You gonna…” Sam shrugged, “hit that?”

Dean chuckled, then cleared his throat, “When are you working next?”

He wasn’t quite ready to talk about Katie. Yeah, she was a babe. Yeah, she was young and single… but she was too good for him. Way too good for him. He had no idea why she was even hanging around. He couldn’t possibly understand why she would want to waste her time with him. It was hard enough to imagine why in hell Riley had wanted to, at least she was getting something out of it. Yeah, shitty sex, where you just lie there and then cry afterwards. Ace. Brilliant. Fannntastic.

 

“If you’re feeling okay later I’ll go in tonight.”

Dean was glad Sam didn’t press the issue.

“I’m fine here. You can go.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Sam muttered, chewing on his lip.

 

…

 

Sam and Dean didn’t say much to each other after that. Bobby went back to the house to get some sleep. Sam had almost read an entire book while he sat at Dean’s side. Nurses and doctors were in and out. They took him down for an xray, which showed his pneumonia was not responding to the antibiotics, so it was more meds pumped through his lines. Then he’d had more blood taken, a physio and OT review, followed by a long and painful walk up and down the hall, in which Dean admitted that he needed a cane… and more painkillers. After that Dean passed out from exhaustion.

Sam almost jumped out of his seat when his phone started ringing in his pocket. He tried to get to it quickly, casting a glance at his brother to make sure he was still asleep.

“Hello?” he answered, quietly, not even having read the name on the screen.

“Hey, Sam. It’s Riley.”

“Oh, hey, Riley,” Sam kept his voice low.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, no. Dean’s just sleeping.”

“Oh, that’s what I was calling about. I wanted to know how things were going.”

“Yeah,” Sam huffed a laugh, “Uh, he’s, uh…”

“So, not doing so hot then?” he could hear the humour in her voice as she cut off his stammering.

“I’m not quite sure when he’ll be getting out.”

“Is he accepting visitors?”

Dean’s loud breathing, which Sam had been listening to for the last few hours, began hitching and Sam fixed his eyes on his brother, immediately assessing for danger. Thinking the worst, that Dean was falling into a nightmare, Sam was surprised when Dean sneezed so hard it woke him, bringing an arm up to rub at his nose, looking so confused it was almost comical.

“What the hell are you laughing at?” Dean croaked.

Sam had to grip his stomach he was laughing so hard.

“Sorry. I’ll call you back,” Sam muttered into the phone, trying to contain himself.

“What?” Dean sounded angry.

Sam couldn’t stop laughing though, and when he managed a glance at his brother through tear filled eyes, he had a reluctant smile on his face.

“Ahh, God,” Sam sighed, wiping his eyes, “Sorry.”

Dean coughed lightly, then rubbed his forehead, “Glad someone’s enjoying themselves,” he said, but he didn’t sound annoyed.

“Sorry, man. How you feeling?”

“I feel like shit. My head’s killing me,” Dean sniffed and rubbed his nose again.

“You’re not getting another cold, are you?”

“God, probably. Whey the hell not?” Dean rolled his eyes, then groaned at how it must have hurt.

“Well, the drinking probably didn’t help boost your immune system.”

“Yes, thank you, Sam. I didn’t actually need a response,” Dean jabbed, closing his eyes.

Sam laughed, “Just go back to sleep, dude.”

“Planning on it,” Dean grunted, clearing his throat, “Who were you talking to?”

“Huh?”

Dean cracked his eyes open, “On the phone.”

“Oh. Riley called, wanted to know if she could come and visit.”

Dean coughed, pressed his hand against his ribs, “What is this? A peep show?”

“I think she just wants to see you, man.”

Sam saw the look of confusion and self-loathing ghost over his brother’s face. So he continued, “I don’t know how you manage to pull the ladies when you look like ass though.”

Dean smiled, as tired as he looked, “You underestimate the charm, Sammy. They just can’t resist.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam moaned, “What do you want me to tell her?”

“Sure, I guess,” he croaked, “Beats looking at your ugly mug.”

 

…

 

So, Dean had felt this cold coming on for about a day, but just chose to ignore it. Because he didn’t even think it was possible to catch a cold when he was still dealing with the effects of the last one. How was that even fair? It’s not fair, he thought, but since when did you deserve what was fair?

He’d woken up hours later, after his brief chat with Sam, to find he was alone. A note on his side table told him that Sam had gone to work and Bobby would be in later that night.

He sniffed, sneezed twice, groaned, then coughed. He rubbed his face with both hands, hearing a gentle knock at the door.

“Hi, Dean. You’re awake.”

It was the nurse from before.

“Hey,” his voice cracked, “Jenny, was it?”

“That’s me,” she smiled, “How are you feeling?”

“Ah… I’ve been better.”

“I’m sure you have,” she began wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his arm. “So, the doctor wants you to have two hours of oxygen before bed.”

Dean sneezed.

“Bless you!” she chirped.

Dean didn’t want the oxygen. Just because they used those nasal prongs, and right now he was having a hard time breathing through his nose at all he was so congested.

“I’ll grab some tissues for you in a minute, Dean,” she said, checking his BP.

“Thanks,” he cleared his throat.

“Do you feel like you’re coming down with something?” her eyebrows were furrowed as she sent him an assessing gaze.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed, the congestion muffling his words.

“Okay, well we might do the oxygen through the mask tonight then,” she said, finishing up taking his vital signs, “Is there anything else I can get you to make you a bit more comfortable?”

“Just tissues, thanks,” he rasped, rubbing his knuckles under his nose.

“Alright, I’ll be back with your medication and some tissues for you. Your brother said your uncle would be in at around 7.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dean managed a smile as she left.

When the nurse came back in Dean was staring at the wall, she had a newspaper tucked under her arm. She gave him the meds and placed the tissue box and paper on his table, wheeling it close to him.

“I thought you might want to read something if you were bored. I know there’s not much to do when you’re feeling crummy.”

Dean grabbed the tissues in favour of the paper, heartily blowing his nose, feeling like half his brain just exploded through his face. God, it sucked.

 

…

 

“Please, stop.”

 

A man cried. Dean could only tell from the voice that it was a man, the face was too shredded and bloody to tell at this point.

“I didn’t do anything. Please. Please, stop. Ahhhh!”

 

Dean drove the blade into his side, squeezing it down between the ribs. Oh, it felt so good to deal out some pain.

“I don’t understand… Ahhh!”

 

Dean sliced and chopped, and smiled as he did it. He didn’t care who this guy was, what he’d done, now it was his turn. It was his turn to hold the knife, to tear apart the souls on the rack. Oh, and the more this guys screamed, the more he liked it.

Dean woke up sweaty, panting, sobbing. His hands were shaking. He tried to forget the dream, say to himself ‘it’s just a dream’ but it wasn’t. It was real. He’d done that. Over and over and over again. And he had liked it.

He put a hand on his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart. He’d only been asleep for fifteen minutes. While he tried to reorient himself his eyes fell on the newspaper in front of him.

He wasn’t looking for it. And he probably wouldn’t have seen it if it wasn’t staring him in the face. The front page described the strange goings on of what could only be a vengeful spirit.

Is Hill House Haunted?, the front page screamed. Dean read the article, which painted a pretty clear history of the house, half the work was done for him. He could tell that whoever this Professor Elliot was, was causing havoc and was now the reason two people were dead.

Dean felt awful, but that dream had sparked something in him. He couldn’t lie around all day. He had too much to atone for now. He would never, he could never, make it right, but he could start somewhere. Killing evil. That was supposed to be what got him through. But he’d given that up, why? Because his body was failing? Bullshit. It wasn’t a good enough excuse.

Bobby was coming in at 7. It was currently 5:41. He had just over an hour to get his clothes on, escape past medical staff, hotwire a car, and be on his way to Hill House. Dean grabbed some tissues and sneezed messily into them.

Piece of cake.

 

 

…

[Wow Really?]

A cold on top of everything else? Ugh... poor little guy. ?

Thanks so much for the update. Very much needed a little distraction this morning ❤️

And stuff like this is the very best kind of distraction there is!

[telltale]

Ahhh, poor Dean.  He's so run-down.    The way you've written his thought-processes and his self-loathing and wanting to be strong for Sam and for everyone else ring so, so true for his character, and this just continues to be so good.

[MissBayliss]

Chapter Eight

 

Dean gripped the wheel tighter to stop his hands shaking. He’d managed to get out of bed, have a shower and get his clothes on, sneak past the nurses and out of the ward down to the parking lot, where he’d found an unlocked car, hotwired it, and was home free. Except his brain was foggy from the meds and his worsening cold, he was having trouble catching his breath, the pain in his right side was still lingering, his back was in knots, and he wanted nothing more than to investigate the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.

Belatedly he thought about the trunk of this car he’d swiped, and how it wasn’t choc full of weapons like Baby was. That was okay. All he needed was salt and some matches… and a shovel, and a shot of whiskey, and salt, and whiskey…

He coughed towards the back of his wrist, trying to keep the car straight as his vision blurred.

“Come on, Dean,” he groaned, blinking hard, trying to focus.

Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe he would end up back in hospital, worse this time. But right now, this seemed like Dean’s only option.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and pressed the accelerator a little harder.

 

…

 

Bobby was walking in the main doors of the hospital when his phone rang.

“Hello,” he said, picking up the unknown number.

“Hi, Mr Singer?”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, pressing the button on the lift.

“It’s Jennifer, one of the nurses looking after Dean.”

Bobby’s heart dropped.

“What’s wrong? Tell me the situation.”

“He, uh, he’s gone.”

“… What?”

“His bed is empty. His clothes are gone. We haven’t been able to locate him on the ward or in hospital grounds.”

“Son of a bitch.”

 

…

 

Sam had a feeling something was wrong. He was sitting in the back on his lunch break, staring at his phone with unrelenting intensity. He should call them, right? Make sure everything was okay? He shook his head. It was stupid to worry this much. The hospital would take care of him. It’s not like they would kick him out if he had a nightmare. Everything was fine.

Everything’s fine…

But it wasn’t fine. Sam had an ache deep in his stomach, a niggle in the back of his head. Dean was in trouble.

He was about to dial when Bobby started calling. His heart was in his throat.

“What is it?” he answered, his voice panicked and shaky.

“Dean’s done a runner.”

“Son of a bitch.”

 

…

 

Dean had the car pulled over on the side of the road. His hands were shaking so much now that driving was almost impossible. He wrapped an arm around his midsection, crumpling forward from the pain. He rested his head on the steering wheel. Every breath burned.

This was a bad idea.

His phone rung for the tenth time. Sam and Bobby had been calling him constantly. He silenced it but decided to send Sam a text, just to let him know he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.

There’s something I gotta do. Be back in a few days. – D

He threw his phone on the passenger seat and started the car again. He just needed to stop off at a hardware store, and a liquor store. Salt, matches, shovel, whiskey. Salt, matches, shovel, whiskey…

 

…

 

“Excuse me. I need you to help me grab a couple of things,” Dean asked, voice almost giving out entirely.

The young boy behind the counter of the hardware store looked up at him with immediate panic on his face.

“Are you alright, sir?” he blurted out.

Dean nodded, impatiently, “I’m fine. Now help me out.”

“Sure. Of course,” he replied, still looking like he was about to reach for the phone and dial 911.

“I need a bag of salt, matches or a lighter, and a shovel.”

“We usually only sell salt during the winter time…”

“Just get me some salt.”

“Okay. Yes, sir,” the kid said, and hurried off out the back.

Dean leaned on the counter, letting a cough escape. It sent stabbing pain through his chest and he thought he was going to vomit. He felt sweat prickle on his upper lip. He just needed a drink. Once he got a whiskey in him, he’d be fine.

“I found a bag out the back… mister?”

Dean lifted his head and the world tilted. He stumbled outside and threw up in the gutter. Surprisingly, the kid followed him.

“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

Dean straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Nah, I’m good. You got the stuff?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Okay,” Dean pulled a wad of cash out of his wallet, spoils from his pool hustling days, and handed it to the kid, “Put it in the trunk.”

 

…

 

“He was here when I came in to take his obs and do his meds at quarter to six. He told me he wasn’t feeling well, he’d come down with a cold. I brought him some tissues. That was all,” Jenny shook her head as if trying to recall some minor detail that would have sent Dean running for the hills.

Sam chewed his bottom lip, “And he just, what? Up and left? Without anyone noticing?”

Jenny’s cheeks reddened, and Bobby put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“No one saw him leave, but we are running one short tonight.”

“Did he take anything with him? You said his clothes were gone,” Bobby took a step forward, trying to be a barrier between Sam and the nurse who’d let his brother unplug himself and walk off the ward.

“That’s all. He didn’t have much with…” she stopped as she looked around, “The paper’s gone.”

“What paper?” Sam gushed.

“I brought him today’s newspaper to read. He looked so bored, and I though it would help him take his mind off things. It was on his table. It’s gone now.”

Sam huffed out loud, not really annoyed at Jenny anymore, just annoyed at his stupid, pigheaded brother… and so ridiculously worried. “Have you got another paper?”

“In the nurses’ station,” she nodded.

“We’re gonna need that, honey,” Bobby added.

Jenny headed off, leaving the boy’s alone in Dean’s room.

“He wouldn’t, Bobby,” Sam shook his head, “He couldn’t.”

“Well, I’ll bet he did. Whatever he saw in that paper I hope the boy hasn’t got himself in too deep. Last thing he needs is a knock to the head.”

“He can’t have got far, he doesn’t have the impala and the arsenal in the trunk.”

“He’ll make do. He’s resourceful.”

“Dammit, Bobby. What the hell is wrong with him?”

“Kid’s hurting, Sam. He’s hurting bad.”

“And going hunting, in his state is going to fix that? How does that make sense?”

“It does to him.”

 

…

 

Dean took a swig from the bottle of whiskey and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He felt renewed, alive, and, yeah, that probably wasn’t a good thing but he needed energy right now. He needed strength. And if this worked then bottoms up.

He pushed the car door open and swung his legs around. It pinched his back.

“Unnnngg,” he groaned.

He’d almost forgotten about the pain in his back… almost.

He pulled himself from the car, sniffing hard. He sneezed against his arm, grabbing a hold of the door to remain upright.

Sam hadn’t stopped calling since he’d sent the text. He’d even sent back one of his own.

Come back to the hospital, Dean. Please.

Dean had ignored it, just like all the phone calls. Sam didn’t understand. Sam didn’t understand hell. He didn’t know hell like Dean did. And Dean never wanted him to find out. He wasn’t the same person anymore. He was walking around right now carrying the weight of the world, and it was crippling. It was suffocating. He had souls upon souls piled on his shoulders, their faces in his dreams, their cries ringing in his ears. He needed to do this. He needed to do some good, however small, he needed this, just to get him through another night.

He slammed his door shut and straightened. He couldn’t even begin to catalogue the pain anymore. He decided not to think about it and headed round to the trunk where the kid had loaded up his supplies.

Popping the trunk he leaned both hands on the back of the car, feeling the car give under his weight. He coughed openly, feeling the familiar tearing pain in his ribs. God, he needed a massage. He rubbed a hand across his chest.

“Alright,” he croaked, “We got work to do.”

 

…

[Wow Really?]

Holy crap, this is getting intense. 

?

Somebody needs to find him soon! He's so broken ?

Thanks for the awesome. I needed this today. I need this *every* day lol.. Takes my mind off of real life problems in the best possible way,  so thank you! ❤️

[MissBayliss]

On 11 October 2016 at 5:53 AM, Wow Really? said:

Holy crap, this is getting intense. 

?

Somebody needs to find him soon! He's so broken ?

Thanks for the awesome. I needed this today. I need this *every* day lol.. Takes my mind off of real life problems in the best possible way,  so thank you! ❤️

When people say they like the story because of what I do, that's amazing. When people say it helps them, that fills me with so much pride and so much inspiration. My heart swells. So, thank you.

I'm making quick work of the next chapter but I'm entering another 3 weeks nursing placement on Monday and I don't imagine I'll have a lot of time during those 3 weeks to work on this. I'll do my best. Next chapter should be up by the weekend though.

Stay awesome.  

[Wow Really?]

Take your time! I totally understand how busy you are ❤️ I will be right here waiting  

And you are so very welcome. It's the truth. Loveliness like this is my escape, because my reality isn't something I like to focus on too much. So you definitely help me. 

[MissBayliss]

WARNING: Mentions of sexual assault/harassment. Nothing detailed or graphic.

Chapter Nine

 

Sam saw the headline and knew what his brother had done. Bobby drove while Sam read through the article and did a quick search on his phone.

“Green Lawn Cemetery, Bobby. That has to be where he’s gone.”

“Boy’s gonna do a salt and burn in his condition?” Bobby grunted.

“So, Professor Elliot was a lecturer at the local college for over 35 years,” Sam ignored Bobby’s comment and started on about the case, “There were rumours he was sexually assaulting his students but nothing was ever done. After he died 6 months ago, women started speaking out about what he’d done. Geez, over 40 women have made claims… Guy’s a scumbag.”

“You’re telling me,” Bobby huffed, shaking his head.

“Anyway so he lived to the age of 90, died in Hill House where he lived and gave private lessons. God.”

“Okay, now I definitely want this guy barbequed.”

“Yeah, no doubt about that… So the house was boarded up but college kids have been going through trashing it.”

Bobby snorted, “I don’t blame them.”

“Two girls that went in were killed in mysterious circumstances, more injured… Sounds like a piece of work ghost if you ask me.”

“Your brother knows a hunt when he sees one.”

“Obviously this guy has to be taken out but we have to make sure Dean doesn’t get himself in anymore trouble. He’s already been out for hours.”

Sam looked out the window, clenching his jaw.

“Going as fast as I can, Sam.”

Sam didn’t look at Bobby, “Go faster.”

 

…

 

Dean was moving by sheer will power alone… and possible fuelled a bit by the whiskey. To be honest he hadn’t drunk that much, because even though he wanted to quickly reach the bottom of that bottle and forget the pain for a while, he needed to stay sharp, and also his right side was still aching and he probably shouldn’t put his liver through much more.

He drove the shovel into the ground again, making slow progress. His back wasn’t up for this. He tried to tune out the voice in his head.

You can’t do this. You’re too weak. You’ll never reach that coffin.

He pierced the ground, harder this time, groaning out loud, because it hurt so much. He paused and leaned against the headstone, sneezing messily towards the ground.

You can’t do it.

He closed his eyes, took a breath through his mouth because his nose was completely blocked, “Screw you,” he said, directing it to no one but himself.

And he resumed digging.

 

…

 

Sam and Bobby took off in opposite directions, searching for the grave of Professor Elliot. It was pitch black now, only the light of their torches to guide them. Sam wanted nothing more than to scream his brother’s name, but he knew better than to alert the possible ghost that was hanging around, or any nearby citizens that were likely to call the police at the sight of 2 grown men, wandering round the cemetery at night. He scanned his torch across the graves. Dean had to be here. He had to be.

As he powered forward deep into the cemetery he started to hear it. A sound of a shovel in the ground, earth being moved, turned over. What was more alarming was the sounds Dean was making, this panting, wheezing, almost sobbing cries. Every breath out, as the shovel hit the ground, was forced out, voiced in a strangled grunt of pain.

He couldn’t help it.

“Dean!”

Sam’s torch light finally found him, only about a foot and a half deep into this grave. He was shoveling quickly, but not effectively. The dirt was mostly going back into the grave.

“Dean, stop.”

Sam jumped into the grave, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Dean tried to continue, almost like he didn’t see his brother there, but his hands were shaking, slowing down.

“Dean, please,” Sam said, close to his ear.

Dean finally stopped, slowly raising his head to look at Sam. His eyes were glassy, face slick with sweat.

“We have to…” he fumbled, dropping the shovel.

Sam grabbed his shoulders, “I know. It’s okay. I’ll take care of it. We’ll take care of it. Together. Okay?”

Dean smiled weakly, as his eyes struggled to stay open. Then his knees buckled and his head hit Sam’s chest with a thud. Sam wrapped his arms around him.

“I got you.”

 

…

 

Dean refused to leave until the job was done. Sam and Bobby were making quick work of the grave digging while he leaned against a grave stone, legs out in front of him going numb. He couldn’t focus on the pain. It was everywhere. So intense that it buzzed loudly in his ears. He kept his eyes open, ‘cause he had to keep watch, to protect his family.

He coughed hard.

Sam stopped, head popping up out of the grave

“You alright, Dean?”

Dean nodded, still coughing into a fist. He leaned to his left and threw up in the grass next to him.

“Dean,” Sam was climbing out.

“Get back in there, Sam,” Dean’s voice was raspy, but he kept it firm, “Keep going.”

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“We’d already be back there if you’d shut up and dig faster,” Dean groaned, adding a smirk just to reassure his brother.

“Just… don’t die,” Sam said.

Dean laughed, despite… everything, “I’ll tell you if I get a sense of impending doom.”

Sam scowled and reluctantly jumped back in and resumed digging.

As time went on Dean found himself struggling to stay conscious. The pain was next level. He listened to the rhythmic sound of shovels piercing the ground. He heard it when they finally cracked through the wood of the coffin lid, his eyes drifting shut. It would be over soon.

Suddenly a ghostly chill washed over him. Sam and Bobby were out of the grave, Sam bending over the duffle, grabbing the salt, Bobby leaning on his shovel, exhausted.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, using every bit of breath he had in him.

Professor Elliot had materialized out of the dark and was looming by his headstone.

As Sam turned, fumbling for his shotgun, the professor flicked his hand and flung him across the cemetery, the sound of an ominous thud coming soon after. Bobby got to the salt, and threw it towards the ghost, making his form flicker and disappear.

Dean was scrambling to his feet, as the ghost appeared behind Bobby, reaching a ghostly hand towards his throat. Bobby gasped and clutched at his neck, hitting his knees, as the professor choked the life out of him.

Dean grabbed the salt and lighter fluid. He shook it out liberally over the coffin and body that lay inside, followed by the lighter fluid.

He heard Bobby begin coughing like he could finally breathe. Not good.

Dean grabbed the lighter from his pocket and threw it in as Professor Elliot advanced towards him. He turned to fire mid-run, a warmth washing over Dean as the burning ghost passed through him.

“Dean,” Bobby said, his voice rough.

“Get Sam,” was all he said, sitting down on the ground, “Go check on Sam.”

Dean had to sit down or he was going to pass out, the bad thing was, he didn’t know how he was ever going to get up again. All of a sudden he was hit with the pain in his spine, it would have taken the feet out from under him if he weren’t already sitting down.

Sam and Bobby appeared, running towards him. Dean started to fall backwards as he relaxed with the relief that Sam was okay. They skidded to the ground beside him and held him in place.

“Sam, shit,” Dean felt the air being forced from his lungs, “my legs… I think I…”

“Shhh, Dean. You’re moving your legs. They’re moving. It’s fine. You just need some morphine, alright?”

“God, yes,” Dean joked, embarrassed for even worrying that his back had finally failed and he was potentially paralysed, but even more worried that Sam had known before he'd said it.  

“Let’s get you up and moving then. Or are we gonna yabber all damn night?” Bobby butted in, voice hoarse and strained from being almost choked to death.

As the two men hoisted Dean up, Sam made a small, almost unperceivable, moan of pain.

“Ya’alright, Sammy?” Dean asked, a hint of stern brotherly command in his voice.

“Yeah,” he nodded, but twisted a little, grimacing.

“Sam.”

“I think I broke a rib,” he said, flippantly, “It’s fine.”

“Bobby’s looking you over when we get to the car,” Dean ordered, trying to get his feet under himself.

Bobby snorted, “Obviously.”

Getting back to the car seemed to take forever but at the same time happened very quickly.

Sam and Bobby lay Dean down in the back.

He lay flat on his back, coughing up the gunk in his lungs.

"You should sit up," Sam said, bending to help rearrange him.

"No," Dean panted.

"Dude, you're coughing up a lung," Sam said, impatiently.

"Nah, Sam... my back's worse... I can't..." Dean decided to finish the sentence there, dangerously close to a panic attack. Cause if he focused any attention on it...

It's bad. It's bad. It's bad. It's bad.

"Okay. Alright. Just relax," Sam said, a hand on his thigh.

Dean closed his eyes.

"Ahh," Sam hissed in pain.

Dean's eyes flew open. Sam was gingerly holding a hand over his chest. Before Dean could even muster strength to comment Bobby was sitting Sam down in the front seat and reaching his hands up under his shirt.

"It's okay," Sam said, although Dean could tell his teeth were clenching together, "It's not bad."

"I'll be the judge of that," Bobby said.

Dean smirked a little and let his eyes close again. His little brother was being taken care of. The ghost was history. And it was a job well done. Gold stars all around.

 

...

 

"Well, it's broken," Bobby straightened, tugging the brim of his hat.

"Thought so," Sam pulled his shirt back down.

"And you're gonna bruise up nice."

Sam huffed a laugh, "Been a while since I had a good bruise anyway."

"Alright, well, you can have some Tylenol and we'll get some cream on that later. Prognosis is, you'll probably live."

Sam smiled, "Good to hear. Happy now, Dean? Doctor Bobby's checked me over... Dean?"

Sam looked into the back seat and Dean was out, head lolled to the side, white as a sheet.

Bobby grabbed Dean's leg and leaned into the back.

"Son? Can you open your eyes for me, Dean?"

Dean's head moved slightly but it was taking him a long time to wake up.

“Dean? Come on, Dean. Open your eyes, boy,” Bobby squeezed Dean’s shoulder, giving him a little shake.

Dean scrunched up his face, “What’re ya shaking me for?” he muttered, voice thick with congestion.

Bobby and Sam both let out a breath, “Just stay awake for us, son.”

Dean brought a hand up and sneezed, not even successfully covering it as Sam saw a spray directed almost perfectly at Bobby’s face. Direct hit.

Waiting for the cursing to follow soon after, Sam was surprised when Bobby just wiped his face with his sleeve and smiled at Dean.
“Sorry, Bobby,” Dean slurred.

Bobby put a hand on Dean’s forehead, testing for fever and wiping off the layer of sweat.

“It’s alright, kid. Just hang tight till we get you back in a bed,” he moved his hand to his chest and rubbed comfortingly, “You did good.”

Sam had to stop himself from gaping at the scene. He couldn’t help but think that in another life, Bobby would have made a great father, and then he realized… he already was.

“Sit in the back with your brother, Sam. I want you to keep talking to him. Keep him awake. And be careful with that rib.”

Sam smiled softly at the gruff, bearded hunter, clothes smeared with dirt.

“What?” Bobby asked, showing the whites of his eyes under his trucker hat.

“Nothing,” Sam said, but gave Bobby a look.

Bobby shifted on his feet and tugged his hat, returning Sam’s smile.

“Alright… well… Go on and look after your brother.”

“Sure thing,” Sam nodded.

 

…

[Wow Really?]

Beautiful as always.. I'm loving this so much.. I'm so glad I decided to check for updates tonight

Poor Dean 

 

[telltale]

I'm a little behind online lately, so I just read two chapters at once, which was even more satisfying than usual!

The tenderness between the characters, especially at the end of the last chapter, is so lovely and balances the heartbreak of the situation out.  I just love the dynamic you have going on here.  And I love people taking care of Dean; he just never gets enough of that for me.  And I love everythingggg.  I feel like my feedback probably repeats itself a lot, but yeah.  Love!

[MissBayliss]

I'm back, guys. With a long chapter for you, because I love y'all so much  

Thanks for being patient. I hope you enjoy the update.

 

Chapter Ten

 

The impala trundled over a pothole and Dean winced, letting out a whimper as pain shot through his back.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam said.

He’d been muttering things throughout the whole ride, squeezing Dean’s sore shoulder any time he started to drift off. It was comforting but also a little annoying, because his body so badly wanted to sleep, or lose consciousness, whatever the difference even was. All he knew was that he didn’t want to experience this pain anymore. He just wanted it to stop.

“Mm,” he moaned, tensing his jaw as pain sparked again.

“Remember the time dad dropped us off at Bobby’s and he was supposed to teach us how to track and use the crossbow?”

“Got sick,” Dean mumbled.

“We both did,” Sam laughed, “Remember? And we spent the whole week on the couch, watching movies and playing cards.”

Dean smiled.

“And when we finally got better he took us out for burgers and to toss the pigskin around.”

“Best week ever,” Dean said with a lazy smile.

“Your daddy wasn’t happy,” Dean heard Bobby mutter from the front seat.

True. Dad wasn’t happy when he’d heard his boys hadn’t done what he’d asked them. Or that Bobby had high jacked their week of training and treated them to junk food, and sport, and card games. Maybe it was more the fact that he’d treated them like they were his sons, and like he knew better what boys needed. He did. And maybe that was why dad got so angry about it.

It took Dean another jab to his shoulder to realise that Sam and Bobby had been talking more, that time had passed and he’d drifted again.

“Dean? Wake up, man. Almost there.”

“’M awake,” he said, in a petulant tone.

 

…

 

Sam looked down at his brother’s face, pillowed on his leg as he lay on his back in the back seat. His feet were up on the seat, legs bent so he could fit his big frame across the small space without twisting his back. Sam could hear him breathing and it was quite worrying. Dean didn’t seem to notice the crackles and the hitching. It sounded like he needed to cough but Sam knew he couldn’t sit up. His back was so screwed from attempting to dig that grave. What the hell was he thinking? What if he’d done serious damage and needed another surgery? What if he’d done damage that surgery couldn’t fix?

“Sam, keep talking to him.”

Sam looked up, not realizing he’d stopped, deep in thought.

“Dean, man,” he put a hand on his shoulder.

Dean’s face had been screwed up in pain the entire trip so far, but now it was lax.

“Dean?”

Bobby glanced over his shoulder, “What’s going on, Sam?”

“Dean, open your eyes. Come on, Dean. Open your eyes, man… Bobby…”

Sam felt Bobby hit the pedal harder and the car lurched, travelling faster along the road to the hospital.

“Dean, come on. Wake up,” he was shaking him a little now, thinking that the pain of moving would wake him up.

“Sam, he breathing?” Bobby said.

Sam put a hand on Dean’s chest, leaned down to his face. There was a definite wheeze, but he was breathing.

“Yeah, not well… Dean, open your eyes,” Sam ordered, firmly. “He’s burning up, Bobby.”

“We’re almost there.”

“Dean, I need you to wake up,” Sam leant down and whispered, “I need you.”

Dean let out a little moan.

“Dean!” Sam called, shaking him again.

“Ahh! Sam,” Dean cried out, writhing up in pain.

“Sorry, man. I’m sorry. I know you’re hurting, but you just have to stay awake. Focus on my voice, okay?”

Dean reached a hand up and gripped Sam’s wrist.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sam, don't let me die…” Dean whispered, eyes glossy and tear filled.

“Dean, you’re not going to die,” Sam furrowed his brow, fear and panic in his voice.

“I don’t want to die, Sam.”

“I know, Dean,” Sam rubbed circles on his brother’s chest, “I know. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Sam caught a flash of Bobby’s eyes in the rearview mirror, as they turned into the hospital, parking out the front in the emergency bay. Bobby got out of the car.

“I need some help out here!” he bellowed.

Sam gripped his brother’s hand as a tear slipped down the side of Dean’s face.

“Please, don’t let me die.”

 

…

 

Sam was glad to hear that Dean didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die, but living right now was so hard for him. That was the tragedy of it. He was in so much pain, so much physical pain that his body could barely endure any more, so much emotional pain that he was on the verge of a complete breakdown, staring down the barrel of catatonia, but he didn’t want to die, because he feared death more than anything. What he was going through right now, wasn’t even a fraction of the horrors of hell.

The ICU medical emergency team arrived in black, pushing trolleys full of medical equipment.

“… Oxygen sats… unstable… respiratory failure… get ready to intubate.”

Sam knew his brother was strong. He was stronger than him. Stronger than their dad. Stronger than anyone he’d ever known. And that’s why it was so hard to watch him break.

“BP’s dropping… central line, normal saline… Dean, can you open your eyes?”

Sam watched them cut off Dean’s shirt. He would hate that. That was his favourite black shirt. Now, he’d have to go shopping again for a new one. God, Dean hating shopping, especially for clothes. He bitched about everything, even when there was nothing to bitch about, Dean would find something that pissed him off.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move outside.”

Sam felt Bobby’s hand on his bicep. A nurse appeared at his other side.

“Excuse me, they just need some space to work. Follow me and we can have a seat out here. Do you want a cup of tea?” She said, guiding them both out into the hall.

Was this girl seriously asking him if he wanted a cup of tea? Seriously? A cup of tea would definitely solve all his problems. A cup of tea would stop him from worrying about his brother as they shoved a tube down his throat in the other room. A cup of tea would erase the fact that Dean had sold his soul and gone to hell. A cup of tea would change the fact that Dean had irreparably injured his back years ago. A cup of tea would heal Dean’s liver and cure him from his drinking problem and PTSD…. A cup of tea…

“We’re fine, thanks. Sam, come on outside,” Bobby was pulling on him again.

“I’m not leaving my brother,” Sam ripped his arm away, finally giving voice to the anger he’d had brewing inside.

“Dean’s going to be fine. I need you to get your head back in the game, and get your emotions under control. I can’t have both of you going off the deep end.”

“Bobby, Dean is lying in that room getting a tube shoved down his throat,” Sam’s voice was raised, bordering on shouting. He pointed back towards the room as he spoke.

“Right now I’m more worried about you, Sam!”

Bobby’s words shocked Sam into silence. He stood there gaping, unable to even think of a response.

“Dean is getting the help he needs. I know that boy’s going to be fine. All I can see right now is you shutting down. You’re both going crazy worrying so much about each other.”

Sam finally breathed, “How can I not?” he said in a small voice.

Bobby sighed, “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

 

…

 

Bobby managed to get Sam to go outside for a breath of fresh air. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started to feel dizzy. Being outside in the breeze was good. They didn’t have any information on Dean at this stage. They needed to get him stable, test his blood, xray his back, ultrasound his liver, give him fluids, oxygen, antibiotics…

“Sam, talk to me,” Bobby said, sitting down on a bench.

Sam paced back and forth for a moment, chewing his lip before he relented.

“What are we going to do?”

“About what?” Bobby said, calmly.

“About Dean!”

Sam huffed a little in and out, chest heaving with his sighs.

“We take this one step at a time… that’s all we can do.”

Sam turned away, looked up into the inky black sky. There were no stars.

He heard a flutter.

“Hello.”

Sam jumped, turning to see Castiel sitting on the bench beside Bobby. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

“What in hell?” Bobby gasped.

“Heaven, actually,” Cas corrected.

“Cas?” Sam gaped, “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been… watching.”

“This is… this is great,” Sam said, “You can heal my brother.”

Castiel looked at the ground, brow furrowed.

“I can’t.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Bobby grunted.

“You’re an angel, aren’t you?” Sam said incredulously, “So heal him!”

“I can’t,” Cas emphasized each word carefully.

“Why not?” Sam yelled, jaw tight.

“I have specific orders not to intervene.”

“Cas!” Sam shouted, “My brother is sick! He might die!”

“Sam,” Bobby grumbled.

“He won’t,” Cas said, sounding sure of himself.

“Then why?... Why put him through this?”

Cas looked down again. “I came by your house. Dean wouldn’t let me explain… he was displeased.”

“You spoke to Dean?” Sam stared at the angel.

“Since our meeting he has warded your house against me.”

Sam looked up at the sky again, light rain began to fall on his face. He closed his eyes.

“If Dean doesn’t want to talk to you, neither do I.”

“Sam, I –“

“Cas,” Sam interrupted, “You have to go.”

Bobby remained quiet.

“I want to help…”

“But you can’t heal him?” Sam asked again.

“No.”

Sam sighed, “Goodbye, Cas.”

Cas looked from Bobby to Sam, and then he was gone.

Sam wanted to punch something. He was so angry. He began pacing back and forth on the pavement, jaw working.

“Sam, let’s go back inside. Dean probably needs us now,” Bobby said in a calm voice.

Sam didn’t say anything, but he walked back inside, Bobby following behind him.

 

…

 

Oh, God, it’s happening again.

Dean thought he was in hell.

He felt the hard plastic in his throat. It was usually cold metal. Sharp. Tearing.

He was used to all the ways a person could be tortured, all the ways it hurt. He couldn’t grasp a thought in his head. They were rushing through, tapering off, disappearing.

“One, two, three.”

Pain! God, the pain.

He felt like his spine was melting. Liquid. Burned.

Burn, burn, burn.

His head burned. His brain burned. Everything burned. He was churning up inside.

He couldn’t see, couldn’t open his eyes. He could barely hear. It was like he was underwater. Oh. That was a new one. They’d never drowned him before.

He was cold. He was so cold.

He wanted to give up. He was so tired. He was in so much pain, and all for nothing. All to be in hell again. He wouldn’t get out this time. He couldn’t claw his way out again. Not again. Not again.

“Dean?”

Sammy?

“Hang in there, Dean. Please. We’re here, okay? They’re going to help you. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

Dean felt a hand grasp his, and he felt his chest flutter. And somehow he knew… it would be okay.

 

…

 

Dean was in ICU for 3 days before he got moved to a ward. He had to share a room with an old guy who just had his hip replaced. He liked to bitch and moan about every other thing. Dean didn’t hold anything against him though, because nothing would be more annoying than sharing a room with him. He was still sick. Still had a cold. Still had pneumonia. He coughed all the time. Hardly ever slept. The nurses would come in and check him over, poke and prod him. He’d groan in pain. He was loud, annoying, dependent. God, he was pathetic.

Sam and Bobby took shifts sitting next to him reading the paper, reading a book, watching TV.

Eventually he got a room by himself. He didn’t ask why, because he already knew.

“Hey,” Sam said, walking in and pulling up a chair next to Dean.

“Hey,” he groaned, voice hoarse.

“How was your night? Bobby said you didn’t get much sleep.”

“When do I ever?” Dean asked, flicking quickly through his TV channels. He wasn’t really watching he just wanted something to do to keep his hands busy.

“Good point,” Sam laughed, but Dean heard the worry in it too.

“I’m fine, Sam. Relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” Sam said, then paused, “Dr Reid been in to see you yet?”

“No,” Dean coughed into his fist.

“Do you want the bed up?” Sam asked, fiddling with the bed controls.

“It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

“Geez, alright,” Sam put it back and sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

“Did you work last night?” Dean finally put the remote down and looked at his brother.

“Yeah.”

“Working tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Dean nodded.

“So, you got your… thing today.”

Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

“Do you have to?”

“What?” Sam looked surprised.

“Do you have to bring it up, Sam? I know.”

“Sorry, man… I saw they want you to have another MRI.”

Dean felt his face heat up.

“Would you friggen stop!? I know. Alright? I know I have to have another MRI. I know I have to go into that friggen small little tube where you can’t even breathe. I know I’ll probably freak out and make a scene. I know I have to have a psych review. And I know they all think I’m crazy, because I can’t sleep, and I do stupid shit like break out of hospital and steal cars, and drink booze when my liver’s already failing, and I scream at night. And I’m losing my mind staying here, Sam. I’m losing my mind, and everyone knows it. I’m climbing the walls, man. I can’t… I can’t do it.”

When Dean finally looked at Sam his expression was pained, bordering on tears. And he wanted to take it all back if it meant Sam wouldn’t cry.

“It’s just a speed bump, Dean. It’s going to get better.”

“Will it? Because I’m still having trouble getting out of bed on my own, and what if I screwed up my back so bad it’ll never get better?”

“Dean…”

“Can you give me a minute?”

Dean wanted to get up and walk away. Because that’s what he did. He walked away, slammed doors, got in his car and drove to a liquor store or bar so he could drown his sorrows, go hunting, punch something, kill something, stumble back home bloody and sore and magically he wasn’t angry… but he couldn’t do that anymore.

Sam was getting up as there was a knock on the door and Dr Reid walked in.

“Good morning… is this a bad time?”

Dean tried to slow his breathing, rubbed a hand down his face.

“It’s as good as any, doc. Pull up a chair.”

Even though Sam was on his way out when the doc walked in, he didn’t leave. He probably knew Dean wouldn’t relay the correct information to him. He’d just pick out the most positive bits, the things he wanted to focus on and tell him that, make it seem like everything was fine. When everything would never be fine again.
“How are you feeling today?” Dr Reid said, sitting down.

“Well I won’t be running any marathons,” Dean joked, voice dry, face expressionless.

“Okay,” The doc got straight down to business, “Liver results aren’t bad. We’re going to keep up the vitamin injections. Nutrition is a big thing for you, Dean. Alcohol depletes you of nutrients, so you need to be eating the right things. Which isn’t a problem here, but it’s something you’ll need to watch when you go home.”

“Sounds delightful,” Dean offered, with a smile.

“How’s your chest feeling?”

“Still hurts when I cough,” He shuffled awkwardly on the bed.

“And you’re coughing pretty solidly through the night, aren’t you?” Dr Reid asked.

Dean nodded.

“How’s the pain in your back?”

The pain in his back was something he didn’t want to talk about. He didn’t want to give voice to it. Didn’t want to give it a name. Because it was so intense, so unrelenting.

“Pretty bad.”

He could feel Sam looking at him so he looked away.

“Mm,” Dr Reid hummed, “The xray was good, it didn’t show any additional damage but we need to do the MRI to make sure we know where that herniated disc is positioned. We’ll do that after lunch today.”

Dean nodded. He didn’t really want to talk anymore.

“Now, someone from mental health with be over to talk to you this morning. We just think with what you’ve been through, the severity of the nightmares, and your little Houdini act, it’s better for us to try and help and protect you in any way we can. This is about providing you additional support, okay? So, I know it’ll be hard to talk about, but just give them a chance.”

It almost sounded like he was pleading with Dean.

Dr Reid must have seen that Dean was never going to respond to that so he continued on.

“Tomorrow we’ll get the physio in to review you, and a dietician review. Is there anything you need at the moment? You can have some more pain relief if you need it.”

Dean cleared his throat, “Sure.”

“Alright, I’ll get the nurse to get you a painkiller. Do you have any questions for me?”

Dean had to stop himself joking about giving him a bullet instead. Normally, that wouldn’t have fazed him, but with his mental health in question, he kept his mouth shut.

“No,” he breathed, voice doughy.

“Thanks, doctor,” Sam said, like the good little boy he was.

“Rest up, alright?” Dr Reid gave Dean’s ankle a little squeeze and left the room.

Dean sighed, felt Sam’s eyes on him.

“I’m just tired, Sam,” he said eventually, turning his TV off.

“I know,” Sam replied, pursing his lips, eyes wide and glassy with emotion.

“You know I can’t stay here much longer, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam nodded, “But you have to let them help you first.”

“One day,” Dean begged.

“No, Dean, please. At least till the end of the week. I can’t do all this at home for you.”

Dean felt that like a punch in the gut.

“I don’t need you to do anything.”

“Dean, you know what I meant.”

“Yeah,” Dean didn’t have the energy to argue, “Can you, uh, grab me a coffee?”

Sam furrowed his brow, “Sure, man.”

Dean sneezed and Sam moved the tissue box over to his hip.

“Bless you. You hungry?”

Dean pulled a tissue out with clumsy, warm fingers and fitted it around his nose, panting through his mouth.

“Nah, I’m okay,” his voice was full of congestion and he blew heartily into the tissue.

Sam nodded at him, and left.

Dean crumpled his tissue up and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. The day had barely begun… and he was already praying for it to be over.

 

…

[Wow Really?]

I've missed you! 

Thanks so much for this update. This chapter is a thing of absolute beauty. I've had so many struggles lately, and this story.. all of your stories..  truly make me smile on the inside (and possibly on the outside too)  

I can't wait to see what's coming next! ❤️

[telltale]

I basically second everything Wow Really? said.  Thank-you for this. 

[MissBayliss]

Sorry about the wait, guys!

A/N: I am not a psychiatrist, nor am I knowledgable about how psychiatrists communicate with clients. I do know basic mental state interviewing techniques, however. The scene in my story is not a correct representation of this. It is merely for story purposes, and drama, and character arcs and what not. I don't pretend to have all my details technically accurate, including medical terminology. I only know a little bit about a lot of things and hope that despite this, it makes for a good story.   

Thank you, kind failings.  

 

Chapter Eleven

 

Dean was sitting up on the edge of his bed, which was more than he’d done all day. It took the help of a nurse to get him in that position, but he was trying not to focus on the negative. Sam had stepped out while the psychiatrist came to speak to Dean. He was wound up so tight he was close to snapping. The knowledge that he’d soon be getting an MRI looming over his head. Besides that, his head felt like a cinder block, and his gut ached, and his chest ached, and his friggen back ached, and the only part that didn’t ache was his little toe.

"Hi, Dean. My name's Dr Whittaker, I'm a psychiatrist working here at the hospital. Dr Reid has asked me to come and speak to you because we're a bit concerned,” Whittaker sat across from him with his clipboard in one hand, and glasses on the end of his nose like a friggen grandpa teddy bear.

Dean held in a snort.

"I understand you spent some time overseas in some aspect of the military. Could you let me know what that was?"

Dean shook his head, "No, I can't talk about that."

"Okay, that's fair enough. Your brother said you were held captive for several months?"

"I'm gonna need to stop you there."

"I just want to make sure I have all the details correct."

"Consider them correct enough."

Dr Whittaker nodded, seemingly unfazed by Dean's abrasive attitude.

"How's your day going?"

"How do you think?" Dean realised after he'd said it that he needed to cooperate if he wanted this to end, "Sorry. I'm just a little on edge."

"That's quite alright. Is there anything particular you're on edge about?"

Dean cleared his throat, rubbed a hand over his face, "I guess having the, uh, MRI... I'm not a fan of... that machine."

"And what do you think it is about the MRI machine that puts you on edge?"

Dean felt the dirt hit his face, could taste it on his tongue.

"I don't like... small spaces."

"Have you always been afraid of small spaces?"

"No."

"Can you think of an event that triggered this fear?"

Dean felt the air being sucked out of the room.

"Yes."

"Do you want to share it with me?"

"No."

"Okay. That's okay. Why don't we talk about something else. I understand you've been having nightmares. Could you tell me about that?"

"I'd rather not."

"I think we need to explore some of the things you're going through. So I would appreciate it if you'd share something with me."

Dean nodded.

"Are the nightmares related to the time you served?"

Dean cleared his throat, "Yes."

"And do they happen only when you're asleep or when your eyes are closed as well?"

"Sometimes when I close my eyes. Always when I'm asleep."

"Do you have any moments during the day, maybe when you're doing something normal, like watching tv or taking a shower, where you find you have these "waking" nightmares? Perhaps where you lose a sense of time or place?"

"Yes."

"How often would these occur?"

"A couple'a times a day. Sometimes I don't know I'm doing it. My brother sort of... snaps me back."

"Are there certain things that you find triggering this?"

Dean remembered the knife glide under the skin of the fish from the cooking program on tv.

He cleared his throat again, "Sometimes I'll see something on tv..." his chest tightened.

"Dean, what are you experiencing right now?"

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It hurt.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"That's okay. Can you tell me what's bothering you?"

"It's nothing," he opened his eyes, tried for a smirk, "Just not feeling too well."

"Are you okay if we talk about this a bit more? I can come back another time..."

"No," Dean said, quickly. He didn't want this dragging out to another day, "Keep going."

Dean coughed into his fist, felt his chest spasming. The shrink waited for him to finish.

"So when you have the nightmares, what's the overall feeling you get from them?"

Terror. Pain. Guilt.

"I don't know what you mean."

"How do they make you feel? If you could use one word."

Dean breathed out, "There... there aren't words."

"Okay," he nodded, "Dean, do you ever hear voices in your head?"

"I'm not insane."

"I wasn't saying that at all. But it seems to me that you're going through a lot right now and I just want to make sure I'm able to help you the best that I can."

Dean coughed again, "No, I don't hear voices," he said, bluntly. Even though... did the screams count?

"Have you ever had negative thoughts? Like maybe you didn't want to be here anymore, that you might hurt yourself?"

Dean felt the anger creep up his neck.

"No," he said firmly, wanting to say so much more but biting his tongue.

"Do you feel safe here at the hospital?"

"I guess."

"Do you feel safe at home with your brother?"

"Sure."

"Well, that's good. And does your brother help you out?"

"Yeah... he's a good kid."

"Now, can you tell me why you left the hospital last week?"

"There was something I had to do..."

"Could you tell me what that was?"

"No."

"Okay...” Dr Whittaker scrawled on his paper as he spoke, he looked up once again, “Dean, is there anything you can tell me about the time you were away for? About what might have happened while you were held captive?"

Dean set his jaw, narrowed his eyes. Dr Whittaker folded his hands across his clipboard.

"I've dealt with a lot of soldiers, Dean. Some of them feel frightened, some of them feel guilty about things they may have done to survive. A lot of breakthroughs they have, is when they finally open up and talk about what they've been too afraid to say."

Dean leaned forward, unable to clamp down on the rage anymore, and in an urgent, angry whisper he said, "I've seen horrors that you couldn't even begin to imagine. I could tell you things that would make you never close your eyes again. I have been on the brink of death time and time again, only to be kept alive to endure more pain. And I've done things that would make you sick to hear, that would make your skin crawl, that you worst nightmares couldn't even conjure up. " The shrink sat back, swallowing slowly. "You might have seen soldiers before, but I guarantee you've never seen anyone like me. Because I'm not a soldier, I'm a hunter. So, enough with the psychobabble bullshit."

Dr Whittaker took a calming breath. "I want to help you."

"I don't need your help!"

"What brought you into hospital, Dean?"

"Excuse me?"

"It says here you had acute hepatitis brought on by prolonged excessive alcohol consumption." The doc stared at Dean. "Is drinking to that extent the actions of a man who doesn't need help?"

Dean was flawed for a moment.

"I don't need to know what happened to you. I'm not trying to make it all go away, and I'm not trying to change the past. I just want to help you deal with it."

Dean swallowed. His throat was raw.

"How?"

 

...

 

Dean was back in his bed after his head shrink session, sinking into the pillows gratefully after almost an hour being semi upright.

“So, what did you talk about?” Sam asked, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“Nothing,” Dean grunted.

“Dean…” Sam started.

“Sammy,” Dean tilted his head to look at his brother, “Please.”

Dean’s desperation not to talk about it must have shown through, because Sam dropped it after that.

The doc had spoken to him for quite a while, and although Dean didn’t want to hear it, didn’t think anything like that would ever, could ever, help him, Whittaker had given him some good tips. Of course, he’d also wanted him to contact his doctor’s rooms and set up another appointment for when he was discharged but that was never going to happen.

He’d prescribed him more pills, but Dean didn’t plan on sticking around at the hospital much longer so he wasn’t sure what good they were going to do.

 

…

 

The MRI didn’t go too badly this time. Sam reflected on the last time Dean had gone into a machine like that and considered this a massive improvement. Well, this time Dean was whacked out on valium so that might have played a part.

“Issit over, Sammy?” he slurred, a cocktail of drugs in his system to get him to relax long enough to stay still for it.

“Yeah, Dean. Ya did good,” Sam smiled.

“Woah,” Dean moaned, clutching his head as he sat up.

“Let’s just take it slow,” the radiographer instructed, a hand on Dean’s back.

They kept Dean sitting for a few minutes, let him have a few sips of water before they got him back in his bed and wheeled him up to his room.

Dean pretty much slept after that, and it was honestly the most peaceful Sam had seen him all day.

 

…

 

The next few days were more of the same. Dean had people constantly talking to him, telling him things he didn’t fully understand, making rules and guidelines and programs he didn’t want to follow. Telling him what he was doing wrong, how he needed to change, measuring, and counting, and documenting, and observing, and jabbing him with needles, and poking at him every which way. He could barely take any more.

Friday morning Katie showed up again. Bobby quickly headed out to get coffee, or something, do anything that wasn’t sitting in the room with them. She was there pretty much every day. He knew it was her job, that she was at the hospital anyway, but he couldn’t help but wonder why she was hanging around, what she thought she was going to get out of it. It annoyed him that she'd come to visit. It made him angry. Because he didn't want to like her. He didn't want to appreciate her company and look forward to her coming to visit. He didn't want to care for anyone. And he hated it that she was nice, and trusting, and didn't make him talk if he didn't want to. He hated how good she was. She was too good for him.

"I'll come by tomorrow," she said, pushing his table close to his side.

"You don't have to," Dean said, shaking his head, because why would anyone volunteer to be there.

"I want to," she smiled.

As she was leaving Riley appeared at the door. They crossed paths, looked at each other but didn't say anything.

“Who was that?” Riley purred, stepping into the room.

Dean cleared his throat, “Nice of you to visit. I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

"Is that your honey?" Riley smiled at Dean, flicking her eyebrows up.

"Riley," Dean moaned, wanting desperately for her not to go there.

"She's cute," she shrugged.

"Would you stop?"

"Alright," she folded her arms, "I just wanted to see how you were doing but I guess you're being well looked after."

"Oh, come on."

She held her hands up, "Okay, this is me backing off."

"Would you sit down or something? You're making me uncomfortable."

As if he wasn't already.

"Should I stay... or?" She trailed off.

"She's just a friend, okay? Relax. And what are you getting all riled up for anyway? You and me just have a bit of fun."

"Yeah we do," she winked.

Dean looked down, a smile tugging at his lips.

"So, you've been feeling pretty bad, huh?"

He could sense her padding across the room, hear the sexual tension in her voice.

Dean just coughed into his fist, cleared his throat loudly, "Yeah, you could say that."

"Anything... I could do?" she trailed a finger up and down his arm.

Dean smirked. God, yes. Anything. Everything.

She leaned over and kissed his neck, a hand on his chest.

Dean laughed, cast his eyes towards the ceiling, relaxing back.

"Alright, shut the door and make it quick," he drawled.

 

...

 

Dean was sleeping when Sam came in. He was completely out to it. So still. So much so that Sam thought something had to have been wrong.

"Hey, man," he said, putting a hand on his arm.

Dean's eyes came open slowly, "Oh, hey, Sammy," he croaked, "When did you get here?"

"Just got here. Sorry to wake you... you looked really... dead."

Dean chuckled low in his throat, "Riley visited."

Sam wrinkled his nose, "Seriously, dude? Here?"

"That girl doesn't mess around."

"You okay?"

"I feel better than I have all week," Dean rubbed his eye with the back of his hand.

"I bet you do," Sam laughed.

"Tired, though."

"Sorry," Sam apologised again.

Dean waved a hand, "I got plenty of time to sleep."

"So… what about Katie?" Sam said, eyebrow raised.

"What about her?" Dean asked, on the defensive.

"Don't you guys have a thing?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"She's here every day, dude."

"She works here."

Sam cocked his head curiously, "You like her, don't you?"

"Would you shut up?"

"I'm fairly certain she likes you."

"Sam, I swear to God..."

"Alright," Sam raised his hands in surrender.

"Don't you have somewhere to be? Work or something?"

"Not until later," Sam said, looking at his watch.

“Are you working tomorrow morning?”

“No,” Sam said, curiously.

“Good, we’re getting outta here.”

“Ah, really? Are you sure you’re –“

“You told me to wait till the end of the week. It’s the end of the week. I’m leaving. So, you can either come and pick me up or I’ll get a friggen cab.”

“Dean, shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“What’s there to talk about?”

Sam stared at him, stunned, looking like he was trying to think of what to say. Dean beat him to it.

“Look, man. You’re worried about me, I get it. But I’m fine. My liver is fine. My back is fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Sam muttered.

“Well, I’m certainly not any worse. My last antibiotic is tonight and then they’re gonna unplug me. If all I’m gonna do is lie in a bed, then I can lie in a bed at home.”

“Dean…”

“End of story, Sam.”

Sam cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat, “Alright, well, we need to talk to your doctor then.”

 

…

 

Sam had asked the nurses to call Dr Reid so they could chat about discharge. Dean had fallen back asleep while they waited and Sam just sat beside him reading a book. Dean must have been buggered because he wasn’t stirring at all. It didn’t mean he wasn’t having a nightmare, it just meant his body was too wrecked to respond to it.

He wasn’t exactly surprised that Dean had wanted to check out tomorrow. He was impressed he’d even made it this long. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t worried. At the hospital Dean had, nutritionists, dieticians, physiotherapists, psychiatrists, occupational therapists, nurses, doctors, and everything else at his disposal. Sure, it was costing an arm and a leg, and Sam was months behind on the rent as it was, but it was nothing less than what Dean needed.

Dr Reid took over an hour to get there. He didn’t work at the hospital, but it was a tight community and he seemed to really care about his patients. He’d made the trip to see Dean countless times.

Dean stirred as he knocked on the wall, making his presence known.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, coming in.

Dean woke with a rattling cough, sitting his bed up higher. Sam handed him a glass of water, and patted him on the shoulder.

“Hey, doc,” Sam smiled.

“Hey,” Dean rasped, his voice low and gravely.

“I’m told you want to go home,” Dr Reid stood at the end of Dean’s bed, chart under his arm.

“That’s right,” Dean punctuated the sentence with a thick sniff, that pesky head cold still hanging around.

“You know I’m going to advise against that?”

“I know.”

Dr Reid chewed on the inside of his lip, staring at Dean for a moment. Then he opened the chart and read a few notes.

“If I send you home I’m going to need you to follow strict instructions. You’re going to need to attend rehab every week. There’re exercises you need to do every day, supervised. I’ll need you to keep up with the medications. And most importantly, no booze.”

Dean nodded, looking unfazed.

“I can organize a community nurse to come out everyday and help you in the mornings getting you up and showered and doing your meds. But it is quite expensive per day.”

“That’s okay, Doctor,” Sam said, “I can do all of that.”

Dr Reid raised his eyebrow.

“We don’t have the biggest budget…”

The doc nodded, “I’ll get the nurses go through a few things with you and get the paperwork ready. Do you have a shower chair?”

“Yeah, we bought one after Dean’s surgery.”

“It’s probably a good idea to use that for a few more days until you’re steadier on your feet, okay?”

Dean looked shattered. His nose and eyes were red, but at least his skin had got its pinkish hue back. He nodded.

Dr Reid gave him another once over with his eyes, “Okay, I’m going to write some instructions up and order your discharge medications. Get plenty of rest, Dean, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Dean said, with a sideways smile.

“Alright, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Sam and Dean didn’t say anything for a while after Dr Reid left and Sam thought that Dean had fallen asleep again until his heard him clear his throat.

“Hey, Sam.”

“What?”

Dean eyes were closed and he looked close to passing out.

“You are not helping me shower.”

 

…

[Wow Really?]

So happy to see you again. Beautiful (and long) update. Thank you!

 

[MissBayliss]

By the way! That is supposed to say "kind fan-lings"! Not "kind failings"! Damn autocorrect. haha 

[Wow Really?]

15 hours ago, MissBayliss said:

By the way! That is supposed to say "kind fan-lings"! Not "kind failings"! Damn autocorrect. haha 

I forgive you

[MissBayliss]

Chapter Twelve

 

Dean was tired. He felt like he’d never been so tired in all his life. His bones ached, his muscles ached, his skin ached. The exhaustion was deep. Crippling. Suffocating.

“Go to sleep, boy.”

Dean’s eyes scanned over to Bobby, who was sitting to the side, looking like he hadn’t said a thing. The lights were off in the hospital. Sam had left for work long ago. The room was being lit by the bedside lamp, which was providing just enough light for Bobby to read whatever old book he was flipping through.

Dean cleared his throat, “Not tired.”

It sounded ridiculous even to him. His voice was about two octaves lower than usual, thick with congestion, and raw.

Bobby snorted in attempt at a laugh.

“There’s nobody here to fool, son.”

Dean went to speak again but coughed instead.

“Urrrgh,” he groaned when he’d finished. He ripped a tissue from the box on the bed beside him, fitting it over his nose delicately. He blew a mass of mucus into it. The disruption to his sinuses made him sneeze forcefully.

“Gesundheit.”

Dean blew his nose again and then muttered a thank you under his breath.

Some time passed before Bobby spoke again.

“Hard to sleep with your eyes open.”

Dean sighed. He’d thought about closing his eyes. He’d thought long and hard about it. He’d had a sleep while Sam was there, after their talk with Dr Reid. He honestly hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open. But even though he woke quietly, hours later, without anyone having shaken him awake to stop him screaming, it didn’t mean he hadn’t lived in hell for that short time. And Whittaker was right, it wasn’t just when he dreamed, it was whenever he closed his eyes. Now he was terrified to do even that.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself if you try to think any harder,” Bobby said, gruffly, but with a hint of fondness.

Dean tried for a smile, “Why don’t you dust off that book and read it out loud? Then we might both learn something.”

The sentence left him out of breath, but he’d needed to say it. Because he could feel the panic creeping back in, wrapping it’s sticky tentacles around him. And if he had to lie there just listening to himself breathe he’d go crazy… ha, too late.

“You want me to read to you?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow, humour evident in his voice.

Dean didn’t need to speak again before Bobby started reading out loud. Bobby knew him damn well, knew that he was too exhausted to form a response to that question, knew he was too broken to try and attempt to justify himself, knew he was hanging on by a mere thread.

Bobby spoke in his usual gruff tone, so steady, so familiar. It didn’t even matter what he was saying, Dean just held onto his voice and focused on keeping his eyes open, lulled by the scratchy sound of pages turning as the night grew darker and darker around their little pocket of light. His sinuses were full of congestion and he occasionally distracted himself by emptying them into tissue upon tissue, steadily making his way through the box at his hip. Eventually though the box was empty, and Dean couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer… but Bobby never stopped reading.

 

…

 

Dean woke panting, literally dripping in sweat. He instinctively brought his hands to his chest to check that it wasn’t ripped apart, that his organs were still inside his body. When he realized where he was he let his head flop back against the pillow, chest still heaving.

“You okay?” Bobby asked from somewhere beside him.

Dean took five more breaths before he answered, “When are we getting out of here?”

“Not so fast. We’ll think about going when you’ve stopped panting like you just ran the Kentucky derby.”

Dean hadn’t got to sleep until they were well into the next morning. Now it was sunny outside, lights on, door open, staff bustling by. Time to go.

“I’m good. When’s Sam coming?”

“He’s already here. Just went down to the pharmacy to get your meds.”

Dean tried to focus his attention on the here and now.

“Does he have enough money? I have a some cash –“

“Don’t you worry about that.”

“Bobby…”

“You think I can’t look after my boys?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow.

Dean didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything. He was filled with a kind of warmth at Bobby insinuating that he was their father, but he was also gutted that he had taken so much from him.

“Dean,” Bobby started, knowing Dean was still recovering from his recent night terror.

“I just want to go home, Bobby,” he sounded worse this morning because his voice was going, requiring even more energy to make a sound.

Bobby took a while to respond, “I know, son.”

Dean stared out the window, hoping that it was the last time he’d have to look out that window.

“Katie came by about an hour ago but you were sleeping.”
“Oh.”

“I told her you were checking out today. She said to wish you all the best and she’ll see you in rehab.”

Dean nodded, swallowing past his tender throat.

 

…

 

Sam stood staring at the stuffed teddy bears with ‘get well soon’ plastered across their bellies. They were fluffy and brightly coloured, black glossy eyes staring back at him. Sam felt a sinking feeling in his gut, thinking back to coming in and finding Dean in the hospital that night, so sick.

“How did this happen?”

“Well, the combination of the alcohol and the prescription medication caused his liver a great deal of stress and inflammation.”

“But he’s freaking yellow! How did I not notice he was so sick? What kind of a brother am I?”

“Sam, this didn’t come on over night. The skin change would have been progressive, and for someone seeing him every day it wouldn’t have been significant enough to even take note of.”

“I still… I just can’t…”

“This isn't your fault, Sam. Your brother has been actively hiding his issues from you, he’s admitted that much. We can move on from this, and do everything we can for Dean, okay? Sam?”

“… Sam Winchester?”

Sam cleared his throat, turned around to face the counter where they were calling his name. He signed for and collected Dean’s medications, at least ten boxes and bottles in a zip lock bag.

 

…

 

“This is ridiculous,” Dean muttered, as the orderly pushed him down the hallway in a wheelchair.

“Relax, man. Consider it being chauffer driven. You’re certainly not gonna get this kind of attention at home,” Sam laughed.

“I friggen hope not,” Dean mumbled, then coughed, then decided to stop talking. His decision didn’t last very long though until he saw Bobby swinging Baby up the driveway to the pickup area out the main doors.

“Well, hello, Baby,” he grinned.

“Woah, is this your car?” The orderly asked, pushing Dean up close to her and locking the wheels.

“Sure is. Beautiful, isn’t she?” Dean reached a hand out to drag a finger down her sleek hip.

“She certainly is.”

“Do you want to lie down in the back?” Sam asked, opening the door.

“No way. I’m sitting up front.”

 

…

 

Dean hadn’t slept. Sam was ready to take him back to the hospital. Maybe slip a pill into his food. He’d been home a full day, a full night, and now it was the next evening. He mostly ambled around the house like he was lost, or like a tiger in a cage, pacing, wanting to get out, wanting something to kill. But now it’d been so long since he’d slept. He was cranky. He snapped at anything anyone said. He groaned in pain when he moved, not trying to hide it. He held onto the walls when he walked, in favour of using the forearm crutches that the physios had sent him home with. Sam knew he was feeling sick, in pain, emotionally scarred, but it was all being compounded by the fact he wouldn’t sleep. He was sure a good nights sleep would help. It had to.

“Dean?” Sam approached the couch where his brother lay, aggressively flipping through channels.

“Hm?” he groaned, seeming disinterested.

“Maybe you should try going to sleep again…”

“Maybe you should shut up.”

“Dean… listen to your brother.”

Dean turned the TV off and slammed the remote on the coffee table.

He tried to sit up.

“Need a hand, dude?” Sam leaned in.

“Don’t friggen touch me,” Dean forced out through gritted teeth.

“Son, you better watch your mouth,” Bobby said.

Dean managed to get standing by himself, face red.

“You’re not our father. Stop pretending to be.”

Sam watched, mouth gaping, as Dean wandered down the hall, listened to the sound of the back door opening and swinging shut with excessive force. Then his eyes found Bobby, who was sitting in the armchair, a look in his eye he couldn’t quite read.

“Bobby, he didn’t mean that.”

Bobby took some controlled breaths before he spoke, “Yeah… I’m gonna go to bed…”

“Bobby…”

“Watch out for your idjit brother,” he said as he passed him on his way to his room.

Sam sighed and rubbed his temple. Dean was beginning to be impossible to handle. Like a hurricane.

 

…

 

Dean sat down on the stairs at the back of the house, gritted his teeth as it sent pain shooting up his spine. He let his head fall into his hands. Tears burning behind his eyes, but he didn’t cry, there was nothing left. No emotion to muster up. He couldn’t cry if he wanted to. So his eyes just burned, and burned, and burned. He sniffed hard. Light rain began to fall on his head and he looked up, waiting for the drops to fall in his eyes.

He sneezed messily into his palm.

Shouldn’t be out here, Winchester.

He snuffled indignantly, trying to silence the voice in his head.

He didn’t know anything anymore. He’d just said one of the worst things he’d ever said to one of the most important people in his life. This was it. This was rock bottom. Because now it wasn’t just what was happening to him that was the problem. Now he was the problem.

Once again he dropped his face into his hands, and he did something he hadn’t done for a while. Because he didn’t know what else to do.

 “Cas… buddy. I need help. Please.”

There was a gust of wind. He was almost too exhausted to lift his head.

Cas was standing in the middle of the back yard, trench coat reflecting the moonlight, blue eyes glinting.

“So now you show up,” Dean mumbled.

“Dean… you know I never wanted to leave you here.”

“Cas… I’m tired.”

“I know, Dean.”

“No, Cas… I’m really tired.”

Cas cocked his head, then stepped towards him, “Very well.”

He reached out, and with two fingers, pressed them against Dean’s forehead. The touch spread a warmth through his body, and then there was nothing.

 

…

[telltale]

I thought you did a fantastic job with the psychiatrist and Dean's want to get better but his complete inability to talk about the so many painful things he has going on.  That worked really well and was very realistic.  And then Dean asking Bobby to read to him in this chapter, aw, and later snapping at him because he's just at the total end of his emotional rope... ahhh, my heart hurts for everyone.  But Dean.  DEAN my bb.

Edited November 30, 2016 by telltale

[Wow Really?]

Wow. I don't know what to say. This chapter is amazing. And the cliffy at the end.. I can't wait for the next chapter. 

Dean is killing me. (In a good way)  

[ID2006]

Yay Cas