One For My Baby
Title: One For My Baby
Author: el_spirito23
Characters: Dean, John
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for language and whatnot
Word-count: 1,893
Spoilers: None
Summary: The Impala breaks down. So does Dean. John picks up the pieces.
Disclaimer: So, they still don't belong to me.
Notes: Written for hoodie_time's challenge for this prompt by i_speak_tongue
You're sitting in the only chair in the room, turned toward the door. Your journal is flipped open in front of you, a map spread across the table, tiny pins scattered across its surface. You want to deny that you're anxious for Dean's return, but the stuff in front of you betrays your feelings; whenever you're nervous, you plot, look for connections you might've missed. Whenever Dean's nervous, he cleans his guns, over and over, polishing each piece until it's pristine and then putting the whole thing together without even looking. He could do it blindfolded if he wanted; you've seen him do it.
Hell, you've forced him to do it.
Normally, you wouldn't be particularly anxious about your oldest, figure he just picked up a girl and he'll be back in the wee hours of the morning, but it's been a rough day. Six months to the day since Sam left for Stanford, and you pretend like you don't know that, like it doesn't actually mean anything, but you're both down about it. Add to that the Impala shuttering to a stop in the middle of the road and refusing to start again despite all of Dean's pleading, and it's been an all-around shitty day.
So, yeah, you might be more than a little anxious waiting for Dean to get back, but you're sure he's fine. He's 22 after all, and he's been fine since he was just a kid, taking care of you more than you ever took care of him.
There's a scraping sound against the door and you grab your gun off the table, standing and edging toward the source of the noise. Now you can hear muffled cursing as the key finally makes it into the lock and the door swings open. Dean staggers inside and smiles lopsidedly when he sees you standing there, weapon drawn.
"Hey Dad," he slurs. He closes the door behind him and limps-badly- toward his bed, dropping onto it with a grunt. You may not be the best father, but you know when your boy is hurting, and everything about him right now, the pale face, the tight lips, the clenched jaw, is screaming at you.
"Dean, what the hell have you been doing?" You demand, familiar anger bubbling up. You squat, looking more closely at the left leg Dean's been favoring; the jeans are shredded and blood soaked, and the top of Dean's boot is drenched. You ease the pant leg up, forcing yourself to ignore Dean's sharp inhale, and look closely at the wounds. There are multiple puncture wounds around his calf, dog bites from the looks of them, and they've clearly been bleeding profusely.
"The bastard at the junkyard had the alternator I need, wouldn't come down on the price at all."
"So you decided to get it yourself," you say. You slice up the front of Dean's pants; they're ruined anyway, and you need access to the bites. Dean nods tightly in response to your question, mumbles 'yes sir' and grits his teeth. "Since when has it been okay to steal, Dean?"
Dean stays quiet and you sigh.
"What kind of dog was it?" You ask, getting the first aid kit out. You take off Dean's boot and blood-rimmed sock, then pour some saline over the wounds. Dean hisses quietly.
"Dunno. Mutt of some kind, I think. Big fucker."
You can see that, looking at the size of the bites, and stitching them up is going to hurt like a bitch.
"Alright, I've gotta stitch these up," you say, handing him a flask. "You know the drill."
Dean nods, shakily, and reaches out with a pale, trembling hand, to take the flask. You narrow your eyes and look more closely at him. He's pale down to his lips, and beads of sweat are standing out on his forehead. The flask is shaking so badly as he takes a swig that you're surprised it got into his mouth. You pour a good dose of rubbing alcohol on the wound, wincing in sympathy when Dean hisses tightly and tightens his grip on the flask until his knuckles whiten.
You sigh as you thread the needle and shake your head.
"You should've waited for me Dean," you say as you begin the first stitch. Dean takes another gulp of whiskey and nods shakily. "I'd have backed you on it."
"I know," Dean says miserably. "'M sorry."
"Did you at least get the part?" You ask, glancing at your work. You've finished seven stitches and you're only just over halfway done.
"Mmm," Dean says. You look up, concerned; Dean's white as a sheet and he looks like he might be slipping into the early stages of shock. "Tried, but the dog..."
"Okay," you say. "It's okay."
"'M sorry," Dean repeats, "I should've waited. Sorry."
"Hey," you say, pausing to thumb his chin in a gruff gesture of affection. You're nearly done with the stitches now, but you know getting away without an infection would be nothing short of miraculous, and Winchester luck has never even passed for good.
"Hey," you repeat. "It was stupid, but I'll rip you a new one when you're feeling a bit better, huh?"
Dean nods blearily and runs a still-shaking hand across his eyes. You grab a blanket from your bed and drape it over his shoulders, noticing with a pang of guilt how thin Dean has become in the months since Sam has left.
"Alright, kiddo, why don't you lay down for awhile," you say as you smooth a bandage over the wound. "Hopefully with some sleep you'll feel better in the morning."
Dean's looking at you with a half-bleary, half-confused look, and you realize it's the first time you've called him 'kiddo' since he was maybe eight years old.
"Dad…?" He asks. You tamp down the little voice that reminds you how sad it is that your son is so utterly perplexed by an affectionate term.
"It's okay, Dean," you say, pushing him lightly to lay down. "Just rest, okay? I'm on watch now."
Dean nods once, then closes his eyes, mouth tight in pain. You settle in next to him, watch until his breathing settles and you know he's asleep, then turn back to the map and pick up where you left off.
xxxx
When you wake up, it's to the uncharacteristic feeling of being uncertain where you are. You jolt to your feet and look around, finally remembering that you fell asleep next to Dean's bed, which is currently empty.
"Dean?" You call, frowning when you see that the bathroom is unoccupied. You quickly suppress the tiny jolt of panic that sinks into your stomach and walk into the kitchen. Dean is crouched over the stove, precariously balanced with his bad leg stretched out to the side. You can smell bacon and eggs cooking.
"What the hell, Dean?" You bark, striding forward. "Dammit, you know better than to put weight on that leg, and just to cook breakfast? We can get breakfast at the diner down the street, and it'd probably be a damn sight better than what you're cooking."
Dean ducks his head and flushes up to his ears and you immediately feel bad for the dig. And then you remember, and you silently curse yourself.
"Dean? Look at me, son," you say, your voice gentle and soothing. At least, as soothing as you're capable of sounding.
Dean turns to look at you and you swear under your breath, damning yourself for not realizing before you chewed him out. His eyes are glassy and he looks pale and washed out aside from a blush of red across his cheeks. He's running a fever, no question, and it looks like a pretty good one, too. He's always been restless with high temperatures, always starts cleaning or doing laundry or cooking, and you kick yourself a second time for not realizing earlier.
"Alright, kiddo, let's get you back in bed, huh?" You say, approaching him with your hands spread. Dean warily allows you to wrap an arm under his then around his shoulder, and you hobble back to the bed together.
"Dad," Dean murmurs, one hand reaching out to tug at your sleeve. "The Impala. She's broken, and alone, and I need-"
"You need to rest," you say, laying his arm back on the bed. "I'll get you some meds, okay? Just relax, buddy. The Impala is fine."
You rifle through the first-aid kit, relieved that you still have some antibiotics left over from the last time you were scratched on a piece of rusty metal, and you fist them and a new wad of gauze and head back to Dean's side.
"Dad?" Dean says as you approach. "Dad, the Impala-"
"Dean, I know," you say. You help him take the antibiotics and check the wound; it's red and inflamed, and you squeeze Dean's arm before pouring more rubbing alcohol on the wound. Dean throws his head back, teeth grit, and you find yourself murmuring quiet words of comfort as you try to relax him.
"Okay buddy, why don't you try to relax, huh?" You murmur. You stroke a thumb over his forehead and find it hot and sweaty.
"Dad," Dean murmurs, "M-my car."
"I know, kid," you say, getting a washcloth damp. You return to his side and smooth the cloth gently over his forehead, smiling lightly as he leans into your touch.
"She's broken, Dad," he says quietly. "And a-alone."
"We'll fix her up, Dean, soon as you get better."
Dean continues like he didn't hear you.
"She thought she could d-do it but part of her is broken and she just had to- had to stop."
With a pang, you realize that in Dean's fevered state, he is revealing far more about himself than he would normally, and that his worry over the Impala actually has a far deeper meaning.
"Dean," you whisper. "Hey. We're going to be okay, son."
You want to say more. You want to say, I know you feel abandoned, Dean, I know you feel lost without your brother. I do too. Instead, you watch as Dean's eyelids grow heavy.
"We'll fix her up soon, kid," you say. "We'll make it."
xxxx
It's a long day. Dean's fever continues to rise for hours until he hits delirium, but between the antibiotics and continued use of washcloths and eventually a cool bath, you manage to break it by evening.
You sit by his bedside, watching as he sleeps comfortably for the first time in ages, and remember when you would find your boys sleeping in the same bed no matter how many times you put Sammy in his crib and Dean in his own bed. They've always been tight, your boys, always been best friends and codependent even when Sam was rebelling and Dean was trying to take on the role of parent. It's no wonder he feels lost and uncertain with Sam gone.
"You're going to be okay, buddy," you whisper. "We both are."
xxxx
A few hours later, you find yourself climbing over a junkyard fence with a taser in your back pocket, a monkey wrench in hand, and a conviction that you're going to fix Dean's baby or die trying. And if Dean asks about the part in the morning- well, you'll lie through your teeth.
Author: el_spirito23
Characters: Dean, John
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for language and whatnot
Word-count: 1,893
Spoilers: None
Summary: The Impala breaks down. So does Dean. John picks up the pieces.
Disclaimer: So, they still don't belong to me.
Notes: Written for hoodie_time's challenge for this prompt by i_speak_tongue
You're sitting in the only chair in the room, turned toward the door. Your journal is flipped open in front of you, a map spread across the table, tiny pins scattered across its surface. You want to deny that you're anxious for Dean's return, but the stuff in front of you betrays your feelings; whenever you're nervous, you plot, look for connections you might've missed. Whenever Dean's nervous, he cleans his guns, over and over, polishing each piece until it's pristine and then putting the whole thing together without even looking. He could do it blindfolded if he wanted; you've seen him do it.
Hell, you've forced him to do it.
Normally, you wouldn't be particularly anxious about your oldest, figure he just picked up a girl and he'll be back in the wee hours of the morning, but it's been a rough day. Six months to the day since Sam left for Stanford, and you pretend like you don't know that, like it doesn't actually mean anything, but you're both down about it. Add to that the Impala shuttering to a stop in the middle of the road and refusing to start again despite all of Dean's pleading, and it's been an all-around shitty day.
So, yeah, you might be more than a little anxious waiting for Dean to get back, but you're sure he's fine. He's 22 after all, and he's been fine since he was just a kid, taking care of you more than you ever took care of him.
There's a scraping sound against the door and you grab your gun off the table, standing and edging toward the source of the noise. Now you can hear muffled cursing as the key finally makes it into the lock and the door swings open. Dean staggers inside and smiles lopsidedly when he sees you standing there, weapon drawn.
"Hey Dad," he slurs. He closes the door behind him and limps-badly- toward his bed, dropping onto it with a grunt. You may not be the best father, but you know when your boy is hurting, and everything about him right now, the pale face, the tight lips, the clenched jaw, is screaming at you.
"Dean, what the hell have you been doing?" You demand, familiar anger bubbling up. You squat, looking more closely at the left leg Dean's been favoring; the jeans are shredded and blood soaked, and the top of Dean's boot is drenched. You ease the pant leg up, forcing yourself to ignore Dean's sharp inhale, and look closely at the wounds. There are multiple puncture wounds around his calf, dog bites from the looks of them, and they've clearly been bleeding profusely.
"The bastard at the junkyard had the alternator I need, wouldn't come down on the price at all."
"So you decided to get it yourself," you say. You slice up the front of Dean's pants; they're ruined anyway, and you need access to the bites. Dean nods tightly in response to your question, mumbles 'yes sir' and grits his teeth. "Since when has it been okay to steal, Dean?"
Dean stays quiet and you sigh.
"What kind of dog was it?" You ask, getting the first aid kit out. You take off Dean's boot and blood-rimmed sock, then pour some saline over the wounds. Dean hisses quietly.
"Dunno. Mutt of some kind, I think. Big fucker."
You can see that, looking at the size of the bites, and stitching them up is going to hurt like a bitch.
"Alright, I've gotta stitch these up," you say, handing him a flask. "You know the drill."
Dean nods, shakily, and reaches out with a pale, trembling hand, to take the flask. You narrow your eyes and look more closely at him. He's pale down to his lips, and beads of sweat are standing out on his forehead. The flask is shaking so badly as he takes a swig that you're surprised it got into his mouth. You pour a good dose of rubbing alcohol on the wound, wincing in sympathy when Dean hisses tightly and tightens his grip on the flask until his knuckles whiten.
You sigh as you thread the needle and shake your head.
"You should've waited for me Dean," you say as you begin the first stitch. Dean takes another gulp of whiskey and nods shakily. "I'd have backed you on it."
"I know," Dean says miserably. "'M sorry."
"Did you at least get the part?" You ask, glancing at your work. You've finished seven stitches and you're only just over halfway done.
"Mmm," Dean says. You look up, concerned; Dean's white as a sheet and he looks like he might be slipping into the early stages of shock. "Tried, but the dog..."
"Okay," you say. "It's okay."
"'M sorry," Dean repeats, "I should've waited. Sorry."
"Hey," you say, pausing to thumb his chin in a gruff gesture of affection. You're nearly done with the stitches now, but you know getting away without an infection would be nothing short of miraculous, and Winchester luck has never even passed for good.
"Hey," you repeat. "It was stupid, but I'll rip you a new one when you're feeling a bit better, huh?"
Dean nods blearily and runs a still-shaking hand across his eyes. You grab a blanket from your bed and drape it over his shoulders, noticing with a pang of guilt how thin Dean has become in the months since Sam has left.
"Alright, kiddo, why don't you lay down for awhile," you say as you smooth a bandage over the wound. "Hopefully with some sleep you'll feel better in the morning."
Dean's looking at you with a half-bleary, half-confused look, and you realize it's the first time you've called him 'kiddo' since he was maybe eight years old.
"Dad…?" He asks. You tamp down the little voice that reminds you how sad it is that your son is so utterly perplexed by an affectionate term.
"It's okay, Dean," you say, pushing him lightly to lay down. "Just rest, okay? I'm on watch now."
Dean nods once, then closes his eyes, mouth tight in pain. You settle in next to him, watch until his breathing settles and you know he's asleep, then turn back to the map and pick up where you left off.
xxxx
When you wake up, it's to the uncharacteristic feeling of being uncertain where you are. You jolt to your feet and look around, finally remembering that you fell asleep next to Dean's bed, which is currently empty.
"Dean?" You call, frowning when you see that the bathroom is unoccupied. You quickly suppress the tiny jolt of panic that sinks into your stomach and walk into the kitchen. Dean is crouched over the stove, precariously balanced with his bad leg stretched out to the side. You can smell bacon and eggs cooking.
"What the hell, Dean?" You bark, striding forward. "Dammit, you know better than to put weight on that leg, and just to cook breakfast? We can get breakfast at the diner down the street, and it'd probably be a damn sight better than what you're cooking."
Dean ducks his head and flushes up to his ears and you immediately feel bad for the dig. And then you remember, and you silently curse yourself.
"Dean? Look at me, son," you say, your voice gentle and soothing. At least, as soothing as you're capable of sounding.
Dean turns to look at you and you swear under your breath, damning yourself for not realizing before you chewed him out. His eyes are glassy and he looks pale and washed out aside from a blush of red across his cheeks. He's running a fever, no question, and it looks like a pretty good one, too. He's always been restless with high temperatures, always starts cleaning or doing laundry or cooking, and you kick yourself a second time for not realizing earlier.
"Alright, kiddo, let's get you back in bed, huh?" You say, approaching him with your hands spread. Dean warily allows you to wrap an arm under his then around his shoulder, and you hobble back to the bed together.
"Dad," Dean murmurs, one hand reaching out to tug at your sleeve. "The Impala. She's broken, and alone, and I need-"
"You need to rest," you say, laying his arm back on the bed. "I'll get you some meds, okay? Just relax, buddy. The Impala is fine."
You rifle through the first-aid kit, relieved that you still have some antibiotics left over from the last time you were scratched on a piece of rusty metal, and you fist them and a new wad of gauze and head back to Dean's side.
"Dad?" Dean says as you approach. "Dad, the Impala-"
"Dean, I know," you say. You help him take the antibiotics and check the wound; it's red and inflamed, and you squeeze Dean's arm before pouring more rubbing alcohol on the wound. Dean throws his head back, teeth grit, and you find yourself murmuring quiet words of comfort as you try to relax him.
"Okay buddy, why don't you try to relax, huh?" You murmur. You stroke a thumb over his forehead and find it hot and sweaty.
"Dad," Dean murmurs, "M-my car."
"I know, kid," you say, getting a washcloth damp. You return to his side and smooth the cloth gently over his forehead, smiling lightly as he leans into your touch.
"She's broken, Dad," he says quietly. "And a-alone."
"We'll fix her up, Dean, soon as you get better."
Dean continues like he didn't hear you.
"She thought she could d-do it but part of her is broken and she just had to- had to stop."
With a pang, you realize that in Dean's fevered state, he is revealing far more about himself than he would normally, and that his worry over the Impala actually has a far deeper meaning.
"Dean," you whisper. "Hey. We're going to be okay, son."
You want to say more. You want to say, I know you feel abandoned, Dean, I know you feel lost without your brother. I do too. Instead, you watch as Dean's eyelids grow heavy.
"We'll fix her up soon, kid," you say. "We'll make it."
xxxx
It's a long day. Dean's fever continues to rise for hours until he hits delirium, but between the antibiotics and continued use of washcloths and eventually a cool bath, you manage to break it by evening.
You sit by his bedside, watching as he sleeps comfortably for the first time in ages, and remember when you would find your boys sleeping in the same bed no matter how many times you put Sammy in his crib and Dean in his own bed. They've always been tight, your boys, always been best friends and codependent even when Sam was rebelling and Dean was trying to take on the role of parent. It's no wonder he feels lost and uncertain with Sam gone.
"You're going to be okay, buddy," you whisper. "We both are."
xxxx
A few hours later, you find yourself climbing over a junkyard fence with a taser in your back pocket, a monkey wrench in hand, and a conviction that you're going to fix Dean's baby or die trying. And if Dean asks about the part in the morning- well, you'll lie through your teeth.