If you could only see -- chapter 9/?
Now there’s no rolling back, I’m aching to attack
My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out
Howl
Florence and the machine
”Dad?“
The voice is low, familiar. The only reason it doesn’t send him straight into hunter’s mode is the knowledge that he isn’t quite up for more than groaning quietly in response. He blinks tiredly and forces his heavy head to lift from where it had been leaning against the pillow.
Dean is standing at the open door to his room, looking over at him. Behind him, the first rays of early morning sunlight are highlighting various cars in the parking lot, bouncing off the metallic surfaces and hitting John straight in the eyes. It sets off a stabbing pain at the back of his head and he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away. The movement makes him feel nauseated and he clenches his teeth against it, cursing inside his head.
Dean is talking again. Even though he’s close, his voice sounds as if it is coming from far away. Whatever he’s saying is lost to the sound of blood rushing through John’s veins as he tries to move his body into a sitting position. He chances a glance at the door and when his head doesn’t explode from the bright light he tries to focus on his son, letting his raised eyebrows ask a question his mind can’t quite form yet.
“I said you look like death warmed over- you feeling any better?”
Dean’s words are not in synch with his lips and that disorientates him. Long after Dean’s mouth stops moving John can still hear his voice, but at least the words make sense now. He watches his son for a moment, his scrambled brain-cells wondering distractedly when Dean had found the time to dye his hair yellow. He hopes to God it’s only the light playing tricks on his sleepy eyes.
“I’m fine…” he grunts finally. To prove his words he sits up a little straighter on the bed, hissing when that pulls at all the wrong muscles.
“Do you know where you are?” Dean has taken a step into the room and is leaning against the door frame now, studying him. He’s following the protocol of how to treat a concussion patient, asking questions to gauge his mental state. John doesn’t have to take a look around, the answer to this question is always the same.
“Motel,” he mumbles, tipping his head back a little and closing his eyes briefly. Damn, he’s tired.
“Remember the date?”
The voice is getting closer, but Dean is not moving from his space at the door. John hopes it means his hearing is starting to get better. He doesn’t remember the date, but that’s not saying anything about his mental state at all, he’s always needed his journal as a reference for this. He’s pretty good with the days of the week, though, and it only takes a second to do the math.
“Thursday, two days after we got here…” he says, sitting up slowly and rubbing his hand across his face in an attempt to brush the dizziness away.
Dean is still watching him from the door, a hint of worried playfulness creeping into his voice as he asks the question he always asks at that point.
“What kind of car do I drive?”
John squints at him, trying to get him into focus, fighting hard to keep a straight face and not let the pain show on his features.
“The kind of car I can still take away from you if you don’t keep it clean.”
The pain is making him irritable, he shifts again to get some of the pressure off his side, rolling his eyes when he hears Dean chuckle softly.
“You can always try, old man,” Dean challenges him lightly, and then sobers a little. “Listen, I’m gonna run to the drugstore, pick up a few things, you need anything?”
Actually, a new head would be awesome.
“I’m fine,” John says out loud and decides to take some painkillers as soon as Dean’s gone.
His son gives him an: I know exactly how you’re feeling and you’re not fine-look and then leaves with a muttered, “Be back in a few.” The door clicks shut behind him and John takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.
He is so tired he can barely think straight. The concussion isn’t helping, he feels like he’s been awake for twenty-four hours straight without any rest at all. The pain meds had worn off sometime during the night, leaving him to spend the rest of it drifting on and off. His ribs had complained no matter which way he had turned. At one point he’d been so desperate to escape the constant throbbing he’d tried getting up and moving a few steps. But, of course, that hadn’t helped. The only good thing it had done was to drive Bobby from the room and into his own, leaving John to a lone night filled with pain, memories… and more pain.
The hunt wouldn’t leave him alone; he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He is still hazy about the details, but his mind keeps irritating him with flashes of memories: vampire teeth, wolf-fangs, the sensation of flying through the air, hitting trees and breaking bones, mixed with the smell and taste of his own blood and snarls, threats, cries of pain-
Sam.
That’s always the first thing on his mind when he remembers that one cry, flashing back to see the wolf crash into the tree and then crumple to the ground. His memory stops there, every time, the last thing he sees are trembling paws twitching weakly against the muddy earth and then- and then nothing, the screen goes black. He’s left with a racing heart thudding painfully against his hurting ribs and the overwhelming need to protect his kid. Twice he’s found himself standing at the door after a flashback, hand on the knob to open it and go over to look after his son.
He’s never left the room, though; he hasn’t even turned the knob. For one, it was in the middle of the night-or early morning that second time-and he’d only have woken the kid. Dean is with him, keeping an eye on his brother. If Sam had been anything but as best as can be expected considering the circumstances, John would have been the first to know.
The other part of him, the tinier voice at the back of his mind- the hunter- is worried about something completely different. A hunt gone bad, mistakes he’d made and couldn’t remember, couldn’t learn from. And Sam, not his son but his partner, the one who had his back, who trusted him to make the right decisions, had gone down, had been hurt because of John’s choices. At least that’s what the nagging feeling in his stomach keeps telling him. Something had gone wrong and it is his fault.
And then there is the thing that’s been sneaking around his mind like a certain wolf on silent paws, something he has a very hard time admitting to himself. Over the years the world-his world-has turned into a dark, hostile place; he doesn’t feel save anywhere, always on the move, thinking three steps ahead, heading toward the big goal. Nothing’s ever the same. He won’t allow them to settle down for too long, it would make them vulnerable.
Predictable.
Sam has become the one constant of his life, the only person he’s allowed himself to rely on. With Dean off on his own hunts, his youngest is always there, always with him. It’s the curse that’s forcing Sam to stay at his side, John knows that. Sam wouldn’t be sticking around if he had a choice. And it kills him every time he has to watch his son struggle through the days, knowing they’ll probably never find a cure. He knows what a tragedy his son’s life has become. He never wanted that for Sam. Never. And still, despite the tension, the constant fight for the upper hand, the thin line between heartfelt irritation and grudging respect they are walking every day… John’s grown so used to having him around, of sensing Sam’s familiar presence close to him that, right now, not being able to check on him, see for himself that his son is alright, is making him feel edgy and restless.
Unprotected.
Open for attack.
It’s not fair, it’s selfish, it makes him weak when he should be strong and protecting his son. It’s putting even more on Sam’s shoulders when he’s already struggling to keep moving despite the crap the curse is throwing at him on a daily basis.
But John has come to rely on Sam. And that not only means having your back protected during a fight but also looking after each other. Right now, his gut is telling him that something is wrong. Sam hasn’t come over to check on him. It’s not like him, no matter how tired or injured Sam was he would always make sure John was okay. Dean had told him Sam was laid up but fine, but-John was the one in those woods. He’s the one who was there, saw what Sam went through, he was there to hear Sam scream -
-Sam hits the trunk of a tree behind him with a sickening crunching sound that forces a horrible mewling cry from his throat. He crumples to the ground, paws twitching weakly against the mud-
He’s at the door before he can see again. His vision tunnels dangerously and his legs chose that moment to turn into rubber. He sags against the door for a moment to find his balance, takes as deep a breath as he can and opens the door. He sways out onto the porch, clinging to the wall as he waits for his equilibrium to catch up with him. The cool morning air hits him like a punch to the chest, making his lungs seize up in protest against the chill and he can’t suppress a cough which, in turn, causes his ribs to shriek in agony. He’s winded, and he hasn’t even taken more than a few steps. When the hell has it become so fucking hard to walk?
The next door down is open. The room is dark and quiet. And smaller than the one John’s been staying in, one bed, a table at the window, a TV attached to the wall, a bathroom door at the other end. It smells of the usual cleaners, a sharp, chemical scent that doesn’t quite cover the smell of blood and disinfectants. He stops for a moment, letting his tired eyes adjust to the darkness.
“Sam?”
He keeps his voice low so as not to startle him, but the room stays quiet, there is no answer.
And that’s… odd. Sam has always been a light sleeper, even before the curse he’d wake at most sounds. But now, with the wolf inside him always on guard, always watching out, this awareness has been heightened to a point where Sam wakes up even when people walk past outside their door. Sneaking up on him is next to impossible these days. They’ve gotten used to it. John stopped going for his gun every time Sam jerks awake, and, most of the time, Sam doesn’t even rouse all the way - just mutters something incomprehensible before he turns and falls back asleep. This lack of reaction, now, stirs a familiar feeling of unease deep in John’s gut and he hurries inside, hand searching blindly for the light switch.
It’s a mistake. As soon as the lamp flares to life and sears across his retinas he sways, has to put a hand out against the wall to keep upright. The resulting headache almost sends him to his knees. He leans his aching head against the wall, fighting hard against the sudden wave of nausea that starts creeping up his throat.
“Dad?”
The groggy voice is almost drowned out by the rhythmic beating inside his head and he gives a muffled groan, taking one, two, three deep breaths before he turns toward the bed. Slowly.
Sam is blinking up at him, one hand raised to block out the light, the rest of his body hidden completely beneath the covers. Instead of his usual lazy, comfortable sprawl across the mattress, he’s curled up tight around his ribs, facing the door. There are white lines of pain around his mouth, and John’s chest aches. He hates to see his boys hurt.
It takes Sam way too long to focus on John’s face and at some point Sam seems to give up and lets his head drop back onto the pillow. John takes the quiet as an invitation, and, frankly, he kind of has to. The cold is getting into his aching skull and ribs, and he isn’t sure he can make it back to the other room on his own right now.
“How are you feeling?” He closes the door behind him and moves stiffly toward the table at the window. Sam rolls his head toward him and glares at him through one eye.
“’m fine…” Sam grumbles moodily. His eye closes, and John sighs, starting toward him.
It only takes a step. One step closer to the table, and Sam gasps in a breath, jerking himself up with less than graceful movements. It’s just the wolf in him, is John’s first thought. A reaction to being approached while half-asleep, but somewhere in the back of his mind, alarms are going off. “Sam?”
He takes another step, and Sam suddenly flinches, sucking in a pained breath and tensing beneath the covers. Before John can do anything, Sam rolls to the opposite side of the bed in a move so abrupt it makes his muscles seize up on him. Sam crumples to the floor and curls in on himself, groaning.
John is stunned for a second, but then he’s moving toward the bed, his own pain completely forgotten.
“What is it?“ he asks, coming around the bed so he can see his son, only to freeze when Sam cries out again and flinches back from him, starting to shiver violently.
“Go-“ Sam gasps hoarsely, pushing himself up. His body is moving in odd little jerks, like a badly worked puppet. He tries to get to his feet but crumples to the ground before he was ever upright, his shoulder hitting the wall in front of him with a dull thud that forces a miserable groan out of him.
John wants to follow, needs to do something, help him, but before he can move Sam growls at him, actually growls at him, the sound so vicious, so dangerous John flinches back before he can stop himself.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” John snaps, panic lending a sharp edge to his voice.
Sam moves again, literally crawling away from him, until he’s wedged against the far wall, in the space beside the bed. He moves backward until there is no more room to move - and even then, his legs keep pushing, shoving him into the drywall so hard John can see the muscles trembling. “You!” Sam snarls, turning his head so he can glare at John, even though his sight seems to be so blurry he can’t focus. “You-“ he repeats, gasping in a desperate breath, “fucking order- I can’t be near you! It hurts! Back off, dammit!”
John stumbles to his feet as fast as he can, sways a step back, then the next, stumbling as far away from Sam as he can in the small room. His back hits the wall next to the television and the impact sends a stab of white, hot agony through his side that almost sends him to his knees. Across from him Sam suddenly slumps down, falling from the wall into a crumpled heap on the floor. He looks so miserable that John is no longer sure if the nauseous feeling rolling through him is coming solely from his swimming head.
He did that to his kid. Made Sam move, made him hurt, just by walking in. He should have remembered what Dean had told him the night before, how Sam had to stay away from him. How could he be so stupid -
They stare at each other across the room, both breathing heavily, in pain, both curled around their ribs.
“You okay?” John finally manages to ground out between clenched teeth and Sam huffs out a bitter laugh, glaring at him again.
“No,” he growls. “Take it back …” and he’s half angry, and half desperate, and full out pleading.
And it rips through John with more pain than his ribs have ever offered.
John straightens-and regrets it immediately. His vision wavers, black dots appear at the edge, the sounds around him disappear gradually… He sways, again, reaching out for the wall, for something stable, fighting to stay on his feet.
Sam makes a sound and moves, but John’s eyes are too blurry to make out what he is doing. He hears him starting to talk, voice getting louder.
“-you dare pass out on me-“
Dizzily he tries to remember, there is something he has to do, something- the order. He has to-Sam can’t-
“-have to take it back or I can’t help you!”
The world does a flip and John’s knees hit the ground. The impact jars his body so hard it makes his lungs freeze up on him. Again. Sam is crouching on the floor, staring at him, his eyes-
“Dad!”
- the order-
“Take it the fuck back, NOW!”
Sam is yelling now, in a panic, and John’s failing hearing is making his voice sound uncharacteristically shrill. He has to act, now-
“Get over here-“ John gasps. He has no idea if that will work, if it’s enough to cancel the order. He wants it, he needs it to be enough.
And then he is falling, automatically stretching out one arm to try and keep him from hitting the floor face first. He tips - and there’s a pained wheezing right next to his ear, and someone is dragging him-
When the world stops swaying and his mind crawls back into the land of the conscious he’s lying on something soft. For a moment he relishes in the absence of nausea and keeps his eyes closed. He feels warm, which is an improvement, there’s a light weight on his chest-blanket-and his ribs are no longer shrieking in agony. As long as he doesn’t move he will be fine. Sleeping sounds like an option right now, maybe he should-
“You feeling better?” The voice comes from his right, low, familiar and tight with an emotion he can’t quite place. He doesn’t want to move his head, or even open his eyes, but he needs to see Sam to figure out what’s up with him.
His son is twisted up in the chair at the window, hunched over, looking both tired and in pain. He has changed into sweats and his black hoodie, the one with the zipper so obviously, John’s missed something. He is watching John closely, and even though his vision isn’t working right he can make out enough to tell his son is pale and trembling. Sam looks ready to keel over any second and any urges John might have had to go to sleep are instantly forgotten.
“What happened?” John asks, surprised as to how shaky and hoarse his voice sounds.
Sam stares at him. “You’re an asshole”, he says, voice serious. Then, after a pause that doesn’t bring up more than John’s eyebrows in reaction, Sam says, “You passed out on me. You feeling any better?”
He is, he is feeling better and he nods slowly, careful not to set his head aching again. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Good.” Sam doesn’t sound particularly happy about it. He crosses his arms in front of him, thrusting his chin upward a little, his gaze never leaving John’s face. There’s an unspoken challenge in the air and John has no idea what to make of it. He studies his son, then decides to keep his calm and go on slowly.
“Asshole, huh?” he offers as an opening, hoping not to sound as irritated as he feels. Irritation on his part usually pisses Sam off like nothing else since it means John has missed something Sam thinks he shouldn’t have.
Sam nods. “Yes.”
John shifts a little, trying to sit up. “What did I do this time?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Sam gives him a glare that has John’s hackles up within a second.
“Don’t act like you don’t know!” Sam spits out and John holds up his hand before Sam can go on.
“For a second remember that I have a freaking concussion and pretend I don’t know.”
“How could you do that to me?” It explodes out of Sam like a shot and John winces at the force behind the words.
“Do what?” he snaps back, feeling his own anger build.
Again, not the right answer, Sam’s mouth drops open and he stares at him in disbelief.
“Are you kidding me?”
John takes a deep breath, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his side. “I don’t remember much about the hunt,” he admits slowly. “There are bits and pieces in my head, but most of it-it’s gone.” Sam will understand that, they both have enough first-hand experience with short time memory loss due to a head injury. “What did I do?”
Sam takes a deep breath and fights to calm down. The intensity of his accusing glare doesn’t change, though, if looks could kill John would no longer have anything to worry about.
“You told-you ordered me to stay away.”
John waits, he knows that much now, but there has to be more… “And?” he prods when Sam stays silent.
“And?” Sam echoes, incredulous. “You go down on a hunt, the monster is about to kill you-and you’re ordering me to stay away?”
John stares at him, tries to remember, tries to conjure up the relating pictures in his head-and fails. There’s nothing there.
Sam mistakes the pause for-something that makes him even more furious and his voice rises, cutting through the air angrily. “I had to watch that thing getting ready to rip your throat out and I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it because you had fucking told me to stay away!”
He would be pacing by now if he wasn’t injured so badly, underlining his words with emphatic movements and gestures. But he’s not… he’s just sitting there, watching John with icy, angry eyes. Seeing him this motionless makes the hair at the back of John’s neck stand up because it’s wrong. He holds up a hand, wants him to stop, only for a moment, he needs to think. “Listen-“
“No, I’m not listening anymore, you can’t do this to me, Dad, I can’t-I just-I can’t-“ Sam’s tone changes, where he had been growling and yelling angrily before he now sounds as if he is choking on something. “I can’t take this crap anymore…” he breaks off and starts to struggle to stand up, curling even more into himself but moving, hobbling away from the table.
“Sam-“
Sam flinches, takes another step away from him.
“No.” He shakes his head, which sends him stumbling a little, but he ignores it, voice unwavering. “No more, Dad, no more of this…”
“I was trying to save you-“ John starts, because he was, he has no idea what else happened, but this he knows, this he knows without a doubt.
Sam whirls on him, moves so fast he has to steady himself against the wall. “By making me watch you die? I saw you go down, that-that thing was going after you and I could have done something to protect you-“
“That thing was a vampire, Sam, a fucking bloodsucker, if you had got that blood inside you, you would have been turned!”
Sam’s eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side. “So it’s okay for you to die protecting me but I’m not allowed to do the same?”
John feels his insides clench and his pulse speeds up as his body tenses and his muscles start quivering with tension. “No! You can’t! Because I’m your father! And who the hell would have had to take care of you if you did get infected?”
Sam’s eyes flash dangerously in response. “I‘m the one who couldn’t do fuck to save your sorry ass, you have any idea how that feels like?”
“What the hell-“
It takes John a moment to realize they are no longer alone, Dean is standing in the open door. He’s holding a cup of coffee and a paper bag, looking at over at him and Sam, eyebrows raised in question.
“You really need to do this? Here? Now?”
John huffs drily, throwing him a glare. Back off.
“This is none of your business,” he growls and across from him Sam squares his shoulders.
Dean rolls his eyes and walks over to the table, putting the bag and the cup down.
“Like hell it isn’t…”He turns to look at them, shaking his head irritably. “In case you haven’t noticed you’re both not firing on all cylinders right now, you need to rest!”
“He blacked out for a minute,” Sam says, nodding his chin at John. Telling on him. To his son. This is beyond ridiculous…
Dean studies John for a moment before he looks back at Sam.
“So did you, before I left,” Dean says. “So I include you. Rest.”
Sam tenses and John thinks he’s going to protest as it is his nature, but before he can even open his mouth Dean’s talking again, pointing first at John, then at Sam.
“You up. You down. Both of you shut the hell up.”
John needs a moment to realize Dean wants him to move. He thinks about putting his foot down and ending the confrontation with Sam right now, but Dean is right, his head is pounding so hard he can barely concentrate. He takes a deep breath and sits up slowly, clenching his teeth against a wave of dizziness that sends his vision swimming. He has no idea how he makes it to his feet, Dean doesn’t help him but he can sense him close to him, following him to the door.
Dean is talking to Sam at some point, it sounds like an order and there’s a low answering grumble.
And then they’re outside and he holds his breath so that the cold air doesn’t knock him back this time. He sways, reaches out for the wall and then Dean is next to him, slipping in beneath his left shoulder and helping him keep his balance. Cold changes into warmth and then he’s sitting down on something soft. Dean starts talking to him, but he is too tired to listen, he doesn’t even notice when sleep finally takes him.
chapter 10