Best Served Cold, 6/6

[mellaithwen]

Title: Best Served Cold
Chapters: 6/6
Rating: PG-13 (if not higher) Gen
Warnings: Spoilers for Dead Man's Blood
Summary: Post Dead Man's Blood. The Vampires want revenge...and they won't rest until they have it.

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

 

At least a million times I've fallen but never will I break

 

Searching wasn’t enough, the prize wasn’t in effort, quality; it was quantity, winning, that’s what mattered. Dean mattered, finding Dean mattered, nothing else but his brother mattered, so when every god damn turn led him to nowhere, a somewhere seeming further away, a somewhere with Dean, waiting for him, waiting for a rescue, waiting to be saved.

 

Or not waiting at all, not breathing, not living, not being, just...gone.

 

There were echoes all around him, echoes of himself, echoes of his voice, as he called out, terrified, his voice like a child, his voice like an adult, his voice full of fear. Searching, ever searching, for something that may or may not be there.

 

“Dean! Dean!” Where are you?

 

Please say he’s here, please, please…

 

“DEAN!” He bellowed, reverberating and bouncing away off of every wall, crashing into each other as the echoes continued down the hall, and Sam kept repeating the name, screaming for his brother. He broke off into a run down the corridor, searching blindly for a hope. Each door he passed he pushed open to reveal yet another empty, bare room. Again and again, it creaked and slammed back against its hinges to reveal nothing, again and again, until Sam reached the end of the corridor. Saw the fenced off hole in the wall.  

 

His shoulder was already hurting from the effort of jamming it against the previous walls and doors; he stepped back, aimed his foot, and kicked it open. T.J Hooker, and Dean himself would be proud. Dust and small pieces of the fence fell from the makeshift doorway, and as it cleared, Sam held back a gasp at what he saw, and ran in.

 

Dean was curled up on his side, his body dipped in red, and his skin bruised, his clothes in tatters. His knees were bent awkwardly away from them, and his hands were in front of him. The ropes were digging in and Sam went to take them off, wincing at how deeply the rope burns ran.

 

“Oh god, no. No.”

 

But he was already too late...

 

“Dean!”

 

Sam shot awake from his father’s quick shake on his shoulder. He had been fitful in his sleep, that much was obvious, and his father was looking at him with concern.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah-yeah I’m fine,”

 

“You called out for your brother.”

 

Sam felt a blush rise in his cheeks. “I did?”

 

John nodded and Sam swallowed the lump gathering in his throat as he tried to forget the flashback his nightmares had brought on. They had finally sat down on the most-uncomfortable seats known to man after more than three people had banged into them. They had sat in silence, the tension growing with the hours that dragged by as they were left uninformed of Dean’s condition. Sam hadn’t realised he was that tired, but he now regretted ever leaning his head against the wall. Not only had it brought on nightmares, but he could have missed something important, and his neck was cricking each time he moved it.

 

“Anything?” He asked his voice somewhat hoarse from the dryness in his mouth. He only said the one word, but John knew fully well what he wanted. He wanted more than what he had fallen asleep on, he wanted more than the doubts and fears that had pushed him over the edge of exhaustion. He wanted to know how his brother was and John couldn’t tell him something he didn’t know himself. He shook his head and Sam couldn’t help but let go of the predictable sigh, and a quick run through of his growing locks.

 

“What time is it?” He asked finally, trying to adjust his long frame to the uncomfortable seats, vaguely attributing the constant fidgeting to immense worry rather than the fault of the ridiculous uncomfortable chairs. John looked up slowly, having spent so long during Sam’s fretful sleep simply staring at his hands, wringing them within each other, eyes trailing across fingers, turning them over and re-tracing the lines on his palms, flexing the muscles, cracking the knuckles before settling on simply bowing his head, his thumbs pushing against the bridge of his nose as if to ward off the fear inside of his head.

 

The clock ticked ominously, filling the desperate silence of the sterile corridor, not bustling, not busy, just still, depressingly so, as though the atmosphere around them were as numb as they felt, grasping on to hope and ever waiting for news.

 

“Five am.” John answered quietly, his own head mulling over exactly what that meant.

 

It had been eight hours since they had prepared themselves for a rescue mission. Sharpening their blades as they waited for the opportune moment.

 

Seven hours since they had killed them all, and found him. Found Dean, in a pool of-

 

Six hours since they had trumped through the doors of the hospital with their precious cargo finally found.

 

Five hours and 45 minutes since the doctor, after a quick assessment of the critical injuries said quite simply that surgery was needed.

 

Four hours since they had stopped their pacing and sat down.

 

Three hours and a half since Sam had finally fallen asleep, his head titled against the wall in a position that would hurt when he woke.

 

He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t just wait around here, there was a demon out there, killing, hurting, maiming, and it was his job to stop it.

 

There had been a time when that was his second priority; his first priority, being his sons. But they could take care of themselves, couldn’t they? He could leave now, be on the road in an hour, taking up the hunt in search of his wife’s killer. Sam could handle this.

 

But one look at his youngest and he knew otherwise. He didn’t doubt the boy’s ability to react well in the worst of situations, but he was hurting, and that much was clear. Seeing Dean injured hadn’t been a picnic for either of them, but Sam had held his brother, limp in his arms, covered in blood he had since scrubbed away in the small toilets of this floor. He had fallen asleep with skin rubbed red, and eyes itching no doubt from scrubbing them too.

 

Had Dean’s injuries been nothing more than a broken bone, or bruising, then John would have already sent Sam in one direction, and taking another himself on the lookout for abandoned carts ripe for the picking. A quick swipe at the necessary rolls of gauze, medical tape, and if they were lucky, some anaesthetic and they were on their way, trusting Dean to discharge himself, and meet them in the car.

 

But this wasn’t a broken bone, though it could be for all John and Sam knew, and it was much worse than bruising. There was blood everywhere, more out than in, he supposed, and that was never right.

 

“And they haven’t said anything?”

“No, Sam, they haven’t.”

 

And that was that.

 

*-*-*

 

Sam didn’t fall asleep again, and John never let the thought cross his mind. Another hour passed before finally a nurse took pity on them, and went to find out if there was any more news to be heard for The Martin family.

 

It made sense. Sam was fairly sure there was an ID with his face on it ending with that surname, and seeing as his father, the only one of them carrying ID, had used that one, there was no point going against it. The questions had been surprisingly mild, almost shocking Sam how easily they swallowed his father every word.

 

My son....hadn’t been home in hours....found him like this....please help him.

 

There would be more when Dean woke up, to which he would keep to the same story he had perfected over the years. Too dark to see his attacker, nothing more than an innocent bystander, and using the same brush off with the police, letting John take over with his anger at the lack of order in the town, making the officers fumble as they left with their promises of finding the attacker.

 

But that was to happen when Dean woke up, and so far, he was still dead to the world, in a different room, down another corridor, with his own problems to deal with.

 

Like surviving.

 

*-*-*

 

Hours later both caught a glimpse of scrubs heading for them in the corner of their eyes. They looked and saw the doctor walking over to them, her face impassive until she was that close to John and she smiled. “I think he’s out of the woods for now, but he’s gonna have to take it easy for a while. Rest up, not do anything strenuous.” John swallowed, and she put a hand on his arm.

 

“You can go see him, if you’d like.” And she looked back to the double doors, the same ones John had been staring at for hours on end, wishing more than anything to go in there, and now...

 

Now, it occurred to him what he might see behind those doors. His son lying there, so vulnerable because of his father’s failings. John couldn’t face it, he knew-no, he didn’t know anything; he just couldn’t be there, then. Sam could handle it, Sam can handle it. Sam will handle it.

 

Sam didn’t say anything, Sam didn’t notice. But when the doctor finally came and got them with a you can see him now, John had shot up but Dean had gone in the opposite direction, toward the exit. “Dad?” He called, surprised. “Dad!”

 

Sam ran after him as he left the hospital, legs taking him to the truck.

 

“Dad! We can’t do this to him!” Sam called desperately, and John whirled around, pointing to the building.

 

“Sam, stay here!”

 

“The hell I will, stay with me!” But John didn’t answer, only threw open the door with a creak, started the engine and drove away. Sam swore, now left there with no car.

 

“God damn it!” Sam hissed before running back into the reception and asking for the direction of the nearest phone. He’d catch up to his father even if it meant hiring a taxi to do so.

 

*-*-*

 

The last thing he remembered, really, was staring at a wall, wishing he could see how far the crack that began about halfway down really went. How deep into the floor it carried on, if there was moisture attached, or if it was his own vision glistening that made it look as such. The last thing he remembered was hurting. Pain, and worry, panic, that this was it, when darkness reached him that was the end.

 

But when Dean woke up, it was to white. White walls, floors, sheets, and noise. His ears were ringing strangely as sound dipped and he searched the room. He had been left alone for time being, but where the hell were his brother and father?

 

He knew, without ever having to be told that it was them that had brought him here, to the hospital of all places, had things really been that bad?

 

But then he looked down and saw a glimpse of his wrist, and knew that even with the light bandaging, he must look quite a sight. God, there would be so many questions, what idiot had suggested taking him to the hospital? But the answer was obvious, Sam worried too much.

 

Dean was cold, and the blankets were itchy, but warm, and he pulled them up carefully, his stomach groaning. For a moment he was lost for thought, robbed for logic and memories, and then it hit him square in the chest. Kate had done this. And in had come Dad and Sammy to save him? They must have, he knew, but now, where were they? They hadn’t left had they? Dean pushed himself up weakly, head aching somewhat but antibiotics having already defeated his fever while he slept. Dean fell back down onto the pillows instantly when a doctor walked in and frowned.

 

“Yours injuries were extensive, but you’re lucky the knife wound won’t leave any lasting damage we weren’t able to repair.”

 

Dean nodded, and vaguely listened to her casually recounting his injuries for him to inwardly cringe at. She spoke of how worried they had been at the high temperature of his fever, but he gave her a look that said, nothing new.

 

“Is my brother here?” He croaked, throat dry, and still so tired, so weak.

 

She nodded, “he and your father had to go, I’m sure they’ll be back later on.”

 

Dean swallowed. Yeah, I’m sure.

 

When next he saw her, she wanted to ask questions, and once again he feigned ignorance, an attack in the dark, unable to see, and she mentioned police lightly, though it was clear he was spooked, and she took back the question, replying that she would only do so when he was ready. He actually felt bad when she smiled as she left, knowing he wouldn’t be for long.

 

*-*-*

 

The taxi driver was concerned, but Sam had no time to care. After they had looked around for the truck with no luck, he had simply said to drop him off at the cabin, As soon as daylight passed, Sam saw the truck pull in, and he braced himself for what would have to be a showdown. He couldn’t let their father leave, not again, not after they had promised they would go after this thing together.

 

“Damn it Sam, your brother needs you, what the hell are you doing here?” A great and spectacular greeting from his father.

 

“Making sure you don’t leave again. Dean needs the both of us, we need to get back, now.”

 

But John was shaking his head, “No, now go, Sam!”

 

A sudden knock, followed by tires in the dust, left Sam and John staring at one another, before Sam unlocked the door, opening it cautiously. The door creaked open, revealing the figure hunched leaning against the doorframe, and Sam was reminded too much of Dean’s heart condition and brush with death, than he’d ever like to admit.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean was no stranger to sneaking out of hospital’s prematurely, or convincing even the strictest of medical practitioners to let him go, flashing some kind of ID that gave the doctor confidence he could take care of his own wounds. And it always concerned him how easily he could escape, he realised that security might not be the main priority but still, it was getting tedious at how easy it was. He missed the challenge...

 

Clothes had been left out for him, ones he remembered leaving in his father’s truck some time ago, and surprised that they still existed. He crept out of bed, wincing at the pull on his stomach, but still glad there was enough morphine in his system to help with the worst of it, and knowing there was a good amount in the Winchester-first-second-and-third-aid-kit in the Impala. He pulled on his jeans, and slipped on his boots. He carefully took off the gown, and saw the gauze wrapped around his torso.

 

Maybe things had been worse than he’d thought, maybe he should stay...

 

He grabbed the shirt, glad that it was a loose one, pulled it on quickly and ran a hand through his hair, trying to make it look less and less like he’d just woken up a few hours or so ago. He smiled at the sight of his jacket, something that grew when he put it on happily; glad that it would cover any injuries his clothes did not. Maybe it was silly to have so much pride in an article of clothing, but it was certainly help to hide the worst of the bruising on his neck should he raise the collar like he normally did.

 

Exiting had again been fairly easy, there had been one respect where a nurse had turned the corner and he had been forced to duck into a supply closet, but then after a quick wait to catch his breath, he was off once more, walking as quickly as he could without showcasing a limp or slowness attributed to injuries. The air hit him hard, cold and unforgiving but he couldn’t waste any time standing in reception trying to get used to the occasional draft. He’d already seen the pay phone and was quickly straying over to it, glad to see the necessities pinned up on the side.

 

He didn’t have any change, though he knew he carried enough bills to take care of the fee. He’d taken advantage of the elderly lady and her purse full of change, taking pity on such a young man, though at first she had more than frowned at his appearance. All bruised and broken.

 

He hadn’t missed the cabby’s gaze, and he grunted at the barb shot in his direction, asking how the other guy fared. Normally he might have replied, but now he felt mildly pissed. When he leaned forward to get out, little black spots danced in front of his vision and before he knew it, the cab driver was in front of him by the door, offering a hand, which Dean took gratefully. He braced himself on the car, digging into his jeans for the money, but the driver took one look at the battered form and took more pity on him than he would ever likely take on any one again.

 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay here, buddy?” He asked instead of taking the money, gesturing to the cabin. Dean barely smiled, muttering, “No,” And making his way to the door. He dared lean against it, waiting for the answer to his knock and when he saw his brother, alive, well, and somewhat surprised, he pushed past him, edging into the room.

 

“Not gonna do a disappearing act on me are you?”

 

The words alone, would not have spurred a Winchester into action. Indeed, had Dean himself heard them directed to himself, he might have smirked in the direction of the speaker, or sighed, depending on the underlining content Sam was aiming for-and Dean knew if anyone was saying it, it would be Sam-.

 

“The doctor said nothing strenuous.” John reprimanded, straying closer, Dean rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s not like I walked over here.”

 

But his arm was still draped protectively over his abdomen, and John could still see the boy’s wrists that were no doubt paining him too.

 

“You shouldn’t have left the hospital Dean.”

 

“Yeah? Be nice if you could think the same thing, Dad.”

 

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. That? He deserved. For a fleeting second Dean’s mind swayed, and his body did too, out of the hospital far too early, he needed rest. When he began to fall, John raced towards his son, grabbing him, and unable to stop himself from holding on tightly to his boy. A much needed hug passing between the both of them, Sam joining in as he helped his father manoeuvre his brother onto the bed.

 

“Hey Sam? I’m sorry about that, son; I shouldn’t have left the hospital.”

 

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

 

John looked startled for a moment before nodding in agreement, but Dean was already out, asleep, and John grabbed the covers, putting them over his boy and keeping him warm. He would tell him in the morning.

 

*-*-*

 

But when morning came; Dean was up far too early, staring at every single note pinned to the wall, examining every diagram and rough scripture, tracing his index finger over the lines of every map and following them with an intent gaze. John himself was up early too, checking, and double checking his information, cross referencing against second opinions to make sure he was right.

 

He wished he wasn’t, but he could see it, the pattern emerging once more. He’d seen the article on the freak electrical storms hitting that part of Iowa and after digging a little deeper he found letters sent in to the local paper speaking of the farmers’ outrage at the lack of coverage on the deaths of their cattle. He sighed aloud when he found the information on the temperature fluctuations, and knew. He knew. And from then on John had felt the need to explain everything he could to his children, telling himself the apology would just have to be put on hold for now. That he’d get around to it soon enough.

 

They had a demon to deal with, the bonding could wait.

 

-Fin

Epilogue

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