Heroes-Revisited
By Ridley C. James, July
2006 re-edited in 2007
Beta & contributor: Tidia
Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural
belongs to me.
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Chapter 7/13
A hero is simply someone who rises above his own human
weaknesses, for an hour, a day, a year, to do something
stirring.--Betty Deramus
It had to have been pretty dramatic to witness. Caleb burst into the
room, murder in his eyes, carrying an unconscious and slime-covered Sam
through the ER doors. “I need help here!” he shouted.
A bloodied Dean hobbled in, assisted by his limping father. They looked
like war-ravaged veterans.
“What happened?” A young man about Caleb’s age met him half-way across
the floor. His scrubs and stethoscope screamed doctor, but Caleb
frowned doubtfully.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. I just like to hang out in emergency rooms dressed as one.” His
face paled slightly when Caleb’s glare intensified. “I’m Doctor White.”
He motioned to some orderlies with a stretcher. “You want to tell me
what happened?”
John appeared at Caleb’s side as they were surrounded by other staff.
The lies slipped easily from Winchester’s lips.
“We were deer hunting. The boys took a bad fall down a steep incline.”
John then explained how he had twisted his ankle trying to reach them.
"I had my son, Dean, wrap the rope around his wrists when we pulled
them up. I think he might have broken some ribs."
Caleb rolled his eyes. It was lame. If the doctors had paid closer
attention, it had holes the size of golf balls, but there wasn't time
for that kind of inspection and thankfully no need to call the police.
None of their injuries were weapon induced. Unless his mind could be
included as a tool of destruction. Reaves pushed the thoughts aside as
Sam was pried from his arms. There were more important things to
consider-like the unconscious teen.
“How long has he been like this?” An older gray-haired man stepped in
beside White, nudging him to the side as Sam was placed on a stretcher.
His name tag read Dr. Gentry. At least he was closer to Mackland Ames’s
age than Doogie Howser's.
“About forty minutes,” Dean replied, still steadfast by his little
brother's side.
Gentry asked about allergies and again the seventeen-year-old supplied
the answer as well as blood type, birth date, and a list of other facts
that had John sighing wearily.
“We should check you out, too.” Caleb heard White say to Dean. The
older Winchester sibling was shaking his head in refusal.
“Damn it, Dean!” John hissed. “Let them take a look at you.”
“No, Dad. I’m fine.”
Caleb turned to the older teen. “The faster you give in, Deuce, the
faster you’re going to get to see Sammy again.” Dean’s gaze was
defiant; despite the fact the kid looked ready to crash. The psychic
sighed and softened his voice. “I’m sure the doc can arrange for you to
go to the same exam rooms.” Reaves looked at White. “Right?”
“Yeah. That won’t be a problem.”
Finally, Dean nodded. “You coming?”
Caleb started to nod, somewhat heartened by Dean’s request, but John
stopped him. “You stay here and handle the paperwork.”
Fake ID's and insurance cards were thrust into Caleb's hands along with
a stack of forms as he was shoved towards a waiting area. He heard John
mumble to the nurse his brother would fill out the necessary papers as
the older hunter allowed himself to be guided to a wheelchair that
would take him to be with his sons.
So much for forgiveness. Caleb sighed, put the papers down on a chair
and went in search of a payphone. They all needed Mac here.
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Dean could feel the pull of the drugs coursing through his system,
trying to drag him into a state of oblivion where the pain would
mercifully disappear. But it would also take him away from his little
brother. Sam needed him more than Dean needed rest, despite what the
doctors, his father, and his body were telling him. Still, he
compromised by laying his head down on his folded arms resting on the
rails of the hospital bed.
He could still see his brother this way. Sam merely looked asleep. Dean
glared at the machinery attached to the boy, he once again wished this
all was another strange dream. But no matter how many times he had
tried, his blurry vision told the same story. He was still in ICU,
holding Sam's cold, unresponsive hand, and nothing he said or did could
elicit even a flinch from his kid brother.
It was driving him fucking insane.
The pounding in his head and the encroaching fog from the painkillers
weren't helping matters. Just when he thought he might give into it all
and kill something, or someone, or even worse, cry, he heard the creek
of his brother's door being opened.
Dean decided to feign sleep in case it was the nurse from Hell coming
to drag him back to his dungeon. But the very familiar sigh and
tell-tale stealthy steps, marred slightly by the aid of a crutch had
Dean breathing a little easier.
"Son?" John Winchester ghosted his fingers through Dean's hair. “Ace?”
The seventeen-year-old raised his head. "Dad?"
"You need to let me take you back to your own room, kiddo. You're
really starting to wear thin on some of the staff's nerves. You know
the ICU has rules."
“You mean I’m wearing on Attila, the RN’s nerves.”His weary green eyes
returned to his younger brother's face. "Screw her. I'm staying."
It wasn't often Dean refused his father, but when he did it almost
always involved Sam in some way. John took the chair next to Dean,
leaned his crutches against the wall. "The doctor is going to come and
kick you out."
"I took their damn medicine." Dean waved his hand in the air, the one
connected to the IV drip, hanging on the pole attached to his
wheelchair. "What more do they want?"
John rested his elbows on his knees. "There's nothing you can do here,
Dean."
"I can be with him." Dean turned away from his father, tightened his
grip on Sam's hand. "I can be here when he wakes up."
"You have a concussion, son. Three broken ribs, torn tendons, ligaments
and a dislocated knee. Bruises and contusions from head to toe. You
need rest."
"What I need is for you and everyone else to get off my case!" Dean
felt a little ill as the words slipped unbidden from his tongue. His
father’s face reddened in anger and Dean choked out the next words.
"What I need, Dad, is for Sammy to fucking wake up…and be his usual
smart mouth self so I can tear him a new one for being so freakin'
stupid."
John bit his lip to keep from snapping back. After all, he understood
how his oldest son felt. They were both nearing their wit's end. Ten
hours had passed since they'd been rushed into the ER. Six-hundred
minutes of prodding and poking. Thirty-six thousand seconds of stitches
and sutures, X-rays, and countless other tests, and still-Sam had not
awoken. He hadn't moved, flinched, or tossed and turned like he did in
regular sleep. It was unnerving, down-right terrifying. And the
Winchesters didn't scare easily.
Dean was stressed and hurt more than he wanted to let on. John had
talked to Dean's assigned doctor. He had graphically explained how
lucky his eldest was not to be having surgery on what could have been a
ruptured spleen, a punctured lung, and damaged kidneys. Still-busted
ribs, bruised organs and a dislocated knee were bad enough. But none of
it seemed to faze Dean at all.
Instead he'd flinched as the doctors had taken Sam's blood, winced with
every failed try at an IV, and gotten teary-eyed when needles were
strategically placed to test for Sam's level of unconsciousness.
Sometimes the connection Dean had to his brother worried John.
"I'm not going to ask you again, Dean," John said, softly, but in a way
that let the boy know he meant business. "It's time to go." It was
reminiscent of the way he talked to Dean as a toddler.
Dean's eyes widened. His muscles although sluggish and impaired, tensed
for battle. "What are you going to do, Dad? Knock me out?"
"He might not, but I will." The voice startled both Winchesters,
revealing just how exhausted they were to have let a mere human sneak
up on them. "I'm in charge of the good drugs."
Dr. Ryan White stood at the foot of Sam's bed, his arms crossed over
his chest, his dark eyes glaring at the teen. He didn't look much older
than Dean, his longish blond hair and boyish smile had worried John
when they'd first been introduced. Somehow old and haggard seemed to
equal wise and weathered where physicians were concerned. "You were
given orders to visit for ten minutes and then return to bed."
Dean actually looked amused, apparently leaning towards his father's
evaluation of the other man. "I don't take orders very well."
"Obviously." White glanced to John, leaned his hip against the rails,
and yawned widely; loosing whatever little credibility he had gained.
"Nurse Meyers doesn't usually take no for an answer."
"I hate to break it to you, Doc, but Nurse Meyers is a bitch."
"Dean," John reprimanded, resisting the urge to slap the boy on the
back of the head. "Language."
"He's right, actually." Ryan smiled, erasing some of the weariness from
his young features. "The first week I was an intern here she wrote me
up ten times, and two of those were for looking at her the wrong way."
"I'm surprised you didn't turn to stone."
White laughed slightly. "Believe it or not, she's one of the best
nurses we have. That's why she's worked this ICU longer than you've
been alive, and it's also why she has so much pull in this place." The
doctor raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Enough pull to get you banned from
seeing your brother if you don't play by the rules-her rules."
That seemed to work where everything else had failed. "I'm sorry." The
teen's voice caught slightly and he silently cursed the drugs flowing
through his system, weakening his defenses. "I just needed to know that
he was okay."
Ryan nodded. "Believe me, I get that. I have a kid brother, too. But,
Dr. Gentry tells me your brother's prelims came back clean-at least the
CAT scan and the MRI. That's good news."
John nodded. "They didn't detect any bleeding, at least not any major
enough to pick up on in the tests they did."
"They've scheduled him for an angiogram?"
John hesitated, glancing to Dean before nodding again. "Yeah, they said
it might reveal more information-like if there are any aneurisms, or
blockages."
"What?" Dean turned accusing eyes on his dad. "You didn't tell me that.
What the hell is an angiogram?"
"Take it easy." Ryan looked at Dean. "It's a test to look at the blood
vessels of the brain. They use a catheter to inject die into the main
artery leading to the…"
"I get the picture. Graphic." Dean snapped, turning his gaze to Sam
once more. "The cliff notes would have worked just fine, thank you very
much."
"The neurologists here are very good. Your brother's in good hands."
Ryan shook his head slightly. "Although, I got to say, you must have
some pretty influential ties. I would have brought in a ringer, too, if
I had those kinds of resources."
The two Winchesters exchanged looks. "What do you mean?" John asked.
"I mean Dr. Gentry was pretty surprised when he got the records
request. I think he thought it was a joke until the phone call."
John shook his head. "Who requested my son's records?"
"Dr. Mackland Ames," Ryan replied with a slight frown. "You know him,
right?"
John glanced at his unconscious son. "Yeah, he's a family friend."
Ryan whistled. "The man's a genius. He dropped off the medical charts,
no pun intended, years ago. I read about him in med school though. The
things he could do on an operating table were the stuff of legends. . ."
"He's coming here?" John ignored the physician's rambling, still
puzzled by the turn of events.
"The whole hospital is buzzing about it." Ryan pinned Dean with a look.
"Which means, that your brother is going to get the best of care, and
then some. But getting back to the reason I came up here, I can tell
you about your condition."
When he had both the father and the son's attention, he continued on,
"Those ribs are nothing to brush off, and just because your kidneys are
only badly bruised, internal bleeding, no matter how slight, isn't
something to take lightly. I also want you off that knee or else
surgery is a real possibility. So either your Dad needs to sign an AMA,
or I want you back in your room. Because as your acting physician, I'm
not going to be too happy when my boss comes gunning for my ass when
you end up in an O.R. or worse, in the morgue downstairs. And that
would be damn embarrassing to explain to the likes of Dr. Mackland
Ames. I don't want to look like a complete rookie in front of the man."
Dean blinked, the doctor's face swimming in and out of focus. "Your
concern is touching. Absent on the day they covered bedside manner?"
"Nah, just flunked that section." He yawned again and pushed away from
Sam's bed. "I'll be right outside when you two decide." Ryan started
for the door and then stopped, turning back to face Dean. "I'll make
you a deal, though. If you sleep through the night, I'll let you come
back up here in the morning. Meyers's shift is up at five."
Dean didn't get a chance to reply as the doctor turned and left the
room. As soon as he was gone the seventeen-year-old turned to his
father. "Dad?"
"No," John said, harshly. "You're going to your room, and that's a
fucking order. I'm not going to have both my sons in danger."
"You put us in danger everyday." Dean was amazed at how anger and
adrenaline could hold the drugs at bay.
"Not on purpose," John bit out.
"But…"
"You heard the man, Dean. I'm not signing your death warrant."
"Geez, I thought the drama queen of the family was out cold."
"I let your brother talk me into coming on that rescue. If you think
I'm going to make the same mistake twice, you're not as bright as I
thought you were."
Dean dropped his head and winced in reaction to aches in his chest.
When he looked up, he saw a tiredness and a hint of dread in his
father's face. "Caleb called Mac, didn't he?"
"I'm guessing."
"You think he can fix this?" Dean glanced over his shoulder to Sam.
John licked his dry lips, and raked a hand through his hair. "It
depends on what this is."
"But Mac's the best." Dean lifted his eyes to his father's, praying to
see some spark of the reassurance he so desperately needed.
"Dean, this may not be some kind of medical problem. I hate that
fucking psychic shit." It was too damn close to the dark side for
John's taste. He loved Caleb, but saw the younger man struggle with his
abilities. Then there was Sam to consider…
Dean blinked again. His father was getting off the subject, but
revealing something important "Dad, does Sam have abilities?"
"What?" John asked, harshly, unable to hide the momentary lapse in his
mask. "What are you talking about?"
Dean eased away from him, his eyes returning to rest on Sam's young
face. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." And it didn't. Dean didn't care
what Sam could or couldn't do. Caleb had abilities and so did Mackland.
It didn’t change the way Dean felt about them. All that mattered was
Sam waking up.
John stood suddenly, grabbing his crutches. "Times up, son."
Dean reluctantly released Sam's hand, feeling the cold instantly
reclaim it. He reached up, leaned forward and raked his fingers through
Sam's hair, sensing his father's impatient gaze on him. "I'll be back,
little brother," he whispered. "Just hang in there. Help's on the way."
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They were hard to miss, sitting in the hospital cafeteria with all the
other late night visitors. Neither man's back was to the door, a habit
ingrained or perhaps instinctual to their rare breed. Sometimes it was
hard for Mackland to admit that John’s influence as his adopted son's
mentor was as great if not more significant than his own when it came
to Caleb.
The other occupants of the cafeteria had placed themselves as far away
from John and Caleb as possible. Danger was something most humans
unconsciously understood and respected, unwilling to put themselves in
the midst of it. And these two men reeked of jeopardy.
Caleb's profile was easy to read. His head was lowered; his dark hair
tied back, but somehow just enough of it escaping the confines to
obscure his well-chiseled face. He was staring at his coffee, seemingly
a million miles away, but if one knew him it was easy to see he was
actually waiting, holding out for a perfect moment. His mentor was
never easy to talk to.
John, in contrast, was lost in a book-his journal most likely, and from
the dark circles beneath his eyes and the heavy growth of beard, he was
obviously keeping himself occupied to avoid the much needed grasp of
sleep- or to avoid the conversation the younger man was offering.
It was amusing to be the prey as both hunters lifted their gazes
simultaneously to meet his. They stood as he approached the table. “I
must say I've seen better looking specimens on cold, metal slabs."
"Some of us have to go into the trenches," John spoke first, the rare,
genuine smile lifting years and miles of bad road from his features. He
clasped Mac’s hand and allowed the doctor to pull him into a rough
embrace. "Some of us even get our hands dirty on occasion."
Mackland let him go, and pulled back slightly. "There's a difference in
going into trenches and rolling in them." Ames glanced to Caleb. "You
boys seem to have done some of the latter."
The doctor recognized the look on Caleb’s face. The boy knew he was
checking him over, searching for any signs of injury his son might have
glossed over. Caleb smiled, a tactic that had garnered his way more
often than not. "You know us, Dad. We like to throw ourselves in to
whatever we're doing."
Mac reached out and squeezed the back of his son’s neck, giving him a
little shake. Despite the fake glibness, the doctor sensed turmoil.
"Yes, son, I do know how you two are."
Mackland couldn't hold back the smile that crept onto his handsome face
as Caleb rolled his eyes and reclaimed his seat.
"You made good time," John pointed out, also sitting down.
Mackland laughed, joining them. "Some of us actually use modern means
of transportation on a regular basis, Johnathan. I flew. In something
called a jet."
"Thanks for the clarification." John shook his head. "I thought
Missouri might have let you borrow one of her broomsticks."
"I'm tempted to tell her you said that."
"But you won't."
Mac sighed. "Alas, no. The damn Brotherhood and all."
"Speaking of which, did you call Jim?" John's smile faded. As The
Guardian of The Brotherhood Jim Murphy would need to be notified of
what happened. He was also like family and John knew the pastor had a
personal investment in the boys that went beyond his role in the secret
organization.
Mackland was thoughtful. He hadn't wanted to worry Jim until he knew
more about Sam’s situation, but knew the pastor would want to be
informed immediately. They were close, as The Triad should be with
Mackland as The Scholar and John as The Knight. But they were very
different. Sometimes John’s unorthodox methods did not sit well with
The Guardian, and Mac had been hesitant for that reason as much as any.
"He's on a hunt with Bobby," Ames replied. "I left a message with their
contact, and he will pass it along."
"It's probably better he doesn’t know until. . ." John began to state.
"Sam is still unconscious," Caleb interrupted. He wanted the pastor
there too, but there were more demanding needs at the present.
"I know." Mac straightened his shoulders, adjusted his tie. "I received
the records before I left." He looked at John and his face softened.
"The tests they've done so far look positive, John. I didn't see any
indication of regional or arterial damage."
John raked a hand through his disheveled hair, shaking his head
slightly. "Then why the hell hasn't he woken up, Mac?"
Mackland's eyes sought out his son. "Tell me what happened."
The doctor made sure there were no hints of accusation in his tone, but
he still saw the flash of guilt in Caleb’s eyes. Mackland tried not to
let his own concern and sympathy shine through. Caleb hated being
treated like a child. Mackland was sure his son would rather have John
yelling at him than his father coddling him.
“John and I were hunting a raw head."
Mac nodded, recalling the profile. "Raw heads-child predator mentality,
Neanderthal type form."
Caleb nodded. "Yeah, cannibalistic pedophile sons of bitches..."
"Dean was taken by it when we went to rescue its latest victims," John
interrupted, and then hesitated slightly as if the next words were
sharp and sure to slice his tongue. "And Sammy...he... had a vision
about where to find him."
Caleb looked across the table in surprise. Mackland understood his
son’s gesture.
John had not once admitted to his son’s future capabilities. Mackland
honestly never expected him to. A part of him understood. Coming into
his own abilities late in life, watching Caleb struggle to control
his…it was not a path he would choose for someone he loved. But Sam’s
path was already chosen. Sooner or later John would have to realize
that.
"That was inevitable," Ames said softly, reverently. "Then what?"
"Then we hunted the bitch down." John growled. "Where we proceeded to
land our sorry asses in a trap that a five-year-old Wolf scout could
have avoided."
"And did," Caleb pointed out, only to receive a glare from his fellow
hunter.
"Sounds about right." Ames smiled slightly to ease the punishment to
their pride. "So you two rushed in to play hero and found yourselves in
a mess." Mackland nodded to the crutches propped against John's chair.
"That seems about right, too."
"Then I had a vision." Caleb swallowed hard as Mac swung his gaze to
him. "I watched that thing kill Sam, Dad. There was nothing we could do
to save him."
"And you decided to project through Sam to confuse the raw?" His son
had given him the shortened version over the phone.
Caleb nodded, his eyes reflecting the deep green of the jacket he was
wearing instead of their usual intense, almost gold color. "That's what
I meant to do, but when I connected with Sam things got tricky."
Mackland frowned. "How?"
Caleb glanced at John, licked his lips and then continued on quickly
before he lost his nerve. "Sam put up barriers as if he was being
attacked. So, I had to tear them down to gain the access I needed. Then
when I did get through…" He paused. "I tried to hold back, only use
enough to toss the raw head around, but I figured that putting it out
of commission was better than confusing it. Maybe I pushed too hard..."
Mac laid a hand on his son's arm. "You did what you thought was right."
"And hurt Sam in the process." John was looking at Caleb now, a mixture
of disappointment and betrayal on his face. "I trusted you."
"I didn't set out to hurt him. And don't look at me like I'm some
fucking demon that came to rip his heart out in the dark of the night.
It had nothing to do with that. Right, Dad? "
Mac dropped his gaze to his folded hands, staring at the simple silver
ring on his right, middle finger. "Probably."
"What do you mean, probably?" Caleb asked, his face registering
unexpected surprise.
John quickly picked up on what Mackland ‘wasn’t’ saying. "Sam saw him
as a threat and he fought." John felt bile rise to the back of his
throat. "But why didn't he know it was Caleb?"
Mackland sighed, disliking the conclusions he was coming to, but
needing to voice them just the same. Even if it hurt his son. "Memories
are powerful. Perhaps Sam remembered something happening to him
before." The doctor tilted his head. "Recognized a similar touch."
John looked at Caleb, who was growing paler by the minute. "He thought
Caleb was the demon who killed Mary. Didn't he?"
"What?" Reaves stood, shoving his chair back, suddenly looking much
younger than his twenty-four years. "Sam thought I was the fire demon?"
"On some level, probably," Mackland replied, softly. "He didn't
recognize you, Caleb"
“But he recognized me for what I am.”
“No!” Mackland stood, lowering his voice as he sensed some of the other
patrons looking their way. “You are not a demon, or in anyway
demon-like.”
"Don't." Reaves held up his hand, backed away, repulsed by the idea he
had come to Sam as some kind of demonic representation similar to the
demon that attacked him when he was a baby. "Just don't, Mac."
Mackland reached out to his son, but Caleb ignored him and rushed out
of the cafeteria. Ames hesitated, torn whether to go after his son to
provide comfort, or stay with John to discuss his youngest son.
"Does that mean that Sam was hurt by the first demon?"
The fear in John’s voice and the complete look of helplessness in The
Knight’s eyes made Mackland’s decision for him. He knew his friend had
always found it some kind of blessing he'd reached his son in time
before the bastard had touched him.
Mackland looked fleetingly at the door, then to John. He sank down in
his seat. "I believe the demon was after something, Johnathan. He
probably plundered through Sam's mind, searching for God knows what,
leaving something akin to fingerprints on glass."
"Prints that were similar to Caleb's?"
Mac's eyes grew stormy. "The same Caleb who you've known for twelve
years, who you've watched grow into a young man, trained, protected,
and who if I'm not mistaken has saved your sons on several occasions."
John pounded a fist on the Formica table. "I know that, damn it. I love
the kid…would die for him without a thought. I'm not saying that he did
this on purpose, but it happened just the same. Maybe..."
"Don't." Mac held up his hand. "That’s my son. He would rather
sacrifice himself then let anything happen to your boys."
"I just want to fix this, damn it!"
Mackland drew in a calming breath. Sometimes John had tunnel vision. If
he wanted to avenge someone or save someone that mission became his
entire focus. Often times to the detriment of those around him, those
trying to assist him in his battle. "I know you do, but sometimes in
your rush to protect someone you love, you're very willing to sacrifice
someone else."
John glared at the other man, recognizing the familiar battle. Mackland
was constantly reminding him of his duties to his sons, to The
Brotherhood, to his role as The Knight. "Are you trying to bring up the
way I raise Dean or are you talking about the way I handle your son.”
"Perhaps both."
Winchester rolled his eyes. "Dean's fine. Caleb's fine. Sammy, on the
other hand is unconscious-having suffered God knows what."
"I know you're worried. We all are. But looking for something to blame,
something to kill, isn't going to solve this problem."
"Then what is?" John sighed, frustrated. "Tell me what to do."
Mac held the hunter's gaze for a long moment. "I haven't seen Sammy
yet, John, so I don't know for sure, but I've seen cases like this
before- in my research."
"With spoon benders?" John scoffed, not bothering to hide his contempt.
Ames took a deep breath trying to reign in his temper. "In some cases
the person with psychic ability puts up shields, instinctively. Like
Caleb explained. Sam's brain was protecting him, but Caleb continued to
push, frightening Sam further, causing him to put up even more shields
and barricades." Mac rubbed at his brow again. "He might have protected
himself too well."
John's frown deepened, but he was listening. "What do you mean?"
"I mean Sam may have blocked Caleb out, but locked himself in."
"But why can't he let himself out?" John felt his chest tighten.
Mackland shrugged. "He may not realize that he's his own captor, or he
might still feel unsafe. Or, it could be that he just doesn't have the
ability to purposively undo what he instinctively did while in survival
mode." When John looked confused, Mac sought a tangible example. "Like
when a baby that is tossed in water, automatically knows how to swim,
but wouldn't ever choose to do so or even know how to do so, if it
weren't necessary to keep from drowning."
John rubbed a hand over his beard. "So, Sammy's trapped."
"That's my educated guess."
"But is that safe?"
"The mind is a mystery, my friend, with the amazing ability to create
worlds within worlds. I can only hope Sam is somewhere safe."
John held his friend's gaze. "And just how do we get to him?"
"We don't." Mac hinted at a smile, imagining John going in behind enemy
territory after his son with gun's blazing. He hated to break it to
him, but he doubted John would get very far on this battlefront. "But
someone he trusts completely may be able to."
John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling his weariness
tug at him. "Dean."
Mackland's smile grew as he thought of the teen. "And we both know how
Dean loves the freaky Force shit, as he so eloquently calls it."
John nodded, his face set in a determined grimace. "But he'll do
anything for his brother."
"All that classical conditioning pays off." Ames couldn't resist, and
smiled as the dig registered on the other man's face. "You know, I once
bet Jim a fifty dollar contribution to the church that you carried a
bell with you."
The hunter shook his head. "Smart ass."
"Well do you?"
John snorted. "I wish it were that easy."
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"She's easy on the eyes," Caleb commented as Dean's nurse left the room
as he entered. "Nice ass, too." He smiled at the younger man, and
waggled his eyebrows. "Maybe she'll give you a sponge bath, Deuce."
Caleb had needed a safe refuge, a place to lick his wounds.
Dean rolled his eyes; slightly annoyed the woman had practically
drooled all over Caleb's scuffed work boots, but didn’t bite at the
typical banter. "She's not my type."
Caleb shrugged, walked over and sat in the chair by the bed. Dean
didn’t look well and it only added to the psychic’s guilt. "Mac's
here.” he announced. “He'll fix this, kid."
“I hope so.”
"I just came from seeing Sammy, and thought I'd stop by to fill you in,
but if you want me to go..."
Dean sat up straighter in the bed and winced as his ribs protested.
"How'd he look? Is he okay? Has there been any change?"
Caleb put his feet up on the bed, and leaned back in the chair. "No
change. He's still sleeping like a baby."
"He's not sleeping." Dean sighed in disappointment, rubbing his
stinging eyes. "Sam's never that still when he's sleeping."
Caleb laughed. "I know." Sleeping in the same vicinity of Sam was like
trying to sleep with a cat in a paper bag.
"Can you get any kind of reading from him?"
The soft question brought his gaze up to the teen, startled the other
boy would even suggest it after the angry confrontation in the car. "I
didn't try." Caleb would not attempt it, especially after what Mac had
told him.
"You said Mac was here?"
"He and Johnny are catching up."
"So why aren't you with them?" Dean asked with more than a hint of
frustration. "Why aren't you all trying to come up with something to
help Sammy?"
Caleb bristled. "I think I've done enough. Don't you?"
"Is that self pity, I hear?" Dean scoffed. "Not a good look for you,
Damien." Dean's breath was coming in harsh pants. The effort of his
lungs to push enough oxygen out was taking its toll. "He looks up to
you."
"He picked the wrong guy." Caleb was enjoying the pity party.
"I don't think so. . ." Dean wheezed, then slumped back against the
mattress as his over-taxed body responded to the punishing rush of
adrenaline. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursed the pain-produced tear
that dared to escape down his face. "Damn it." He gasped, clenching his
fists in the blanket covering him as his chest tightened, an invisible
elephant suddenly thrust upon him.
"Hey?" Caleb's voice was close now, full of concern. "Dean?" The older
hunter wrapped his fingers around Dean’s forearm above his bandaged
wrists. "Take it easy. I'll get the doctor."
"NO!" Dean's eyes opened, and he latched onto Caleb’s hand.
“He…won't…let me go see…Sammy." Dean's line of sight went to the clock
and then back to the other hunter. "The Hun's almost off."
Caleb frowned, worried about the nonsense statement, his free hand
paused just above the call button. "But…"
"I'm good," Dean managed, closing his eyes again. He released Reaves.
"Really. Damien, chill."
Caleb moved away from the bed raking both his shaking hands through his
hair. "Fuck!" He hated seeing Dean hurt and feeling helpless to do
anything. "Just...Fuck!"
"Remember…when…Jim washed my mouth out with soap for saying that?" Dean
whispered, weakly, still having to work too hard to pull in his
breaths, but needing to change the focus to redirect Caleb's attention.
"How could I forget?" Caleb said wearily, dragging one hand down his
face, feeling the rough five o'clock shadow beneath his sensitive
digits. "You were what-eight? That was the first time I'd seen Jim get
his back up. Man, he can be scary when he wants to be."
"He…made you memorize those verses from the Bible." Dean opened his
eyes and smirked at the other hunter. "You had to recite it at dinner
that whole week in front of everybody."
Caleb nodded, grimly. He stood by the bed again, resting his hands on
the rails. "The ones about Judas. The old man knew I put you up to
dropping the F-bomb even if I wouldn't admit it. Jim might as well have
come right out and asked me if I had thirty pieces of silver."
Dean pinned the other man with a hard stare. "Jim's big…on loyalty."
Caleb leaned forward. The older hunter glanced down at the silver ring
on his finger. "I am too. I swear Dean, I'll make this right."
"I know you were trying to help, and I know you didn't hurt Sammy on
purpose." When Caleb glanced up, Dean nodded. "Or am I going to have to
beat this into you?"
Caleb couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "You could
try."
"Tell yourself whatever you need to, Damien."
Reaves flinched. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was making
a quick comeback. “Can we drop the demon spawn nickname for a while,
Dude?”
Dean frowned. “It’s never bothered you before.”
Caleb held his questioning gaze. “Just give it a rest. Please?”
“Okay.” Dean smirked. “You’re not getting sensitive in your old age are
you, Caleb? Because the first time you try to get me to hang out in a
coffee bar or listen to some bad poetry, I’m finding a new friend.”
"Cute." Caleb rolled his eyes. "You really should take your show on the
road."
"Nah, sexy comics just don't cut it."
"I'm sure you could make Nurse Hot Body laugh." Caleb grinned.
"Especially if you let her see you naked."
"Fuck you, Reaves."
"Language." Mac and John entered the hospital room, and Dean and Caleb
looked up.
"What can I say?" Dean shrugged. "Caleb brings out the best in me."
Caleb moved back to the chair, avoiding the twin gazes he could feel on
him.
"Yet another talent he shares with your father." Mackland shook his
head, coming to stand by Dean's bed. "I think I should have limited
Caleb's exposure to John during the boy's formative years."
Dean smiled when he heard his father groan, right along with the
disgusted grunt of denial from Caleb. "It's good to see you, Mac. Have
you figured out how to help Sammy yet?"
The older man smiled at Dean's one track mind. He might as well have
rung a bell. He could almost imagine Dean salivating at the chance to
rescue his baby brother. "Actually, I was hoping that you could help me
with that."
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