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Title: Cry in the Night
Author: Thru Terry's Eyes
Pairing: None
Genre:Thriller/gen
Word Count: 30,512

Chapter 3: It didn't stop turning.

Disclaimer: Welcome to the world thru my eyes. Don't own 'em. Only get pleasure, no money.

Summary: Hurt/sick Dean haunted by the flashbacks from a hunt that took place after Sam left for Stanford. He can't remember the details but something is wrong and what he can't recall can hurt him.

Sorry this is so short. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgving!

Sam carried the kit back over to Dean, sitting down next to him. He paused at the look on Dean's face. "What?"

Dean blinked, coming back to himself. "Nothing," he said vaguely, unconsciously brushing a hand over the raw skin of the scrapes, grimacing. "Nothing, I'm just tired."

"Let me get this taken care of and you can go to sleep. It won't take long," Sam said, pulling out some antibiotic ointment. Dean nodded and closed his eyes, covering them with his arm, forcing himself to relax as Sam spread the ointment gently over the scrapes, tensing again as Sam's fingers moved over that spot. Sam worked as quickly and gently as he could, still eliciting a few jerks and hisses from Dean.

"Sorry," Sam murmured as he taped some thin gauze over the cuts to protect them from the sheets. "There, that oughta do it." He pulled the covers up slightly. "You need anything else?"

Dean rolled his head in a small negative. His "Thanks," was so soft Sam almost didn't hear him.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam said after a moment.

Dean grunted.

"There anything you wanta talk about?" Sam finally asked, taking a shot in the dark.

"I don't want to talk about babies anymore, Sam." Dean intoned, unmoving.

Sam made an irritated noise. "I mean about other stuff."

He was surprised when Dean raised his arm from his eyes and his mouth quirked in a half smile, eyebrows lifting.

"You mean like the movie I saw on the Hotz Channel the other night?" he said in a drowsy voice.

Sam made a face. "No, that is not what I mean," he snapped, gathering the tape and bandages and getting up in disgust. "Honestly, Dean, sometimes I really wonder about you!"

Sam could hear Dean chuckle sleepily.

"And what would happen if you really knew?" Dean's voice was drifting away and when Sam looked back, Dean's face was turned to the side and his eyes were closed, his arm lying on the pillows above his head.

Crossing his arms and resting a hip against the counter, Sam leaned back, dark brows drawing together, eyeing Dean as he slept. What indeed? he speculated.

"Dean! Dean, can you hear me?" The frantic voice was yelling in his ear and while, yes, Dean could fucking well hear it, he felt no real inclination to respond, he was too occupied trying to suck in air and cough out the blood that was pooling in his throat.

"Jesus, son, I'm so sorry…"

That caught Dean's wandering interest.

"John, roll him on his side, he's choking!"

Dean knew that voice. He wanted to protest the sudden movement to one side but as much as it hurt, he could feel the blood clogging his throat dribble from the corner of his mouth and air sawed into his lungs. A groan came out along with the blood and he coughed, feeling pain rip at his belly. More agony burned through him as he was rolled onto his back again and unbearable pressure crushed into his abdomen. He couldn't help himself, crying out and feebly trying to push the offending weight away.

"Lay still, Dean! Christ, Caleb…" Dad again. What the hell had happened? He blinked his eyes open to see Dad's face over his, a rough hand cupped against his cheek. Dean opened his mouth to speak but the only sound that came out was another low cry as Caleb pressed down on whatever he was holding on Dean.

"Jesus…God! Stop it!" Dean gasped, trying again to push Caleb away again.

"Can't do it, kid, you're bleedin' all over the place." Caleb's teeth glittered briefly in desperate grin, then in a lower, intense hiss to John, "We gotta get him outta here, stop this bleeding!"

"Hang on, Dean." John's voice was gentler than Dean was accustomed to and it actually scared him. How bad was this if John used a tone like that with him?

He groaned as his legs and shoulders were lifted from the cold, wet ground. His own arms clutched his middle against the pain as he was carried over the rough ground, back to the truck, every step causing him a new burst of agony, wishing that he would just pass out, begging for it by the time he was placed in the truck, legs over Caleb's, upper body across John. He coughed more blood as he felt John raise him a little higher, arms tightening around Dean as he struggled to breathe. The sudden jerk of the truck gunning forward sending him blessedly into the longed for blackness…

"It'll be okay, son." John breathed against Dean's ear, as much a kiss as a promise. "It'll be okay."

Dean floundered out of sleep, gasping for breath, heart thudding, hands brushing over his stomach, feeling for blood. Shocked when he found none. The sudden movement pulled on the gouges from earlier making him grimace.

Trying to smother his agitated breaths to keep from waking Sam, he fell back on the pillows, one hand over his mouth, the other spread over his eyes, feeling the slickness of sweat on his forehead.

"Shit…" he whispered, shuddering, still tasting dream blood, throat working.

"Hey, how you feelin'?"

Dean jerked, couldn't stop the sudden intake of breath "Hellfire, Sam! I hate it when you do that!"

"Sorry," Sam replied, sitting on the opposite bed. "I thought you heard me." He was shirtless with a towel around his neck, wet hair everywhere.

"What time is it?" Dean croaked, glancing around. His throat felt raw.

" 'Bout 11:30" Sam turned the clock so Dean could see it.

Dean groaned. "Man, why'd you let me sleep so late?" He could see bright streaks of light coming in around the edges of the cheap motel curtains, grateful the rest was being blocked.

"'Cause I wanted to, you needed it." Sam shrugged sheepishly. "And I didn't wake up until 10:45." He laughed and rubbed at his nose.

Dean snorted a soft laugh in return. "What time's checkout in this dump?" he asked, rolling stiffly onto his side.

Holding his breath to still any possible sounds of discomfort which he could tell Sam was alert for, he dragged his legs to the edge of the bed and pushed himself upright, biting his lip. It hurt, but wasn't as bad as he expected.

"Checkout's at 12:00, I figured we have time. I already kinda packed most of it." Sam replied once Dean was sitting up. Some of the watchfulness left his face when Dean betrayed no real distress.

Dean slowly got to his feet, holding one hand against his ribs, straightening his spine to a musical assortment of pops and crackles.

"Okay?" Sam continued to watch attentively. "Cause we can stay another night, if you want."

Dean frowned at him. "Nah, I'm good. Just a little stiff. Gimme a few minutes and I'll be ready."

He angled toward the bathroom to take care of his morning needs.

Sam's eyes followed him until the door closed and then he got up to finish packing.

Dean splashed water on his face and let it trickle unheeded down his chest, propping himself with a hand on either side of the sink. He breathed slowly, watching himself in the mirror. The ache from last night had faded but he could still feel it as he rubbed a hand over his bare stomach, deciding finally, to ignore it. He'd felt worse after eating too many tacos. He'd hit in just the wrong way in just the wrong place. End of story.

He had no explanation for why that particular hunt had come back to him, the memories so violent it was as if he was living them again.

He made a disgusted sound and grabbed a towel, roughly drying the water off his face and chest. It was just another stupid hunt gone wrong and it had been almost five friggin' years ago.

Angrily brushing his teeth, he gathered up his personal kit, stomping back out to the main room and jamming it into his bag. He was jerking a t-shirt on when Sam came back in from the car.

Sam noted Dean's irritated motions and scowl. "Something wrong? You okay?" he slowly picked up their few remaining items as Dean yanked the zipper closed on his duffel and sat down to put on his boots which were still soaked and each weighed a ton.

"My fucking boots are still waterlogged!" Dean growled. He ripped open his bag again and started throwing things back out looking for his worn sneakers.

"Calm down, Dean. They'll dry out." Sam walked around the bed retrieving the items Dean was throwing on the floor. "If they don't, we'll get you some new ones."

"And pay for them how?" Dean grumbled, fighting the too long laces, grimacing as he bent forward.

"Why are you so mad?" Sam demanded.

Dean paused, looking at Sam's puzzled face. Sighing, he pressed his fingers to his forehead. "I'm not mad, Sam." His eyes dropped back to the sneakers. "At least not at you."

Sam cocked his head. "Then who are you mad at?"

"Nothing, Sam. Leave it alone. It's got nothing to do with you." Dean went back to tying his sneakers in a clumsy knot. He had taught himself to tie his own shoes watching others as a child and had learned to do it backwards. It was too much trouble to learn to do it correctly, but had made sure Sam had been taught to do it the right way.

Sam knew better than to comment on Dean's efforts, especially when he was in one of his moods. He quietly replaced the tossed items in Dean's bag. "I got everything in the car when you're ready. We're checked out."

"I'm ready," Dean replied. He pulled on his jacket, grabbed his duffel and stalked out the door.

Dean paused as he stuck the keys in the ignition. He glanced at Sam who staring out the window. Dean felt bad for taking his anger at himself out on Sam and made the only peace offering he could think of. "You hungry? We can get something to eat…"

Sam looked over at him and shrugged. "Sure, whatever you want," his voice indifferent, eyes back out the window.

"Fine," Dean started the engine and drove off in search of someplace to eat.

The Mom and Pop Truck Stop Diner appeared after about twenty minutes of driving and Dean turned the car into the gravel parking lot. There were about half a dozen other cars and a few rigs parked around the building.

They ambled in and sat down at an empty booth. A juke box in the corner was playing Buck Owens of all things. The food smelled edible, anyway, Sam felt hunger rumbling and was glad when the waitress, a harried looking older woman with frizzy hair handed them menus and spilled coffee into their cups. Sam was pleased to see that breakfast was served all day He was starving and ordered the special, eggs, toast, hash browns and sausage.

Dean, obviously preoccupied, disinterestedly ordered scrambled eggs and toast, pouring some sugar in his coffee as the waitress bustled away.

"Dean, something's bothering you. I wish you'd tell me what." Sam glared at Dean. "Have I done something? 'Cause I've wracked my brain and other than asking you some questions last night that I guess were dumb, I can't think of anything!" Sam leaned sideways in the booth and thumped his fingertips on the tabletop.

Dean looked up at Sam from under his eyelashes. "I told you, Sam, it's got nothing to do with you." Dean blew his breath out slowly and massaged his eyes. "And, yeah, they were dumb questions, by the way."

"Well, what does it have to do with then?" Sam demanded, frustrated. "If it's bothering you this much, maybe talking about it would help."

"Nothing's bothering me, Sam. I just remembered something that happened a long time ago last night, that's all. Just surprised me." Dean sat back, sipping his coffee.

"What did you remember?" Sam asked, curious. "What brought it back?" Getting Dean to talk about anything meaningful was always a trick. The fact that he had even alluded to the problem was amazing.

Den shrugged, shifting restlessly. "I dunno. Just a hunt." His hand rose and fell. "Long time ago. You were at Stanford, maybe seven, eight months after you left." At least Dean could say the words now without hesitating. Could occasionally think about that first year without feeling gutted. He had spent much of that time in silence, speaking when spoken too, when circumstances required it or when John had demanded he do so. There really hadn't been much to say besides "Yes, sir, and no, sir."

"What happened?" Sam asked gently.

Dean's eyes flicked and he shook his head slightly. "Nothing worth telling. It was a bad hunt. I got hurt, it was my own fault. Dad—" Dean stopped, shaking his head again, relieved, as the waitress came with their food. "I don't want to talk about it, Sam, really, forget about it." he finished as she put the plates down. He caught his fork and started pushing the eggs around, escaping Sam's eyes by the pretense of eating.

"How bad were you hurt?" Sam asked, watching Dean with a frown, his own food ignored

"Sam, please," Dean said through his teeth, closing his eyes.

"Dean, I don't know anything about what happened to you while I was gone-"

Dean hit the table with his fist, rattling the plates and glasses and drawing a few curious glances from other diners. "Sam, a lot of shit happened while you were gone, some of it was even nice, but most of it sucked. I got hurt, Dad got hurt, sometimes the hunt went our way and sometimes it didn't. That night it didn't. It's no big deal. I guess, the point is, the world didn't stop turning. Okay?" Dean tossed his fork on the plate and shoved it away. He hadn't really been hungry anyway and the few bites he'd taken trying to ignore Sam were spawning some serious acid action in his stomach.

"Sure," Sam replied stiffly. "No problem. Sorry I asked."

Dean could hear the angry click of Sam's teeth on the fork as he took a bite of eggs, immediately busying himself with his breakfast and removing his attention from Dean.

"Shit," Dean thought, sighing roughly, fingertips digging into his stomach, under the table where Sam couldn't see.

TBC