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

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.

Chapter 7: A product of experience.

"Who is this?" Caleb's gravelly tones were almost a physical blow.

Sam grimaced, closing his eyes. "It's Sam, Sam Winchester-"

"Sam Win-?" Caleb snarled in surprise, there was a pause, then, "What the fuck, Sam? Do you know what time it is?"

Sam could make out another voice in the background, asking who it was. Female. Heat warmed Sam face as he realized he had no idea where the gruff hunter might be, let alone what time zone.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" he stammered. "I can call back…" Disappointment flooded him as he considered when he might get this chance again.

There was a lot of grunting and shuffling over the phone. "Christ, boy. I'm up now." Caleb hissed away from the phone, "Not funny, Gracie!" More straining noises and then a muffled thud. "What's goin' on?" Caleb's voice sharpened. "John okay? You guys?"

Sam could almost see Caleb rubbing his unshaven face, the sound like fingers over a hairbrush as he pulled his mind together. "No...I mean, yeah...I guess Dad's all right." Sam, ducked his head and eased himself back down on the bench. "I mean, we haven't heard from him for a while, you know…" Sam's voice faded slightly. "Just coordinates."

Caleb's heavy sigh was so loud Sam held the phone further away. Dimly, Sam could hear Caleb murmur some words, the only one he could identify being "hole". Sam smirked despite himself.

The sound of swallowing came through the line, glass hitting a tabletop. "So what's up, Sam? I figure, if it's not your jackass father it's gotta be Dean. He kill someone that matters?"

Sam did laugh at that. "No," he replied, "It's nothing like that." Sam hesitated, pulling a hand through his hair.

"What is it like, then?" Caleb's voice softened slightly, as if he sensed Sam's tension through the phone. "You got me, boy, don't waste me."

"Dean's…having some problems." Sam had never warmed to Caleb as much as he might have, just too different, but Caleb had always had a real fondness for Dean, who shared many of Caleb's…interests. But he was a trusted friend, one of their few.

Sam twisted his head to the side. God, Dean would kill him if he knew what Sam was doing. "I need to ask you about a hunt," Sam began hesitantly. Now that he was in a position to know the details, he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to.

Caleb snorted. "Gonna have to be a little more specific there, Sam." A small note of impatience crept into the words.

"Werewolves," Sam replied instantly. "Mates, with Dad and Dean, about 8 months after I—left." Why did that always taste like betrayal when he said that?

Silence for a beat. "Whadaya mean problems?" Caleb asked casually.

Sam swallowed. "He fell the other night, on a hunt, no big deal, but ever since he's been having these nightmares and he's been sick, I think it's getting worse. He was telling me about this hunt. He said he'd actually forgotten it." Sam didn't realize he was leaning forward, toward the phone in his hand.

"Sick? Sick how?"

"Stomach pain, he's running a fever…Caleb, he's throwing up blood!" Sam exclaimed in hushed intensity.

There was another brief silence and no other requests for clarification. "Sam, listen to me-" Caleb finally said.

"What are you doin', Sam?"

Sam jerked like he'd been electrocuted at Dean's hoarsely spoken words, the cell phone sailed into the parking lot.

Gulping guilty breaths, Sam yelped. "Dean, you scared the crap outta me!" He got up and retrieved his phone, closing it, cutting off the buzz coming from it. He felt cold mist falling and ice was starting to crust the edges of the little water filled potholes.

Dean was standing in the doorway, being supported by it, actually, barefoot, holding himself against the door frame. Shivering in the cold air as it caressed his sweating body with an icy kiss. His eyes were accusing, sparkling too brightly, jaw muscles working angrily.

"What were you…doing?" Dean repeated as Sam came back, looking as guilty as he was.

"Dean, you need to go back in, you're running a fever, it's too cold for you out here." Sam tried to take Dean's arm but Dean resisted. Sam could feel how warm Dean was.

"Were you calling Dad?" Dean snapped angrily. "Sam, I swear…"

"No," Sam replied, honestly. Pushing gently, but more insistently. Feeling Dean give ground slightly. "Please, Dean…go back in. I thought you wanted to sleep."

Dean pulled loose, grimacing at the movement. "My mouth's dry." He had wanted some more water but Sam had moved the glass. Dragging himself off the bed to get it, it hadn't take long for Dean to realize Sam was outside, phone to his ear, speaking in a low voice.

"You need to take the other pill," Sam said, urging Dean back toward the bed.

"Stop pushing me!" Dean complained, sinking down on the edge of the bed. Bracing himself with one hand, the other splayed over his belly. "I don't want it." He cocked his head, eyes opening and closing slowly. "Sam, who were you talking to?" he demanded, voice catching in a sharp hiccup that twisted his face.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine, Dean. I was calling Caleb." He jerked as the phone in his pocket began to vibrate against his chest like an angry bug. He ignored it and braced himself for Dean's reaction.

Surprisingly, Dean just sighed. "What the hell for?" he groaned tiredly. Pulling his body back along the bed he sank against the headboard. He guessed the shot he'd been given was wearing off cause the sharp pain seemed to be getting more intense or he was just getting more tired and it seemed worse. He didn't protest when Sam pulled the covers back over his legs, he was freezing even though his t-shirt was sweat soaked.

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed with the water and another pill.

Dean shook his head slowly. "Dude, I'm this far away from puking on your shoes." Dean held his hand out, finger and thumb a papers thickness apart. He hiccupped again, trying to ignore the taste in the back of his throat as he did. The sharp flex of muscles was like the twist of a knife.

"You said you were thirsty." Sam's mouth tightened. "Dean you're gonna get dehydrated and you haven't eaten. This one is for the nausea."

Dean glared at him. "Why the hell didn't you give me that one first?"

Sam shrugged and offered the water and pill again. "Sorry."

Very reluctantly, Dean accepted them. Closing his eyes he dropped the pill as far back on his tongue as he could and quickly chased it with a little water, sitting up as his body shuddered through the effort of swallowing. He thrust the glass back at Sam, still leaning forward, eyes clenched, hand against his mouth until he was fairly sure the pill would stay down. His stomach didn't seem to appreciate the water as it had earlier and he remained watchful, throat muscles bunching.

"You okay?" Sam asked, alert for disaster.

Dean's eyes fluttered, but he nodded slightly. "Yeah…" He swallowed again and cleared his throat, slowly straightening. His face was pale and more sweat had sprung out on his upper lip and forehead. He dragged a hand across his face.

"Sam?" So soft it was almost a thought.

Sam, rising to put the pills away, sat back down. "Yeah, Dean?"

"Why did you call Caleb?" Dean didn't lift his head but cut his eyes to the side to gaze at Sam.

Fuck, Sam thought, then shrugged mentally, in for a penny….

"I was gonna ask him what happened that night, Dean. I wanta know. Whatever the hell it was…" Sam gestured helplessly at Dean.

Dean did raise his head then, eyes half closed, teeth worrying his lower lip. His shoulders rose and fell in a long slow breath, hand brushing across his stomach as the movement accentuated the ache there. "Why? What possible difference does it make now?" His other hand flopped on the bed. "I'm so tired…" he murmured, his eyelids drooping. Lethargy was stealing over him, the mere act of drawing breath almost not worth the effort it took. It felt like something was boiling in his stomach, sharp and heavy, like drinking too much cold water after a hard workout on a hot summer day

"Tell me what happened, Dean." Sam said gently. Dean's eyes popped open again, although he appeared to be having trouble focusing. "Whatever it was, maybe telling me will help. Can't you just once, let me help?"

Dean rolled his head to look at Sam, he coughed slightly, clearing his throat again. "You wanta know?" He finally asked. His voice tired, out of the strength to say no again. Sam's suddenly uncertain silence spurred him on. "Dad shot me, Sam. That's what happened."

The flat statement turned Sam blood colder than the knowledge the words conveyed. He couldn't stop the startled laugh of disbelief. "Wh- what?"

"We had a fight before the hunt," Dean went on, looking away as though Sam hadn't spoken. "We had a lot of fights that year after you left. I couldn't breathe half the time time, I was screwing stuff up. I just…couldn't seem to do anything right." Dean's eyes fell and his voice dropped to a whisper Sam wasn't even sure he was supposed to hear. He swallowed uneasily.

"He said I wasn't good enough…"

If Dean had struck him, Sam couldn't have been more shocked. Righteous fury boiled up in him with no outlet to release it, making him shake. "Dean…"

Dean cut him off, "He was mad when he said it. I know that!" Knowing that didn't heal the ragged wound the words had left behind. "You wanted to know, Sam. Be careful what you wish for." He slid further down on the bed, groaning softy, trying to find a comfortable position. It was a mistake, lying down only made the nausea worse.

"Dean, Dad would not shoot you because he thought you screwed up! He's got being an asshole to down to an art form, but I don't care what you might have done. Or not done. he wouldn't!" Sam spoke with conviction, couldn't take this seriously. How in the hell such an idea had taken root in Dean's maze of a mind Sam couldn't imagine.

Every new facet of Dean's personality that was occasionally vouchsafed to Sam left him reeling at just how badly damaged his brother actually was. The fact that he still managed to function with his psyche constantly at war with the man he had become and the lonely, frightened child, desperate for approval, that lurked just under the surface gave Sam with a hollow ache and filled him with fear on Dean's behalf.

"I didn't say he put a gun to my head!" Dean spat. He grunted, moving restlessly, rubbing his finger along his ribcage. "I said he shot me. Hell, I was being torn apart, I know why he did it…" Dean trailed off, looking away again, fingers plucking at the blanket. He pulled them closer, shivering again. He rubbed sweat from his forehead with the heel of his hand, sighing.

Sam stared at him. "Jesus, he really shot you?" Sam was instantly furious again, instantly guilty. "Dean, my God…" His hand crept up to his mouth.

….not good enough…

His vision narrowing, knowing he was going to die, seeing only his father, too far away to get to him in time, John's face as he'd raised the gun, screaming something at Caleb. Agony worse than the blunt claws ripping into his body blowing through him…

Knowing he'd failed again.

Sam jerked back as Dean's eyes widened and he suddenly pushed upright. He swallowed again.. "I don't feel so good..." He coughed thickly, hands instinctively flying up to cover his mouth.

Sam gaped as Dean choked, blood spraying through his fingers to drip and splatter on the flowered comforter. Sam, stunned, forced himself out of his horrified trance and grabbed the trash can, shoving it under Dean's face and holding it with shaking hands as Dean gagged, convulsing helplessly, watching the blood pooling in the bottom of the container.

In his pocket his phone began it's angry vibration once again.

TBC