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[thruterryseyes.livejournal.com]

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

Chapter 10: Eye Witness Accounts

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.  

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

AN: I'm so sorry to anyone who was following this I totally forot to finish posting during the holidays!

Sam leaned his head down on the edge of Dean's bed, weary but relieved. Dean was still sleeping off the anesthesia but Sam had been assured that barring complications, he was going to be all right. The bleeding had been found and stopped and now it was a matter of controlling infection, allowing him to heal and building his strength back up. Sam hadn't asked for details. At the time he hadn't given a damn about the how of it, only the results. Once Dean was settled, Sam had taken up watch next to his bed, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of Dean's limp hand, and would not be moved.

 

Dean, at the moment, was a collection of IV bags, tubes, tape, bandages and whirring beeping machinery with a body attached to them but he was alive and was apparently going to stay that way.

His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, the telltale dark circles under his eyes, the stigmata that appeared every time he was sick or injured, even if he was only suffering a cold, face rough with two days worth of stubble. He seemed thin and fragile. It would be days before he improved enough to be compared favorably with shit. His chest rose and fell gently. Sam thought he was beautiful.

The ICU was empty except for them and one very old man who appeared to already be dead from what Sam had been able to see. He was attended by a frail looking old woman, who never moved from her position beside his bed, her hand over his, head down, her position almost mirroring Sam's exactly. Sam couldn't help but wonder if she had perhaps died also and simply had yet to be discovered by the staff.

He wasn't aware he was asleep until his cell phone suddenly came to life in his pocket. He started spastically, eyes flying open at the sudden buzz against his chest. He fumbled for the offending instrument, angry at himself for falling asleep, finally getting it open and up to his ear.

"Yeah? Hello?" He said in a harsh, impatient whisper, turning reluctantly away from Dean.

He jerked the phone away again as Caleb's voice rang out loudly and angrily.

"Sam! What the hell, boy! I been trying to call you back since yesterday!"

Sam glanced back at Dean, cringing, shoulders hunching to hide the fact that he was on the cell from any wandering nurse. "Caleb…I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't pick up, Dean got worse and I had to get him to the hospital." Sam stood up and insinuated himself as far into the corner as he could, standing enough to the side that he could still see Dean easily.

There was a brief silence and then Caleb finally spoke again. "Aw, Christ, Sam. What happened? How is he?" On the other end of the connection Caleb raked his hand over his head, walking back and forth in front of the dirty window that faced the equally dirty front yard of his tiny house.

"He just got out of surgery a little while ago, he's in ICU-"

"Surgery?" Caleb cut in, swearing.

Sam nodded, even though Caleb wasn't there to see. He traced a finger along a tiny crack in the wall. "Yeah, he was bleeding internally. They had to go in and stop it." He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. God, he was so tired…

Caleb swore again. "Shit, Sam. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."

Sam shrugged, rolling his forehead back and forth against the cool wall. "There's some other stuff, I think. But they said he'll be okay, just out of action for a while. Give it time to heal."

"Have you gotten hold of your dad?"

Sam snorted. "Voicemail. I left a message. You have any idea where he is? I'd really like to talk to him. tell him what's going on...at least."

"I'm sorry, Sam." Caleb said again, sounding like he was. "I haven't talked to John for a couple months."

"Sam?"

Sam was past startling and merely turned at the voice behind him. A nurse stood in the door trying to look stern. "I'm sorry, Sam but you need to go outside if you want to talk on your phone." She smiled at him apologetically.

"Hang on," Sam said into the phone, dropping it to his side. "I need to talk to this guy. I don't want to leave Dean alone. I don't want him to wake up alone."

She touched his arm. "Take your call, Dean's going to be asleep for a while. I promise if he even moves while you're gone I'll come out and get you."

He glanced over at Dean, chewing his lip, then back at the nurse.

She smiled again. "I swear, honey. He so much as twitches."

Sam finally nodded and walked to the door, casting one more look back and then stepping out, walking past the stooped old woman, seated silently by her unmoving companion.

He took two steps outside the door and leaned against the wall where he could stare back through the window. He couldn't see Dean but he would be able to see the nurse if she came to the door. He lifted the phone.

"Sorry, Caleb." He sighed. "I had to go in the hall to talk."

"It's okay, Sam. You holdin'up?"

Sam nodded to the air again. "Yeah, I think so. Just tired. Worried." Without conscious thought, Sam pushed away from the wall and drifted toward an uncomfortable looking couch, sinking onto it.

"You called to ask me about that hunt the other night," Caleb said, surprising Sam, who sat up a little.

"Yeah, I did," Sam admitted. "I want to know what happened to Dean." No point in beating around the bush.

"Whadaya mean?" Caleb countered, mind racing through a dozen scenarios, how to respond to them.

Flatly, Sam replied, "Dean said Dad shot him, Caleb, that's what I mean."

"What?" Caleb sounded stunned. "What are you talking about? What did Dean say to you?"

Sam frowned, puzzled by Caleb's recation. "Not a lot. He said he didn't remember a lot of it. None of it until he fell and now it's like, he's being buried under these memories." Sam leaned forward and said in a bitter voice. "He said Dad told him he wasn't good enough, Caleb. Is that true? Did Dad say that to Dean?" Anger spread through the words like oil.

Caleb closed his eyes, his initial reply a huff of air.

"Caleb?"

Caleb ran a hand over his face. "He said it, Sam, yeah. Sort of, anyway." Caleb rushed on speaking over the noise of Sam's swearing. "Sam, listen to me. He didn't mean it the way Dean took it. He would never have said something like that to Dean. He was just talking-"

"Fuck, Caleb, you know Dean! Something like that…hell, Dad may as well have hit him…" Sam punched the arm of the couch. To Dean, those words from John would have gone through his heart like a railroad spike.

"Shut up, Sam and listen to me. You don't know what it was like for Dean, for your dad after you left-"

"Don't you blame this on me!" Sam snarled.

"No one blames you for anything!" Caleb yelled back. "You wanted to know! I'm trying to tell you!"

Sam clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself to calm down. He took a deep breath. "Okay," he finally said. "You're right. I'm sorry." Sam pressed his hand over his mouth. He tried again. "It's just...he…Caleb, for some reason Dean thinks Dad shot him because he fucked up. He won't admit it, not really, but I know that's what he's thinking. That he did something so bad Dad felt justified in shooting him." Sam's long fingers worked through his hair, twisting around the strands and hanging there.

Caleb's voice came through the line, soft and intense. "Sam, I swear to you, whatever Dean said about any of this, and frankly I can't believe he remembers anything about it, it didn't happen like that."

Sam closed his eyes and lay his head against the back of the couch, the nubbly fabric rough against his face. "Then what did happen?" he asked, too tired to yell anymore and too wired to let it go.

Caleb drew in a breath, easing down into a battered recliner. This was gonna take a while. "It was about seven – eight months after you left…"

---

"John, are you sure Dean's up for this?" Caleb looked up from checking the load on his gun. He removed one of the bullets and rolled it in his fingers. Studying the silver slug he traced a fingertip over the crescent moon indentation in the side, a small cross below it. John always laughed at Caleb's insistence that the marks made the bullets more powerful. Had sneered at the expense and time it had taken to have the special molds made.

 

"He looks exhausted," he continued, touching the bullet to his lips in a kiss and loading it back in the chamber. A ritual, a promise. "We can finish this ourselves."

"We're all tired, Caleb." John groused back, rummaging in his pack for the compass. "We can't let this chance go by, and we can't hang around another month waiting until it comes around again if we miss it. Dean'll be fine." He located the little object and checked it.

He was concerned about Dean too, had heard Dean's breath sawing in and out yesterday. Seen him draw on the inhaler, trying to be discreet about it. Knew how Dean would react if he were treated in any way that intimated he was less than he should have been. Trying to always be everything and more than John's admittedly high expectations demanded of him. John couldn't coddle him, not now.

"John, for God's sake -" Caleb's voice took on an edge and he slammed the chamber back into the gun.

John impatiently banged his hunting knife down, turning to glare at Caleb. "He's gotta get past this, Caleb! It's been months!. He was sick, I know. He's got that damned inhaler if he needs it." John would have said the words to Dean's face just as easily as behind his back. Pulling punches wasn't his style. It was as much for Dean's good as for the good of the people they were trying to help that Dean join them. "He needs to be on this hunt, Caleb. We need a third man. He has to get his focus back. It's not good enough-"

John stopped as Caleb's suddenly straightened in the chair he was slouching in, his eyes darted past John to the door. John turned to see Dean step in, a strange look on his face.

"Dean. About time. Did you get the salt?" John went back to packing.

Dean glanced at Caleb, throat working. "Yeah," he finally said, faintly. "Yeah, I got all they had." Clearing his throat, he walked to the table and carefully set the bag he carried on it. He stood there for a moment, staring at the battered tabletop.

"What were you and Caleb talking about?" he asked, looking over at John.

"Nothing, " John replied casually. He shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable, wondering how long Dean had been standing at the door. He gestured slightly. "Tryin' to get this hunt planned out." John shot Caleb a look, but Caleb's eyes were back on his gun.

Looking away again, Dean said quietly, "I'll start loading the truck."

"Good," John said, relieved. "We can get outta here in a few minutes, then. Here, take this," he tossed one weapons bag at Dean, who caught it silently and went back outside.

Caleb glared at John. "Do you ever think before you speak? I can just about guarantee he heard you!"

John returned the glare with interest. "Caleb, he's not your son. I don't want him to get hurt. Or you, or me, because he can't keep his mind on the issues at hand. If he overheard us maybe it'll make him think."

"No, he's not my son," Caleb snapped, standing up to walk over and poke John in the chest. "He's yours. And this isn't the fucking Marines."

They stared at each other for a long moment. "Mind your own business, Caleb." John finally said. He turner away and reached out, jerking up the flashlights and jammed them into the small carryall.

Caleb snorted, shook his head and went outside, as much to get away from John's stubborn ass routine as to help Dean with the truck.

---

Caleb glanced over at Dean, jammed between he and John in the cab of the truck. He hadn't spoken a word other than to answer the rare question about their upcoming hunt from John. He kept his eyes fastened on his boots unless John directed a comment to him.

 

"Dean, something buggin' you?" John finally growled, shooting a quick look at Dean's downcast face then going back to staring out the window as the sun waned on the horizon.

Dean looked up briefly. "No, sir. Everything's fine."

John grunted and fell silent, situation handled.

Caleb rolled his eyes and concentrated on his driving. Light glowed suddenly on the horizon to the side of the dying sun's last faint rays. He squinted through the windshield, counting. A soft rumble came to his sharp ears.

"Shit," he spat. "It's gonna rain. Great."

Dean grimaced, John shrugged. "Can't be helped. We gotta do this tonite. It's our last shot."

"I know," Caleb rumbled. "I don't have to like it." He swung the old truck to the left and pulled into the edge of the woods, parking in the shadow of the trees and turning the engine off.

John slid out and stretched, joints popping. Dean and Caleb both exited the vehicle and did likewise. John shoved the seat forward and grabbed the canvas weapons bag, pulling out his favorite gun and checking the load. He buckled on the holster he wore when getting to the gun fast mattered and getting it caught in your clothes trying to pull it out was not an option.

"I'm gonna scout ahead. Keep your phones on. You know what you're supposed to be doing, let's get to it. Gimme five minutes." John tapped Dean's shoulder. Dean's head snapped up.

Lightning flashed closer still, followed shortly by a crash of thunder. "You good? Got your inhaler?"

Even in the gloom Caleb saw the deep flush on Dean's features and the tightening of his mouth.

"Yes sir," Dean replied in a low voice, eyes downward. The hand in his pocket fisted around the hated object.

John nodded, holding up his hand. "Five minutes." Turning he vanished into the darkness of the trees.

He had barely gone before Dean jerked the inhaler out of his pocket and hurled it as far as he could.

"Dean! What the hell are doing?" Caleb yelped, reaching out reflexively as it vanished into the darkness.

"Dad's right," Dean exclaimed. "I gotta get past this! It's a fuckin' crutch, I just don't have the balls to do it! I haven't done a fucking thing right since-" he bit the words off and slammed the palm of his hand against the truck bed.

Caleb caught Dean's arm but Dean jerked away, camouflaging the movement by reaching into the weapons bag and withdrawing the two short barreled shotguns and shoving one, butt first at Caleb.

"Dean, I know you heard what your Dad said. He didn't mean it the way it sounded." Caleb accepted the shotgun that Dean held out to him, trying to get Dean to look at him.

Caleb's comment was rewarded with a brief view of the green of Dean's eye's and then they moved away. The air was thick with moisture, sticky and hot, despite the coming of night and even though he was trying to hide it, Caleb could hear Dean breathing with a noticeable effort. He was his father's son and stubborn as hell, and he would choke to death before he would have used that damned inhaler now.

Caleb knew how much Dean hated this weakness he couldn't seem to shake. He was trying so hard to meet John's expectations and sometimes John was just an ass, plain and simple.

"Dean…"

"Caleb." Dean's voice was hoarse. He checked the load on his gun and cocked it, thunder echoing the crack as the barrel snapped into place. "He has to be able to depend on me. I'm letting him down. He's right." Dean turned away and walked into the deepening gloom as rain started to patter at the leaves around them.

"Dean!" Caleb called after him, but Dean walked on. Caleb sighed and shook his head. He pulled his pistol, spun the chamber to check his special rounds and shoved it back in the holster. Shouldering the shotgun he looked once more the way Dean had gone, shook his head again.

"Jackasses..." he murmured, wiping the rain from his he too vanished into the darkness of the woods.

TBC