For The Grace (John, Dean) Gen PG-13
Title: For The Grace (1/2)
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen. John, Dean (mentions of Sam)
Spoilers: Stanford era, no major spoilers
Word Count: ~4600
Warnings: Some language
Summary: Sam's gone and John receives a harsh lesson in listening to what isn't said when Dean gets hurt on a hunt.

Notes: Written for the perfectly awesome SPN H/C meme last month for a prompt requesting hurt!Dean and worried!John while Sam was at college.




Dean went quiet whenever he was hurt. Really quiet. But in John's defense, he also went quiet when he was worried, or upset, or thinking too much, or dreaming of some girl or some car or some gun that he couldn't have or couldn't keep. For all that he could be a mouthy kid when he felt like it, Dean went quiet a lot.

Sam in turn complained - loudly - when he was hurt or sick or was dreaming of some girl or some car or some school project that had to be left behind, but he'd always been the one to notice that Dean wasn't saying much and to pull him back out of whatever funk he'd embroiled himself in.

And John? John didn't get loud or quiet, either one. John got pissed off. It was a character flaw. He wasn't stupid, he knew anger could blind him to everything but his target and what had helped him survive in Vietnam had damn near driven Mary crazy. He knew it wasn't healthy for either of his boys. It probably (definitely) had a large part to do with why Sam had run away.

But the long and short of it was that it was easy to cotton on to things after the fact and almost impossible, especially with Sam gone, to notice them ahead of time. And also in John's defense, he'd raised a hell of a strong son, or Dean had raised himself that way more rather because John couldn't look back and think of enough things he'd done right to ensure that Dean turned out the way he had.

Dean shook off things that would have dropped other men. He walked on broken limbs or cracked ribs, he'd scowled but played off a bout of bronchitis as a mere summer cold that John still wouldn't have found the truth of if Sam hadn't been caught shoplifting Vick's Vapo-Rub and antibiotics. John had seen Dean be burnt or slashed and have the wounds clean up pretty as you please, barely leaving a whisper of a scar behind to mark their existence. His son had fired guns and loaded shot shells while bleeding, had taken down a werewolf once while concussed. Dean wasn't weak and he didn't complain. Not to John, anyway. He'd bitched to Sam when things weren't serious, but John suspected that was because it made Sam feel better more than anything else.

And anyway, Dean hadn't exactly been saying much of anything since Sam had left, three months back. Not that John had particularly been in the mood for conversation and he knew, he knew, that his own attitude had been a bitch to deal with. He knew he'd been more surly than usual, snapping at things even when they were done perfectly, and probably drinking a bit too much. He knew he was pissed off at Sam and the danger Sam was throwing himself into and since he couldn't do shit about either one, he was taking far too much of his frustration out on his eldest son. He knew all that, objectively. He just couldn't manage to pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize what he was doing, much less force himself to stop.

So it wasn't exactly surprising that John hadn't noticed when Dean went quietly off food, or when Dean had quietly started to stitch his own cuts shut instead of pestering John to do it for him, or when Dean had apparently stopped sleeping the night through. He had noticed that Dean had stopped offering rejoinders when John razzed him, but Dean's quiet acceptance of whatever criticism John offered, whether seriously meant or in jest, had nettled all the more because it was so far off from Sam's bitchy responses or even the easy snark that Dean might have previously offered in turn, all wide grins and honey to go with John's distinct salt and vinegar.

It might have continued like that for months, John's attempt (if he could be honest with himself) to drive away the last piece of Mary he had left before Dean would make up his mind to leave of his own free will. All that happened was that Dean withdrew further each time John snapped at him and John in turn grew more and more frustrated and all the hunts in the world couldn't do enough to ease the low roil of fury and fear that burned in his gut, day in and day out.

It would have continued perhaps indefinitely, John knew, except that Dean eventually took matters into his own hands. Dean being Dean, this meant nothing pretty. Dean didn't do things by half steps, not even when he did them completely accidentally. Fate was a mean son of a bitch and never seemed to have a break for anyone named Winchester.

It was November, not too long past the Bad Days and John was still recovering from them. His mood always took a drastic downturn just past Halloween and this year, the first without Sam, made it even worse than normal. It was the first hunt they'd been on since before the anniversary and John was hoping it would help get them back on an even keel.

The hunt was for a Jenny Greenteeth, a particularly vicious woman-shaped creature with a snaggled jaw and a yowling sort of cry. It had been hunting children on Lake Winnipesaukee, which was outside of their normal stomping ground to be sure, but there wasn't much further from California than the ass end of New England and that made it worth the distance, even if it meant dealing with the frigid nature of a New Hampshire winter.

Not that it was true winter yet. The air was bitterly cold at night but heat lingered in an Indian Summer that kept it still warm enough during the day to prevent the lake from freezing over. The lingering warmth wouldn't last much longer though; already John's breath steamed in the mornings far longer than he would have otherwise preferred and the cool touch of night encroached earlier and earlier into the afternoons. It meant they had to hurry; much longer and the Jenny would be gone under the ice, protected and invulnerable and free to attack again next year.

Dean hadn't wanted to be there. Even as quiet as the boy had gotten, John would have known that without so much as a glance, even under the best of circumstances. Even with the remnants of summer, it was colder than either of them preferred and the mountains and their pine forests were too far off from the warm comfort of the plains, where the Winchesters usually worked. The Yankees that they were helping were a bit stiff, not unwelcoming at all, but set in their ways as only people who'd been in the same town for four hundred years or more can really become.

He'd sent Dean off in their rented dingy, its putt-putt motor barely enough to churn the waves, while John himself kept to the woods on Rattlesnake Island. Most of the sightings had been on or around it, though the creature had no issues sneaking onto the mainland for its dinner. John spent his time crawling over rocks and boulders, trying to suss out where the damned thing could be holing up at. The Jenny came out mostly at dusk, the times when its green tinted skin could be best disguised by the red slanting sunset light. It was just past that, making it damned difficult to see, and John swore to himself, ready to write off another wasted night.

He reached into his coat pocket, pretended he couldn't see his breath puffing in the air to avoid noticing how damned cold it was getting, and tugged out the cell phone Sam had given him just a few weeks before he'd left. It was new and shiny and John was reasonably certain it had several features he had no clue how to work or even what it did. Damn thing probably would pop up toast for breakfast if he keyed in the right strokes.

Didn't matter. He just needed to call Dean and arrange a pick up. There weren't many places to catch a drink around (the locals apparently believed the world ended at eight o'clock, at least in the tiny towns they were near) but John was reasonably confident that he'd cope. If nothing else, government supplied package stores would see him through.

He dialed Dean's number, waited as the line buzzed and crackled and finally connected. It rang four times, then went to voicemail. Scowling, John hung up and tried again. Same response.

A thin knot of worry began threading itself through his belly, but he refused to acknowledge it. Dean must have left his cell phone back at the car. Or maybe at their cabin. Either way, John would ream him but good for forgetting it; for all that he'd hunted for decades without a phone at his hip, they made the job so much easier and safer that going out without one was asking for trouble.

He edged his way back to the dock, then peered out over the lake, one hand going up to squint over the water. Nothing but the waves lapping softly and the sound of the wind met him. No sounds of a motor running. No splashing of a boat near by.

Shit.

The worry in his stomach began to squirm, writhing over itself. Much harder to ignore that way. Damned inconvenient.

He tried the phone again, more for something to do than out of any belief that it would work, which went to figure because that time Dean picked up after the third ring.

"Dad?"

"Dean? Where the hell are you? Why didn't you pick up the damned phone?" The words were harder than he'd have liked, the tone angrier, but dammit, Dean /knew/ better. He knew better than to fuck around like that. He could count on Dean, always had been able to.

"Dad." This time he caught the undertone to his oldest son's voice. Dean didn't sound good. His voice was breathy, the word more exhaled than actually spoken.

"Son, where are you?" He still couldn't shake the edge from his voice, but Dean seemed to respond to it well enough, voice sharpening a bit when he responded.

"North of the island, about a quarter mile out. I got it, Dad."

"The Greentooth?" John asked sharply, seeking clarification. "With an iron rod?"

"Yeah, Dad. Iron stake to the heart. It sank under, but it was dead."

John felt a measure of relief shine through the worry and anger. "Good. Now haul ass back over here and pick me up."

"About that..." That breathy quality was back to Dean's tone again, a bit dreamy, almost. There was a shuffling sort of sound from the other end of the line and then John heard a wracking, nasty sort of cough, muffled as though Dean had put his hand over the phone.

"Dean? Dean!" It took a long minute for the line to clear.

"Sorry, Dad. I'm coming. It'll just be a few minutes. She tore out the motor, I'll have to row over."

"She tore out the motor? That was a damned rental, son." One with a cash deposit that John had been hoping to get back.

"Sorry." Dean offered again but the sound was even fainter than before. John frowned, then decision made, began tramping back through the woods heading from the west beach to the north. The island was small, it didn't take long to reach the north shore, and from there John snagged his binoculars out, scanning the horizon until he came across a small 10 foot boat some several hundred yards out. He couldn't see anyone in it at first, then caught a glimpse of movement and Dean's head showed above the rim. He looked pale and was dripping wet, arms visibly shaking as he began to laboriously slide the back up oars into place.

"Dean, you hurt?" He hoped the edge to his voice was recognizable as concern. He was almost certain it was.

In the binoculars, his son jumped slightly and dropped the phone. John heard it crack against the bottom of the boat and then the line went dead. Probably fell in some water.

Fuck.

In the dingy, Dean twisted around, squinted towards Rattlesnake Island, and must have finally caught sight of John because he raised one hand in slight wave. He held up the cell phone, shook it, shrugged, and dropped it again before slowly, terribly slowly, beginning to row back towards the island.

John watched and told himself that he wasn't worried. It had been a long day and a longer hunt. Dean was fine. They'd go back to the cabin and get a hot shower and he'd bitch at Dean for losing the motor and Dean would smile that half smile that was the only sort he'd shown in the past few months, and he'd tell John about how the Jenny Greentooth went down, and that would be that. They'd find another hunt. Somewhere south, John thought. A reward, or a respite, for good behavior.

Dean had made it roughly half the distance when the other shoe fell. His son paused, one hand going up to his forehead, the oar he'd been holding sliding dangerously far in its socket, and then with a half glance back at his father, Dean slid down back out of sight.

John immediately was at the water's edge, hands curled around his mouth.

"DEAN!"

There was no response. He looked through the binoculars again, but there was no sign of his son at all. Nothing but the two oars and the boat, gently rocking on the water.

Shitfuckdamn.

John forced himself to wait twenty seconds, calling his son's name the entire time. There was no response, nothing but the soft splash of waves and the faint call of birds.

Swearing under his breath, John shoved off his boots and jacket, dropped his pack to the ground and set his hat on top of the pile. Then, sand cold under his bare feet, he tested the water, grimaced, and dove in.

Objectively he knew that the water wasn't frozen, wasn't anywhere near freezing, but the feel of it arching over his skin was like a knife through his ribs, threatening to stop his limbs, or his heart. John was a good swimmer and normally enjoyed it, but this experience was making him reconsider his previous satisfaction with the sport. He grit his teeth and continued, the water shockingly clear and cold, splashing his face, the only part of him not almost immediately numb. He kept his eyes on the dingy and kept moving, the world focusing down to Dean and cold and Dean and wet and Dean.

It was almost a surprise when he finally hit the edge of the boat. Shuddering, he reached shaking hands up to the edge, testing it to see if he could clamber aboard without capsizing the whole thing. Once satisfied that it was safe, he grasped it tight with both hands and hauled himself inside.

Shivering all over, dripping and frigid, he had to take a minute to catch his breath once finally safely in. It was only then that he noticed the limp, damp form he was lying against and, swearing again, forced himself to sit back up and take in his son's condition.

Dean was out cold but that didn't stop the low level tremors shaking his entire body. His eyelashes were charcoal smudges against his cheeks, all the more apparent by how terribly wan he looked. His lips were almost colorless, tinged more towards blue than red. John reached a hand out for Dean's neck, felt for a pulse, and was surprised by how Dean's skin didn't feel either overly warm or cold, as though his temperature and John's were the same. Which, given how cold John was, didn't bode well for Dean.

His fingers eventually found the pulse (slow, but steady) and they found something else as well. John pulled his hand back, held his fingers to the dying light and the worry that had snaked through his belly for the past half hour flared and exploded into full life at the sight of the blood coating them.

He reached down, hauled Dean's head to one side, searching for the source. It didn't take long to find; there was a jagged cut down the back of his son's neck, a wound that looked raw and nasty and John could only be grateful that whatever had given it to Dean had caught the back of him, not the front. He did a more complete sweep then, cataloging injuries and determining proper method of triage.

There was another cut (bite?) on Dean's left shoulder, a third on his right arm. His hands were scraped up, one fingernail half missing. His head seemed fine, no bumps or gashes, but he still hadn't regained consciousness and his breathing was far more shallow than John would have liked. He was still breathing though, chest still slowly rising and falling, and that meant everything else could be dealt with.

After making sure Dean's neck was raised up out of the couple of inches of water at the bottom of the boat, John declared it good enough for the moment. He would gladly have hauled Dean out of bottom of the boat entirely, but there was simply no place dry enough and stable enough to do so.
Instead, he reached for the oars. The right one had been about to slip out of the handle and wouldn't that have been just perfect to fuck them over. He caught it before it could completely slide out and then, back aching and shaking with cold, began to row them back to shore.

The trip back to the actual shore was farther than John would have liked. It was a couple of miles to the beach where the Impala sat, patiently awaiting their return, and each stroke of the oars was enough to make his arms and chest ache. He bypassed the island out of necessity. There weren't enough supplies in his pack and they could always go back tomorrow for his boots. Dean could row that time. Dean owed him for this.

Within ten strokes, his shoulders were burning. Easy enough to focus past the pain though. Easy enough to be more pissed off that the motor had fallen off, or had been ripped off, or whatever the hell had happened. Easier to be angry at Dean for being in this condition to start with, or the damned Jenny for killing folk. Easier to take refuge in that low thrum of anger that had been present ever since his youngest had made his plans known.

Anger gave his limbs strength and worry focused his gaze until the only thing he could see was the darkening sky, barely lit with the edge of sunset over the tops of the trees, and up ahead the dock and the Impala behind it. Through out it all, Dean didn't stir.

He had to stop and catch his breath twice on the way, each time shuffling to Dean's side to check on his pulse and breathing, to make sure the bleeding wasn't too bad or worsening. His vision was tunneling and his arms shaking so much it was countermanding his efforts at rowing by the time they finally made it. The dingy clipped the edge of the dock, thankfully a low water level one, and it was all John could to do toss the anchor over the side and rope the boat to the safety.

He shook Dean's shoulder, hoping for a response but was completely unsurprised when he didn't get one. Their luck wasn't that good. John didn't even have the energy to swear anymore, just concentrated on snagging his son first by the arms, then pulling him into a fireman's carry that made his shoulders threaten rebellion and the boat threaten to turn over. The walk down the dock wasn't much fun either, the wooden planks under his feet swaying with each step and it was God alone that knew whether that was the water causing it or John's own unsteady footing.

He finally leaned Dean against the side of the Impala, then popped the trunk for the first aid kit and a towel and the thick woolen blanket kept there for emergencies. He made a quick return back to Dean, then working swiftly, stripped what he could of his son's outer clothing: jacket and over shirt and boots and jeans, all of which had been soaked through at least once during their excursion and all of which had recently been sitting in barely melted lake water at the bottom of the dingy during the trip back. He looked over those bite marks as he worked; they looked nasty but all of them had stopped bleeding and merely sat sullenly against his son's skin. They could wait to be treated.

Dean started to rouse as John finished tugging off his pants, gaze bleary and entirely unfocused. John didn't bother to stop, merely grabbed the towel and roughly ran it over his son's limbs, across his chest and back to sop up any remaining moisture there, and then finally across his hair.

For a brief moment it was 1986 again and Dean was just a kid, submitting with rolled eyes to his father's touch as he dried him off. Then Dean's face screwed up, the blankness receding under a look far too familiar for comfort, and John barely was able to move out of the way before Dean leaned over and vomited. A thin volume of water was expelled, splashing on the rear wheel of the Impala and John would have made a crack about how that wasn't treating a lady right, but he didn't think Dean was much in the mind to hear it.

Instead he waited until he was sure Dean was done, then wiped the towel across his face and mouth, before dropping it in favor of the blanket. That one he wrapped snuggly around the boy's shoulders before hauling himself back to his feet, ignoring the crack in his back that twinged with the movement. He reached back down, snagged the first aid kit, opened the rear door and tossed it in, then reached down again for his son and repeated the process.

Dean might have mumbled something as John manhandled him into place, he certainly stumbled on the way, but nothing he might have said was even audible, really, much less sensible, and John ignored that as well in favor of shredding ass out of there and back to their cabin.

He turned the heat on all the way, still far, far too cold himself to enjoy it as the engine puttering into blazing life. The warmth on his skin felt like needles, nothing like comfort. Dean was protected from the worst of that, being in the back seat but that might be worse than the alternative because it would take longer to warm up. John debated stopping and pulling Dean into the front, but no, that would take too long. This entire damn trip was taking too long.

He adjusted the rearview, found his son's reflection in the back. Dean's eyes had listed half shut again, face slack, but his hands had come up to clutch at the blankets edges and were holding them together. Satisfied that Dean was conscious enough, John opened his mouth and began to speak. Criticisms mostly, undeserved sure, but he was trying to pry a reaction here, not give Dean any more incentive to go into the light or any crazy shit like that and being pissed off had always worked well for John (and Sam) in that regard.

When that failed to garner a response, he tried asking how the hunt had gone, wheedling for information. Nothing for that either and finally John tried snapping, demanding an answer, but all that got him was the final slide of Dean's hands from the blanket and his mind back fully into unconsciousness.

Shit.

The ride back to the cabin couldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes tops but it was the longest damned quarter hour of John's life, he was sure. It was full dark by the time he finally pulled in and he had to hope he'd left the door unlocked because fuck if he knew where the key was. John hobbled back to Dean, muscles stiffening now, sore and decidedly unappreciative of his efforts. Dean was out like a lamp still, not even responding to a somewhat gentle slap or his father's most urgent commands.

Afterward, John wasn't entirely certain how exactly he got Dean out of the car and into the cabin. He was cold, exhausted, and the tunnel vision he suffered was no longer of a psychological bent: the room was dim and black around the edges, stars sparking in his sight. But he was in and Dean was collapsed on one of the beds when he looked up, the heater whining high pitched and casting out far too little warmth for his comfort.

He'd killed the Jenny Greentooth, Dean had said. John wondered whether he'd be above or beneath the water when he'd done so.

Dean was still shivering and the blanket had fallen open when John had toppled him down on top of the bedspread, exposing the rise of ribs even through his t-shirt, far more prominent than John had last noticed. One hand had slipped out of the blanket's protection. A reddened mark encircled the skin, sure to bruise by morning. Maybe how he'd been pulled out to begin with. Dean wasn't foolish enough to jump in the water voluntarily. The knobs of his wrist jutted out horribly, looked almost skeletal.

John blinked and ran a hand over his eyes, pawed at his own month. When was the last time he'd seen Dean eat? He cast his mind back, drew up nothing but a blank. Christ.

John got angry and Sam got loud, but Dean? Dean got quiet. And John had been so wrapped up in his anger that he hadn't even noticed.

He reached out before he knew what he was doing, stroked a hand down the side of Dean's face while his mind filled again with little boy images and memories. Dean's skin was warmer now, if still overly pale, freckles standing out against his skin in shocking display. His lips tinging closer to pink though, that was good. His breathing sounded better, stronger. John knew he needed to dress those bites, antibiotics and hot water bottles, if he could find them. A warm bath would be best but his own strength didn't seem enough to stand for that right now.

He needed to do all those things, but for the moment all he could do was sit on his son's bed and struggle to breathe.