He was stripped and bathed clean while he was unconscious. He can taste dirty rage in the back of his mouth every time he swallows, feel his boy's blood settling stickily into his skin despite it.
When he wakes up, all he can see in his peripheral vision is a mop of brown hair and several feet away, at the other end of the bed, a pair of enormous feet. Sam's feet are bare, and he remembers, absurdly, playing "This Little Piggy" with his baby's toes, Mary laughing when he got stuck on the sequence of events and pigs and shushing Dean by tickling him so he couldn't bail Daddy out. Sammy had watched the whole thing with solemn, sleepy eyes, reached up and grabbed his nose, and then made an enormous mess in his diaper.
And now he can't even look at his child, of whom he'd asked far too much. He's still not sure if Sam would have done it - shot him through the heart - and he's not sure he wants to know how complex Sam really is, how many layers of grief and care and hatred he's mined in his baby boy.
His body takes the coward's way out and he falls back asleep.
He’s pretty sure that Missouri's the only one who will still take his calls, and before she can say a word he asks her to get Bobby to get the Impala towed somewhere safe and to keep the Colt under every sign of protection he can muster. "Oh, John," she says into the phone, anxious and alive, her steady breaths into the receiver calming him down. He's called her so many times in the past just to hear a soft, sweet voice, concerned and tender, and he wonders if she is aware of how he's used her. "Baby, I know," she says; "I'll take care of it." He closes the phone slowly, the snap of it distinct against the sliding shuffle that heralds Sam's return to the room.
Sam looks surprised to see him awake and coherent and he hesitates, lingering in the doorway for a long moment. But he doesn't stay quiet for long. He surges forward, looming over the bed and gripping it fiercely; as always, Sam demands answers.
He's got none to give. Sam doesn't so much ask questions as hurl accusations, and there’s an almost comfortable familiarity to his own rising anger, the furious jut of Sam’s jaw, and the harsh words between them. The bed shakes, bites into the wall deeply enough that he can feel flakes of paint settling on his skin, and he wants to roar back at Sam, say something that will shut him up for good, when suddenly his body goes hot.
His eyes slam shut and he thinks he can hear Sam saying something, suddenly soft and echoing distortedly like he’s down a well, little boy lost, but he can’t think about that now, not when there’s something inside him, holding him aside like a curtain at a window it wants to peer out of. But that’s his guts, his lifeblood, his heart it’s pushing to one side to make room for itself, and the agony is wrenchingly familiar; the Demon is back.
Still gen, still R-ish.
Word count (today): 542
Word count (total): 4728 (15.76%)
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