kunju (innie_darling) wrote,

Mini-NaNo (SPN Fic): 11c

Sam calls Bobby.

Sam is really, really good at being pissed off. He knows that about himself, maybe even enjoys it a little, the way he can sustain the righteous burn of anger. But this - what he's feeling now - goes past that, to cold fury. After the Demon's Rambo act, Dad along for the ride like a kid in a kangaroo's pouch, the hospital staff makes it clear that they would very much like him gone. That's fine, understandable even; he's not seriously hurt anymore, and the bed is needed. But they've stopped checking on Dean, leaving him lying helpless and unattended for so long that twice now he's tried to get up on his shaky legs to find a bathroom or a blanket.

He makes sure to stay in Dean's room 24/7 now, is deaf to reminders about visiting hours, and amuses himself by plotting the Bleak House twists and turns of the lawsuit he'd slap this place with if he had the time. When he's feeling less charitable - when Dean's respiration becomes labored again, when his hands tremble with pain - Sam just drops the whole hospital staff into a conveniently expanding vat of boiling oil that bubbles constantly in his mind.


Dean would have managed somehow to put his John Hancock - or Jesse McGillicuddy's, anyway - on the AMA form, but no one even brings the paper to Dean's room when Sam announces that they are leaving. Taking off from the hospital, where the Demon roamed but left them alone, might not be the smartest course of action, but staying somewhere so actively unfriendly doesn't exactly seem wise, either. One of the orderlies - the one who'd had the sullen face, even before all this shit went down - brings him two boxes, one of his stuff and one of Dad's, and begins packing up Dean's belongings into a third, good riddance clear in every move he makes.

He waits until the guy finishes with a slam and leaves before pulling Dad's cell out of the first box. He turns it on and lets out a tiny whoop when he sees there's still life in the battery. He dials Bobby and begs to be picked up, knowing that Bobby won't refuse him; him and Dean being "the kids" in a group of grizzled old veterans is good for that much at least. He closes the phone and tosses it back into the box, hearing it ping against something else hard. He roots around in the box fruitlessly for a minute before his ribs protest and he heaves the box up onto his lap. He searches with his fingertips again, finding the bullet he buried in his father's leg nestled inside a plastic bag.

He looks up uneasily, eyes darting between the slug and Dean, dozing fitfully two feet away. It's got to be a mistake, some error borne of the hospital staff wanting to sweep the McGillicuddy family under the rug entirely, but he's got enough sense to know the bullet could be useful later, so he sets it down gingerly and reaches into the second box for his clothes.


Bobby makes it there in pretty much no time flat, far more quickly than Sam had anticipated anyway, and Dean is still flat on his back, sweaty and pale and not quite conscious. Sam keeps quiet while Bobby steps close to Dean's bedside and looks down at him with eyes full of grief. Bobby and Dean have always had a bond he never understood and Dad just never saw. It had nothing to do with Bobby playing favorites; it was just the way it was, the two of them seeming to speak the same language with the same cadences, a harmony that couldn't be learned or faked. He'd never minded, because whenever they stayed with Bobby, all of his attention and devotion had been for the dogs. One glorious summer there had been new pups to play with and he'd rolled and tumbled with them, playing day-long games of Hide and Seek with them and losing every time.

It's a far cry from those days drenched in sunlight to this grim, painfully white hospital room, but even here and now, Bobby is like a magnetic pull for Dean. His eyes flutter open and he reaches up an unsteady hand to clasp forearms with Bobby; he smiles at the grease that jumps from Bobby's skin to his and tries to sit up. Dean uses Bobby's strong arms and hands without embarrassment and Sam swings into gear, pulling Dean's clothes from the box, shaking them out, and getting ready to thread Dean's limbs into sleeves and jeans. He catches the half-resigned, half-indignant look Dean shoots Bobby and lets himself smile.


They pile into Bobby's truck, Dean sitting between them on the bench seat so that he can't topple too far to either side. Sam waits the space of three Johnny Cash songs before he takes a chance and looks sideways at Dean. Dean's conked out again, crumpled in on himself and looking so weary that Sam starts to doubt his plan; a stern glance from Bobby, though, sets him straight. "Sammy," Bobby says, his voice low and even, undemanding, "tell me." He doesn't get any more specific than that, and he doesn't need to. Sam counts back the days until he can remember leaving Bobby's place with a grease pencil in his hand and The Key of Solomon under his arm, and then he begins to talk. He leans forward to see Bobby around Dean's stiff body; when Dean eventually slumps against him, he's only halfway through the story.

Still gen, still R-ish.
Word count (today): 941
Word count (total): 12,104 (40.35%)
Tags: fic, mini-innie, supernatural, supernatural_fic_my

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