Title: White Lies
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating/Warning/Notes: Gen. Rated R for violence. Teen!Chesters. ~5,000 words.
Written for animotus who, a while ago, requested some h/c involving John an Dean. I hope you'll like this, hon. Adoration goes to the delightful krazykipper for betaing.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. No money is made out of this.
Summary: Dean wakes up in a hospital badly hurt, but the memory of what happened returns to him only slowly.



White Lies
by Steffi

He comes to slowly, awakes to the low beeping of one of those weird hospital monitors and the sound of footsteps, muffled voices in the distance. The smell of disinfectant floats up his nose and he frowns at the bitter scent. Ew. He hates those.

He feels an itch up his nose and wonders at the tiny little plastic tubes that are pumping air into his nose.

His jaw feels weird, swollen; like a jigsaw-puzzle put together the wrong way. He tries to shift, but the drugs that the doctors have him on are the good stuff, because while Dean feels no pain, he doesn’t feel much else either.

One cheek is cold, but the other one is pleasantly warm, the side that doesn’t seem to have been shattered into thousands of tiny pieces.

Rough skin brushes against his cheek in a warm, supportive way and then Dean realizes that Dad’s got his hand on Dean’s cheek and is brushing against it with his thumb.

Oh, oh.

Dad never does that. He only does it when Sammy’s sick. That’s weird. Really weird.

Dean opens his eyes slowly, or tries to at least because only his left eye responds to the command. He squints at the light and the white walls; the entire world squeezed into a blur of too bright shapes. He gives it another, a more careful try. Opening his good eye only a bit, he waits until his visions clears, and then opens his eye all the way.

Dad’s head comes into his sight; and his face got that worried look that’s usually reserved for Sammy. His hand stays on Dean’s cheek and Dean doesn’t mind, because it’s warm and comfortable.

“Dean,” Dad whispers. His voice is all tremors and sharp edges. It doesn’t sound right, not from Dad’s mouth, not when he’s talking to Dean. Dean turns his head slightly and Sam pops up behind Dad, staring at Dean with glassy eyes and thin lips. He looks too concerned, too frightened. Dean doesn’t like it.

He tries moving, shifting his weight so he can roll over, but the moment he tenses his muscles a flash of red and white pain shoots through his entire body. He winces, and presses his face into the pillow, while Dad’s hand wanders up to his hair, starts stroking it.

“Don’t move, Dean,” Dad’s voice orders him. “The doctors say you’ve got to try and stay still.”

Dean nods at that, feebly, because he always nods at orders. He wants to open his mouth to reply, to say “Yes, Sir” but when he attempts to move his jaw, the pain is back. His lips are dry and twice as thick as usual, covered in scab and it hurts when Dean twitches his mouth to speak.

He should be asking why he is in hospital and why Sam looks so worried, and why it hurts so much when Dean tries to speak, but he’s barely thought about these questions when fatigue washes over him. He’s never felt this tired, exhaustion spreading all through his body, piercing through every muscle. His lids grow heavy and he closes his good eye for a moment, just to rest it a bit. He’s back to sleep a moment later.

***

It’s possible Dean can hear you, the doctor said. The coma is not that deep, and it’s possible Dean’s brain recognises your voice. It might be comforting to hear his father, to know somebody’s there. It might even help speed up his recovery.

That was what the doctor said.

Truth was John didn’t know whether he believed that crap. He didn’t know whether believed in anything but that evil existed, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to try.

Especially when the doc just stood there and told him calmly that there was a chance Dean would wake up different; that they couldn’t see yet whether damage to his brain had been done. Permanent effects, the doctor had called it.

John looked at his boy who’d turned twenty years two months ago, and all that he saw were bandages, tubes and wires. The skin that wasn’t wrapped in white cotton shone blue and red with bruises.

John had heard the doctor use the word “light” when he talked of the coma, that he expected Dean to wake up before long. John didn’t give a damn. Dean was in a fucking coma. Light or deep, it didn’t matter. In a fucking coma.

At least Dean was breathing on his own, stubborn as ever.

The first two days, John was alone with Dean, except for the occasional visits by the doctor and nurses. Sam had his arm in a sling, and a bandage around his chest. Broken forearm and a broken rib the doctors had said, and managed to keep Sam in bed for all of forty-eight hours. Then, Sam’s brotherly instincts had set in, and he’d demanded to be allowed to get up and keep watch by Dean’s side.

But for those first two days, it was John and Dean alone.

Only the sounds of the monitors connected to Dean through wires interrupted the stillness of the room, and John couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the never-ending accusation, the steady beeping that reminded him of all his flaws.

So John talked, and he hoped Dean listened.

He curled his hand around Dean’s good one, and told Dean stories. About when Dean had been little, about the time when Mary had still been alive and there had been a mommy and a daddy to take care of Dean.

He told Dean stories that he was pretty sure Dean either didn’t or couldn’t remember.

Like the Christmas they’d celebrated shortly before Dean’s third birthday when John had given him a baseball glove. For later of course. How Mary had sung Christmas carols while decorating the tree. She’d sung “Deck the Halls,” her favourite carol, slightly off key in a soprano voice that echoed through the entire house.

Like the day that Dean had been born, one cold January morning with the sun shining down from the skies like even heaven was happy and eager to welcome him. How John had carried Dean around all day, unwilling to let him go. Mary had smiled at him, exhausted—it’d been a difficult birth—and commented that if at all possible, she too would like to hold her son for a moment. John had felt so complete that day and the weeks that followed, as if he could never be unhappy again.

He repeated how much Mary had loved him, because Dean couldn’t hear that often enough.

John wanted to tell Dean how much his dad loved him, how there was nothing he wouldn’t have done for Dean, how proud he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Not when Dean was lying in bed like that, struggling to come back to them, and John knew deep down inside that he was to blame. Sam would probably tell him as well, sooner or later, and John couldn’t even hold it against him.

***

The second time he surfaces from the black, both his cheeks are cold. He notices it because he half expects Dad’s hand to be there, because he thinks he only dozed off for a short moment. Outside is less busy now, less footsteps drown in from the hallway and for some reason Dean knows that it’s much later, night time probably. Then he realises that even if Dad’s hand is gone from his face, Dad’s still sitting by his side. Only his fingers are now wrapped around Dean’s hand. The one that he can actually move a bit.

There is no telling how long Dean’s been out for, but he hopes that it was only a few hours. Then again, getting his thoughts into a coherent order turns out more difficult than it should be, thanks to the pain killers. He feels like he’s wrapped in a bubble of cotton, heck, like his brains have been ripped out and replaced by cotton.

He tries to take a deep breath and count the bandages and band-aids on his body, tries to estimate just how badly he got banged up. There’s a band-aid on his forehead, right over his left brow. His jaw is numb, too big for his face. There are definitely bandages around his chest, and his right forearm is in a cast. There are more band-aids in the area of his stomach, and when he can’t move his left leg he realises that it too has been stuffed into a cast. His right leg at least seems to have come out fine. Come out of whatever, because when Dean tries to remember what got him in this state his thoughts are messy and his memory incomplete. He remembers sitting in a car, it’d been dark and they’d waited and then—nothing. Darkness.

“Dean?” Dad’s voice is soft, like he’s not sure whether Dean’s awake or not.

Dean opens his good eye, which is a hell of a lot easier to do this time because someone’s dimmed the lights in the room. He turns his head just a little and there’s Dad, face all shadows in the twilight.

“How’re you feeling?” Dad asks.

Dean swallows, and another wave of pain runs through his body. So sudden that he bites his lips to suppress the tears assembling at the corners of his eyes. He wants to open his mouth to reply, but the wave of pain switches into a lightning bolt at that. He turns his head again to stare at the ceiling, and blinks until his eyes are dry again. Or the good eye at least.

“You want me to get the nurse?” Now Dad sounds worried, tense.

Despite the pain pulsating through his body, he shakes his head. No need to worry Dad even more.

Silence fills the room, echoing back at them from all four corners of the room.

“Sam wanted to stay,” Dad breaks the stillness finally. “But I sent him home to catch some sleep. He’ll be back tomorrow though.”

Dean nods, and Dad’s face brightens up with relief at that. Why, Dean wonders, because all he did was to nod he’d heard Dad. He wants to think about it more, but his lids are getting heavy again. He wishes the docs would just strike the drugs off his chart. He can deal with the pain, but being foggy like this all the time makes him want to break something.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Dad’s voice makes it through the black veil. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“What? Why?” Dean wants to ask, but speaking seems like such a hassle. He drifts back into slumber instead.

***

Sam spent every minute that Dad would allow by Dean’s side while Dean slept and they waited for him to wake up. Sam looked at Dean, pale with tubes everywhere, and pinched himself just to make sure he wasn’t trapped in a bad dream.

He’d spent a good deal of the past year being mad at Dean, wishing that Dean could just be normal somehow instead of that guy with the cocky act that nobody bought anyway. He’d wished for quiet when Dean insisted on turning up the stereo listening to Metallica when Sam needed to study, and he’d wished Dean wouldn’t pick him up after school so nobody knew Sam’s brother was the weird guy who wore old-fashioned clothes and kept calling him “Samantha” in front of everybody.

But now, as he watched Dean so still in his hospital bed—God, how much he missed Dean talking. Chatting. Trying to cheer Sam up with old jokes when the exam had turned out to be just a B, not the A Sam had worked for. Quoting entire dialogues from Star Wars. Yes, even teasing Sam.

He missed all that, and his throat closed up every time that the doctor’s words came back to him and he thought, “What if the doc is wrong? What if Dean never wakes up?”

What if Dean did wake up different?

Sam bought the biography of Jim Morrison and read it to Dean, page by page, chapter by chapter, until his mouth dried out and the letters in front of his eyes began to swim. He didn’t put the book down when Dad entered, and Dad just sat down in a chair most of the time and listened too. Listened and waited.

The move was on Dean’s side, and nobody knew if he was ever going to make it.

That, Sam figured out, was the thing that scared him most in his life.

He could have strangled Dad, and there were a bunch of nice swearwords Sam hadn’t used yet though they’d been on the tip of his tongue for days. He swallowed his anger down and in conclusion, barely talked to Dad at all.

If Dad hadn’t trained that stupid neurotic need to help into Dean, none of this would have happened.

Only when Dad wasn’t around, Sam put the book down for a few minutes and spoke. He kept his voice low, so that only Dean could hear him, and tried hard not to burst into a teary-eyed speech because if Dean had been awake, he would have smacked Sam for it. Sam would have preferred that over having to see Dean like this.

So he tried to make his words casual, but couldn’t fight all those tears piling up inside, and occasionally he just wrapped his hands around Dean’s hand and whispered, “Please don’t leave us. Please.”

He looked at Dean, whose skin had turned into a colourful painting a blue and purple bruises, connected by white band-aids, and thought that he couldn’t hold it against Dean if he decided not to come back.

***

A broken jaw, the doctor tells him the fourth or fifth time Dean wakes up. Outside is bright and busy, and Dad’s changed his clothes. He can think clearer again, but the pain has also increased. They’ve probably decided to take him off the strong meds. It’s just as well.

A broken jaw, a broken arm, a broken leg. Three broken ribs. Bruises and cuts. A cut over his brow and one at the back of his head, both which needed stitches. A lot of luck that, considering the sheer amount of injuries, Dean will probably fully heal. All it needs is time, and the right therapy.

Dean nods. The swelling on his cheek has lessened, but it’s still hard to move it right and when Dean talks, he ends up talking funny. So he tries to talk as little as possible.

Everything hurts, and there is still an IV pumping morphine into his system, so without the drugs it’d probably be unbearable. He’s bored and he’ hurting, and he spends a good deal of the time dozing away the day.

Sam comes in every afternoon after school, and he brings in the Rolling Stone magazine and car magazines and one time, he even manages to sneak in a current Playboy issue. He speaks very little which Dean would welcome if it wasn’t for the fact that usually, Sam’s chatting all day long. Now he’s quiet like a stone, sitting by Dean’s bedside with his brows deeply furrowed and his eyes fixed on the floor.

On the fourth day of silence, Dean finally asks, “Wha’ wron’?”

Sam jerks out of his thoughts at Dean’s slurred words. He shrugs and scratches his nose, wriggling on his chair.

Dean keeps his eyes on Sam, brows raised. At long last, Sam caves in to the demand and mutters, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

When Dean says nothing, Sam adds, “You could’ve died.”

His voice wavers and combines frustration, anger and fear all at the same time. He averts his eyes and yanks up a hands to wipe something from his cheek.

Dean closes his eyes as flashes of memory flicker up before him. It’d been dark. Cold. There’d been feet. Feet against his ribs and head. And laughter. Sam screaming.

Then, nothing.

***

The day that the doctor told him that Dean had woken up in the morning and that as far as he could tell, Dean would be fine again, Sam started praying. He’d never believed in God until that moment, in a higher power that guided each and every person through their life.

But he’d sat with Dean for days, and the sight of Dean so horribly broken had been engraved into his mind that in the end, Sam hadn’t thought a person could wake up after that. After the beatings and the sounds of bones breaking, the stick that made Dean’s entire torso turn black and green.

So when Dean did wake up, it was a miracle.

It was the day that Sam realised there had to be good out there, not just evil. And someone good had taken care of Dean, had made him live through it all. Sam thanked that someone every day. Even later at Stanford, when he wasn’t even speaking to Dean anymore.

***

When they release him from hospital, he still can’t walk, the cast on his arm hasn’t come off and his jaw still hurts. Laughing sends little reminders that half his ribs are broken. At least he can eat food again, as long is it’s wobbly and doesn’t require chewing. The bruises have faded to a much lighter shades of pink, and he can use both eyes again. Some progress.

They have to take the wheelchair home, and Dean spends the whole journey to their house with a gravely expression on his face. Dad and Sam had to help him switching to the back bench from the chair, on the parking lot in broad daylight, for everyone to see. Like he’s a fucking baby.

Dean doesn’t want the wheelchair to come home and he’s already figuring out ways to avoid using it. He can do without being carried around like a baby. He doesn’t want anyone to push it; he doesn’t want to be seen in it.

Plus, that stupid therapy the doc was talking about—Dean’s not having any of that. He’s no wuss. The moment the cast comes off, he’ll start running again. Shorter distances at first perhaps, but he won’t have any of that physiotherapy crap. Even though Dad seems set on making him go.

When he comes into the living room, more pillows than Dean remembers the house having are spread on the couch. There’s a woollen blanket folded neatly on the pillows, and a bedside table with water and a big bowl of chocolate pudding.

Dean averts his eyes and stares at the floor tiles, folds his hands in his lap. Dammit. He doesn’t even want to think about the burden he must be right now; fucking extra pillows…Dad must have bought them. They have to strategically plan what to spend money on anyway and now Dad had gone ahead and bought pillows for Dean. Fuck.

Sam says something, he sounds tense, trying too hard at being cheerful. Dean’s barely listening, catching fragments here and there.

Strong arms reach under his shoulders and pull him up from the wheelchair into a standing position. Dean tries to slip out of the embrace, tries to show them that he doesn’t need help, but Dad’s grip is too strong. He forces Dean to lean in against his chest, and then they walk over to the couch, step by step. A bolt of pain shoots through Dean’s leg and torso every time he shifts his weight, but Dean just bites his lip and swallows the anger down. Can’t even fucking walk anymore.

Dad eases him on the couch and Dean sinks back with a sigh that he didn’t mean to let out. Cushions are placed under his broken leg and that feels like heaven. Next thing he knows, Dad spreads the blanket over him and helps Dean adjust the pillows under his head until he’s comfortable. Sam hovers in the background, watching with a nervous eye.

Jesus Christ, Sammy, Dean wants to say, Ease up a little.

Dean still doesn’t remember much of the incident that got him into this state. Occasionally he dreams about darkness and laughter and pain, but never much more. They haven’t talked about it. Sam and Dad probably think Dean remembers, and Dean hasn’t asked.

The way they act around him, careful and guilt-ridden, makes him think that maybe, he just doesn’t want to know. It’s bad enough as it is. He probably did something stupid. End of story.

Dad keeps coming back asking Dean if he’s all right, if he’s in pain. He places all bottles with Dean’s medication on the table in the kitchen, and counts them according to the sheet the doc gave him. Morning, lunch, evening. Sam keeps running back and forth, getting Dean movies that Dean mentions in a side note, and cooking him as much chocolate pudding as a person can eat.

Dean doesn’t like it. He’s supposed to take care of them. Not the other way round.

Sam sits with him sometimes, on the floor with his back against the couch. They’re watching an old Western when Sam suddenly turns around, eyes wild and begging, and he blurts out, “Please don’t ever do something like that again. Promise me.”

Dean, who doesn’t have any idea what Sam is talking about but whose stomach twists at the thought of asking, nods.

Briefly, Sam puts his hand on Dean’s arm and smiles at him, grin so wide with relief it almost looks surreal. That look right there is worth the lie. Dean doesn’t know what exactly he just promised to never do again, but he’ll probably break that promise sooner or later.

Knowing what exactly he’s supposed to never do again wouldn’t change that.

Sam turns around again, focusing on the television. On the screen, the cavalry has just come to save the day.

***


They’d been waiting in the car for twenty minutes when Sam saw them. God, how he later wished he hadn’t. How he wished he would just have let it slide, because he should have seen it coming. You think you’re so smart, Sammy.

The car was parked in some back road, night sky hung with clouds and the streets glistening with the rain that had come down earlier. Dad had vanished into one of the old red brick houses after he’d told them to stay put, he’d be right back. He was going to get an old book from one of his contacts, and after that they’d been supposed to go grab a burger.

Dean was squeezed into the passenger seat, humming a tune that Sam didn’t recognise and Sam turned his head to look out the window—and saw it. Saw them.

Five guys, all clad in jeans and big black jackets, hair cut short. Maybe they belonged to a gang, Sam never found out. Three of them were carrying rods, whether made of iron or wood Sam couldn’t tell from the distance. The Impala was covered in shadow, so maybe they didn’t notice it wasn’t empty. From the distance, it was hard to tell.

They threw their heads back and laughed, and then suddenly, Sam saw the dog. It was a tiny, shivering thin thing that cowered in the middle of the group. The guys were gathered around it. For a while, nothing happened. Then, one of the guys took a swing with his stick, and the others joined in.

“Oh God,” Sam said. He shouldn’t have.

The same moment, the dog let out a pathetic whine that echoed faintly inside the room. Maybe, if the radio had been turned on, they would have missed it.

Dean turned around, over the back of the seat, and asked, “What?”

Sam didn’t need to reply, Dean spotted the gang the same moment.

Before Sam could say or do anything, Dean had climbed out of the car.

“Dean!” Sam called, but Dean just ignored him. He walked straight towards the guys, who didn’t notice his presence even when Dean had already snuck up to them and joined the group, with square shoulders and long steps.

“Hey, why don’t you look for someone your own size?” Sam heard Dean say.

The gang stopped beating the dog, and Sam knew it wasn’t going to end well. He pushed the door to the passenger seat open.

A horrible thud filled the street before Sam had wriggled out of the Impala, the sound of something hard being beaten against human flesh. Dean sank to his knees with a groan and the guy, a crow bar in his hand, grinned. The other guys laughed.

“Coward,” Dean smirked. He raised his chin, and everything went still. Even Sam stopped still, the air crackled with tension. Sam held his breath. Maybe it’d turn out all right, maybe they’d go home and let Dean be, maybe…

The guy smashed the rod against Dean’s torso again. Dean went to the ground with a groan, falling over backwards. Then, the others joined in. Sam started running.

He yelled “No!” and “Stop it!” Without even realizing it, in wild despair that made his voice reach pitches that it had never reached before.

“Stop it!” Sam cried again, the guys’ laughter ringing in his ears, mingling with Dean’s groans and the horrible sound of bones breaking and flesh being beaten. Blind with tears, he tried to muddle through, squeeze through the guys to get to Dean, but he was pushed back hard.

“Sam—run,” Dean’s voice came through, fragile and thin, like there was no air breath left in Dean.

Bulky arms suddenly pulled him back.

“You don’t want to spoil the fun, do you?” a voice close to his ear hissed. When Sam tried to get free, the guy holding him twisted his arm until white pain shot through Sam’s mind as he heard another bone break—this time his own. Pain pulsating through his body, he fought the tight grip, but it was useless. The other guy was too strong.

“Stop it!” Sam cried. “Please, stop it!”

Nobody cared.

They were huddled over Dean, who was lying on the ground and trying to fight back. Sam saw him kick; occasionally hitting somebody’s shin, but it was a fight he could not win. They were too many, and out for blood.

He watched them using the iron rods on Dean, the crow bars, watched their boots hitting Dean’s head, heard their laughter echo between the buildings. It soared up into the sky, along with Dean’s groans that grew fainter, until he finally stopped fighting back, stopped moving.

“No,” Sam whispered.

Still they wouldn’t stop.

He cried and he didn’t care, didn’t care that they were laughing at him now, didn’t even care that they were probably going to beat him up next. He saw Dean lifeless on the ground, blood everywhere, a red puddle underneath his head, his leg and arm in an odd angle, and he knew that Dean was dead. There was no way he could have survived that.

He cried. He wept. Didn’t hear their comments and threats. He barely realised the bastards were still there.

Then a shot exploded in the night, and everybody whipped around.

Behind them, the middle of the alley, stood Dad. He was holding a shotgun, and pointing it at them. He looked like an avenger from one of Sam’s comic books. Sam was sobbing loudly, and suddenly the hands loosened their grip on him. He fell to the ground, landed on his bad arm and whimpered.

“Dean,” he whispered, eyes set on his brother. But Dean didn’t hear him.

He crawled over to Dean inch by inch. Somewhere behind him Dad was using his mad voice, the one that sent chills down Sam’s spine every time even though he knew Dad wouldn’t ever hit him, and then hurried footsteps as the guys decided to bolt and run.

He reached for Dean’s arm with his good hand, shaking it a little. “Dean.”

Dean’s face was white underneath the blood. His jaw looked as if it had snapped out of place.

This couldn’t be it. Dean couldn’t die. Not like this. Tears were still running down Sam’s face, he hadn’t even noticed.

Out of nowhere, Dad was suddenly there. He sunk to his knees, shoulders slouched and figure bent, and collected Dean in his arms, very carefully. Dean’s limp form looked like a rag doll in Dad’s embrace. Dad’s hand was covered in red liquid when he supported the back of Dean’s head, pressing it against his chest.

“Dean,” he said. His voice was low, wavering, and gentler than Sam had ever heard it. He didn’t even glance up at Sam, as if he had forgotten about him. Sam wiped some tears from his face, but couldn’t stop new ones from coming.

“Dean,” Dad repeated. He was begging. Dad had never begged before. Sam thought the thumping of his heart would wake the neighbours. He shivered, but not with cold.

Dad’s long fingers ran through Dean’s clotted hair. “Come on, Dean, please.”

Time froze.

Then, life stirred in Dean. He groaned, and Sam’s heart leaped into his mouth.

“Shh…” Dad soothed, still stroking Dean’s hair. Dean’s brows furrowed; a rattled cough shook his body. Blood seeped from his mouth.

“We’re here. Ambulance is on their way.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze was unfocused, until it settled on. His eyes went from distant to lucid for a moment. “Dog…’ay?”

Sam nodded, biting his lip. He had no idea what had happened to the dog.

“You…’ay?” Dean sounded like he was rapidly running out of air, his voice flat. He coughed, and spat out a mouthful of blood.

“Yeah,” Sam replied. It was a lie, and it was worth it.

Dean’s smiles tug to a weak smile. Then his eyes turned inward and his lids drooped. His face relaxed, and he slacked in Dad’s arms. His head lolled against Dad’s chest.

“Dean, stay with me.”

But this time, Dean didn’t wake up again.

In the distance, the horn of the ambulance cut through the stillness of the night. Dad’s eyes were glassy, his jaw set tight. Sam’s stomach dropped, and he forgot about the pain in his arm.

“Just hold on, Dean. Everything’s going to be fine,” Dad whispered.

Sam had a feeling that it was nothing more than a lie, too.

-end-