Razorblades and Bandaides

What I’ve Done

The smell of smoke and charred flesh followed John Winchester through the garage—grey-black puffs of smoke just beginning to climb the stairs—as he made his way to the car. Glancing in the backseat before sliding behind the steering wheel he saw the youngest Winchester’s lanky form curled into a ball on the bench seat. Dean sat with his back against the door with as much of Sam’s body cradled in his lap as he could fit. A look of fear, relief and anger set in his eldest son’s green eyes as he returned John’s quick glance.

Not uttering a word of assurance to either of his sons, or even for himself, John slid the key into the Impala’s ignition; and with a roar the old engine came to life. In a quick motion John pulled the car into the street and drove fast away from the now blazing house.

Silence hung heavy between Dean and John. He didn’t know what to say to either of his sons. “I’m sorry you were kidnapped and raped, Sam, let’s go kill a ghost,” felt so inappropriate and shallow. Murmuring a string of I’m sorry’s felt as though he may as well patronize them.

No words could ever come close to relaying the guilt building in him or the horror he felt entering their empty motel room. Words would not be able to sooth away the anger seated heavily in the pit of his stomach; they would never blot out the what ifs beginning to tear at the corners of his mind.

What if he’d taken them on the hunt with him? What if he’d waited for Dean to heal before leaving? What if he’d just left them on Jim’s doorstep those almost sixteen years ago? What if he’d been able to save Mary? What if the demon had never paid them a visit that night?

His foot pressed against the gas pedal a little harder, urging the car forward faster, as he tried to shake the scenarios etching themselves on top of one another in his mind. The worst scene to play through his anger and guilt ridden mind was not a made up what if. It had happened, and it scared, scarred, and killed him more than anything he’d seen since he began his cursed quest for his wife’s murderer.

Death had been too easy and far too quick for the bastard who had not only kidnapped his sons, but also had assaulted and tried to kill his youngest. Cursing himself for burning the body, John squashed the growing urge to turn the car around, raise the sonovabitch and kill him again.

How’d this happen? He thought, doing his best to not slam his hand against the steering wheel. How did this fucking happen?

Road signs blurred together in green and white stripes as he sped past them and the wind blowing in the partially opened window—thick with moisture from the storm driving it—did little to drown out soft murmuring and sobs coming from the backseat. Without having to look he knew that it was Dean murmuring assurances to a sobbing Sam. Rage began to build in him again.

Three hours and he didn’t care how many miles later and John Winchester finally stopped the car, stopped thinking through an almost endless list of what ifs, and stopped replaying the site of his youngest son lying motionless beneath a man built like a small house—the life being slowly choked from him.

They needed gas, Sam needed a doctor and they all needed rest.

John pulled the car into the first motel he saw: Comfort Lodge. The neon vacancy sign blinked as though it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay on or not. He double parked just outside the glass doors of the office. “’m gonna get us a room,” muttered clambering from the Impala. His chest constricted momentarily as he moved toward the small motel office.

Unlike the place they’d fled, this motel office was brightly lit and painted a crisp white. Blue floral print curtains framed the windows. Other blue colored floral accents gave the bright little office a friendly feel. A twenty-something girl sat behind the counter, book sitting open in front of her.

“Hello,” she said as he approached the desk. Her voice was almost a forced chipper sound, edged with boredom.

“I need a room with two beds,” he said, already digging his wallet from his back pocket.

“Queen or double?” she asked—fingers pecking away at the computer keyboard faster than he could keep track.

“Double…Do you have any roll aways?”

“Of course.” Her smile faded and she swore under her breath as she stared at the computer screen.

“Something wrong?” he asked, praying that it was nothing serious enough to force him to move on.

“No,” she said quickly, tearing her blue eyes from the screen before her. “Oh, no. . . New system. . . It likes to shut down sometimes,” she explained, equally quick—reaching under the counter. With a loud thud a book John was very familiar with hit the counter. “We’ll do this the old fashioned way,” she opened the book and took out a pen, “I can put in the computer later.”

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

“We’re in room ten,” John said, sliding behind the wheel. “After you get settled I’m going for supplies.” Neither of his boys acknowledged him or his words as he moved the car in front of their room.

He watched mutely as his eldest son carefully pulled the handle on the door to open it, then slowly lifted Sam’s head from his lap where he’d been cradling his younger brother since they rescued him. Dean slid himself from the car, turned and helped the sleepy teen from the Impala. They moved slowly from the car toward the closed door to the room—Dean supporting the bulk of Sam’s weight.

Anger once again flared in John Winchester. Neither boy had spoken in the hours since Sam’s rescue. In fact Sam had flinched at the few words John had said to his boys during their long drive. Sitting behind the wheel a moment longer John marveled as Dean silently burdened Sam’s weight. It never failed to amaze him how willing and silently serving his oldest son could be and how terribly they could fight with each other.

Dean was practically glaring at John as he slid the motel key into the lock. He tried not to laugh, chuckle or otherwise find humor in his recognition of Dean’s patented look that would or easily could have been followed by, “sometime this year would be nice.” Letting out a laugh would lead to cross looks from Dean, hurt feelings for his sons and it would only be a couple short giggles before he broke down and cried tears of anger and frustration. He bit his tongue and watched Dean lead Sam to the bathroom.

I should have been there. John thought bitterly, turning his back to the car. Doing his best to push aside the guilty thoughts and threat of tears John opened the trunk and pulled his bag out—dropping it to the pavement with a solid thud. The boys’ bags were tossed beside his in haste filled lumps. A solid of emotion formed in his throat as his calloused fingers wrapped to almost white knuckle tautness around the canvas handles of Sam’s awkwardly stuffed pack. “Not now soldier,” he whispered—steeling himself against the emotion threatening to overtake him.

With the ease of having been a hunter for too many years, John hefted the bags containing their lives into the room—his and Dean’s on one hand, Sam’s in the other. He felt as though he were on autopilot depositing Sam’s bag onto the bed closest to the bathroom before dropping Dean’s on the opposing bed and his on the floor.

“I’m going for supplies,” he yelled at the bathroom door. Without waiting for a reply John left the suddenly claustrophobia inducing room. With the closed motel room door to his back and the Impala sitting dark and silent before him, John decided to walk the few blocks between the motel and the convenience store he’d seen on their way in.

For the first time in year long hours John’s brain registered more than the painful guilt and absolute terror he’d felt since finding both of his boys, as his legs moved him numbly along the paved sidewalk. It almost surprised him that the one thing his numbed mind didn’t numb was the temperature of the slight breeze blowing down the street. It wasn’t a cold breeze either. It was somewhere between cool and lure warm, and it was just enough to cool the heat that had settled in his face after the hours of travel in the stale heat of the car.

But that was all his weary brain seemed to be able to process as he neared the block he’d seen the small store on. The rest of his brain was still trying to process the nightmare his sons had lived through—still trying to force the imagined and actual images burned into his mind’s eye of Sam being strangled after the sonovabitch had raped him, and Dean, tape covering his mouth, being held between two men of almost equal strength as the attempted to stuff him in a laundry cart.

Anger and guilt flared in John anew at the thought that he’s caused this. He allowed his sons to be kidnapped, assaulted and close to being murdered, as sure as he’d handed them over to the slavery ring himself.

Sam needs a doctor. His mind suddenly reasoned, snapping from his guilt induced stupor.

The thought alone stopped John dead. He blinked against the harsh florescent white of the store’s lights as he realized he had no clue what either boys’ injuries were or where exactly he had driven them. His brown-green eyes stared at the shelves of bandages, pain killers and ointments unsure of what it was exactly he needed.

Before he could stop himself, John found himself heading for the front of the store—cell phone pressed to his ear.

“I need your help, Bobby,” he said at the near groggy greeting that was growled into the other line—his think fingers wrapping around the handle of the store shopping cart. “I don’t know how to help them.”

“Help who? Who is this?....John?” Bobby Singer gruffed into the phone—barely recognizing the voice of his friend. It wasn’t the usual sure tone the younger man used, causing the slightly older hunter to take pause. In the near five years he’d known Winchester he’d never once heard an ounce of uncertainty in the man’s voice. This new tone to John Winchester’s voice set Bobby on edge.

“Yeah, it’s me.” His feet once again stopped him. Without a thought he opened the refrigerated case before him and pulled out a six pack. “I grabbed them and left. . . Sam’s hurt. . .I don’t know where to start to help.”

“How bad is Sam hurt?”

“He was nearly strangled,” John said flatly, steering the cart back to the medical supply isle. “He only let’s Dean near him.”

“Does he have any other injuries, John?”

“Yes.” He stopped for the third time since stopping in the town. It occurred to him as the single syllable word slipped from his lips that he didn’t know how to admit to the other hunter what he had done to his children. “His wrists are chafed. . . and h-he was. . .r-r-ra. . .” a single tear began to slide from his eye to his cheek as the word stuck like peanut butter to his tongue. He wiped the salty moisture from his face in one swipe of his hand—forcing the rest of the tears to not fall.

“Sam was raped?!”

John nodded—both not being able to find his voice and momentarily forgetting he was on the phone. “Yes,” he confirmed.

“Did you kill the sonovabitch?” It was a stupid question, Bobby knew that. Of course John Winchester killed the monster who had forced his son into sex; especially if he had caught the twisted fuck in the act.

“I did,” he confirmed—voice full of guilt and regret and devoid of boastful pride in the act of murder he’d committed.

“What happened?”

“What do I need to fix them, Bobby?” He ignored the other hunter’s question.

“Where are you? I might know someone nearby.”

“I don’t know, Bobby. Dean and I grabbed Sam and I lit out of there.”

“Whatever shock you’re in, you’ve got to snap outta it, John. It’s piss poor of you to not know where you are or to have covered your tracks better. You killed someone. At least tell me you salted and burned?”

“Yes.”

“Come to Lincoln. I’ll have a room and a doctor waiting.”

“I don’t think that Sam should travel yet.” He finally loaded a few medical supplies into the cart.

“Is Chicago close enough?”

“I don’t know.”

“Call me when you find out where you are.”

Sliding his phone back into his pocket and cursing Bobby for hanging up, John turned the cart for the checkout.
Fin