𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚢𝚜𝚖 ➳ 𝚝𝚠𝚍/𝚜𝚙𝚗

6. Day 318

When Dean came-to, it was with one hell of a headache, what felt like his entire skull throbbing in time with his heart. In fact, there wasn’t really a part of him that didn’t hurt. His knuckles burned and his side was sore, not to mention that the rawness of his throat made its presence known each time he swallowed.

He cracked an eye open and instantly regretted it when the light made the rhythmic pounding in his temple worse. He groaned and someone shifted, Hershel’s worried face offering a bit of reprieve from the light.

“Dean? How are you feeling?” The old man asked quietly, cool hands dropping to the disoriented brunet’s head to gently massage his aching temples.

“‘M fine.” Dean murmured, arching into the soft touch with a sigh as the pressure behind his eyes eased some.

“We got worried when you weren’t waking up. Thought you might’ve slipped into a coma, Rick hit you pretty hard, son.” Hershel murmured and all at once the memories came flooding back, prompting the brunet to surge upright. His resulting cry of pain was alarmingly loud to his own ears -no doubt drawing attention- when his side flared with white-hot agony, Hershel supporting Dean’s suddenly dead weight with a hand between his shoulder blades when he flopped back onto the mattress.

“Is everyone okay? Is Daryl? Rick?” Dean forced the question out through gritted teeth, gingerly sitting up at a slower pace to avoid agitating his wounds.

“Everyone is fine, Rick had everyone but himself, Daryl and Merle leave the cafeteria. If anything, they’re the ones that did a number on you.” There was an edge to Hershel’s voice, a quiet anger that had the hair on the back on the brunette’s neck prickling.

“It’s okay, I’m sure I deserved it.” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling weary and drained despite just waking up. Hershel’s hand was a warm comfort on his shoulder, his expression grave.

“I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation Dean, you’ve been unresponsive for four days.” Hershel stressed and the brunet blinked, uncomprehending for a moment before panic clawed at his chest.

“What! Four days!?” Dean lurched to his unsteady feet, wobbling. Thankfully, before his face could be introduced to the floor, Hershel caught his elbow. “What did I miss? Anything important?” Unfortunately, before the old man could answer Dean’s frantic question, a whole flurry of footsteps were ascending the stairs and racing down the walkway.

The brunet’s squinted gaze turned toward the door and he belatedly realized that he was in the room that he shared with Merle, probably for comfort seeing as he had apparently been out of commission for four fucking days.

Unexpectedly, Carl was the first to storm into the room, gun in hand.

And, for a moment, Dean wanted nothing more than to grab the firearm and blow his own brains out. But when he realized just what he had thought, he promptly took that mentality by the throat and stuffed it into the deepest hole he could find before throwing the hole away, managing a weak smile for the boy.

“Hey Carl, sorry about the scare…” Dean’s words trailed off when the boy’s eyes welled with tears, Carl fumbling to return his gun to its holster before giving up and just carelessly tossing it onto the bed, throwing himself at Dean with a sob. The impact smarted, but the brunette grit his teeth and ignored the pain.