Snapshot In Time ➳ twd/spn

Day 314: Covered In Crimson

Rick's POV

The grip of Rick’s python struck Dean’s temple with a crack that reverberated off the walls, the brunet’s hold on Daryl’s wrist going slack as his eyes rolled back, unceremoniously crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. The back of Dean’s head hit the ground with a loud thud that made Rick’s next breath stall in his chest, guilt immediately crawling up his throat when his owlish gaze snagged on the red stain that was expanding from the brunet’s side.

Rick had done that.

“What the fuck!?” Merle snarled, blocking Dean from view as he got into Rick’s face. “I told ya not ta hurt ‘im! He don’t do that shit on purpose, ya think he likes hurtin’ people!?” He seethed, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“I- I just reacted.” Rick stated weakly, knowing that his excuse was a flimsy one as soon as he said it. No explanation that he could possibly think of -or voice- would ever make what he just did to one of his own people acceptable, especially to someone as loyal and kind as Dean.

“Tha’s fuckin’ bullshit an’ ya damn well know it.” Merle sneered, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Both were distracted by the jingle of keys, followed by the creak of the barred entryway opening before Hershel hobbled in with the help of his crutches. The old man went straight to Dean, Daryl right on Hershel’s heels. The others hovered by the door as the younger redneck helped Hershel to the ground, the old man scooting up to Dean’s head to gingerly lift it off the wet concrete.

Rick’s stomach dropped out when his vision went awash with red, his eyes frozen on the thick strings of the vibrant crimson that dripped off of the brunet’s matted hair, adding to the growing puddle on the floor directly beneath Dean’s head.

There was no mistaking the source of the blood.

A wounded noise shattered the suffocating tension that had descended over the cafeteria, Rick tearing his wide eyes away from the violent color to direct them to Merle instead, the elder redneck’s own distraught gaze still locked onto Dean’s prone form.

“Carol. Medkit.” Hershel barked, startling the stricken woman, who -much like everyone else- had been staring at Dean in horror. Despite the urgency in Hershel’s tone, she stayed rooted in place, numb with the shock of what had just transpired. Surprisingly, it was Carl who moved to obey, sprinting from the room in order to fetch what was needed. Rick watched him go, regret ripping away at his insides.

His son was back in what felt like hours, each second seeming to stretch on for an eternity. The crowd of onlookers parted for him, allowing Carl passage to Dean’s side. He slid to his knees beside Hershel, setting the white case down in front of the old farmer before flipping the latches and pulling it open, his hands moving away as Hershel’s descended to rummage through their first aid supplies.

He cleaned the wound first, instructing Daryl to support Dean’s head so that he could douse the gushing wound with hydrogen peroxide to kill any bacteria that might’ve gotten on -or in- the injury. Rick’s chest wound tighter and tighter the longer that the brunet remained eerily still and unresponsive, Dean’s usually expressive face slack with unconsciousness through the lengthy process of having the wound packed with gauze to staunch the bleeding before his head was wrapped with crisp white bandages.

Once the injury had been seen to, Hershel asked Carl to take Merle and grab the chemicals needed to clean the blood off the floor, the boy immediately leaping to his feet in order to carry out the task. Hershel and Daryl stayed on the ground, the latter holding the brunet’s head up off the concrete, red and sticky with blood as it was. Hershel took the opportunity to measure Dean’s pulse and check his pupils with a penlight, frowning at his findings.

“Alright. I’ve done all I can do.” Hershel declared, wiping his hands off with the rag that Beth offered him before packing away the remaining medical supplies while the blonde dutifully collected the bloodied bits of gauze and cotton balls to properly dispose of.

“Whaddya mean?” Daryl voiced the unasked question that they were all thinking, his sticky hands carefully adjusting their grip with as little movement as possible.

“He definitely has a major concussion, but his lack of responsiveness might indicate some serious brain damage. I’ll have to keep an eye on him.” Hershel sighed, running his hand over his grim face.

“You mean like a coma?” Carol piped in, voice several octaves higher than usual.

“Either he’ll wake up… or he won’t.” Hershel declared simply -expression grave- and silence blanketed the room.