Wayward Son

Chapter 20

The pain never let up. Bone deep, unrelenting, wish-you-were-dead pain. It grabbed hold of him, clamped down tight, shook him like a dog shaking a rat. The all-consuming ache even leaked into his fevered dreams.

He couldn't remember where he was or why this was happening, but he knew he deserved it. He'd managed to hold on to that fact. Something to do with Ruthie. He'd hurt her. Again.

Day and night blurred together. Time stretched out, meaningless, nothing but a vehicle for his suffering. Broken only by glimpses of Ruthie: bending over him, cooling his face, warming his hands, murmuring soothing words. Sam hovering behind her, looking strained.

"The sheets are drenched."

Sam's arms under him, lifting him off the bed. A rustling noise.

"The fever's broken. This is good, Sam." She sounded so tired.

Sam lowering him back onto the bed. Clean, dry sheets. He sprawled on them, arms outstretched and...not rigid. Not racked with tremors. The pain now simmered at only a dull throb. He might have cried in relief if he weren't so exhausted. He slipped into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

Low voices, to his right.

"You've barely slept in three days. You need rest."

"Trust me, I'll hibernate when this is over. I want to be here when he wakes up. I'll need to check his vitals." Her voice sounded thin and drained.

Drained.

Brandon Reeves' life-drained body, the little pinches behind his ear, the bloody, empty syringe on the floor. Monica smiling as she stretched up toward him. The little red hole over Ruthie's heart. He wished the cloud of pain fogging his mind would come back. The memories were worse. He'd betrayed her, again. Hurt her, again. She could have died because of him. Again. God, what was she still doing here? Didn't she ever learn?

He wanted to keep pretending to sleep, so he wouldn't have to face her. But his throat screamed for water; it was so dry he couldn't even swallow.

"You two look like hell," he rasped.

It was true. They were both pale and drawn, with dark circles under their eyes. Especially Ruthie. But their faces lit up when he spoke.

"Hey!" Sam came to stand beside him. "How do you feel?"

"Like a truck hit me. Then backed up and ran me over again."

A ripping noise, then Ruthie velcroed a blood pressure cuff around his left arm. He kept his eyes on Sam.

"Water."

Sam grabbed a cup from the side table and put a curved straw to Dean's mouth. He sipped slowly at first, then as fast as he could.

"Take it easy," Ruthie warned. "Here." She held a thermometer in front of his lips.

He waved it away. "I'm fine."

"Humor me."

He still didn't look at her. He opened up, just to get it over with.

She slid the thermometer under his tongue. "Your pulse and blood pressure are good," she said in a tired but cheerful tone. "You went through every bag of saline I had, so I'm really glad you're coming out of it."

She paused, but he didn't respond. "I have some chicken broth ready to heat up if you feel hungry. The kind I made last time we were here. Remember?"