The Runt of the Litter

As I Collide, I See I Am a Paradox

Note: Happy Saturday AKA the best day of the week! Thank you x1000 for all the reads, votes, and comments on the last chapter. It means so much to get your feedback.

Well, this is kinda long. Sam left for Stanford just over a year prior to this time frame, so I'm sorry and I love him, but he's not in this one. John plays a big role, though. I wanted to try writing him because I think he's an interesting-- if infuriating-- character. The mood is pretty low for the first half of this (hence the title), but it gets much fluffier in the second half, so stay tuned. Anna is four years old in this chapter.




As I Collide, I See I Am a Paradox

One.

Remember to breathe. Always breathe. If you can't focus on anything, you just focus on your breathing. Panic fades and leaves you perfectly and pragmatically in control the very moment you remember to breathe.

Two.

So John breathed. He needed to remain calm and alert all at once, to get a handle on everything before him. The supernatural threat was gone, but blood was pouring steadily from Dean's side. They were not out of the woods yet, figuratively or literally.

Three.

Inhale. Draw in strength and let your optimistically methodical side kick in. Information, control, confidence. Exhale. Release the tension, the hectic fear, the fresh and angry memories.

Four.

John reminded himself just who the hell he was. A hunter. A father. He'd seen more blood than this before, even coming from his children, from Dean. He could handle this.

Five.

Time's up. Time to handle this.

"Dad, m'ok," the weak voice came from his strong son.

John's hands pressed against Dean's wound moved just a little. "I know, Champ," he said, fully centered and grounded now. Yes, his heart was racing in his chest. No, he was not panicking. He moved one hand from Dean's side to cup his face. "Look here."

Those green eyes, Mary's eyes, unfocused and dancing clumsily even as Dean tried so hard to follow instructions. He was good like that. A good kid. A good kid bleeding all over his father's hands, but John didn't allow his mind to stray there. He pulled gauze out of his pocket, ripping past plastic to reach the soft first aid supplies and mentally noting that Dean was concussed. How bad, he could determine later. For now, the outpouring gash in his son's side would take precedence.

"Stay awake for me, Dean. Say something."

Under normal circumstances, John would hear a smart-ass echo of the word something. He would smirk exasperatedly, shoot Dean a disapproving look they both knew he didn't mean. Tonight, Dean seemed to space out, disoriented and distracted by the leaves above their heads, or maybe the stars beyond.

"Count," John ordered and pressed the gauze hard against Dean's wound. "Count to twenty for me, Dean."

He'd taught this trick to his sons early. He would teach it to Anna before she hunted even a spirit. Counting could keep you from panicking, true, and it was helpful in that way. But counting could also keep an injured person alert and focused. It could clue you in to their state of mind and their consciousness without your needing to concentrate too hard on the conversation while you were patching them up.

Dean swallowed thickly, and John sent up a silent, whispered prayer to no one in particular that he wasn't about to throw up. They couldn't afford the lost time and the way it would pull at Dean's side. "One," the word came out surprisingly clear. "T-two."