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The stitches were even, tiny, they would hardly scar. The skinwalker had mauled a lot of Dean’s body, leaving deep gauges in Dean’s chest, legs and arms, breaking the skin to the white bones beneath. Dean had fought, desperate and with his entire body. John found three broken fingers while he washed the blood off, and Dean’s left wrist was twisted all the way to the wrong side. It made a sickening sound of grating bones when John set it to the right position.
Limp like a dead animal, arms and legs boneless, chest still, mouth slack and eyes closed, Dean lay sprawled on the table like a broken doll. He’d lost the fight. That much was clear, but John couldn’t help a hiccup of pride at how hard he’d fought. Until his last breath he’d fought. His son, brave, resourceful, strong.
He put a hand above Dean’s mouth, stupidly expecting the exhale of warm breath. Dean had died. In the deep of the woods outside Pineville, Arkansas, he’d died. In the slime and mud, he’d died, and like a last fuck you, he’d killed the monster he was hunting.
John, swiped sweat and tears from his face and went back to work. He folded the skin together where it’d been broken, matching the edges as well as he could. There was no blood anymore, neither a working heart to pump it and that made his job easier. But rigor mortis would set soon and the skin would become stiff, hard. It would be hard to push the needle through at that point, so John worked efficiently, fast hands used to close wounds in the middle of a battle, he’d only swapped a war for another and a comrade for a son.
Under the light of the torchlight, he worked and he didn’t listen to the scream in his head - only one, short and shrill, like it was being ripped out of Dean’s throat against his will. It’d echoed against the trees so that John couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it came from. That was why John had been too late.
Legs done, he washed them with a washcloth and warm soapy water until they were white and clean and didn’t smell like death and fallen leaves anymore, then he covered them with a sheet to preserve Dean’s modesty. He wouldn’t want to embarrass Dean more than necessary. He glanced at Dean’s chest and arms and sighed and kept working.
By the time he finished, dawn was breaking through the curtains. He stood up and stretched his aching back and blinked twice to focus his eyes. There was a bluish tint already around Dean’s lips. For some reason, the skinwaker had not touched Dean’s face. Not a mark on it, not even a bruise. It was unmarred, intact; the memory of Mary in Dean’s features still there, more blatant now when Dean couldn’t hide it with a smirk, or a cocky smile. John smiled and grabbed the book from his duffle.
The spell was easy, almost too easy, but John didn’t question it: he never had before. Blood from a relative. Something that had belonged to the dead. Dirt from a consecrated place. He assembled everything together and read the words three times solemn and believing in the power he was using. He had the experience to back him up. This was hardly the first time.
He was distracted and Dean’s gasped first breath took him by surprise. He held Dean’s head through the pain of being reborn, of getting used to life. He stilled his flailing limbs, so that Dean didn’t hurt himself or fell onto the floor while he convulsed. It didn’t last long, it never did, then Dean calmed and in the first ray of sun of the new day, he turned big, teary eyes to John. There were words John wanted to say, but they couldn’t make it past his lips. He smiled instead, slapped Dean’s cheek with as much tenderness as he could manage.
Don’t think you can lay here all day, he said finally. I’ve got a new job in Missouri. A werewolf, he added as enticement. He would let Dean sleep in the car.
Confusion blurred Dean’s eyes and questions formed on Dean’s lips, but John didn’t indulge them. It’s okay, he said. You were out of it for a while. But the monster’s dead and that’s all that matters.
Dean kept silent as John helped him to stand up. He was weak and unstable on his feet like a newborn and leaned heavily onto John so he didn’t fall. He did look at his chest and legs and arms and noticed the net of fresh scars, still angry red, the thread black against pale skin. John only nodded an acknowledgement and Dean didn’t ask why they didn’t hurt. They were so many and ugly and John hoped Dean got used to them. He shook his head. John should have been faster, but Dean should have been more careful. They’d have to work on that soon.
When Dean was ready he left him leaning against the doorframe; his eyes were already drooping. John gathered his things and put them back in his duffle. The book with the spell he put in one of the pockets and zipped it close. He didn’t know when he would need it again and he wouldn’t risk losing it. —