Guardian {Dean Winchester}

Chapter Twelve: I meet my distsnt cousin, sort of

February 18th, 2005
St. Paul Minnesota

Dean drove, once again, all night. His fingers drummed the steering wheel, and his eyes darted around nervously, which was mostly understandable. Dad had called him at the crack of dawn, before it's remotely humane time to wake up, to tell Dean that he needs him in Minnesota, where hr was hunting a werewolf.

Dad didn't give much detail, just the location of the motel he was staying at, and the request for alcohol. I wasn't sure if he wanted the drinking kind, or the medical kind, but Dean grabbed the drinking kind when we neared the outskirts of St. Paul.

When we pulled up to the motel, it was still too early for the sun to rise, but there was a pale haze behind to frost covered trees. Dean and I exited the impala and walked into the office area. A half asleep elderly man read a thick book at the desk. His eyes glanced up to us, and he sighed before closing his book.

"Can I help you?" He asks in a monotone voice.

"Yes, looking for my dad. Yay tall, black hair, beard" Dean described. The elderly man blinked slowly, which reminded me of a turtle I once saw on the side of the road. He thought for a moment, and nodded

"Yes, I think a feller like that came through" He says."he was kind of gruff and blunt"

"Yeah that's him" Dean says.

"Room 8, down the hall" the man says. Dean thanks him and quickly walks towards Dad's room. I stayed hot on his heels, glancing around the tidied up lawn. Dean's eyes scanned the room numbers, and he stopped when he got to the right room. A cream colored door with an '8' in gold plated stencil. Dean tried the door, and found it unlocked. We stepped in.

The room was dimly lit, clothes strewn on the bed. Dad's boots were kicked off and lying near the nightstand. Food wrappers littered the bedside table and bed and the covers were rumpled up. But other than ourselves, Dad was nowhere. I sniffed the air as Dean called out

"Dad!" A reply came from another room, perhaps the bathroom. Dean opened the door, and the smell of blood hit my nose. I walked forward next to Dean and saw Dad leaning against the sink, his shirt was lying in a heap on the floor. A box full of medical supplies sat precariously on the edge of the counter. Dad was having a hard time standing, his right leg shook, but Dad gave no notion of it bothering him. His eyes were trained in the mirror, a sewing needle in his teeth, thick black string attached to it, and also attached to a deep cut on Dad's forearm. Dad glanced at us in the mirror.

"Did you get the alcohol?" He asks Dean, who nodded and handed him the glass bottle from the paper bag he had been carrying in his coat pocket. "Good" Dad says, teeth still on the needle. Dean and I watched as Dad unscrewed the bottle's top, and gently maneuvered his arm over the sink, and poured a bit of the alcohol on there, and his eyes shut, trying to keep in the pain. But I could sense it. It was a deep scratch. And it wasn't the only one. His chest had three long ones along his abdomen, and his knee seemed to be busted up bad. Despite his injures, Dad took them like a champ. He took a swig of the alcohol, looked over at Dean, who gave Dad a careful look.

"What happened?" He asks. Dad went back to sewing the scratch on his arm up, and shrugged carelessly.

"There wasn't a werewolf, there were two. Mates I suppose. I offed the girl, and the guy caught me out of nowhere. I tagged him with a silver bullet, but not in the heart. He's still out there. I gotta get him." Dad explains. He had finished, and tied off the thread, and took a washrag and wiped off the bit of blood that had dried. His eyes scanned the ones across his chest, and dabbed them with the rag, and alcohol, before redoing the process of sewing his flesh together.