Disclaimer: I own nothing. Needed to have some kind of catharsis after finding out about the cancellation. Have faith, guys. My money's on CW or Netflix. Quite frankly, I'm appalled by NBC's shortsightedness and stunningly poor decision making.

John lands on the ground hard with a grunt and a curse, eyes shut tight as he holds his side – pretty sure there's a rib broken in there somewhere. He doesn't have time to ponder on it, however, as the demon rushes him. He rolls to the side, fights the urge to howl with agony as he forces himself up onto his feet – and goes sailing through the air again, this time against a bookshelf, and goes down hard, wheezing.

"Little help here," he rasps.

Chas is behind the demon, holding the spellbook out in front of himself as he reads from it, while Zed produces a two-by-four from nowhere with a wicked-looking nail sticking up out of the end of it. Reaching way back into the past somewhere, she slings the wood forward like Casey at the Bat, landing it squarely across the creature's back.

It roars and turns away from John, leering down at her. Zed glares back, raises her weapon high, and hits it home again, giving John enough time to heave himself up of the floor, dart around behind the demon to Chas to grab the book from him and complete the spell.

"I bind thee, shedu, and banish thee back from that whence thee came," he calls out.

There is a rustling of wind that tears through the area, and the demon begins spiraling into dust, flowing down into a witch bottle John has prepared, shrieking obscenities all the while. Down, down, until there is a suctioning noise, and John rushes to pick up the bottle and jam the cork in. Once the top is sealed, he rests on his knees, trying to get one good, deep breath.

"You okay?" he asks Zed, hunching over to protect his rib cage.

She nods. "You're not. Let's get you home."

He tries to wave her off. "I've had worse scrapes than this."

"You're bleeding," Chas tells him. "Come on. I'll drive."

Together, they help John out of the empty storage lot. Zed climbs into the backseat of the cab, and John practically collapses in beside her. He's taken several knocks to the head, some bad punches to his stomach and back, a harsh twist to the knee. His eye is beginning to puff up already, a dark bruise beginning to form, while blood runs from his nose and the corner of his lip. He's bleeding on his right side, and he's pretty sure there's a thumb-sized fragment of wood lodged there that's causing it. It's not serious, but if it becomes infected, it could be, and, hell, it bloody hurts.

"Come here. Lay down," Zed tells him as Chas slides into the driver's seat and starts the cab.

Despite the fact that things have been awkward between them since New Orleans, John doesn't argue with her. His vision is hazy and the pounding behind his temple is immense. He tries to gingerly lower himself down onto her lap, but gives up halfway and slumps over, his head falling unceremoniously against her leg.

Zed, taking a tissue from her bag, tenderly tries to wipe the blood away from his temple.

He groans. "I could use a bloody drink."

"No," she tells him. "Not until we make sure you don't have a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion."

"No alcohol."

He's too tired and his nerves are too shot to argue. He lies quietly the whole way back to the mill, and when he closes his eyes, Zed cannot help herself from gently running the tip of her fingers through his hair. He opens his good eye and looks up at her. She smiles, and if his lip wasn't hurting so much, he would have smiled back.

Chas helps him onto the sofa at the mill, and Zed grabs the first aid kit from the bathroom. Coming back to the sofa, John is unbuttoning what remains of his tattered shirt with a bloody hand, wincing as he pulls it down over his shoulders.

"Can you run and get me some warm water? A sponge? And do you still have the painkillers they gave you from when the screwdriver went into your leg?" Zed looks up at Chas.

Chas nods and heads into the kitchen.

"We need to get your undershirt off. Can you stand?"

John looks up at her wearily, but pushes against the couch, forcing himself up. He begins to tilt forward, the blood loss dizzying him.

"Easy. Easy. Lean on me."

He drops his head onto her shoulder, leaning into the warmth of her body as she grasps the hem of his undershirt and pulls carefully, grimacing when she sees the chunk of wood in his right side.

"Here, let me help you lift your arm." She grasps his hand in hers and pulls his good arm—well, semi-good, as she sees the bruising beneath the shirt—up, and then, even more gently, the other. He shudders as the cloth is pulled away from the wood and grips her hips, pulling tight against her.

"Sorry," she whispers. "Sorry." She discards the shirt and braces herself, bending slightly, allowing him to hold on as she eases him back down.

His torso is an inkblot of continuous bruises, dark and purple and angry. John lies back against the couch and closes his eyes as Chas comes in, carrying a basin, washcloth, and a pill bottle.

"Thanks." Zed shakes out two pills and hands them to John with a bottle of water.

He tosses them down, swallows, and immediately closes his eyes again.

"Roll down on your side," she tells him, and he obediently rolls over, allowing her better access to the wooden sliver.

"I'm so sorry," she says, yanking it out.

He grunts. "Bloody hell, woman!"

More blood oozes from the wound, and she takes the washcloth, dips it in the basin, rings it out, and begins to wipe the area clean. Next comes the alcohol swab, and she disinfects the wound.

"He's going to need stitches," Zed tells Chas, and he disappears for a moment and comes back with a needle and thread.

Soaking them both in alcohol, Zed stitches him up, applying antibacterial ointment. He takes a deep breath when she first puts the needle in, holds it for a few seconds, and lets it out slowly. John hisses a little while she moves the needle in and out, pulling the thread tight, but other than that, he does not make a sound, which makes her all the more nervous. John's not one to be quiet about his aches and pains; if he sleeps wrong on his neck or sits too long in the car, he complains and gripes like a wounded tiger; his stoicism is making her wonder if they should have taken him to a hospital instead.

The painkillers are beginning to kick in, and his eyes are moving rapidly beneath his eyelids. Zed dips the washcloth in the basin again and again, until the water runs dark pink. Chas brings her fresh water and a new, clean washcloth and she continues, wiping him down until he is cleansed from the dried blood and grit.

"We should've gotten him into bed first," Zed says, realizing too late that it would have been more practical.

"Now there's an idea," John says, voice slurred, opening his unswollen eye and looking up at her.

She rolls her eyes. "Can you get up?"

He winces, but, pulling on Chas's arm, manages to pull himself into a sitting position, hauling himself up off the sofa. He leans heavily on Chas all the way to the bedroom, and falls into bed. Zed calmly undoes his belt and yanks his pants off of his legs, pulling the covers over him as he shifts himself upwards. He is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

"I'll stay up with him," Chas offers, but she shakes her head.

"You don't have to. I'll be fine."

Chas knows this is not an argument he will win, so he doesn't push it. "I'm right next door if you need me."

John develops a fever that spikes in the night. Zed didn't mean to fall asleep in her chair near the bed, but she wakes up because he is raving like a madman. Sheets fisted in his hand, thrashing, he is berating some unseen foe.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare fucking come near her. Don't touch her!" his eyes are open, but he is not seeing Zed in front of him. "I bind thee. I bind thee—"

"Shh, shh," Zed tells him.

Chas must have heard him shouting, because he appears in the doorway.

"He's got a fever," Zed tells him. "We need some aspirin or some ibuprofen, something to bring the fever down."

Chas nods and disappears. Zed goes to the bathroom, gets a fresh washcloth, runs it under cold water, and brings it back, wiping the sweat from his brow. He's still ranting, but his sentences don't make sense. Some random collection of bits of spells, cursing, and trying to order something around.

"Be still, John. You don't want to open your stitches."

His skin is so hot to the touch, and his sheets are wet with sweat. Zed yanks them off and he shivers, arms coming up around his ribs as the cool night air hits him.

Chas returns with the medicine and hands it to her with a glass of water, then leaves to go hunt down a thermometer.

Holding a few pills in her hands, Zed touches his face tenderly. "John," she says. "John, wake up. I need you to take these."

He stares wildly at her, half-conscious and cloudy, leaning up on an elbow. It takes him a moment, but he seems to recognize her.

"Swallow these, John," she tells him softly.

He leans back against the pillows, and holds his hand out, palm up. She drops the pulls into his hand, and he puts them in his mouth. She holds the glass of water to his lips and he drinks, collapsing back against the pillows.

"Sleep," she tells him. "I'll be here to keep the nightmares away."

His hand moves across the sheets, searching. Zed slides her cool hand into his fiery one and squeezes gently. Chas comes back, holding the thermometer in his hand, but when he sees John's entire body relax, his hand still holding Zed's, and he leans against the door jam, crossing his arms. Zed looks up at him and smiles.

"You can go on back to bed. I got this."

Chas smiles back and nods.