Welcome! This is an idea that has been ringing through my head. I have not decided how far it'll go but I wanted a story predominantly between Henry and Shawn-specifically in a rather dire situation. I don't know, the whole awkward father/son relationship kinda gets me. This is only my second fanfic ever (my other was a White Collar fanfic), so let me know how it goes. I am writing for pure enjoyment and I hope at least one person will enjoy this too.

So it starts in Shawn's POV and the chapter ends with a brief 3rd person perspective. I intend to write in Henry's POV next, and probably go with the 3rd person from that point on. But it depends, tell me what you like!

Disclaimer: I don't own Psych. I did own a Psych phone case in my early teenage years, however.

Summary: If there was one thing I could tell, my son was in pain. This was my fault and now it's my job to get us both out of this alive.

PSYCH~PSYCH~PSYCH

How ironic.

Just last week I was "lectured" by my dad again about my "mode of transportation" as he calls it. I've had my motorcycle for years, I mean that thing and I are one in the same. There is no me—no witty, handsome, fabulous-hair-adorning me—without it. I may have been run off the road a few months ago and I may have been dropped off via—did I just say via? I like it. Anyway, via an ambulance to my dad's place when I was 20 after a not so graceful, but still very cool looking, accident—no, not accident, that sounds too drastic—fall? Tumble? Failed attempt at flying? I seemingly brushed off his remark about crossing his name off the list the next time the ambulance needs to take me somewhere. But I'll be honest, and I will be very betrayed if you tell him this, but hearing him say that made me feel a pang of guilt in my chest.

I mean, I obviously have no idea what it's like to be a father—to a son like me nonetheless—and I guess I take for granted the fact that he has to deal with my antics. He wasn't "lecturing" me because he wanted to be mean and insult my bike, instead it was his strange, twisted, "I don't know how to show emotion properly" Papa Bear way of saying that he loves me—oh God, did I just say that?

Like I said, if you tell him any of this I will find you and subscribe your name to every magazine I come across. Okay, threat acknowledged? Great, let's continue.

But you are probably wondering why I am saying this? "Why are you being so deep and sentimental Shawn? Is Gus making you watch another angst-filled drama?" Well I am so glad you asked, you see, I am not particularly awake right now. Unfortunately, I am not dreaming. Unconscious would be a better word, although I wish the former was true. The only good thing about the state I am in is that I cannot feel the pain I know is lurking just above the surface of my subconscious. Well, if it's above can it still be lurking? I guess technically I am the one lurking below my own subconscious? Is that a thing? Okay, doesn't matter, maybe the pain is soaring above my subconscious. The bottom line is that it is there and it is waiting for me when I wake up. I suppose if I stay in this state, I won't actually have to face that pain—or agony—I am probably supposed to be feeling right about now.

The only complaint I have about being in this state is that all I can focus on is my father. He is literally the sole focus of the movie screen playing in my head. If I were my typical sarcastic self (and you know, awake) I'd probably make some reference to some movie and end up irking my dad in some way. Gus would elbow me for my remark but not be able to hide his smirk, Jules would look at the floor, concealing her laugh, and Lassie would just roll his eyes and return to the coffee dispenser. I would like to go back to that state—awake, you know, surrounded by friends. Or sort of friends, I guess Lassie doesn't particularly count, but I think I am growing on him—although he'd say I'm growing on him like some form of flesh-eating bacteria. But that is neither here nor there.

I realize I am completely rambling. I still have not told you what happened. I will blame my ADD. Remember I said this was ironic, right? And then started talking about my bike and my father and wow I realize this got way out of hand. Maybe I have head trauma? I guess that would explain my unconscious state. Well, here's the ironic thing that happened…

My dad and I were driving to a crime scene together. Is that ironic? Maybe. But not the thing I'm talking about. You see, it was dark and a little rainy and I, for some reason or another, stopped at my dad's house before returning to the Psych office. There had been a string of murders plaguing Santa Barbara and I received a call from Jules about the fourth murder. Oh Jules, I'd really love to see her right about now.

Sorry! Off track I know. So, I tell my dad about the murder and apologize that I have to leave before dinner. We had actually made it about thirty minutes without a single argument and I was curious to find out if we would set a new record.

The murder happened about ten miles north up the coast and I told him I'd have to get on my bike and get up there as soon as possible. By this time, it was already raining harder and I was somewhat dreading getting soaked, however the case was much more important than my soggy clothes. I couldn't call Gus either, he was still on his way back from San Francisco after attending a pharmaceutical convention—seriously, do those even exist? And Lassie and Jules couldn't give me a ride either because they were already there. I was halfway out the door when I was stopped dead—I hope that doesn't become ironic as this story progresses—in my tracks when I heard my dad speak.

"Let me take you, Shawn." He said as he stood up from the table. He was already reaching for his keys, showing me that I really did not have a choice in the matter. I was relieved, yes, but at the same time it was kind of weird, I mean, doesn't my dad hate getting involved in my "psychic" work?

"It's too dangerous for you to be driving out there and besides, we can stop for dinner on the way back." He said, almost gently? No, Henry Spencer is not gentle. Oh, sweet Lord. I really must have head trauma to be recalling the memory like this.

Anyway, I agreed on all ends. Yes, taking the truck was a good idea and who knows, maybe my dad will be of use down there. Anytime a potential serial killer pops up anywhere, let alone Santa Barbara, I know it kills him to not be involved.

So, we get in the truck and start our curvy drive up the backroads of the coast.

Shawn!

What was that? Did that sound like my father? How rude, interrupting my story and what not. Seriously, I haven't even told you what happened.

Oh my God.

Okay, like I have done for the majority of my life, I'm going to pretend I can't hear him. I need to finish my story, maybe take a nap after (can you nap while unconscious?), and then go out for some pineapple smoothies. Oh wait, it's raining and cold, so pineapple…tea? Anyway, moving on.

So, my dad is driving and we are not saying much, but then I see him adjust his grip on the steering wheel a little tighter.

"You know Shawn." I turned towards him. "If there is a serial killer on our hands, I want—no, I need you to be extra careful. If it was my choice you wouldn't be involved." He sighed, sounding almost defeated.

It took me a second to analyze his words. For once I decided not to snap back with something snarky or completely sarcastic. I realized he was being completely serious.

"Dad, you know I can help." I looked down toward the floor mat. "If this person has already killed four people, I am going to do everything I can to make sure there isn't a fifth innocent life lost." Wow, look at me, getting all intense and macho-y.

My dad let out a slight laugh—not like "haha that's funny" laugh but one of those laughs you give when you're either impressed, surprised, or maybe even proud. He turned towards me and—what was that? Did he just smile at me? This is so weird, I feel like I'm trapped in an episode of…of…oh my God, my brain is seriously not working. I'm the master of obscure 80's references! This might be worse than I thought.

But, he did smile at me, that part I certainly didn't imagine. He locked eyes with me, patted my shoulder (really Pop? You're driving!) and said, "I'm damn proud of you." He turned his eyes back to the road, although not much was visible thanks to his ancient windshield wipers and lackluster headlights.

At this point I'm somewhat dumbfounded. What is going on? Did he just find out he has a month to live or something and is yet to tell me? I kind of just nod at him and I can't actually hide the fact that those words had a warming effect on me, despite the serial killer situation.

I opened my mouth to say something more but my eyes caught a glint of light and I suddenly realized all hell was about to break loose.

"Dad! Look ou—" was all I could manage before the headlights of a large truck became very well acquainted with the passenger side (yep, my side) of my dad's truck. The sound of the impact was just awful but it was nothing compared to how it felt. It felt as if our truck was picked up and tossed to the side like a corn hole beanbag. For a second, I felt weightless as the truck did a full 180-degree spin across the road before tilting my way, but that feeling quickly dissipated as gravity took control, forcing the truck all the way to its side. I felt my seatbelt lock, stopping my forward moment and forcing all the air from my chest. We rolled—I think? —a few times before coming to an abrupt halt at the base of a tree, most likely quite far from the road.

To be honest, I wouldn't really know where we were at this point. The second the truck smashed into the tree I was immediately thrown into the passenger door. Seatbelts are great for stopping you from going through the windshield but they definitely give you some wiggle room when it comes to sideways movement. I assume my head hit the window—well that would explain my "head trauma" and lack of funny T.V. show references—and I was out like a chubby kid trying to steal 2nd base.

Shawn! Hey!

Damn it. At least you know what happened now. You get the irony, right? C'mon. My dad harangues me for not utilizing a safe mode of transportation and then Bam! Here we are in his truck, lying on the side of the road in a ditch—okay, maybe we aren't in a ditch—but I'm allowed to exaggerate, I'm unconscious! Honestly, I'm feeling quite breathless. I don't know if it was me recounting the story or if I'm waking up. I'm hoping for the former but—

Jesus kid, c'mon!

Just five more min—

That's it!

Ugh seriousl—

Come on back, Shawn.

Alright if you say so.

It's okay, son.

Here goes nothing.

"There you go, that's good. Just breathe. Take it easy." Henry said to his semi-conscious son.

He couldn't get a clear look of all of Shawn's body in the near darkness and because of the angle they were sitting at, but what he could see was all that mattered right now.

His eyes were open.

He was breathing.

And, most importantly, he was alive.

Alright, here it is, the first chapter. I will be honest, I promise I am good at updating. As an avid reader, there is nothing I hate more than waiting for updates! SO readers, if you're out there, let me know what you think, what you want, your darkest secrets? Okay, maybe not the last. But, I'd love to hear from you! See you soon.