Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.
Morning broke, rousing John from his deep sleep. His head throbbed, but it felt better than it had the past few days. He'd never admit it, but he was grateful that Dean had taken the lead on this last demon case. Looking around, he saw his son sitting on his bed, lacing up his boots.
"You're up early."
Dean shrugged. "Couldn't sleep very well."
John studied his son. His lack of sleep was evident. Dark, purplish circles stood out beneath Dean's eyes. "Well, you better get some sleep before we start the next hunt. You need to stay sharp," John said gruffly.
Dean merely shrugged again. "While you pack your stuff," Dean said, "I'll pick us up breakfast." He stood up and stretched. "Bagels okay?" John nodded, relieved that Dean's foul mood from last night had apparently blown over.
Dean exited the dingy hotel room and fired up the Impala. As soon as he was out of sight of the motel, he reached for his cell phone. Worry gnawed at him -- with his father, it wasn't a question of if he'd find out, but when. Ask Dean to salt and burn a corpse, and he was good, but talk to John about Sammy going to college? Dean felt like a middle schooler hiding cigarettes -- young and nervous. He hated that John still had that effect on him.
And ten times worse than the worry he felt over John was the worry he felt over Sam. After he'd secretly, sweatily worked up the nerve to dial Sam's number last night, a tinny voice and some harsh electronic tones had told him it'd been disconnected. Dean told himself stuff like that happened all the time -- Sam had probably just gotten a new phone, or a local California number, or…
No. That was what happened to normal people. As much as Sam wanted to be normal, he just wasn't, and Dean had a terrible feeling about the disconnected cell phone. Working up his nerve on the way to the bagel place, Dean called Information and was soon connected to a pleasant sounding woman.
"Arc Mobile. How may I help you?"
Dean cleared his throat. "Hi, this is Sam Winchester. My phone number isn't working. Is there a reason for that?"
"Well, let's see Mr. Winchester," said the woman. "Oh, okay. It looks like we haven't received a payment from you in about four months. We sent two notices but received no reply. We shut off your account about a month ago. Would you like to reopen it?"
Dean hung up abruptly. No payments in four months? That didn't sound like his responsible brother. He dialed Information again, and was connected to the financial aid department at Stanford.
Time for a show. Dean cleared his throat. "Good morning, this is John Winchester. My son, Sam, is a senior at Stanford, and I wanted to inquire about tuition payments." After a routine set of security questions, Dean was speaking with a financial aid representative.
"Well, Mr. Winchester," the representative said, "it looks like you owe nothing on your son's accounts for this semester, with him being out and all."
"Out?" Dean repeated.
"Yes," the representative replied. "Out on academic leave for the semester."
Maybe if he'd been more prepared, he could have kept the act going, talked about "kids these days" and gotten the scoop behind Sam's absence, if this guy even knew one iota of information beyond what his computer screen told him. Instead, Dean hung up. He was reeling. He wanted to tell his father, badly, but was determined to hold off until he could gather more information. Dad would bolt first thing if Dean's concerns were unfounded, if he interrupted Dad's revenge spree to track down a perfectly fine Sam. But Dean knew, deep down, that John wouldn't just ignore Sam's situation if he was really in trouble, would he? Eighteen years together, pre-Stanford, was a lot to ignore. Sam being the last human link to Mom was a lot to ignore. Dean knew his dad had it in him to be a cruel son of a bitch, but he wasn't that cruel. Dean glanced at the clock on the dash. Dammit. Knowing he could stall no longer, he entered the bagel shop and picked up breakfast.
A coast away, Sam was waking up from a nap. He was taking a lot of those lately. Mind garbled, he forced himself to get a bearing on his surroundings. No bed -- cement -- he was in a basement, just waking up. The ground was cool and hard and the lighting sucked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two silhouettes (men, he decided) talking to each other. Suddenly, the shorter shadow ran at the larger man. How was there no sound? Bodies make sounds when they get thrown up against hard surfaces (Sam knew that all too well), and these guys were letting each other have it. Trying to get closer, straining to hear something, anything, Sam felt himself be grabbed from behind and began swinging.
"Shit! Son of a bitch!"
Startled by the sudden noise and the sudden brightness, Sam sat up straight in the… bed? Shit, he was back in the hospital room. And oh god, there was pretty, sweet Nurse Canton in front of him, blood streaming down her face. "Nurse Canton!" He tried to reach out to her, but she flinched away. "I'm so, so sorry." He glanced around, punching his call button. "Help! We need help in here!"
Within minutes, Nurse Canton had been whisked away and a cleaning crew had gotten rid of her "biological waste" -- her blood, Sam thought grimly. Blood that he was responsible for spilling. She was a tiny little thing, always nice to him, and he was sure he'd just broken her nose. As for Sam, his head was killing him, but the nursing staff wasn't being quite as friendly as usual, and Sam couldn't say he blamed them.
Dr. Trinidad entered the room, clutching Sam's chart. Sam shrank back against the bed, dreading the upcoming discussion.
"Hi Sam," Dr. Trinidad said, "how are you feeling?"
"Shitty," Sam said, frankly. "I feel terrible about Nurse Canton."
Dr. Trinidad offered him a wry smile. "I wanted to let you know that Nurse Canton is going to be okay. The nose was broken, but she's expected to heal just fine." He shone a light at Sam's pupils. "You must have been having one hell of a nightmare. Remember anything about it?"
"Not much," Sam sighed. "I was in a basement or something, and two people were fighting. Then I woke up, hit Nurse Canton, and I had this really bad headache."
Dr. Trinidad peered at him quizzically. "Stuff like this ever happened before? Ever taken a swing at someone in your sleep?"
Embarrassed, Sam fidgeted with the bed sheet. "Maybe once, with Jessica… yeah. I was brought up kind of weird, you know? Not the best environment, I guess." He eyed the concerned-looking doctor. "No abuse or anything like that… just unpredictable."
"Uh huh," Dr. Trinidad murmured, making a note on his tablet. "Sam, the staff and I have observed some pretty disrupted sleeping patterns from you. A lot of middle of the night awakenings, restless sleep, and some pretty vivid ramblings."
"Oh?" Sam said cautiously.
"I don't put much stock in dreams," Dr. Trinidad continued, "but you've been going on about some pretty scary stuff. The fire, monsters… demons. The sedatives have been keeping you relatively calm, but we're still concerned. Also, the headaches… you had one yesterday as well, correct?"
Sam had actually had a few headaches, at least four, all accompanied by the same damn basement scene. And he wasn't about to tell the doctor about all the headaches he'd had before the fire, all the times he saw Jess burn alive on the ceiling. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, I get headaches sometimes."
"That may be the case, but these recent headaches seem to be accompanied by some erratic vital signs and dissociative symptoms -- it's like you're not quite here with us, Sam."
Sam peered up at the doctor. "Do you know what's going on? Did I hit my head or something?"
The doctor sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. "We think it might be Posttraumatic Stress Disorder -- PTSD. Have you heard of it?"
Sam gave a half-smile. "Yeah, I've heard of it… I don't think that's what this is, though."
"Hear me out, Sam," Dr. Trinidad urged. "PTSD is a serious condition, but it's treatable. You're displaying many of the classic symptoms, and I believe the best place for you, currently, would be in the psychiatric wing where you can get the attention and medication you need."
"What?" Sam was startled by the doctor's recommendation. "No, I don't need to go to the psych ward. I… I don't exactly know what's going on with me, but I don't think it's PTSD."
"It may not be, Sam, but I would really like you to be evaluated for that condition. I would still be treating the injuries you sustained, and you'd still be going to physical rehab, but I truly believe some psychiatric treatment is the supplement you need right now." Sam began to protest, but Dr. Trinidad cut him off. "Listen, Sam, I know you didn't mean to hurt Nurse Canton. Everyone knows that. But the fact is, she's got a broken nose right now, and that's unacceptable. I just feel like you need more than we can give you right now."
Ashamed, Sam nodded his agreement. "You're right. I don't want to hurt anybody else. These dreams, whatever they are… I just want them to go away."
Dr. Trinidad smiled. "That's good, Sam… A very responsible decision," he noted as he turned to leave.
"Wait, Doctor," Sam said. Dr. Trinidad paused in the doorway. "Uh, listen, there's something that's been bugging me… I know I'm pre-law, not medicine or anything like that, but I'm really wondering how being in a fire could knock me out for four months, especially since my injuries weren't that bad."
Dr. Trinidad shook his head slowly. "I wish I had definitive answers for you, Sam. We're still working on figuring out why you were out for so long. It's unusual -- and I'd also have expected it to take weeks for you to regain the levels of mobility and strength you're currently demonstrating. More than anything, though, we're glad you're up and with us now. I'll still be your doctor, you know. We just need a place that's a little more secure for you, with these nightmares."
Sam hung his head. "I am so sorry about Nurse Canton. Please tell her I hope she's okay."
Dr. Trinidad held up his hand. "Please, no need for apologies, Sam. She knows how bad you feel about the whole incident. That said, we don't want to take any more chances with our staff. We'll be moving you to the psychiatric wing this afternoon."
By late evening, Dean and John had reached their destination and were settled into their motel room. Dad was going on about some new system of tracking the demon. Something about cattle deaths and lightening storms. Normally, Dean would have been riveted, but tonight his mind was elsewhere.
Dean's distraction didn't go unnoticed. "Son? I think you better go to bed," John said. "You aren't listening to a damn word I've said, and this is important information. Don't waste my time if you're not paying attention. I'll fill you in tomorrow morning and then I want us to start working on some of this at the library, alright?"
"Fine." Dean said, already removing his flannel overshirt. He turned around suddenly, getting the uncomfortable feeling that John was staring at him.
Staring turned out to be an understatement. John was glaring at Dean. Trying to lighten the mood, Dean joked, "You're creeping me out -- I'm trying to get changed here."
"Give me your phone, Dean."
Shit. Dean reached in his pocket, trying not to panic. He tossed the phone to John. "Catch." John caught the phone in one smooth motion. Dean changed his undershirt while keeping a close watch on John out of the corner of his eye. Better not to say anything, not yet.
John wasn't even pretending to have an innocent mission -- he went straight for the "Calls Dialed" section. Internally, Dean congratulated himself on deleting all of the offensive entries. Hadn't he learned to cover his tracks from the best, after all?
Out of nowhere, John smiled at Dean. It was one of those wry, don't shit with me smiles. "You wanna just tell me, son? "
"Tell you what?" Dean asked casually.
"I'm no fool, son. We both know what I'm asking."
Dean did know, and he answered honestly. "I haven't talked to Sam." John scrutinized his son's features, letting Dean break the stare first. Dean could tell his dad wasn't quite sure what to believe, and was maybe even a little bit freaked over all that shit the demon had said. Eager to drop the issue, Dean climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna hit the sack now. See you in the morning. Library, right?"
John nodded. "Glad you heard something I said." He stalked over to the sink and began splashing his face with water. Dean observed him, puzzled, as John changed into a fresh shirt and tightened up his boot laces.
Dean pushed off his covers and sat up in the bed. "It's past midnight. Where the hell are you off to?"
John glanced at Dean. "Just because you aren't taking care of yourself properly doesn't mean I can't go out and unwind a little. Library opens at 9, son."
"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered to himself as John slammed the door to the motel room.
More to come. Thank you for reading! ----- AE
