Envy
Disclaimer: I checked my mailbox and other than seven bazillion seasonal catalogs – nada. So, I guess I still don't own Supernatural. More's the pity.
Beta'd: By the awesome and irreplaceable Wysawyg. I JUST figured out what her penname stood for (well rather, my husband clued me in).
/bows head in shame.
I think I may have to surrender my geek title over that one. Oy vey.
Extra special thanks for beta'ing this behemoth of a chapter and for naming the cat!
I removed the comma key for now. Sigh. Thanks, girl!
Thank You: To each and every one who has been reading.
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He settled Sam on the passenger side before sliding into the driver's seat. He started the engine and turned in his seat to face his brother. "We're stopping every twenty minutes for you to drink something. I don't think we'll go more than a couple hundred miles tonight."
"I'll be fine," Sam tried to reassure him, but Dean could hear the fine tremor in his voice.
"Yeah, well, I won't," Dean shot back the half-truth. "I'll be ready to crash by then." Dean took satisfaction in his ploy working when Sam nodded and leaned heavily into the seat.
"Okay," Sam said with a yawn.
Dean nodded before turning to the front, pulling out of the parking lot and out onto the road.
………………………………………………Love Leaves Beautiful Scars……..…………………………………..
"Hey, Hansen, I've got the preliminary autopsy reports from Quincy downstairs on the Chastain case," Detective Martin Lopez stated, tossing a manila folder on Marc's desk. Papers and photographs slid out of the folder and across his desk. Marc rolled his eyes.
"Martin, why do you insist on calling him Quincy?" Marc asked, exasperated. He began scooping up papers and shoving them back into folder. "You know Dr. Lenard hates it."
"That's why I do it," Detective Lopez quipped.
"What did you have to offer him this time to push our case to the top of his rush stack?" Marc asked, knowingly.
"Not much," Lopez replied, his brown eyes smiling. "By the way, you'll be watering his houseplants and feeding Cadaver for two weeks while he's in Hawaii." He smiled in the face of the glare Marc shot him.
"Thanks a lot," Hansen replied. "I hate that psycho cat. She always launches surprise attacks and bites the hell out of my ankles. You offered - you do it."
Martin laughed, flopped down into his chair and swiveled back and forth watching the other officers in the bullpen. From Tina, who was furiously typing up a report, to the Captain who had some new rookie in his office reading him the riot act so loudly it practically shook the glass windows, and back to Roger Tate who was standing, as always, just far enough behind Tina so it would appear as if he was reading the report over her shoulder when he was, in fact, looking down her shirt.
A pad of sticky notes hit him squarely in the forehead and he stopped swiveling to glare at his partner. "What?"
"Knock it off," the senior officer replied. He leafed through the papers, found the one he was searching for and scanned the results. "Looks like Dr. Lenard concluded it could definitively be labeled a suicide."
"Keep reading," Martin urged. He leaned forward and tapped Hansen's desk several times for emphasis. "The report that the responding officer filed."
"A colleague of Ms. Chastain's appeared on scene at approximately 16:39, demanding to speak to the officer in charge. I acted on that behalf and yada, yada, yada," Hansen skimmed the report and skipped to the next pertinent piece of information. "Ms. Long insisted the victim's boyfriend, a Dean Winchester, called her at the Iron Skillet diner where both she and Ms. Chastain worked between eight and nine o'clock a.m. looking for Ms. Chastain. Ms. Long indicated that he sounded upset. Furthermore she went on to imply he may have been involved somehow with her death as Ms. Chastain had a track record of dating possessive and abusive boyfriends."
Lopez sat up straighter in his chair, his face lighting up as he spoke animatedly. "Get this, the victim suffered two gunshots. Quincy stated emphatically that the shoulder wound could not have been self-inflicted even if Chastain held the gun in her left hand. The angle is all wrong. Based on the trajectory, the velocity of the bullet on impact as it lodged in her shoulder and did not continue through, etc. etc. Quincy said the shooter stood between ten to fifteen feet away and was somewhere around six feet tall, give or take an inch or two."
Hansen raised an eyebrow, but otherwise let Lopez continue on his rant. Once Martin's love of forensics came out to play, there was no stuffing it back in. He simply nodded in all the right places, knowing an insightful point loomed in the near future.
"Secondly, the fatal shot is conclusively self-inflicted. He said based on the path of the bullet, the splatter pattern on the wall and powder burns on the victim's face, hand and arm that she placed the gun in her mouth and fired."
"So, either the other gunman was threatening her or trying to stop her," Detective Marc Hansen theorized, secretly pleased with his own deductive reasoning when Lopez nodded in assent.
"Yeah, but get this. There isn't enough back splatter at the scene," Lopez finished. He laced his fingers together, leaned back in his chair cupping his head with his hands and grinned with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Why would the guy trying to stop her clean up some of the mess, but leave the body and the gun at the scene? For that matter, why flee the scene if you're not guilty of something?" Hansen asked, knowing full well he was walking down the path Martin had clearly lined out for him.
"I wondered that too," Martin replied. "So I did a quick scan of all precinct shared files and Dean Winchester's name popped up. He reported his brother, Sam, missing on June 6th."
Hansen furrowed his brow. Obviously Lopez had scurried about this case like a frenzied squirrel stocking up on all the precious acorns of clues he could find and stashing them in his burrow to torment him with. "Spit it out, already, Martin."
"Rose Chastain has a long history of mental illness. She's been institutionalized and two of her previous boyfriends filed restraining orders against her citing she was stalking them," Lopez continued.
"That's unusual," Hansen replied. Martin may be onto something. "Usually men won't take that step."
"Right," Martin agreed, sitting forward, grabbing a pencil out of pen cup and tapping it on his desk. "So we may be able to assume that either her behavior was excessively aggressive and/or it happened to more guys than were willing to report it."
"That's a hell of an assumption," Marc replied, his lips pressed in a thin line indicating his disapproval. "Case work is about facts, not assumptions." That was a half truth. Evidence and conviction were based on facts, solving cases was often done on gut instinct.
"Work with me here," Lopez pouted. He tossed the pencil over a stack of folders onto Marc's desk where it bounced twice before landing on the floor. "What if she upped her game and took the brother? Winchester confronts Chastain who is holding Sam in front of her. She goes to shoot herself and the kid either panics thinking she is going to shoot his brother shooting her first or he tries to stop her from shooting herself by shooting her. Either way it doesn't work and she offs herself."
"That's reaching, that's really reaching," Hansen replied, shaking his head. "We don't even know Winchester was anywhere near that place and why would you think she had his brother? Where's the proof?"
"There really isn't proof per se, but the most convincing argument is there's not enough blood," Lopez replied. "Quincy said if someone was sitting in front of Chastain, they would have been covered by some of the back splatter. Winchester is obviously upset by the whole thing so he grabs his kid brother and bolts, taking the missing blood with them on young Sam."
"Good argument for your hostage theory," Marc conceded. "But still not proof positive. Not really even enough for a shadow of doubt. I can see how it adds up, but there'd have to be more to tie Winchester to the scene."
"You're right, it's not enough by itself, but there are other anomalies," Martin explained. "The blood on the handcuffs found at the scene was not the victim's blood. Also, a bottle of Xanax, but no drugs in the victim's system. Finally, we got a plate of food. There weren't any drugs present in the meat, but from the bacteria levels swimming in it, was cooked at least a day ago. Those items plus the missing blood definitely give us enough to at least question Winchester."
There it was - the glimmer of genius that made the hyperactive, often annoying and reckless, young officer worth the trouble of being his partner. "Fascinating bedtime story you've weaved there," Detective Hansen replied, scrubbing a hand over his balding head. "But she's a suicide, clear-cut. There's not a whole lot of need to search for answers much beyond that." Sometimes his jaded outlook after years of service really showed on him.
"What if I told you that I did a little more digging?" Lopez replied, his mouth curling in an enigmatic smile.
"You're the budding geek in training," Hansen responded, sarcastically. "It wouldn't surprise me."
"What if I said I tracked down where he worked, what kind of car he drove: a very distinctive 1967, black Chevy Impala," Martin continued, "What if I said I put out an APB and that two blue shirts in a squad car have spotted him still in the city not more than fifteen minutes from here?"
"I'd say you just earned that extra cookie tonight," Marc replied with a grin. He stood up and pulled his jacket off the chair, causing it to spin wildly. "Let's go."
Lopez returned the grin and followed behind his partner.
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Dean swung into the Exxon and pulled to the forward pump. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and Rose's body, but there was not enough gas to get them very far. He also wanted, scratch that, needed caffeine and he could get a coffee in the food-mart. As he turned off the engine, he cast an appraising gaze at his little brother.
Sam was pale and he still seemed to vibrate with involuntary shivers which Dean did not take as a good sign. His eyes darted frantically behind closed lids and Dean hoped that this time he would be able to sleep nightmare free.
Dean slipped out of the car and closed the door as quietly as possible. He hesitated by the window, watching for Sam's reaction, but he did not stir. Dean released a breath he did not realize he had been holding and turned to swipe his card and lift the nozzle from its cradle. His eyes scanned the lot, the road and the surrounding area in habit born from years of practice.
He reflected on the events of the last twelve hours and realized with growing trepidation that he had not taken care of everything he should have before they left town. He needed to poke around a bit and make sure the police would not be looking for him. Keeping Sam safe in the long run, meant keeping their family out of the spotlight. How could they do their job, seek medical help or effectively conduct an investigation if they had to stay underground all the time? Not to mention the need to stay away from the police or anyone who might report them to the authorities?
The nozzle clicked off and Dean spun back around to replace it to the cradle when a passing car's headlights glinted off the police emblem emblazoned on the side of a parked squad car. Don't panic, Winchester. You know how to evade your opponent. The question, of course, was not whether he could evade the police but whether he should.
It wasn't a hard decision, his instincts told him the best solution would be to get his brother out of town, get him safe and wait for Dad. Then, and only then, could he come back and fix things with the police if it turned out he needed to.
Dean climbed into the driver's seat and prepared to pull out when Sam moaned. He reached over and brushed a hand through Sam's hair, hoping to reassure him. "It's okay," he stated softly. Sam moaned again and leaned into Dean's touch in his sleep.
Heat radiated off his little brother's dry skin and his mind went over all the possible reasons. Most obvious cause: a possible infection in either the graze from the bullet or Sam's mangled wrist. Despite his words to Sam this afternoon, the first stop would have to be a clinic.
Dean pulled out onto the street and noticed the police car falling in behind him. Dean waited until they had crossed the river before attempting any evasive maneuvers. "Hang on, Sammy," Dean remarked. He held Sam back against the seat with one arm before quickly turning down an alley way. The Impala was a wide vehicle and he had to negotiate it through a tight corner and back out onto Chestnut Street.
Doubling back on his tracks, Dean drove parallel to the police car and back over to West Union Street as the police car pulled into the alley. Stepping on the gas, Dean passed the alley on Union as the other car turned to head down Chestnut in the opposite direction. Dean smiled and turned down the next side street heading towards the clinic on Macdill.
Dean glanced over at Sam briefly as he drove through the city streets. What had pleased him before now caused him to worry. Sam still slept and he could not help but wonder if it was due to the fever or if his brother had finally found a little peace of mind. He kept one eye ever focused on the area around him, alert to the possibility of more police. Being followed by that police car could have been a coincidence, but years of hunting had taught Dean that very few things could actually be attributed to happenstance.
Ten minutes and three miles later Dean pulled into the Convenient Care Clinic smirking at the irony of the clinic's name. He parked beneath a couple of large trees in a dark corner of the small lot, exited quickly and dashed around the passenger side. When the door next to Sam creaked open he opened fevered hazel eyes. "Dean?"
"The one and only," Dean quipped, hunkering down in the open door space.
"Good thing," Sam replied in a dusty voice. "I don't think I could handle two of you."
Dean's lips twitched in amusement. In spite of the fact Sam was battling a fever and his eyes plainly registered a headache of monumental proportions, the return of his sense of humor was the first drop of rain in a desert shower. "You think you've got it bad? I've gotta haul your heavy ass," Dean paused to twist on the balls of his feet and point towards the clinic before turning back to Sam, "All the way in there."
Sam's eyes widened. "You said we could go home," he said, a tremor in his voice. "You said."
"Trust you to remember only half of that conversation," Dean joked, trying to calm his brother. "I also said I reserved the right to change my mind at any time. Now, let's get you inside."
"I don't want to," Sam replied, petulantly. He turned swimming hazel eyes on Dean. "Please, Dean?"
Dean wavered on the edge of indecision and then mentally kicked himself. Dad was right. Sammy did have some kind of magical hold of influence over him. He would have to do something about that. He couldn't let his kid brother have the upper hand. At the very least, he couldn't let his kid brother know he had the upper hand.
"Sorry, Sammy," he replied. Dean placed a hand on Sam's knee and reestablished eye contact with his brother. "It isn't the dehydration because we're taking care of that. I think you may have an infection and that requires drugs. And drugs require a doctor."
"You can take a look and you can get drugs without a doctor; I've seen you do it. I know you can," Sam pleaded.
Oh, the kid was good. That one almost worked. "I can take a look," Dean agreed. "But if it looks infected…" Dean slowly unwrapped the gauze around Sam's wrist. In the meager illumination from the Impala's dome light it actually looked okay. A little red, but it wasn't hot to the touch and the stitches were holding fine. Maybe he was overreacting.
"We're here already, you could get it," Sam suggested. The look of desperation in his eyes was nearly Dean's undoing.
"I'd have to leave you alone in the car," Dean replied as if that explained it all. "Not happening."
"You don't trust me," Sam whispered, dropping his gaze. His next words were so quiet that Dean almost could not hear them. "I was stupid and now you don't trust me."
Okay, now that one hit below the belt, except Dean could see that Sam meant it. "Sammy," Dean started, tapping his brother on the knee. When Sam did not meet his gaze, he gently lifted his chin. "Hey, this isn't about me not trusting you."
Hazel orbs of disbelief greeted Dean's declaration. "It isn't?"
"No, Sam, you were gone for a little over three days. Not knowing where you were or what was happening to you?" Dean said, unhitching his knees and standing just enough to slide onto the corner of the seat next to Sam. He rested his back on the dashboard so that he could continue to face his little brother. "Those were the longest three days of my life. I'm not ready to let you out of my sight yet."
Brown hair waggled an affirmation of understanding back to Dean, but Sam averted his eyes. Dean knew it was because Sam was trying to piece together facts with emotions into the complicated puzzle that he saw as life. The world was an easier place for Dean to understand. Clear cut. Good and evil. Black and white. Yin and yang. Dean was pretty sure Sam's world was painted in muted water colors that ran and blended, still beautiful, but so much harder to figure out.
"You know," Dean continued. "I could say a lot of things about my geeky, emo little brother."
Sam did meet his gaze now, eyes questioning even as they flashed with a touch of annoyance. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Dean said. "And stupid would never be one of them." Dean paused before adding, "Besides, I'll always trust you, Sammy."
A genuine smile spread over Sam's face. "Me too."
Dean returned Sam's smile. "Now, let's get you inside," he stated, sliding back out of the car.
Sam closed his eyes. "Good luck with that," he tossed off.
"Uh, uh, uh," Dean tut-tutted. "Less sleeping, more walking."
Sam opened his eyes and offered Dean a small smile of acceptance before it quickly disappeared. "Honestly, Dean, I'm not sure I can make it."
"Sure you can," Dean reassured him, reaching in and pulling Sam's legs out of the car. "You're a Winchester."
"I've never quite figured out what that means," Sam replied, his voice soft. Dean looked up into his brother's face in search of the truth behind Sam's statement, but his brother's hooded eyes revealed nothing.
"It means, you're strong enough to walk into that clinic," Dean replied, brushing off Sam's statement for now. One heartfelt moment a night was definitely his limit. "With a little help from your stronger, better-looking, big brother."
Sam huffed, but made no other attempt at a response. He allowed Dean to pull him from the car and together they made slow, but steady progress into the clinic.
The clinic was nearly devoid of patients when the Winchester's staggered through the door. The small waiting area only had two other patients, a pregnant woman with a crying toddler sitting on her diminished lap and a sullen teenage boy, probably a couple of years older than Sam. He wore baggy clothes and clutched his abdomen, periodically throwing annoyed glances at the crying child, but otherwise staring vacantly at the wall space somewhere in the vicinity of a large yellow stain. Dean steered Sam into the closest chair and went to sign him in.
The man, Andrew according to the name plate on the desk, appeared to be in his early to mid twenties and to Dean's eyes he looked as if he had just walked in off the street and plopped down behind the counter. "Patient's name?" Andrew asked, not looking up.
"Sam Cooper," Dean stated. He leaned across the counter for a better look at any surveillance equipment that may be set up around the clinic. The clinic itself was not in a good neighborhood and it was that very fact that had drawn Dean to it in the first place. He noted one monitor with three scrolling screen shots at timed intervals. Front door, back door and one view of the parking lot from the front door. Dean noted with some satisfaction that the Impala was not visible on camera. Dean glanced back at Sam. He sat slumped in the straight back chair with his eyes closed, but Dean could tell he wasn't sleeping.
"Fill this out," Andrew instructed, pulling Dean's attention back around to him. "Doctor Grainger will get to you when she can."
Dean nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. Andrew's flippancy made Dean want to punch him, just once, to knock that smug look off his face. He flung himself into the chair next to his brother and could not help but notice the visible flinch from Sam. "Sammy?" he asked, his voice low as an attempt at privacy.
Sam shivered, but did not open his eyes before answering. "Yeah?"
The notes of fear in Sam's voice, the slight fracture of his normal tenor had Dean folding like a house of cards. "If this is too much, we can leave."
Sam blindly reached out for Dean and when his long fingers snagged the sleeve on Dean's Henley, they latched on. "It's just bright and noisy," Sam whispered. "I can do it. Just don't leave."
Dean had to hand it to his little brother. He did not lack an ounce of Winchester stubbornness. His heart silently ached for Sam. He could understand the complaint about the bright fluorescent lighting, but it was not very noisy. In fact, even with the toddler's fussiness it was pretty quiet. "Not going anywhere, I promise," he reassured Sam.
They sat in silence for a moment before Dean wrinkled his nose. "Dude."
"Not me," Sam commented, his response muffled as his head now rested between Dean's shoulder and the back of the chair. "I think the little girl is sick."
Dean blinked and scrunched up his face in disgust. "Wow."
"Yeah, wow," Sam agreed.
"Kiera Jackson?" A voice called from the doorway. The pregnant mother gathered her toddler into her arms and waddled towards the woman in the lab coat. "Mr. Addison?"
The teenage boy looked up. "Yeah, Doc G?"
"Are you here because you've been using again?" Doctor Grainger asked, a stern expression on her face.
The boy had the decency to look ashamed. "Yeah, Doc G."
"Go. Gennessy Place is three blocks over," Dr. Grainger stated, pointing a finger at the door. "You know the drill." Addison grabbed his stomach tighter and slunk out the door. Dr. Grainger read the chart in her hand before turning her glittering dark eyes on Dean. "Sam Cooper?"
Dean nodded and twisted around to face Sam. "Come on, little brother, up and at 'em."
"I'm tired," Sam replied. "You go."
Dean shook his head. Sam must be more asleep than awake at this point. "Come on," he insisted, standing and taking a hold of Sam's good arm. "I'll help."
"Okay." Sam leaned heavily on him as he guided him through the narrow hall.
He followed closely behind Dr. Grainger and Kiera until the doctor stopped abruptly at the door to exam room two. "You gentlemen wait here and I'll be with you momentarily," Dr. Grainger indicated, before escorting the woman and her child to the next room.
Dean helped Sam onto the exam table and turned off the lights above the bed leaving only the main light on. "Better?" Dean asked.
"Thanks," Sam replied softly, his breathing already evening out.
Dean checked his watch and noted it was half past eleven, time to call Dad and give him an update. He wanted to move away from Sam to call Dad knowing how his voice would come booming through the phone and anything he said might be overheard by Sam. However, Sam had renewed his grip on Dean's shirt and he did not want to break that measure of comfort for his brother.
The phone rang once, twice, on the third ring Dean prepared to leave his father a voicemail when his dad's voice came through the line. "Dean?"
"Yeah, Dad," Dean replied, inwardly steeling himself. The easy flow of their relationship on temporary hiatus until things could be sorted out. "Checking in."
"You boys okay?"
"I have Sammy at a clinic," Dean replied. "Just playing it safe. He seems to have a fever."
"Dean, did you find out what happened?"
Dean thought carefully about his reply. "I haven't pushed him, Dad. He's still fighting off the Xanax and he's been sleeping a lot." Dean sighed. Dad deserved the whole truth. He just hoped Sam would not see it as a betrayal. "He's having nightmares and he panics easily unless he can see me. I'm reasonably sure she played mind games with him." Like she did me.
"Any idea what's causing the fever?"
"He mangled his wrist somehow and….I grazed him when I tried to get him away Rose." Dean felt the fingers on his sleeve tighten into a fist and looked down at Sam. His eyes were still closed and he appeared to be sleeping. Oh God, I hope so. "I patched him up, but I'm concerned about infection." Dean watched Sam's face for reaction, but his brother's face remained cloaked in a mask of sleep indifference and his now lax fingers fell away from Dean's arm.
"I'm sure you did the right thing, you were protecting your brother."
Dean paused, the unexpected praise momentarily striking him dumb. He walked a few paces from Sam. "I hope so. It's hard to tell sometimes he seems fine and then…"
"Dean, if anyone knows what to do for your brother, it's you."
"Thanks, Dad," Dean replied, breathing in a sigh of relief. Dean felt some of the weight of guilt lift off his chest at his father's words. "I'll call you again when I know where we are stopping for the night."
"Sounds good. Good-bye, son."
"Bye."
When the line went dead Dean flipped his phone closed and pocketed it. By the time he turned around he was too late to stop Dr. Grainger, who had entered the room while he was talking to his dad, from placing a hand gently on his little brother's shoulder.
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Rose gripped his cheeks painfully in one hand, forcing his mouth open. His piteous attempts to fight her only seemed to anger her more. She dropped the pills into his mouth and poured the entire glass of water down his throat in one quick motion.
Sam choked and spluttered on the water in his airway. He felt a familiar rush of panic unable to get enough air, he was drowning. He felt her open his mouth again, probably checking for the pills, but he had swallowed them. A loud knocking on the front door caused her to jump and Sam trembled.
"Rose!" Even muffled by the heavy oak door, Dean's call could be clearly heard. "Rose, are you home?"
"Dean?" Sam asked, quietly, his voice barely audible.
"Sh-sh-sh-sh," Rose hushed, running a hand through his hair. "Just sit tight."
Rose placed a hand on his shoulder and he fought back, spurred into action by the hope that Dean was actually here. He struck out and took satisfaction in hearing the distinctive crack of flesh hitting flesh. Scrambling backwards blindly, his eyes scrunched tightly closed against the bright light, he felt hands on his shoulders, but the touch was familiar and the scent uniquely Dean.
"Sammy, Sammy calm down," he heard Dean croon. Belatedly, he realized Dean was sitting behind him, holding him in a tight embrace. Dean held his arms so he could not move. There were no handcuffs, no pills, nothing except his brother keeping him from flying apart.
"Dean?" he asked, blinking against the bright fluorescents.
"Yeah, Sammy, I got ya," Dean replied.
He felt one of Dean's arms move away before Dean growled, "Stay back. Give me a minute."
"Who?" Sam asked, his new friend panic settling in his stomach.
"The doctor, remember we're at the clinic?" Sam felt Dean rubbing small circles on his back and embarrassment quickly replaced fear.
"Yeah," Sam replied, looking around. He spotted the dark-haired doctor standing not more than five feet behind them. "Sorry."
"It's okay, Mr. Cooper," Dr. Grainger replied, stepping forward. "So, tell me what brings you to my fine establishment this evening?" She smiled and her white teeth glittered.
"I, uh, I'm hot?" Sam stuttered out.
He could feel Dean shaking behind him. When he spoke the laughter was clearly evident. "Wow, Sammy, even I'm not that cocky."
"Yes, you are," Sam snarked out of the corner of his mouth.
Dr. Grainger moved closer to Sam and produced an ear thermometer from her pocket. "How about I verify that?"
Sam nodded and seconds later he jumped at the electronic beeping near his ear. "100.2, not too bad," she stated. She leaned in close to Sam's face, appraising him and he sat back heavily against his brother.
"Oof, I need to breathe a little here, Sammy," Dean gasped.
"Sorry," Sam murmured, but he didn't move away. He did not like the doctor standing that close to him, staring him in the face, it remind him too much of Rose and the memory was too fresh. His breath hitched once before he forced himself to regain control.
"What'd you take?" Dr. Grainger asked. "What are you coming down from?"
"Wha', what?" Sam asked, confusion lacing his tone.
Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath from his brother. "Look, lady…"
"Doctor," she corrected, nonplussed. "And I need all the facts if I'm going to help your…brother, is it?"
"Then ask for facts, don't go accusing my brother of anything when you don't know what the hell you're talking about." The rumbling growl from his brother vibrated in Sam's back. He did not need to see Dean's face to know his brother was angry.
"It's okay, Dean," Sam said trying to placate his brother. It wasn't okay, but he could buck up and pretend it was until it became true.
"No, it isn't," Dean replied. "Pertinent facts? He's dehydrated and I'm afraid the injuries he had stitched at another clinic this afternoon may be starting to get infected. They didn't give him any antibiotics and…"
"Lie," Dr. Grainger interrupted, pointing her finger at Dean. "Don't waste my time with lies."
Before Dean could say anything else, Sam jumped in. "How'd you know? Usually, only I can tell when he's lying."
"Everyone has tells," Dr. Grainger replied, dark eyes settling on Sam's face. "He had this head tilt, half smile thing he did and I knew what he would say next was a lie."
Sam licked dry lips, but it didn't help very much. "That's just his, 'I'm trying to charm you into believing what I'm saying,' look. He could be telling the truth when he does it. If he had tried to pick you up it would have looked the same."
"I see," Dr. Grainger replied with a tiny laugh. "So, chalk it up as a great guess. I'm usually not wrong though." She hijacked him with the next question. "So, what are you on?"
Sam dropped his gaze. "Xanax," he replied softly. "She gave me Xanax."
Dr. Grainger nodded, but did not ask for clarification. She pulled her stethoscope from around her neck and asked, "Can you take off that hoodie for me? I'd like to take a listen. So where are these aforementioned injuries?"
Sam managed to get his good arm out of the sleeve, but he had difficulty getting his other arm free. "My wrist."
Dean's voice sounded close to his ear as he helped him get the sweatshirt off. "And his arm."
His arm? How did he hurt his arm? He couldn't remember.
"Think you can tell me the whole story?" Dr. Grainger asked, looking Sam in the eyes. "At least, as your brother put it, the pertinent facts?"
"Yeah," Sam replied, his voice surprisingly steady. He took a deep breath. "I don't really know how much Xanax she gave me, things are pretty hazy, but Dean said I was…gone…for three days if that helps."
Dr. Grainger nodded. "It helps. Depending on the dosage, you should be able to sleep off most of the effects, but it is different for everyone and you're really too young to be taking it at all. The good news is it shouldn't cause lasting problems. Any headaches, dizziness, anxiety?"
Sam flushed with embarrassment. He did not want to admit to anxiety or panic with Dean sitting right behind him. Dean would not panic and Sam did not want his big brother to think he wasn't Winchester strong.
The silence continued too long and Dean filled in the response. "All three."
Sam jumped at the cold stethoscope on his chest. He wanted to leave. He heard Dr. Grainger ask him something and Dean's voice respond, but the blood pounding in his ears made it impossible to understand. Cold hit his back and he jumped, trying to escape the sensation.
He still could not make out what Dean was saying, but the cadence was soothing. He tried to respond, but he could not force the words from his brain to his lips. Sound returned in a rush and he caught the end of something Dean was saying.
"…..every twenty minutes, but I can tell…"
"I concur," Dr. Grainger interrupted. "Sam, I think you're brother is right and I'd like to start an I.V. before I conduct the rest of the exam. It'll help you hydrate faster and you'll feel better," Dr. Grainger stated.
Sam did not trust himself to speak, so he settled for a head nod. "You back with me, Sammy?" Dean asked, rubbing Sam's arms. Another head bob and this time Sam honestly thought he might lose consciousness when black spots danced before his eyes. He blinked rapidly, then squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on what Dean was saying instead.
"Just breathe, Sammy, it'll be done in a minute." He hadn't felt the pinch on his uninjured wrist before Dean said anything and now he only wanted away from it. He did not need to be handcuffed anymore; it wasn't as if he could get anywhere. He was too tired. Why wasn't Dean helping him?
"Dean," Sam whispered, so low that he could not hear it over the renewed pounding in his ears. "Don't leave me alone in the dark. I don't want to be here anymore," he thought. "I didn't run away. I didn't."
"I'm not leaving, Sammy," Dean's voice sounded over the breaking white noise filling his ears. Sam's breathing hitched as he took reassurance from his big brother. Why did he sound upset? Had Rose trapped him too?
"Please be careful," Sam remembered thinking those words before. "I don't know what she'll do. Be careful."
The cadence of his brother's voice was back, the deep, rumbling reassurances that Sam had responded to all his life. He could not make out what Dean was saying, but it did not matter. He was here and as long as he had his brother, things would be alright.
Sam felt a pull on his injured arm and fingers lightly gripping his wrist. He struggled to get away from the touch, but Dean's embrace grew tighter around him and he sagged back against his brother, depleted. "Please come soon. I don't know how much longer I can fight back. I'm so tired."
Fingers dragged through his hair and Sam knew they belonged to his brother. He trembled from sheer exhaustion and tried to open heavy eyelids, but they would not cooperate. He heard someone talking and even as he felt his body surrendering the fight to stay awake the voices solidified until he could understand the words.
"Have they all been that bad?"
"No, never anything like that." That was Dean, but he sounded upset or was it worried? Sam could not tell. It almost sounded like Dean was crying, but that wasn't possible. Dean didn't cry. "It was a mistake to bring him here."
"No, it wasn't." The tone was sharp and Sam flinched slightly. At least he thought he did. "He was moderately dehydrated and his reserves were obviously depleted leaving him susceptible to illness. And you were right those wounds do have the beginning signs of infection. I'm surprised they didn't give you antibiotics before, but I have to admit I haven't seen stitches that small and that precise since my internship in the surgical unit. He should have minimal scarring."
The words did not make all that much sense, but Sam tried to focus. Dean was here and he knew that meant he wasn't alone anymore. He could hear someone crying and he wondered if the sick toddler was nearby. Dean shifted behind him and Sam reached for him, grabbing his arm and squeezing convulsively. His brother couldn't leave, not now. Sam was sure that Dean was the only thing keeping him from shattering into pieces and crumbling to ruin.
"Not going anywhere, Sammy," Dean reassured him. Dean knew. Somehow he always knew. "Just trying to get a little feeling back in my legs."
"Since you don't have insurance, I'm going to give you some free samples." The other voice again. "You can stay here for awhile and then Andrew can help you get Sam into a wheelchair so you can take him home."
"I can manage Sammy just fine." Dean's voice this time, clipped and no nonsense.
"I'm sure you can."
Sam sank lower into the waiting blackness and the last thing he heard was his brother's reassuring rumble soothing him from far away.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
After Dr. Grainger left him alone in the room with his little brother, Dean brushed a traitorous tear from his cheek and took a deep breath. At least he had managed to keep it in check until the doctor left. He dried Sam's still damp face with the hem of his shirt and leaned back against the wall for support.
He sincerely hoped this was a one time event. Sam's desperate, nearly screaming, pleas were a glimpse into the three days he had spent with Rose. She had left Sam in the dark, alone and drugged? He clenched his fist in frustration unable to wrap his brain around how Rose's mind worked and not sure he even cared. It was the last part that made him question himself at times.
Dean ran through a new list in his head: mild concussion, moderate dehydration, minor withdrawal symptoms, the beginnings of infection in his wrist and arm, and assorted bumps and bruises. Topping the list was the fact the bitch had messed with Sam's head, culminating in the massive panic attack he'd been forced to watch.
Dr. Grainger told him that the drugs and concussion were lowering Sam's ability to cope with a traumatic event and reassured him that, as the drugs wore off completely Sam would be better able to cope with those feelings and move forward.
"Certainly hope so, because Sam has to be alright," Dean thought. He had never seen Sam behave like that before. As much grief as he gave Sam for being sensitive or teased him about being a girl, Sam wasn't an out of control emotional train wreck. He had been powerless to do anything except hold his little brother and hope it would be enough. Dean's heart pounded in his chest, but he ruthlessly stomped the feeling of helplessness back down when it threatened to make an appearance.
Dean cocked his head. He thought he heard voices out in the hall. "I'll be right here, Sammy," he reassured his brother, sliding out from behind him for the first time in nearly an hour. Sam whimpered in his sleep. "You're okay, I'm right here."
He eased behind the half-empty I.V. bag, dangling from a metal stand and slowly opened the door. Two men were standing at the door to the doctor's office. Dean could tell from here that they were cops by the barely visible bulge from their shoulder holsters and their authoritative stance.
"Doctor Grainger," the shorter, Hispanic man stated. "We only need to speak to the owner of the Impala out front. We can do that here for now, but we do need to speak to him about a potential homicide."
"And I told you, my patient needs to rest undisturbed. He's not in any condition to have visitors of any sort," Dr. Grainger's sharp tone cut into the heart of the matter. "Unless you have a warrant or you plan to arrest someone here tonight, you'll have to wait."
Dean quietly shut the door and strode back to his brother. "Time to go, Sammy," he said, quietly.
"Dean?" A sleepy, almost child-like Sam responded.
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean replied, helping Sam sit up. Sam's head bobbed upon a boneless neck, his chin finally resting on his chest. "We have to leave."
"I want to leave," Sam mumbled, the words slurring. "Don't want to be here anymore."
"I know, kiddo," Dean replied, his heart breaking until it thudded painfully in his tight chest. "I need your help. Can you walk?" Sam did not respond other than an uncontrolled head bobble.
Dean held Sam upright with a hand on his chest and reached behind him with the other to remove the I.V. bag from the pole. He wanted Sam to get the full benefit after the price they had both paid for the medical assistance. He pulled one of Sam's arms over his neck and levered him into a standing position. Sam's legs buckled and Dean looked around him, desperately trying to find a way to improvise. He knew he did not have much time.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
"Just five minutes, Doctor Grainger," Detective Hansen stated. "We'll be in and out in no time."
"I'm afraid I can't agree to that," Dr. Grainger replied. She tapped her fingers on the desk in agitation. It was hard enough to get people in this neighborhood to seek medical help. The appearance of the police only made it that much more difficult.
"We really will keep it to five minutes," Detective Lopez tried to reassure her, shooting her a charming smile. "He's not in any trouble, we just need a few answers."
"Then I'm sure it can wait," Dr. Grainger replied, sensibly. "He is with one of my patients right now and I don't want him disturbed."
"Would that be Sam?" Hansen asked, pointedly.
Dr. Grainger schooled her features, but she knew Hansen had picked up on the truth, regardless. She jumped from her chair when the detectives abruptly left her office and headed down the hallway. "I really must protest," she snapped. "You have no right to barge into one of my exam rooms."
"We'll be quick," Lopez reiterated, turning to face the doctor as he continued to walk down the hall. She smothered a chuckle when it caused him to run smack dab into his partner.
"Watch it, Martin," Marc growled. "This the room?" He pointed at the door to exam room two. Dr. Grainger crossed her arms and refused to answer. "Fine, we'll try both."
The detective opened the door and stepped inside. Seconds later he gestured to his partner and they continued down the hall to the other exam room. Confused, Dr. Grainger stepped into the exam room and looked around incredulously. There was not a sign anyone had been in there recently other than rumpled tissue sheeting on the bed. A light summer breeze blew through the open window. Surely they hadn't?
The brothers were gone.
TBC
…………………………………..…………………….Supernatural………………………………………………………….
As always – Feedback welcome!
AN: Wee! I didn't think I'd make it this week, but I did! We are just swamped at work!
Almost there folks – thanks for reading!