Disclaimer: If I owned them I probably wouldn't be inclined to share them...so, I suppose, it's a good thing I don't own them.
A/N: I really had a hard time writing this chapter. I'm not sure why, but I did. There's no real action here, but I needed this chapter to move the story onward. I tried hard to show Dean's reluctance to reveal his hunter status while portraying Dr. Stevens drive to know more about the boys and their connection to John. Hopefully, Stevens doesn't come off as obnoxious...he just wants to help. I hope it all makes sense. The central portion in italics is Dean remembering his conversation with Sam after he awoke in the ICU.
Read on...another mega-chapter awaits!
From the previous chapter:
Brian's large hands clasped Dean by the upper arms and savagely hauled the shorter man to his feet. "Tough guy, huh? Let's see how tough you really are." Brian thrust Dean backwards into Chad, who pulled Dean's upper arms behind him and held him fast. An explosion of pain ripped across his abdomen as Brian's punches tore away suture after suture from Dean's healing abdominal wounds. Flashes of light crossed Dean's vision as Brian's beefy hand slammed into his nose, the crunch of shattered bone punctuating the ferocity of the blow. A merciless upper cut to Dean's jaw split his lip and brought darkness once again to Dean's world and he slumped helplessly in Chad's arms.
"That's what I thought," Brian crowed. "You're not so tough now, are you, shithead."
Chad laughed menacingly and allowed Dean's brutalized body to slowly slide to the ground. Satisfied at their handiwork, both guards turned and headed back to their posts outside Sam's door.
One Jump Ahead of the Storm
Chapter 38: Of Wolf and Man
The ER had been quiet and Dr. Stevens had taken full advantage of the lull in the action to slip out the side entrance near the ICU. Since the institution of the hospital's no smoking policy, he and his fellow smokers had found this small alleyway near the rear of the hospital to be a welcome port in the storm. They had found the area to be secluded enough for them to fly under the administration's radar, but still close enough to several departments that staff could quickly and easily slip out for a quick drag and back in again before they were missed. Even so, many of the staff took extra precaution to avoid detection, usually by ducking between the dumpsters.
Dr. Stevens had staked out his claim between the first and second dumpsters, a place where an upturned bucket took on the job of "stool" so that the physician could kick up his tired feet, sink back against the building and savor the sweet taste and aroma of his favorite brand of cigarettes, all while catching the cool breezes that wafted their way around the end of the building. There wasn't much about England that Dr. Stevens missed all that much, but his cigarettes were a different story. None of the American cigarette brands seemed to satisfy him like the Lambert & Butler cigarettes he still had shipped in special from the UK.
The doctor made his way to his favorite spot, slunk down on his bucket-stool and elevated his feet by balancing the heel of one foot against the side of the first dumpster and crossing the other leg over. He brought his lighter up, taking a long drag until the end of the cigarette began to glow a vibrant orange and a small tendril of aromatic smoke snaked upward. Leaning his head tiredly back against the red bricks of the building, he let out a satisfied sigh of relaxation and closed his eyes briefly, drinking in the quiet atmosphere.
As he opened his eyes, a small metal object attached to a cord caught Dr. Stevens' eye as it lay off to the side of the alleyway. The unusual shape and character of the object piqued his interest and he rose from his perch and crossed the narrow space. He bent and retrieved the item, curling the leather cord around his fingers and holding it high so that he could better inspect it.
The medic knew he'd seen the pendant somewhere before but he just couldn't put his finger on where. As he slipped the necklace into the pocket of his lab coat he heard a muffled groan from behind the third dumpster. This wouldn't be the first time he'd encountered a homeless person in this alley. It also wouldn't be the first time he'd run into some drug-seeking crazy who was rummaging through the hospital's dumpsters in hopes of scoring even the smallest of hits.
Dr. Stevens turned and moved back towards the row of dumpsters, slowly working his way from one to the next. The last thing he wanted to do was startle an already jumpy and potentially dangerous addict willing to do anything in their desperation to get a fix. As he neared the third dumpster the physician could hear more soft moans and some muffled movement.
"Who's there? Come on out. I'm not going to hurt you," Dr. Stevens called out as he grabbed a stray piece of wood from one of the nearby pallets to use as a club should he find the need to defend himself.
Not receiving a reply, the medic raised the wood as though he were a major leaguer at bat in the World Series and stepped quickly and quietly around the end of the dumpster. Dr. Stevens immediately dropped his weapon to his side and stared dumbfounded at what lay before him.
"Dean? What in God's name happened to you?" Dr. Stevens tossed the wooden plank aside and worked at moving the pallets in order that he could get better access to Dean as he assessed his injuries.
Splashes of blood coated nearly every surface near the young man; the side of the dumpster, the wooden pallets and the pavement. Most of it, though, was on the young man himself. Trails of blood tracked across his rugged features from a gash near his hairline, as more of it flowed from the boy's obviously broken nose. Deep shades of indigo had already started to form across the bridge and under each eye and his lower lip was open and bleeding. A large area of blood soaked the man's t-shirt from chest to hem, leaving Dr. Stevens to assume that the sutures he'd placed in Dean's abdominal lacerations just days ago had probably seen better days.
"Dean, I'm going to go get some help. We need to..."
"No." Considering the beating he'd obviously taken, the strength of Dean's voice surprised Dr. Stevens. Then again, if he was right, and he was pretty certain he was, if this young man and his brother were, indeed, John Winchester's boys, they had most definitely inherited their old man's fortitude. "Just help me up."
"OK. But I'm still taking you back to the ER so I can check you out. I'd be willing to stake my life on it that you're abdomen's going to need another suture job."
"Whatever," Dean grumbled. He really didn't want to waste time arguing when he had more important things to take care of. He just wanted to get himself put back together enough to get Sam and get as far from this hellhole of a hospital as he could.
Dr. Stevens extended his hand and gingerly pulled Dean to a standing position, placing his other hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him as the young hunter fought to quiet the churning nausea in his gut and maintain his precarious purchase on balance. Dean indicated with a slight nod of his head that he was ready to go and the pair slowly progressed back into the hospital through the private entrance.
"Care to tell me just what's going on here, Dean?" The physician fought hard to keep his growing irritation at being kept in the dark from entering into his tone of voice. "I know you're not telling me everything."
"Nothing to tell," Dean huffed.
"Yeah, I can see that," Dr. Stevens replied with a sarcastic edge.
Halfway to the ER, Dean realized he couldn't afford to take the chance of the security guards, Chad and Brian, seeing him as they passed the ICU and he stopped suddenly. "Not past ICU. Some place private," he slurred over his swollen and bloodied lip.
"Why can't you go past ICU? Tell me what's going on."
"Alright. What's going on is that I'm not getting checked if we go past ICU."
"That's not an answer," Dr. Stevens complained.
"Yeah, well, it's the best one you're gonna get."
"OK, come on. The on-call room's just around the corner. You can wait there while I get some supplies from the ER."
Dr. Stevens settled Dean uncomfortably on the bed of the on-call room, threw a quick, "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back," over his shoulder and disappeared, pulling the door tightly shut behind him.
snsnsnsnsnsnsn
Bobby had finished his sweep of the first floor of the hospital without any signs of Dean and had argued with himself as to what his next move should be. As he saw it, there were two choices - continue canvassing each successive floor before moving on to a search of the grounds, or reverse the process and start with the grounds first. After several minutes of careful deliberation, Bobby decided to search the area immediately around the hospital first. Dean had known Sam was moved from room 514 back to the ICU, the rather disagreeable ICU staff having even admitted that he had been at the ICU at one point. Logically, Bobby reasoned, there would be no reason for Dean to have returned to any of the upper floors...or, at least, that's what the older hunter was hoping.
As he made his way back towards the main entrance of the hospital, Bobby pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed yet again. The previous efforts to reach Dean by phone had been completely fruitless, but his years of experience as a hunter had taught him that it was best to leave no stone unturned, even if it meant turning it time and time again.
snsnsnsnsnsnsn
Dr. Stevens had returned with packages of gauze, suture thread, rolls of tape, several vials and syringes and some instruments wrapped in clear plastic peel-packs and deposited them on the small table next to the bed. He had just finished getting a proper look at his young patient and he silently prayed that the ER would stay quiet long enough for him to do what needed to be done for him...or, rather, what the boy would let him do. Dean had already nixed the idea of doing anything more than letting the British physician clean him up, suture the gashes on his forehead and lip and re-close the wounds that had opened on his abdomen. Although the young man had continued to refuse Dr. Stevens' continued probing, he was certain this was only another chapter in a long and complicated story.
The amount of blood gracing the front of Dean's t-shirt had initially had the medic concerned for the condition of Dean's previously sutured abdominal lacerations. But after getting a good look at them, it was obvious that the large stain on the shirt probably had more to do with the bleeding from the broken nose and busted lip than from the belly wounds. It had taken a good twenty minutes of careful repair work but Dr. Stevens had been satisfied with the finished product and its chances for proper healing.
The next repair had been to Dean's lower lip and, because of the swelling, had required sutures to both the surface and the underlying tissues in order to pull it together without stressing the sutures too much. He was just preparing to move on to stitching the wound on the left side of Dean's forehead when the hunter's phone began jangling out the strains of this week's favored classic rock ringtone.
Dean fished the phone from his left rear pocket, slid the cover open and brought it up to his right ear. The swelling of his lip and residual numbness from the Novocaine garbled his speech almost beyond comprehension. "Ha-o?"
"Dean," Bobby shouted. "Holy Christ, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for more than two hours."
Dean snuffled in through his swollen and congested nose, trying in vain to alleviate some of the stuffiness in the hopes that it would help clear his speech a bit. "I wan inna bi a twa-ble," Dean mumbled out trying hard, but failing, to enunciate 'I ran into a bit of trouble' in a manner that could be understood.
Bobby could hear the slurred quality of Dean's speech as well as the wheezy whistling of his breathing. The fact that Dean didn't appear to be making any sense didn't do much to quash the feelings of dread that were quickly washing over him. True enough, alcohol could do a heck of a lot of strange things to people's speech, but this was Dean Winchester he was talking to here. Dean could drink men twice his size under the table without even appearing so much as buzzed, so there was no way that he could have ingested enough alcohol in the past hour or so to be too drunk to be understood. That left only one thing - somehow, somewhere, Dean had gotten himself hurt and, judging by his slurred speech, a damn fine concussion was probably Dean's consolation prize.
Damn, that boy can find trouble without even trying.
"Dean, I need you to stay awake. I need you to keep talking to me. Try to let me know where you are." Bobby tried desperately to keep panic from edging into his voice. Dean's speech was distorted enough as it was and getting him worked up was only going to make it harder for the boy to communicate.
"Oh, fa Chist sa, Obby. I ja ha a us-sed ip..."
Before Dean could go on, Bobby interrupted him. "That's it Dean. Keep talking to me. Can you tell me where you are?"
Bobby could hear a deep, sharp intake of breath and a long sigh, but no further words came. "Dean? Dean?!"
"Hello?"
"Who's this," Bobby demanded at the unfamiliar voice on Dean's phone. "And why do you have Dean's phone? What did you do to him?"
"Whoa, take it easy there, pal," Dr. Stevens stammered out. "Dean got roughed up a bit and can't speak too well right now..."
"Is he OK? Where is he?"
"He's with me in the ER on-call room. I'm working on getting him cleaned up some. If you come in the ER entrance and make a left back that hallway, make a right at the next one and it's the last room on the right."
snsnsnsnsnsnsn
The voice on the other end of the line had said that Dean had "gotten roughed up a bit". What Bobby saw certainly seemed to put that particular statement in the category of 'understatement'. Dean had one arm tenderly holding a large pack of ice to his puffy, discolored face while the other arm was slung protectively across his abdomen as he balanced on the edge of the bed. The tails of black suture material stuck out prominently as Dean gently chewed on his lower lip in an effort to finish clearing the little bit of numbness that remained there.
"Sweet Jesus, Dean. Did you step in front of a train?" Bobby's eyes roamed the young man looking for hints of injuries that Dean had yet to confess to.
"I ran into the security guards' fists. We've got to get to Sam, Bobby. They forced me out of his room. When I fought back..." Dean lifted both hands wide giving Bobby full view of the damage that had been done. "Bobby," Dean whimpered, his hazel eyes filled with fear, "I don't know what they're doing to Sammy."
"Yeah, I couldn't get anywhere near him either," Bobby informed Dean. "The staff wouldn't let me in to see him and when I tried forcing my way in, two big security guys got up in my face. I suppose they were the guards that, um, 'convinced' you to leave Sam. We've got to get Sam out of there somehow."
"I don't see how we're going to do it with Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber stationed outside his door. We step one foot in those doors and, well..." Dean allowed his voice to trail off dejectedly.
"Look, now might not be the right time to push this," Dr. Stevens interrupted heatedly, "but after everything I've been involved in with you and your brother, I think I deserve to know what's going on...who you really are!"
The physician glared from Dean to Bobby and back again. When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. "If you're really who you say you are, then, fine. But, as sure as I'm standing here, I know there's a lot more to your story than what you're telling me and, somehow John Winchester's involved."
Bobby was surprised at the mention of his old friend's name but hid the emotion quickly. Like Dean, he was in no mood to go revealing more about themselves than need be. John had gained himself quite the reputation over the years, with hunters and demons alike, and more than one demon had dropped his name in an effort to get close to other hunters or even John's boys, themselves. And a man with John's "style" had an innate ability to piss off even those people that were considered allies, so it was best to admit nothing.
"I'm not sure what you're talking about," Bobby denied, "but we're not looking for more trouble. I'm just interested in making certain Dean and Sam are OK and then getting the hell outta this God forsaken nightmare you call a hospital."
The medic had expected yet another denial and the one he'd just received caused him to exhale with an exasperated sigh. He pushed the sleeve of his scrub shirt up and scratched at his right shoulder as he began to argue once again. "I just really think…"
The physician's words were clipped off violently as Dean dropped his ice pack to the bed and forcibly grabbed the Brit's right arm, spinning him quickly and shoving his shirt sleeve high to get a better look at his right bicep.
"I had a dream he was here, Dean." Sam's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Who," Dean queried. "The Demon?"
Sam looked up at Dean with moist, remorseful eyes. Dean could see the emotional pain etched on Sam's face. "No, it wasn't the Demon. I had a dream Dad was here...he told me I had to be ready, that evil was coming."
"It was just a dream, Sam," Dean soothed. "Nothing bad's gonna happen to you as long as I'm around."
Sam stared off absently as he remembered all that John had said. "He told me I needed to trust in the chained dragon." Sam looked up with worried eyes. "But I don't know what that means."
"It doesn't mean anything, Sammy. It was just a dream. OK?"
"Dean, what is it?" Bobby's eyes flashed from Dean to the tattoo emblazoned on the physician's right bicep.
"Trust the chained dragon," Dean whispered. "Oh my God, it wasn't a dream. He said we should trust the chained dragon."
"Who?" Dr. Stevens and Bobby had asked the question simultaneously.
"Dad. Sammy said Dad came to him and told him to trust the chained dragon. That's why he was so upset when he woke up that night. I told him it was just a dream." Dean peered up at the older hunter with troubled, searching eyes. "Dad's dead, Bobby...and we salted and burned. How could it have been anything but a dream?"
"Wh-when was this?" Dr. Stevens' voice quivered with uncertainty.
Dean looked up suddenly, a questioning gaze on his face.
The Englishman rephrased his question. "When did Sam say your Dad came to him?"
"Last Tuesday night, when Sam woke up."
An incredulous look crossed the doctor's face. "Bloody hell!"
Dean still had a firm hold of the medic's right upper arm and stared once again at the bold tattoo he found there. Before Dean's eyes was a winged serpent, fierce, blazing eyes, talons raking through the air, tongue darting from its open mouth and a golden chain secured around it's neck...a chained dragon.
"We're supposed to trust him, Bobby. Dad wants us to trust him."
snsnsnsnsnsnsn
"I knew you two had to be John's boys," the Brit proclaimed. "Hell, there was only one man on earth that could raise two sons like you and Sam, and that was John Winchester. Toughest old git I ever met."
After seeing the doctor's tattoo, Dean had finally admitted that he and Sam were John's sons. But John had deeply ingrained in Dean the need to keep family information close to the chest and he was reluctant to reveal too much, too soon and had admitted nothing more.
"I'd be willing to bet," Dr. Stevens guessed, "that you're not about to tell me any details until you're sure you can trust me. John would be proud. It's a sign of a good hunter."
Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but neither he nor Bobby said anything.
"Yeah, I know all about that. I may be British, but the supernatural doesn't stop at the American borders, you know." The doctor sighed, knowing that he was going to have to tell his story before he could begin to gain the trust of the two hunters.
"It started back when I was at university. The lads and I went pub crawling until we got pretty well sloshed. On the way home, something...some animal...a dog...came charging out of the woods at us. I took a hit across my back with its claws and went down. It seemed set on butchering me, but for some reason, when it saw my mates turn and start legging it, the damned thing forgot all about me and went after them. I got a good look at it as it chased after them and I'd never seen a dog so large and powerful. But there was something different about it, something that didn't look like a regular dog. I dragged myself off into a thicket and hid until dawn. When I finally crawled back out..."
Dr. Stevens swallowed thickly recalling the events as though they had happened just yesterday. "When I finally crawled back out, my chums were dead...mutilated, almost beyond recognition. I knew I was a bit squiffy, but I also knew what I saw. And no matter how much I'd had to drink, I knew that what I saw wasn't the product of an inebriated imagination. Only problem was, I couldn't get anyone to believe me...until I met my first hunter. He introduced me to the hunter's world and I learned that what had attacked us that night was a werewolf. I soaked up every bit of werewolf lore and hunting techniques from him that I could and eventually helped form a loose confederation of hunters, a brotherhood of sorts, that was based out of a pub...The Dragon's Lair...and we hunted werewolves exclusively. The tattoos identified members of the brotherhood." A small chuckle rumbled in Dr. Stevens' throat as old memories returned. "I suppose we weren't too original. We lifted the tattoo's design directly from the pub's sign."
"What brought you to the States? Sounds like you had a pretty lucrative gig in England." Bobby had been hunting for quite a while and he wasn't about to go trusting someone without more information. Blatantly throwing your trust out to just anyone was a sure fire way to stumble into a demon's trap or double cross.
A dark shadow crossed over the physician's face and a look of despair flashed in his eyes. "We'd been hammering hard at werewolf dens all across the UK…and had been pretty successful. Successful enough, in fact, that we were getting a reputation among the packs. We were seen as a real threat…and that's when things got a bit dodgy. A pack of six werewolves and their pups took up residence in a local park. For months, individual hunters tried unsuccessfully to stop their rampage through the community. The Dragon's Lair hunters decided the only way this pack was going down was to launch an offensive with a small army of hunters working as a unit. We planned in secret for weeks but, somehow, the pack was alerted to our plans and by the time we attacked, they'd just managed to clear out."
Tears sprung to the man's eyes and threatened to wash down his cheeks. "While we were off hunting for them, the werewolves doubled back and murdered our families. We had left our families totally open...completely unprotected...and they paid for our mistakes with their lives. As soon as I realized that the hunt had gone sideways, I rushed home. As long as I live, I'll never forget what I saw. Blood and carnage was everywhere. My three, precious little babies were dead and my wife...she was barely alive. There was nothing I could do but sit and watch her struggle for her last breaths as she died cradled in my arms. After that, I couldn't bear to stay in England. I moved to the States, swore I'd never hunt again and tried to start over. I remarried and we have two wonderful sons. I've never told any of them how I really lost my first wife and kids. All I've ever said was that it was a horrible accident."
The room fell eerily quiet as each hunter considered the often tragic consequences of their battle against the dark forces of the world and paid a silent homage to those that had fallen because of it. Each of them knew that their lives as hunters put them at great risk and it was a risk that they willingly accepted. The difficult parts to reconcile were the innocent people that more than occasionally got caught in the cross-fire, especially when those innocents were children.
"If you never hunted again...," Dean asked softly, "...how is it that you knew my Dad?"
Dr. Stevens chuckled derisively as a wry smile crept onto his face. "I hadn't been in the States very long. The wounds over losing my family were still pretty raw and I spent most of my time beating myself up over the fact that I should have been there, should have protected my family, should have figured things out faster and gotten to them sooner. I'd gotten myself pretty plastered one night. My head was everywhere but on what was going on around me, otherwise I would have recognized the signs. But I was too busy obsessing over my failure for me to notice anything. Next thing I know, this flash of fur and claws and snapping teeth comes out of the bushes at me. He got one good swipe at me before John came in, guns blazing like some frickin' larger-than-life, blow-'em-all-to-Hell 'John Wayne' type, and pumped that werewolf so full of rounds his carcass held more silver than Grandma's tea service. John saved my life that night. Once he found out that I was an ex-hunter, he wanted me to rejoin the fight, but I just couldn't...I'd lost my nerve. I swore someday I'd find a way to pay him back for what he did for me, but I never found a way. I tried to keep track of him but, like every good hunter, he eventually disappeared from the radar and I never heard from him again...until the other night."
"What do you mean, 'until the other night'?" Dean and Bobby were staring at the doctor with hardened looks.
"Last Tuesday," the medic explained, "…the night Sam woke up…I was sleeping right here…in this room. I woke up suddenly with a feeling there was someone here with me. That's when John walked out of the shadows. At the time, I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but he just kept thanking me about his boys before he literally disappeared. It was all I could think about for days on end."
Dean nodded his head in understanding. "And that's when you started putting things together…figured Sam and I were the boys he was talking about."
The Brit smiled broadly. "Well, yeah, I mean, everything fit. Stories that didn't match up, unusual injuries…" He reached into the pocket of his lab coat, pulled Dean's necklace out and handed it to him. "…a taste for 'unique' and powerful amulets and, of course, the fact that the two of you are just like your old man…more tenacious than a Pit Bull, tough as any Leatherneck-Jarhead-Marine and too damned strong-willed and hard-headed for your own good."
Bobby laughed openly and rested one of his large, calloused hands on Dean's right shoulder. "I hate to say it, boy, but he's got your number…and it's obvious he really did know your old man. I think it's time we come clean."
The doctor sighed, regret-filled eyes locking with Dean's hazel orbs. "I did know him, Dean, and I owe him so much. I wanted to re-pay him. But now he's gone...and I've lost my chance."
"No you didn't," Dean asserted firmly, "you helped me...and you saved Sammy. You couldn't have paid him back any better way than that."
"It's my job," the doctor lamented. "I would have done that for anyone, it's what I do. I have to find another way to pay him back, Dean. I need to re-pay him."
Dean nodded in understanding. "You do know what world you're headed back into, right? Can you handle that? I mean, your family doesn't know the 'real' you."
"Yeah, I know…and I'm still in. If you and Sam need my help, I'll do what I can."
To be continued...
About the chapter title: "Of Wolf and Man" is a track on Metallica's self-titled 1991 album, their fifth one, and is often known as "The Black Album". The song is about lycanthropy – the transformation of man to wolf – and fit well with Larry Stevens' past history with werewolves. I had also considered another track from this album for the chapter title, "My Friend of Misery", since Dean, Larry and Bobby have all felt the misery of losing loved ones to their war with evil.