Armistice

Summary: A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Will be 9 chapters.

Rating: T, language.

Spoilers: None.

Disclaimers: See my profile page.

Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings: Thanks again to Penny for her beta-reading awesomeness and to Beki for helping keep my imagination in line. Thanks also to everyone who sent such encouraging feedback for chapter 1 or have placed the story on alert. I hope the balance of the fic lives up to your expectations.

Chapter 2 - FUBAR

John hated hospitals, especially the bigger city ones. Those with their procedures on top of protocols, sophisticated databases with direct links to insurance companies, and cold, distant doctors and nurses who cared more about HMO's and paperwork than they did one beat up kid. Every one of them seemingly indifferent to the lost souls steadfastly watching the clock, rooted to the E/R's nauseatingly pastel waiting room, desperate for news of any kind.

Reno's St. Mary's fell under this category. If it weren't for the fact that their brand spanking new CT-scan and MRI units were considered state of the art by the too-young George Clooney look-alike attending to Dean, John would have already barged through those doors marked "No Entry" and hauled Dean's ass out of there. He'd have felt a hell of a lot better tracking down a compassionate country doctor with a secretary/nurse/wife that truly wanted to take care of his son.

Twenty minutes before, at just shy of 3:00 a.m., Doctor Ross - or was it Rowe? - had finally parted the swinging doors barricading John from his son. Granting him an audience long enough to proclaim that Dean's only injuries were a significant concussion along with the gash on his head and that he was still unconscious. Sonofabitch hadn't seemed to appreciate John's, "Tell me something I don't know."

Christ, thirty seconds with a penlight had told John that already. What he wanted, needed, to know was why the hell Dean wasn't awake yet?

Which brought him back to the present. Standing in front of the elevators waiting for a ride to transport him to yet another set of walls filled with strangers whispering and pretending to read outdated magazines. Dean had already been wheeled off for the CT-scan, out some secret passageway apparently, nowhere near his dad's line of sight. They needed to get a look inside Dean's head, determine the extent of the unwanted pressure possibly messing with his brain and then, once the scan was done, he'd be admitted to the fourth floor for observation. Fine with John, as long as he was doing the observing.

He'd had three cups of bitter black coffee since he'd driven the Impala into the emergency bay, blasting the horn and demanding help for his son. He didn't actually need the caffeine, adrenaline and a parent's waking nightmare providing enough stimulus to keep him hopped up for days. But the trips to and from the complimentary coffeemaker had helped kill time and the paper cup held between his hands kept them from punching something. . . or someone.

Not nearly soon enough, the doors parted open and John pitched his latest coffee into the trash before stepping into the elevator, punching four and apparently, though quite unintentionally, herding three elderly Asians and a candy-striper into the corner opposite him. Dean always told John, with a certain degree of admiration; he could back down a pissed-off Kodiak. Came in handy most of the time.

Funny how a five foot fuck-all nurse with a touch of grey hair could damn near bring him to his knees.

"Are you Dean Wyman's father?" She asked worriedly, still scanning the other people stepping off the elevator with John. She'd clearly been looking for him. John felt his intestines twist into knots, then slither and roil until he wanted nothing more than to hurl.

"Yeah - uh - yes," John faltered as he stepped away from the lobby, his voice raspy and rough and completely foreign to his own ears. Clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders, regaining something of the military bearing his youngest loathed and his oldest often emulated, he asked, "Why? Where's my son? How's Dean?" The rapid-fire and return of his usual no-nonsense tone making the tiny little thing balk.

The woman had grit though, must have had experience dealing with the stressed-out friends and family of her patients because no sooner had John made her flinch, she inhaled deeply, and then reached out with both hands to grasp his arm and begin guiding him down a hallway. "Let's talk on the way, I'll explain everything I can," she encouraged, leading John toward another set of swinging doors, this time bearing signs reading "St. Mary's Imaging Services" and, more ominously, the notorious "No Entry".

So why were they allowing a civilian past those hallowed doors?

Oh, Dean.

Apparently feeling John tense, Carol - or Karen, whatever the hell she'd said - coaxed him with a tug, starting into the promised explanation. "We were getting your son ready for his CT-scan, Mr. Wyman, when he started showing signs of regaining consciousness."

John's steps faltered. "Dean's awake? Is he all right?" That odd breathless quality in his voice was hope. He hadn't heard it in a while, hadn't had much use for it. Or faith in it. Still he recognized it, sounded just like Sammy begging to stay one more semester in whatever backwater they'd happened to be living in at any given time. He only prayed he'd have more success than poor Sam with his long track record of disappointments.

Her name-tag stated "Sr. Carol Riley, OP" with "Chaplain" beneath in smaller print and John couldn't help but balk at the sight. Sister Carol? Shit. So she wasn't a nurse after all but a freakin' nun of some sort. Minus the Sally Field habit, though. Perfect. Just. Perfect.

Immediately shaking off his bitterness - after all, Jim was a servant of God too and an ally of John's, despite his recent thoughts to the contrary - John decided he really couldn't care less at this point who she was. Queen Elizabeth or Heidi Fleiss, it didn't matter. . . this woman was taking him to his son.

"He is awake but, he's highly agitated, Mr. Wyman," and that was all John needed to spur him onward again.

She tried to grasp his arm once more but John avoided her limited reach, knew where he was headed now and sure as shit didn't need an escort. "Mr. Wyman, please."

She was goddamn lucky she was a woman, never mind a nun. Hospital must've planned it this way, siccing the little thing on him. He'd sure as hell have steam-rolled a man by now. About to straight arm his way through the doors, her gentle plea held him back. Pausing, resting his hands on his hips, he focused his gaze on the off-white tiles beneath his boots, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a few calming breaths before daring to speak. "It's John. Call me John," he said not unkindly before continuing with a little more bite. "Carol? All due respect, Sister, but just spit it out, all right?"

If she took offense to the tone or anything he'd said, John didn't know. He kept his gaze averted, knowing full well that his eyes were flashing danger and, really, in the end he needed this woman on his side. On Dean's side.

"Of course, John," she said, patient. John finally met her eyes and his own softened at the almost amused expression she wore. Clearly she wasn't offended and apparently, now that they'd made eye contact, she was ready to continue. "Dr. Rowe will explain things further but I can tell you that your son's heightened anxiety is not at all uncommon with a concussion, particularly when the frontal lobe is affected."

John knew this, read up on it when necessary. Memory loss, lack of impulse control, moods and emotions out of whack, he'd heard it before. Hated it. "Could just be shock, couldn't it?" Kicking himself, knowing shock could be just as lethal. Still, Dean was safe here, the doctors could monitor him. Head injuries were a different kettle, more tricky.

"Possibly," she answered, the caution in her voice echoing in John's head, mocking his hopefulness, almost sing-songing, 'but we don't think so.' She didn't voice it though, instead went on to explain, "Either way, Dr. Rowe wanted someone to find you, see if you can settle him down so that they can do the scan without sedation."

"Sedation?" John asked, voice elevated in alarm. He thought that sedatives were only used with the worst head injuries -- when patients got violent or had to be placed on a ventilator.

The Sister must have read his distress because she grasped his arm again, urging him on with a "Come, let's go" and pushed through the doors, leading him down the corridor. "Dean's just confused and very distraught, John. And he's asking for you."

Immensely relieved to know his boy was talking, the knots strangling John's guts loosened marginally. Briefly his mind flitted toward guardedness, concern that Dean wouldn't be well enough to keep his alias. He let that worry go. His son was hurt, upset and needed his father and, though he hated the why of it, John felt something inside his chest ease, give just a little. Warming and melting like the beginnings of a spring thaw.

At the first glimpse of Dean since John had been sent packing from the E/R, he felt ice cold seep back into his bones. He couldn't actually see his kid's face as he and Sister Carol approached the glass doors of the imaging room, blocked as he was by the lab-coat wearing form of a doctor. But, the white knuckled grip Dean had on the gurney was obvious and more than enough to propel John through the door without knocking or waiting for an invitation.

"Dean!" He called out, no doubt louder than he should have but it resulted in the desired effect. The seas parted and Doctor Rowe backed away as did the two other people in the room, presumably technicians or orderlies. John didn't give a rat's ass, as long as they moved the hell out of his way.

"--dad--"

Oh Christ, that just does not sound like Dean. Though he sounded too damn weak, the kid's pain, fear, and relief came through crystal clear. And if that wasn't bad enough, Dean's eyes shone a too vivid green, their color intensified by contrasting red rims and pools of wetness threatening to overflow. Dean just didn't do tears, hadn't in a long time as far as John knew. At least not in front of him.

"Right here," John answered as he reached Dean's side. Though uneasy and unused to Dean's emotional display, before he even realized it, something akin to instinct had him awkwardly grasping the outstretched hand that had released its grip on the gurney and now held on, vice-like, belying Dean's weakened state.

Dean was clearly in agony, those expressive eyes blinking and squinting against the room's brightness, the small hitches of breath that resonated like spikes driven into John's chest every time Dean even dared consider moving his head. Hell, this entire hand-holding Beaches moment was flashing in livid accusation: look how badly your son is hurt.

In neon. Fuck.

"Dad, I-I can't--I don't--God!"

"Dean, hey, easy now. Settle down." Appalled by the disjointed words and Dean's frustration and near panic, John spoke softly but sternly, throwing a touch of command into his voice. Dean always responded well to John's orders, but it was tough demanding obedience when your kid was so messed up. Leaning over the guardrail, John lowered himself nearer to Dean's level and placed his free arm across the kid's chest in an effort to steady him. Once he felt the tension ease in the heaving muscles beneath his forearm, he set out to decode his son's gibberish. Squeezing the fingers still entwined with his for good measure, he asked, "So, what's this I hear about you giving these people a hard time?"

Dean's anxious gaze shot toward the doctor before returning to his father. "Sorry," he whispered, but John knew the apology was meant for him and not the medical team behind him. John just didn't know what it was for.

"Dean?"

Despite John's certainty that he'd already used his name since walking into this oversized fish tank, seeing the flash of relief in Dean's eyes upon hearing it gave John reason to suspect his earlier concerns about their current aliases were more than valid. As if to confirm this, Dean suddenly blurted, albeit in a whisper, "I can't remember anything, Dad."

At Dean's confession, a lone tear finally escaped and John had to work to hide his dismay and swallow the lump that had lodged in his throat. It was getting to him. No doubt about it. Even though he knew the waterworks were a result of pain and the concussion, John still felt guilty as hell that the extra burden of having to remember the con was probably the final straw for Dean tonight. John didn't need Sam here to tell him how unfair that was and, though his younger son's absence was equally unfair to Dean, John was grateful for it. He wouldn't be able to handle Sammy's wrath or condemnation right now.

Trying to be reassuring, John smiled, though a little sadly, "It's okay, Dean. You will." Redirecting his attention to the doctor and the chaplain, who had apparently shepherded the medical staff a respectful distance away from Dean's bedside, he nodded appreciatively and said, "Right, doc?"

The doctor, who really didn't seem to appreciate the appellation, apparently took John's question as permission to return to his patient. John granted it, knew they had to get this show on the road. Rowe approached, looked as though he was about to pat Dean on the shoulder but, seeing Dean's obvious discomfort, must've changed his mind. Either that or maybe it was his father's glare -- John couldn't be sure.

"In almost all cases, yes," Doctor Rowe responded, clearing his throat after a moment of uncomfortable silence. Addressing John, he explained, "After a concussion, memory issues are common and Dean here," he paused then, as though suddenly realizing something, then focused his attention on the patient in question. "Did you recognize your name?"

Dean looked unusually nervous but nodded his head abruptly, clearly regretting the action immediately as a pain-filled gasp parted his lips. "Easy, dude," John soothed, no longer surprising himself when he easily returned the impossibly tighter grip Dean had on his hand.

"How about we try for verbal answers only, all right?" The doctor suggested more than a little condescendingly and John had the sudden urge to deck the guy. "We need to keep Dean calm." The latter admonishment clearly meant for John.

"Right. Because you were doing such a bang up job of that before I got here." John couldn't help himself, he was pissed. Finally relinquishing Dean's hand, he straightened, turned and fixed a murderous glare at the man.

"Dad, please."

If it weren't for his kid's pain-laced plea, John would've punched the arrogant sonofabitch. Well, that and Sister Carol inserting herself between him and the doctor.

"And that's why we brought you here, John," she said forcefully. Watching her try to back down two men, both of whom were more than a head taller than her, would have been damn near comical if not for the fact that Dean was hurting so bad. Rowe backed off first, the only acceptable outcome as far as John was concerned. He might be placing his son's care in their hands but that didn't mean he'd let these people walk all over him.

"Yes, well, let's get back to it then," Rowe continued, clearly flustered by their minor exchange. "Dean, do you remember your last name?"

In the short time he'd spent with Dean since walking into this room, John had quickly come to two conclusions: one, Dean knew exactly who he was, and two, the kid had suffered enough memory loss to not have a clue who he was supposed to be.

He could have groaned, the reason behind Dean's anxiety hitting him full bore. John was aware that memory loss of events that took place just prior to getting a concussion was pretty common and, since they'd only left Minnesota with their new I.D.'s a few days ago, Dean was more than likely screwed.

Not surprisingly, at the doctor's question, Dean's eyes widened and darted to John, who could only grimace and hope that Dean would catch the almost imperceptible headshake John was sending his way, hoping he'd understand that "no" was a better answer than "Winchester".

Dean must have understood and croaked out, "No," before sending an imploring gaze to his dad and adding, "I'm sorry."

Bad enough Dean was hurting like this, he looked so damn defeated and remorseful, John felt like crawling under a rock. "'S okay, sport," he sighed, giving Dean's nearest shoulder a light pat. Definitely out of practice, this fatherly affection thing was getting easier. The guilt helped, John supposed. It offered a great incentive.

"No worries, Dean. I'm sure it will come," Doctor Rowe added and John grudgingly felt grateful for the man's input. Until the bastard asked his next question. "Let's try numbers then. How about your address?"

"Uh, doc? Why don't you try his birthday?" John spoke up before Dean had to struggle with yet another impossible question. They were going to start thinking serious brain damage soon if they didn't come up with another line of questions. Hell, John couldn't even remember the Wyman and son fabricated address at the moment.

Before the doctor could object to or question John's reasoning, Dean answered, gasped really. "January 24th. Seventy-nine."

Looking to John for confirmation and getting it, Rowe almost absently muttered, "Good, good," before making some notes on Dean's chart. Apparently satisfied that Dean wasn't quite as addled as he first thought, Rowe explained that they still needed to do the CT-scan to look for any potentially serious bleeding. Though John could tell by the way Dean tensed up that he wasn't happy about the test, his father wasn't going to refuse it. Wasn't about to take the risk. Hell, wasn't that what the Wyman's insurance plan was for?

To be continued.