My apologies for the wait. All Hell Breaks Loose Pt1 threw me for such a loop I had trouble getting back in the Lil' Sammy mood. Hoping to make up for it this week! Honest! As always - huge thanks to hotshow for continual support and inspiration, and to all you wonderful people following this story whether or not you choose to leave a review!!
Chapter 17
Brad Wayne called Dean's cell phone again. It rang straight over to voicemail. Damn it. His eyes swept the parking lot hoping to spot Dean's car, but he knew it was hopeless. If the brothers were still at Singer's he would be lucky. Why did today have to be the day someone else drove the carpool?
"George!" Brad waved down a colleague leaving for lunch. "Hey!" He jogged up to the other doctor. "Need a huge favor."
George groaned. "Now what?"
"Got a patient not answering my calls. Drive me to the house?" Brad grinned.
"What for?" George demanded, avoiding eye contact.
Brad chewed his lower lip for a moment. "I've lost their trust. It's those brothers I told you about, the amnesia case and the dislocated shoulder."
George hesitated by his car. Brad watched hopefully. "The ones staying with Bobby Singer, right?"
"Yes."
George groaned again. "Fine. Get in." The car lights flashed as the alarm turned off and the doors unlocked.
Brad jumped into the car before George could change his mind. "What made you change your mind?" he asked as George started the engine.
"Bobby Singer," George replied. "He's a friend of my aunt and uncle."
"Marty and Birdie?"
"Yep."
Brad stared out the window, watching the scenery fly by. "So you know where we're going."
"Yep."
Brad's fingers tapped the armrest. Facing Dean, especially if the man might think he is not on their side, had his insides writhing. The image of the patient, the rather large patient, with the ripped shoulder muscles kept resurfacing.
"Brad?"
Brad started at the sound of George's voice. "What?"
"You nervous or something?" George glanced over at him.
Brad shook his head, clearing his throat. "I just hate losing a patient's confidence. That's all."
"Okay. If you say so."
The words sounded good, but as they pulled into Singer's Auto Salvage, his writhing insides threatened to charge right up his esophagus and spill out into the floorboard. George would undoubtedly not appreciate that. Brad tried to swallow down the taste of bile.
As the car parked near the house, he saw the front door open. A young man with one arm in a sling stepped out. Brad swallowed hard again. As the car stopped, he opened the door.
"Hey, Dean," he waved in greeting. "I, uh, have Sam's test results." He walked a third of the way toward his patient's brother and stopped. "I tried to call, but you weren't answering your cell."
Dean glared at him, making Brad feel like an intruder or trespasser. As he watched, Dean slipped the arm out of the sling. This could not be a good sign.
"Who is it, Dean?" Sam appeared in the doorway, holding that Batman doll. Damn it. He had hoped the younger brother was improving. Sam's demeanor this morning had been so promising. When Elizabeth Jeffries came demanding Sam's case file, claiming she had seen the brothers, Brad knew Dean would be upset. He did not calculate the effect it might have on Sam.
Sam cowered behind his brother at the sight of Brad. Brad took a deep breath, wondering what he could possibly say to repair the damage.
"What do you want?" Dean challenged, stepping in front of his brother.
"Just to tell you Sam's test results. And to let you know that Doctor Jeffries has a copy of Sam's medical records, which has this address on it." Brad swallowed hard again, the taste of bile burning his throat.
Dean took a couple of steps toward him. "How?" The man actually snarled at him. As if the patient in the hospital with a concussion because of Dean wasn't intimidating enough, now he thought the man might bite him.
"She is considered an authority in the field. If she requests a patient's file, even just out of curiosity, she usually gets it." Brad admitted as his writhing insides did a double somersault. He pointed at Dean's arm. "That's supposed to be in a sling."
Dean's eyes narrowed and Brad figured he was only a couple of steps away from a concussion or something painful. "Don't you want to hear Sam's test results?" He tried to sound authoritative, but it just came out squeaky. Brad imagined George laughing at him behind his back.
"Or about how Jeffries is petitioning for temporary custodial guardianship," George's voice came strongly from behind him.
Brad had no idea how George knew that, but it was a small town.
Dean's eyes shifted between him and George. "Who's he?" Dean demanded.
"George Schroeder. He's another doctor at the hospital." Brad answered.
"If you don't believe him," George said, "you can ask Bobby. My aunt and uncle come out here all the time."
"Names?"
"Marty and Birdie."
Brad watched the effect those names had on Dean. The older brother seemed to relax a little, studying George. "Bobby!" he shouted.
Bobby Singer appeared in the doorway, holding a shotgun. Brad had a pretty good idea how well Bobby could use it, too. He took a step back, not that it would do any good.
"What is it, Dean?" Bobby sounded casual, but Brad was not fooled. That old man was pretty damned crafty.
"You know this guy? Says he's related to Marty and Birdie." Dean's eyes never left George.
"Sure, Dean. That's George. He drives them out here sometimes." Bobby stepped out the door, moved to stand beside Dean. Brad watched as Bobby leaned over to whisper in Dean's ear. Then Sam whispered something, too. Dean's face tightened, he put a hand behind his back for a moment, then placed his arm back in the sling. Brad drew a deep breath of relief.
"Come on in, Doc," Bobby waved to them, dropping the barrel of the shotgun toward the ground. "Both of you."
George shot Brad a look, one that said he did not think much of nearly being shot. Brad shook his head, heading toward Bobby's house.
----------------------
The lump in Dean's throat loosened as Doc Wayne and George, who ever the hell he was supposed to be, headed into Bobby's. The relief over Sam's doctor not being the one to betray them to that bitch was palatable, but now the courts were involved. They might have to pack up and move on again, but he wanted to hear Sam's test results first. His arm rested in the sling, which no longer bit into his neck thanks to Sammy. The gun in his waistband still pressed into his back, providing a measure of reassurance.
"So how did she find us?" Dean demanded once they were all standing in Bobby's den, not waiting for anyone to find a place to sit. Sam wandered into the other room, drawn there by another damned animated show. What the hell? GI Joe?
Doc Wayne cleared his throat. It was obvious the doctor was nervous and Dean liked it that way. People should know when they've really, really screwed up. "I called a few specialists in the field of amnesia, to discuss Sam's case. Apparently one of the doctors I called was one Elizabeth called, too. He must have contacted her."
"And why would he do that?" Bobby asked. Dean noticed Bobby's tone was far more conversational, but he knew better. Bobby was most dangerous when he played the part of an innocuous old fart.
"Well," Doc Wayne's feet shifted, "some doctors place a lot of emphasis on writing and publishing papers. They can be pretty cut-throat about it, stealing ideas and theories." He shrugged. "The specialist probably thought I was stealing her paper."
"Why?" Bobby asked again.
Doc Wayne's head bowed. "I was accused of it once. Someone else happened to come up with the exact same theory I did."
"What happened?" Dean asked, unsure if he bought Doc Wayne's story. Considering how well Doc looked after Sammy, Dean decided he did not care if the man did or did not try to steal some stupid paper in his past. Hell, Dean was guilty of how many counts of credit card fraud?
"I quit," Doc Wayne said with a shrug, "found another place to intern. Here. Plus, I like the people a lot more."
Bobby rested the shotgun beside the front door. Dean felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. One part of his brain screamed not to trust anyone else's judgment while the other side of his brain argued that if Bobby trusted these men then they must be okay. He hesitated only a moment before responding to Bobby's questioning look with a slight nod, rubbing his tense neck with one hand.
"Dean?" When did Sammy come back into the room? "You okay?"
"Sure, Sammy," Dean forced a smile, "go watch your show." Then he noticed Sammy was clutching something. Dean glanced down. "Sammy? Why do you have a crowbar?"
Sammy glared at the two men. "Just in case." He walked back to his cartoons, holding the crowbar.
Dean shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping that was not a monster headache building. That was the last thing he needed today. Later he needed to have a serious discussion about that crowbar and what the hell Sammy was doing with it.
"So?" he broke the uneasy silence. "What about my brother's test results? Worse?" Dean looked up, meeting Doc Wayne's eyes.
"Actually, no." A smile played across Doc Wayne's face. "The cranial pressure is nearly down to normal. You should not be seeing any more strokes."
"But the headache?" Dean protested. Why did anything that had to do with the brain have to be so freaking complicated?
"Sometimes when amnesia patients start to remember, the memories are accompanied by headaches. It could be a good sign." Doc Wayne had that weak smile again.
"He was more himself, before he saw," Dean leaned forward to whisper, "Catwoman."
"Excuse me?" George asked, looking at them all like Dean had just suggested they run naked through the streets and everyone else agreed with him.
"Who the hell is he again?" Dean demanded.
"He's the guy you have an appointment with in a few weeks," Doc Wayne said. "Doctor Schroeder."
"Someday," Dean groaned, "something really simple is going to happen to me, and I won't know what to do with it."
"Dean?"
"Fine, Sammy," he called out, "don't get up."
The two doctors found places to sit on Bobby's well used couch. Dean stood watching them while Bobby sat opposite, an odd expression on the old man's face.
"Can someone fill me in on Catwoman?" George asked, keeping his voice down this time.
"Sam," Doc Wayne pointed out Sammy in the next room, "calls Elizabeth Jeffries Catwoman."
George chuckled. "From what I hear, that's a pretty good description. In just a couple of hours at the hospital she has a reputation of being a raving bitch."
"Even better description," Dean said, leaning back against a stack of books, hoping they wouldn't topple under his weight. "So what is she up to?"
"She has already contacted a judge trying to get custodial guardianship of Sam," Doc Wayne explained. "The judge called me about an hour ago wanting to know, in my opinion, what was wrong with Sam and what kinds of treatments were being offered here as opposed to her hospital in the next state. The judge seemed rather offended by the fact Jeffries claimed to be able to provide better care at her hospital than in, and I quote, Hicksville."
Bobby chuckled as Dean shook his head. "Some people," he breathed.
"The judge came right out and told me that he was going to make her prove the brother was unfit to care for," he glanced over at Sam in the next room, "the patient before he would approve even temporary guardianship."
Dean rubbed at his forehead again. Definitely a monster headache coming on. "Guess we need to hit the road then."
"Now wait a minute, Dean," Bobby spoke up, "Sam seems to be doing real well here. And how can she possibly prove you're unfit?"
Dean glared at Bobby. "What do you think?" He did not want to come right out and say he was wanted in at least five states, much less for multiple murders, in front of these two fine upstanding members of the medical profession.
"Can't you give it a little longer?" Bobby asked. What was wrong with that man? Couldn't he see the logic in this?
"Bobby," Dean growled, hoping to drive the point home. "We can't afford to have people poking around."
Outside, the sounds of something metal falling interrupted the conversation. Dean leapt to his feet, rushing for the door with Bobby hot on his heels.