A/N: Cookies and love to my betas, historylover and H.T. Marie, who helped make this a better chapter.
Thanks to all those who read and reviewed. You're the reason I decided to keep the story going.
Chapter Three
(Still 2002)
Dean woke up again late in the afternoon. He still seemed a little disoriented, his words a little slurred. He relaxed in the presence of his father, but tried to hide his chest pains. The monitors he was hooked up on called his bluff.
Dr. Fitzpatrick pulled John aside. "We found three types of anti-depressants in his system," he told John. John frowned. "There were also sedatives and stimulants. Definitely not something one would mix for the purpose of getting high," the doctor went on. "Well, not unless they were stupid," the doctor shrugged and signed something a nurse shoved into his hands, barely looking at it.
"Can you tell if there's gonna be any lasting damage yet?" John asked.
"Well, it's a little early to be a hundred percent sure about the lasting effects of taking contradicting drugs." The doctor pushed his glasses higher up his nose. "There will probably be some side effects; you should expect him to feel nauseated, jumpy, and confused," the doctor said, "But what you should be most concerned about at this time is his heart."
John's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it seems the nitroglycerin we've been administrating him with isn't doing its job," Fitzpatrick explained. "We are going to try switching him to some other medications, give him some more tests, but frankly, Mr. Nash, you should prepare yourself for the option that medications would simply not suffice."
"What does that supposed to mean?" John demanded gruffly.
"Well, should your son's arrhythmia not be resolved by the new medications, we would have to consider a more permanent solution," the doctor explained.
"Meaning?"
"We would have to implant him with a heart pacer," the doctor said bluntly. John stared at him, waiting for a smile, a wink, anything that might indicate that the doctor was joking. Fitzpatrick stared back. John fumbled for a seat as his heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles.
"I understand how this sounds, Mr. Nash, but let's worry about it if and when the time comes," the doctor said, checking his watch. "Let's see how Donald does with his new medication first. Your son is young, and otherwise quite healthy. At the moment, a pacer is a distant possibility, but it is still a possibility. We'll just have to wait and see," the doctor finished. "Now if you'd excuse me, I have other patients to see," Fitzpatrick said quickly and left the room, leaving a dazed John behind. John ran a hand over his face and wondered where the good doctor had learned his bedside manners.
Dean had dozed off again by the time Dr. Fitzpatrick left, and John spent the next hour sitting next to his firstborn, thoughts and worst-case scenarios playing in his mind.
"Mr. Nash."
John was startled out of his reverie by the familiar voice. He turned and nodded at the cop who entered the room. Carlos tucked his cap under his arm and neared Dean's bed.
"Officer Martinez. To what do we owe the honor?" John asked and got up from his seat.
"No, no, please, sit down," the cop waved at him to sit. "I was just making my rounds," he explained, "It's our policy to secure victims of an unsolved crime."
"I appreciate that," John lied and smiled at Carlos. Having the police breathing down their necks, even if it was done with the best intentions, was going to be a problem. Especially when the Billing department found out the insurance was fake.
"Oh, I… have something for you," Martinez said and handed John a plastic bag. John looked quizzically at the officer. "These are the things that were on your son when we found him," Carlos explained, "My partner asked me to tell him he had a sweet ride."
John smiled at that, and looked at his son, half expecting him to smirk and make some smart-mouthed remark, but Dean was still asleep.
"He does love that car," John noted and looked inside the bag. It contained Dean's leather jacket, his phone, car keys, necklace, wallet, ring, and bracelets. "Thank you for these," John added.
"Don't mention it," Martinez said dismissingly. "Any news about his condition?"
"Doc said to wait and see," John answered. Carlos gave a knowing nod.
"The best way of saying shut up and keep out of their way," he said with a slight smile. John couldn't help the smile that ghosted his lips.
"How are the others doing?" John figured it sounded nonchalant enough. "The other victims, that is," he clarified. Martinez glanced at him.
"Far as I know, Donald is one of the lucky ones," he answered.
"How many others are we talking about?"
The cop studied John before answering. "A few," he said, "I don't think they all ended up here, though."
"No one died, I hope," John said, gouging the cop's reaction.
"Not that I know of."
"Why were they brought into different hospitals? Weren't they all found together?" John asked.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Nash, I can't comment on an ongoing investigation," Martinez answered.
"Of course," John said coolly, "But surely, you have leads," he tried.
"I really can't comment on that," the cop repeated, and John knew cop-talk enough to know that meant they didn't have any leads. Martinez seemed to be getting restless, defensive. John could tell that pushing more buttons would probably do more harm than good, so he changed his direction.
"About my son's car…"
"Oh, I'm afraid it's been impounded. It's protocol," Carlos said apologetically, and John cursed under his breath. There were only so many times the Impala could be impounded and have no one check the trunk. Good luck and Winchesters didn't really meet that often.
"Where can I…?"
"Down on Stevenson. About six blocks from here. Not sure about their hours, though. They like to close early," Carlos said, trying to be helpful. John nodded his thanks.
"I'm gonna need to find a motel," John noted, mostly to himself, but the cop heard him anyway.
"There's one not too far from here. It's not fancy, but it's cheap," Martinez offered, and John thanked him.
"Dad?"
"Right here, kiddo," John said quickly, his attention back on his son.
"Why don't I leave you two alone," Martinez said, "If you need anything…" John thanked the cop again as Carlos excused himself.
"How are you doing, tiger?" John asked.
"What are you doing here?" Dean asked instead. John blinked.
"I've been here for a couple of hours, remember?"
Dean frowned, thinking. He was still sluggish, in no condition to answer any of John's questions, so John just sat beside him and kept him company until a nurse came by to tell him visiting hours were over.
John was more than a little surprised when Dean grabbed his hand. Dean's green eyes locked on his, and for a moment, John was sure Dean was going to ask him to stay. Dean hadn't asked him to stay since he was eighteen. He didn't this time, either, just let go of John's hand, and closed his eyes again. John squeezed his shoulder once, before he left the hospital for the night.
It was too late to pick up the car, but John at least made sure the trunk hadn't been tampered with. He got himself a room in a nearby motel and took a long shower, losing himself in thought and steam.
He had meant to go out, get some dinner, try to get his hands on as many newspapers as he could from the last week or so, but as soon as his tired body slumped on the bed, he was gone.
John woke up just before dawn, his stomach rumbling. He drove to the nearest Seven-Eleven, getting two large cups of coffee, a box of doughnuts and a paper. He finished the first cup of coffee before getting to his truck. He started on the second cup back in the motel room, when he spread the paper on the bed and started reading.
The story was already in the paper; four people ended up at County hospital because of an overdose, three more ended up in another hospital. Police suspected foul play. No further details. Well, none that mattered. Apparently, one of the victims was the son of some smalltime politician and had been reported missing over a week ago.
John finished the last of the doughnuts, crumpled a dirty napkin and tossed it to the floor. He took another sip of the coffee only to realize there was none left. He looked at the time; still too early to go to the impound lot, far too early for visiting hours. Might as well start with research. Not for the first time, he wished his son had kept a journal like his old man. John had no idea what Dean might have gone after, what he was hunting. And he had no idea if the job was finished.
John had found a stack of old newspapers at the front desk and started going through them, looking for anything that looked like his kind of interesting.
John got to the impound lot just as they opened it, retrieving Dean's car. He waited until he was parked behind the motel before he started looking inside the Impala for clues. The only thing John was able to come up with was that his son was a pig. He took out all the food wrappers and empty snacks packages. A car like that deserved better. He'd have a talk with his son when Dean was up to it.
He drove back to the hospital, getting there just as they rolled Dean back to his room, no longer in the ICU, but still on the cardiac floor. A nurse smiled at him and told him Dean had had a good night, and that the tests showed improvement in his condition. Any doubt John might have had went out the window when Dean had asked him if he'd brought something edible for breakfast instead of whatever slop the hospital decided to call food.
"So, how'd you know?" Dean asked around his cold scrambled eggs.
"Know what?" John asked, pulling a chair closer to Dean's bed.
"About the hospital, about where I was. I mean, we were supposed to meet on Friday, right? I still have a couple of days," Dean said nonchalantly. John stared at him for a long moment, until Dean pushed his tray aside. "What?" he asked.
"It's Sunday, kiddo," John said somberly. Dean frowned and blinked uncertainly at him.
"Oh," he drawled, "so… did we meet on Friday?" He asked, scratching his brow. John clenched his jaw, and offered his son a glass of water. Dean accepted the glass, but didn't drink it.
"How are you feeling?" John asked.
"Slow," Dean answered after a short pause. "Like… I can think stuff, but it takes forever to say it, and it doesn't come out right anyway."
"Dean, what were you hunting?" John asked at last. Dean frowned. "What did this? What were you after?" John clarified. Dean shrugged. "Well, did you get it? Do you remember? Did you finish the job?" John pressed on. Dean shook his head helplessly.
"I don't remember a job. I don't remember… I… I was looking for something to do, I don't remember a job…" Dean closed his eyes, and for a moment he looked so much like a little boy, it was almost overwhelming for his father.
"Try, Dean. I need to know. I need to know what you were after. I need to know if you finished the job," John said. Something hurt at least seven people. Something hurt his son. John had to make sure that something wasn't going to hurt anyone else. That it was dead.
Green eyes stared helplessly at him and John sighed. Dean was still hazy about what day of the week it was, John reminded himself. He pushed himself to his feet, patting Dean's leg.
"Get some rest," he said.
"Are you going?" Dean asked in his lost little boy voice. John hated that voice.
"I have to," he said, "I need to make sure the job's done." I need to make sure you're safe. He didn't say that out loud, though. Dean nodded, not looking at his father. "I'll be back later," John added, and Dean nodded again.
"I'm sorry," Dean said so quietly John had nearly missed it. Dean hoped it was enough, that his father wouldn't actually make him say what he meant by it; I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I didn't get the job done. I'm sorry I failed you.
John looked back at his son. "I'll take care of it," he said. I'll make sure whatever did this to you is dead. Whatever you were hunting, I'll make sure you're safe. It was a promise, to his son as well as to himself. Nothing hurts his babies and gets away with it. It was so obvious John didn't bother actually saying it.
There was a fire. That much didn't take John long to find out. An old apartment building downtown. It didn't burn to the ground, but not much was left of it. It felt like the best place to start.
The place was closed off, but that had never bothered a Winchester before. John treaded lightly among what was left of the house. He couldn't find any traces of ozone or sulfur, but it didn't mean much. After all, the fire could have burnt the evidence. That left him with no clues. He had a gut feeling the fire had something to do with everything, but with nothing else go to on, John had to write the fire off as a coincidence. At least until he managed to get his hands on some more information.
John made it back to the hospital just in time for the afternoon's visiting hours. He wasn't the only one waiting to see his son, though.
"Mr. Nash," Carlos nodded at him. John nodded back. "Nurses say it's alright for me to take a statement," the cop clarified. John said nothing. "Uh, actually, Mr. Nash, if you wouldn't mind, I would like to talk to Donald alone for a few minutes."
John stared at the cop for a moment, before giving another nod. He went to the gift shop and picked out a couple of car magazines for Dean. John was already at the register when he went back and got a couple of peanut M&M packs.
The cop was still there when John made it back to Dean's room. John leaned against the wall, keeping out of sight behind the curtain dividing the room, and listened.
"…Remember me getting you out of your car?" Carlos asked.
"I already told you, no," Dean said, sounding tired and heavy. "I… remember some stuff, but… I don't know, it's all… blurry. I don't really know what's real and what's not."
John wondered how much of that was true.
"The doctor says you're missing days," Carlos noted, "What's the last thing...?"
Dean licked his dry lips, scratching his arm. "Sunday. I… I finished a job, and I had some time to kill. I was supposed to meet my Dad," Dean shrugged, blinking heavily at the cop. "It gets blurry after that."
"Other people have turned up with overdoses from anti-psychotics. Some are in real serious condition. You wanna tell me you know nothing about that?" The cop pushed.
"Dude, missing time, remember?" Dean snapped. He was getting tired of this.
"Anything you can give us. How many were there? Black, white, Latino? Any names you might have picked up, aliases? Do you remember any of the other victims, anything?"
Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry, I really don't remember," he said tiredly. The cop stared at him for a long minute before replacing his pen back in his pocket.
"Alright then," he said, "if you remember anything…" Dean gave a slight nod and the cop was gone.
"Do you really remember nothing at all?" John asked, and Dean jumped, startled.
"Jesus, Dad! Are you trying to kill me?" Dean breathed, "Just because I'm in the cardiac ward doesn't mean you're allowed to give me a heart attack, you know."
John pulled the curtain aside and leaned against Dean's bed. "That whole Swiss cheese for brains thing, is it real?" He pushed. Dean sighed.
"You're gonna give me the third degree now?" He asked tiredly. John shrugged.
"I'm gonna give you these," he said, dropping the magazines and the candy in his son's lap. A slow smile spread across Dean's lips.
"See, I knew they forgot some basic first aid," he said, reaching for the M&Ms.
"You need anything?"
"Water," Dean asked, and John refilled his glass with the cool liquid.
"Anything else?" He asked. Dean finished his drink and lay back, closing his eyes. "Dean?"
"Hmm?"
"Now I'm gonna give you the third degree," John said and Dean groaned. "What do you remember?"
"Not much. I already told you." Red hair. Soft lips. Pain. Loud noises.
Sighing, John ran his fingers through his hair, scratching his beard. "Try," he said, "What's the last thing you remember? Before I called you?"
Dean paused for a moment before he answered. "A diner." Scared eyes. Phone call. Red light. A tube down his throat. A needle. "I… I was hungry. Ordered a cheese steak sandwich and some fries. Don't remember getting 'em, though." Dean turned his head away from his father, letting his eyes close. "Waitress was off limits," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Too young. Looked twelve, but she was pro'lly older. Too young. Off limits," he repeated tiredly.
"Did you talk to someone in the diner? Were you in the middle of a job?" John prodded.
Hunger. Thirst. Feeling like he was flying, but underwater. Soft lips. A cop. Bright light. Nausea. Thirst.
"Don't remember," Dean said, licking his chapped lips. John refilled his glass again, Dean accepted it gratefully. "I remember… things. Fragments," Dean said once John had taken the glass away. "I don't know what they mean. Can't even tell if they're relevant, if they happened before, or after I got here." Dean closed his eyes again, already drifting. "I remember drugs, I think. Remember feeling…" he trailed off. "But that must have been here, right?" He opened his eyes half-mast. John watched him for a long moment before asking;
"You're not using again, are you?" Because he had to know. He had to be sure.
"No, sir," Dean slurred. Darkness. Cries. Someone pressing into him. Pain. Light so bright it hurt. And then darkness.
"Would you tell me if you were using again?"
"I'm not using, Dad," Dean protested irritably. John sighed.
"Alright. Get some rest. And try to remember the name of that diner."
Dean was out like a light, which gave John nothing to work with. A diner wasn't really something he could use, unless he knew which diner it was. The only lead he hadn't checked so far was the other victims. Maybe one of them would remember, give him the information he needed.
With some sweet-talking and some snooping around, John was able to find out the names of the other three people who were brought in about the same time as Dean. John noted all were about Dean's age. One of them was actually staying in the cardiac ward's ICU, a couple of rooms over from where Dean had stayed.
John bought himself a cup of coffee from the machine as he made his way to the cardiac ICU. He grimaced at the taste, and tossed the cup in the nearest trash bin. It wasn't like he couldn't handle a cup of bad coffee, but even John Winchester had his standards.
He had to make sure no one saw him sneaking into the room. He couldn't work a cover here, people have already seen him, knew his son is a patient. He couldn't exactly invent a cover now, not with these people. It took patience, but so did most of his hunts, and eventually he'd found his window, sneaked in unnoticed.
The young woman was easy to spot amongst the elderly occupying the room. She was asleep, though, and John didn't want to wake her up just yet. The woman, a petite redhead, was hooked up to the same machines that monitored his son's health. John recognized the Holter cuff on her arm.
He checked her chart. It seemed the woman had yet to wake up since arriving at the hospital. The chart noted an allergic reaction to one of the drugs she was given. John quickly put the chart away when her family came in the room. He pretended to be a reporter, knowing it would either get him some answers, or get him kicked out.
The mother was a wreck, but the woman's brother told John she had been missing for about a week. She had gone out for groceries and just disappeared. Three states over. The brother went on to supply what little information he could; what the police and doctors had shared with him. He told John his sister was lucky, that the allergic reaction probably saved her life; making her vomit and purging her system from some of the drugs.
The mother started sobbing when the brother spoke of possible brain damage. John offered his sympathy and asked about where and who found the girl. The answers to that weren't all too helpful. The girl was found wandering the streets, walking into traffic, disoriented, dehydrated and incoherent. Witnesses had said she was trying to leave town, trying to go back home, but she passed out in the middle of the road, nearly run over by a car.
John thanked the brother and the mother, offering his sympathy again and wishing the girl a quick recovery. There was no point hanging around any longer, not until the girl woke up.
The second victim was down in the regular ICU. She was hooked up to a ventilator and countless other machines. A simple check of her pupils showed them to be blown and unequal. John pretended to be a reporter again, and found out the woman was found hours before Dean had been, laying next to a dumpster in a back alley. He couldn't get any more information, though, because the head nurse came by and kicked him out of there.
The third victim was a man. He was a couple of years older than Dean, but looked much older. He was admitted to medicine for observation. John flirted with a passing nurse and found out the guy was brought in for severe dehydration, disorientation, and exhaustion, like the others, but the amount of drugs in his system was far lower than in the others.
The guy had been found passed out next to a bookstore in the center of town, miles from where Dean had been found, miles away from where the women had been found. There was no pattern there.
John was glad to find out the guy was not only conscious, but completely aware of his surroundings. John was just about to go in and see him when a cop came by. He tried to wait the cop out, but a nosy nurse found him and told him visiting hours were over. She kept giving him the evil eye until he left. John made a mental note to avoid her on his next visit.
"Dean? You okay?" John frowned. "Are you supposed to be out of bed?" He quickened his pace, worry flaring in him when Dean failed to answer yet again. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, but Dean didn't even seem to realize his father was there. He was standing at the entry to the cardiac ICU, staring at the door.
"Dean?" John tried again, squeezing his son's shoulder. Dean turned, blinking at him in confusion. "You supposed to be out of bed?" But Dean simply looked back at the door, swaying a little on his feet. "Alright, come on," John said, pulling his son away from the door, back to his room. Dean seemed relieved to be back in bed.
"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" John asked.
"Hmm?"
"Why were you out of bed?" Dean blinked at his father, scratching his head.
"I had to go to the bathroom."
"There's one right outside your room, why were you all the way down the hall?" John demanded. "What were you doing there?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you kidding me?"
Dean fought to keep his eyes open. He yawned. "'M tired," he mumbled.
"Dean, what were you doing out in front of the ICU? Did you remember anything?" John pushed, but Dean was already too far gone.
Frustrated, John went to find a doctor to tell him about his son's progress. The doctor told him they were only going to keep Dean another night, for observation, and as long as he made sure to take it easy, there was no reason to keep him at the hospital after that. John figured it was about damn time he heard some good news.
"Dean? What the hell?"
Dean looked sheepishly at his father. "Help me to the bathroom?" He asked.
"Didn't you just go?" John crossed his arms across his chest. Dean stared at him for a moment, before he got out of bed and headed for the door. John stopped him. "You really need to use the bathroom, or are you gonna stare at doors some more?" He demanded. Dean made a face.
"What are you talking about?"
John stared at him for a long moment. "What do you remember?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "I remember we already did that part. I remember telling you I don't remember," he snapped. John narrowed his eyes.
"Come on, I'll walk you to the bathroom," the older hunter said. Dean frowned.
"Why? I don't need to go."
John ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his face. "Get in bed," he ordered. Dean shrugged, climbing back to bed. John sat by his side. "What's out there, Dean?" The older man asked.
Dean looked at him quizzically. "A hall?"
John sighed. "Listen, there's someone I gotta talk to. They think this guy is a part of this, whatever this is. Only, he isn't high as a kite."
"What do you mean?"
John fought the urge to roll his eyes. "You stay in bed. You need to go to the bathroom, you get someone to take you, understand?"
"Dude, I'm not four years old," Dean protested.
"That's an order," John said, "And you'd better remember the name of that diner by the time I get back. I want to smell the smoke coming out of your ears by the time I get back, you get me?" Dean frowned.
"What diner?"
"Oh, for the love of…" John muttered, looking heavenward. "Stay," he ordered again, "I'll be back soon." And he left.
No cops around, Evil-Eye Nurse gone. John snuck another peek down the hall to make sure no one noticed him and made his way toward the second door on the right, quickly closing the door behind him. Turning around, John cursed at finding an empty bed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at his luck. He jumped, startled, when he heard the water flush in the adjoined toilet. The door was pushed open, and out came the guy, pushing himself along in a wheelchair.
"Can I help you with that?" John offered. The young man stopped, studied him for a moment, a haunted look in his eyes.
"You don't look like a doctor."
John gave his most calming smile. "That's because I'm not," he said. The young man narrowed his eyes.
"I said no reporters!" He snapped, "What am I supposed to do, get a restraining order or something? You want me to sue your ass?"
"Oh, hey, wait a minute," John said quickly, raising his hands in a non-threatening way. "Look, I'm no reporter, I just need to talk to you."
"Well, I don't need to talk to you," the man said, pushing the chair over to the bed.
"You sure I can't help you with that?" John offered again. The young man gave him an irritated look as he got out of the chair and walked the rest of the way to his bed. "My name's Tyler. Tyler Nash," John lied, using the alias he gave the doctors. "My son's up on three, he… They say whoever hurt you…" John stuttered. The guy studied him for a long time.
"Why should I believe you?" He asked, hand hovering over the nurse call button, "You know, there's supposed to be a cop in shouting distance from here." He added coolly.
"I don't want to hurt you," John said quickly. "I just want to know what happened to my boy. He's in no condition to tell me anything. Please, I need to know."
The guy hesitated. "What's your name again?"
"Tyler Nash," John repeated.
"Bull. What's your real name?" John hesitated for a moment. He sighed.
"My name's John. John Winchester." The young man studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing, before some of the tension finally left his shoulders.
"Dean's dad, right? He doesn't really look like you."
John did his best to hide his surprise. "He takes after his mother," John admitted. "Care to share your name with the class?" John prodded. He already knew, of course, but there was a basic level of trust that needed to be established here before this went any further. The guy studied him again before answering.
"My name's Ben Brammel," he finally introduced himself. "Your son's one hell of a guy," he added. John's lip twitched, a sliver of a smile crossing his lips and disappearing a second later. "Badass attitude," Ben went on. He sighed. "Didn't really help us in the end, but he tried. He fought." Ben pushed himself higher in bed. "It meant something, you know? That at least someone still had the strength and the guts to fight."
"Fight what?" John asked. Ben let out a short, bitter laugh.
"Hell if I know, dude. I was stoned out of my mind half the time." The answer did little to reassure John. "He okay?" Ben asked all of a sudden, catching John off guard. "Dean, he okay?" Ben repeated. John took a deep breath.
"I'm not sure yet." He said honestly. Ben nodded lightly, looking away from John.
"I was too out of it," Ben said in a small voice, almost to himself. "Scared shitless, you know? I just wanted out. I… I just wanted out." He looked at John then, guilt and shame and something else in his eyes. John neared him, making sure not to intimidate the young man.
"That's understandable," John said, "Listen, I might be able to help. If you could just tell me what did this…"
"They told me about the others," Ben interrupted. "About them OD-ing." He didn't look at John. "I think it might've been the water. Or the food. Or both." Ben shrugged.
"What do you mean?" Finally, Ben caught his eye.
"They… didn't really give us that much food and water, ya know? I mean, the stuff they gave us made most of us sick anyway, so food wasn't that big an issue, but we were thirsty as hell." Ben licked his lips, looking away again. "When… I don't know exactly what happened, but when we realized we were free, I just ran. Well, tried to, anyway." He smiled bitterly. "I think the others went for the water first. We were just so thirsty, you know?" He looked up at John, quickly lowering his eyes again. "I just wanted out. I didn't give a damn about anything, I just ran for my life."
"What did this to you, Ben?" John asked, "How did you get out? Where were you being held?"
Ben shook his head. "No idea. I don't remember much. It's all… I dunno. Hazy. The whole week, it's… I don't know, bits and pieces." Ben closed his eyes for a moment, before looking up at John. "They'll find us again," he said, "especially if we stay together."
"Ben, I need to know who you're talking about." John said coolly.
"Can't help you there." Ben smiled helplessly. "I got no idea. My brain's all short-circuited or something. I remember some things, don't remember most. I remember her. Shila. But I don't think she's here. Which, you know, probably a good thing. Because then I'd have to go to her, and they'd get us again, and there's just no way, man. No way. I'd die before I'd let them…" He shook his head. "No way."
John soaked up the information, thinking.
"You should be proud of him." Ben said after a long pause. "He fought. I couldn't… I couldn't, but he fought. I remember that much. He's my hero, man. He fought."
"Fought what, Ben? I need to know. Fought what?" John pushed. Ben laughed, a bitter, almost hysterical laugh.
"It's like an acid trip, man. One minute there's a guy in front of me, the next there's just darkness." He shook his head, "There's nowhere to run, that's what they said. Said we all belonged in Hell." He gave another short laugh. "Hell's everywhere, man. You can't run away from it. It'll find you no matter what. Especially after it's marked you."
John frowned. "Ben, please, think. What were they? How did they mark you?"
"Hey, you're not supposed to be here!" John grunted in frustration at the sound of the nurse's voice. "I'm calling the cops!"
A week later
"Again, we appreciate you not going to reporters with this. I cannot stress how important this is if we're gonna catch the guys who did this to you," the cop said. Dean said nothing, jaw clenched, muscles tight. "Look, what I…" the cop removed his cap, rubbing his brow, "We found evidence of sexual activity in the other victims. With your permission, we'd like to bring you back to the hospital for some more tests…"
"No," Dean said coolly. John looked from the cop to his son. It wasn't easy to stay out of it, to just sit and watch.
"Sir, I know this must be difficult…"
"It's been over a week," John interrupted, "Even if there was something to find, there'd be nothing left anymore." He got up from his sit on one of the beds in the motel room. "If my son doesn't want to go back to the hospital, he's not going."
The cop looked from father to son. "You sure you don't remember anything else? Anything that might help us?" Dean shook his head. The cop nodded. "Okay. Just make sure to stay in town, in case we have some other questions," he finished. John escorted the cop to the door, blocking his view of Dean, closing the door behind the cop.
"You okay?"
Dean shrugged. "As okay as I can be with a week long hole in my memory," he said.
"You wanna go back to that burnt building? See if it jogs anything?"
Dean looked at him. "Didn't help the last couple times," he noted. John sighed, walking over to the small table, where today's newspaper hid the stacks of research.
"There were fatalities in that fire. And they found someone alive in the building. We could try following that lead. Or maybe talk to the other victims again, see if we could get something out of them. Or maybe we could…"
"We should leave."
John's head snapped at that. He looked at Dean, but Dean wasn't looking at him. "Dean?"
"There's nothing supernatural here," Dean said, finally looking at his father, "I mean, if there was, you'd have found something already, right?"
John sighed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dean beat him to it. "Someone got the drop on me, okay? I messed up, and someone got the drop on me. There was nothing supernatural about that." Dean looked away again. John walked over to him, not really knowing what to say.
"You sure?" He asked after a long moment. Dean sighed, still tense, still rigid.
"You can keep an eye on the place. You know, make sure there are no other disappearances or anything fishy. We could always come back, finish the job if there's a job to finish. I just need to get out of here."
John nodded slowly, not missing what Dean didn't say, not missing the fact Dean wasn't planning on looking into this anymore.
"Alright," he drawled, "We'll keep an eye on this place." He'll do much more than that, though. He'll keep a closer look on his son from now on. Both his sons. "Hey, you feel like going to check up on your brother?"
TBC
A/A/N: I hope this really long chapter will make up for a slower update next time, cuz it might take longer than a week this time. But hey, Sam's finally gonna make an appearance!