A/N Okay, so this chapter was mainly rewritten to fix typos... I may have reworded a few things but you don't have to read it again in order to understand the following chapters. Maybe just reread the very last bit as John breaks Dean free, I changed a bit of the tone to be in keeping with the theme for the rest of the story - everything Dean does is for his brother and/or his father. ~Kelcor

Chapter 3: The Message

DECEMBER 20TH, 1995

They woke to a crash from the other room. Sam sat upright in bed, turned fearful eyes to Dean, ready to wake his brother but finding that wouldn't be necessary as Dean was already slipping out of his own bed and stealthily stepping over to the door, trusty knife in hand. Sam watched as his brother opened the door a crack and peered out into the near darkness.

"Crap," Dean muttered, seeing two dark silhouettes moving purposefully across the living room toward the back of the house, straight toward Dean and Sam's room. The beam of a flashlight swept across the floor, then reflected off the knife clasped tightly in the hand of one of the intruders.

He watched as they bypassed the television without even a glance - not your typical break-in, then. And, there was something about their postures, too, the way they walked. It reminded Dean of…

Dean closed the door without a sound and before he knew it, 12-year-old Sam found himself being pulled out of his bed and shoved into the bedroom closet.

"What? What's going on, Dean?"

"Just a couple burglars, Sammy," Dean whispered, his quiet tones doing nothing to hide the blatant lie that Sam knew it was. "Stay here and don't come out until I tell you to. Understand?"

Sam shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. "No, Dean. Please. Call the cops. Let them handle this. Please."

With an apologetic yet cocky smile, Dean shut the door and Sam flinched when he heard the lock click into place. But he followed orders and waited silently, praying that his brother would be okay.

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John was on his way home to his boys, having already decided to take a few days off, spend Christmas with Dean and Sammy for the first time in a very long time. As soon as he had made the decision, an indescribable weight had lifted off his shoulders and he felt… well, lighter.

Now, he was staring out the windshield, actually smiling, chuckling at the thought of what Dean's reaction would have been if he was sitting next to him right now. John surprised himself when he started whistling Christmas carols into the empty space of the Impala. Instead of stopping, however, he simply patted the steering wheel with fondness. "You won't tell anyone, will you, girl?" Then, laughed heartily at how much he was becoming like Dean, marvelling for a moment at the thought that in any other family, it would be the son taking after the father, not the other way around.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone. "Hello?" he answered, not caring that even his voice held a certain, rare chipper quality to it. But all light heartedness disappeared as soon as he heard his frantic son on the other end of the line. "Sammy? What is it? What's happened?" He listened for a moment, his jaw clenching, then glanced at his watch. "Okay, stay calm, Sammy. I'll be there in an hour, okay, son? You just wait there for me, okay?" Another moment. "Good man." Then, almost as an afterthought, "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I'll fix this, I promise you, I'll fix this."

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Having made record time, John stalked into the hospital 45-minutes later and took the elevator to the third floor. He stepped up to the Admissions desk and asked in a clipped tone, "Where are my boys?"

Before the nurse was able to answer, John heard a familiar voice - though much smaller and more frightened than usual.

"Dad?"

John whipped around and saw Sam standing in the hallway, tears in his eyes, tracks of old tears lining his cheeks. He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his youngest, lifting him into his arms and holding him against his shoulder and chest, Sam's feet dangling in mid-air. John knew the kid was probably too old for this kind of treatment but he didn't really care all that much right now. He was just glad to see his boy safe and unharmed.

"They were hunters, dad. I heard them tell Dean that they were looking for you but that they'd leave a message with him, instead. And then they started… beating him and, and, they wouldn't stop! Dad, they wouldn't stop!" Then, the tears that had been shining in Sam's eyes won the battle and he broke off into sobs, burying his face into the crook of his father's neck.

Sighing and not knowing what else to say, John simply whispered, "I'm so sorry, Sammy," and held him tighter.

After several long moments, the sobbing became faint sniffles and hitches of breath. "They won't let me see him," Sam mumbled against his father's shoulder.

John gave his son one last squeeze before setting him down again. He cupped Sammy's face in his hands, using his thumbs to gently wipe the tears away, not missing the glare the boy was casting toward the nurse behind the Admissions desk.

"Okay. What name are we using?" When Sam's eyes remained pinned to the nurse, John gave him a gentle shake. "Sammy? I need you to focus for me here, son. Dean needs us." That got Sam's attention and he instantly made eye contact with John. "Phalanges. Dean and Sam Phalanges."

John nodded his approval, then wrapped one arm around his son's shoulders and held him close to his side as he returned to the desk, his own more experienced glare causing the nurse on duty to cower just a little bit. "Where is Dean Phalanges' room?"

"He, uh, he was moved to the psych ward, sir."

"The psych war -?" John ran a weary hand down his face, taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm his fast rising temper. "I want to speak with the doctor in charge. Now!"

Sam watched with a tiny bit of satisfaction as Nurse Ratched scrambled to comply, then looked up at his father with more than a little pride.

After about half an hour, a young doctor, who seemed to not have a care in the world, finally strode down the hallway and stopped in front of a now steaming John. The older Winchester was quick to notice how the doctor blatantly ignored Sam, sitting slouched in one of the chairs near the elevator. Before a single word could be uttered by the walking-lab-coat, John levelled his hard gaze on the much younger man. "Why was my son put into the psych ward?"

"Well, Mr…" the doctor began, glancing down at his clipboard for a last name, "...Phalanges, if you'll follow me?" He started walking down the hall, not looking back to see if he was being followed or not. John reached out a hand and waited until his youngest took it in his own, unable to remember the last time he had held his little boy's hand, for comfort or even just companionship.

As they caught up with the young doctor, John realized the man was still speaking and strained to hear everything he said about Dean. "…your son started babbling about spirits and demons and such, demanding that we put a line of salt in front of his door, ludicrous symbols and wards on the walls. He's obviously suffered some kind of psychotic break. We're keeping him here a few days for observation."

They stepped through a set of double doors and passed several eerily quiet patients' rooms, before the doctor came to a halt and turned to look at John, tilting his head in Sam's direction but still refusing to completely acknowledge the kid's presence. "Believe it or not, there is a reason why we felt the boy should not see his brother. I strongly advise you to leave him in the hallway."

John moved his attention down at the innocent, fearful eyes looking pleadingly up at him, then shook his head as he returned his gaze to the doctor. "Sam is closer to Dean than anyone else. He has every right to be there for his brother." He felt the small hand in his give a brief squeeze of gratitude but didn't take his eyes off the doctor. With a shrug, the young man finally relented and motioned with one hand for John and Sam to precede him into the room.

The sight they were met with caused a large lump to form in John's throat and he heard a small gasp escape Sam's lips.

Dean was strapped down to the bed - a padded strap at each wrist, ankle, and over his chest - eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

"Dean?" John whispered, voice hesitant and breaking with grief. When Dean turned his head in response, his gaze was sluggish until it finally settled on John, giving him a clear view of the bruises marring the young face, the split lip. But worse than that was the terror in those expressive green eyes. "Dad, please, it's not safe here. You have to take Sammy and leave. Please."

The last word was said with such desperation that the lump in John's throat grew exponentially. "Not without you, Sport," he said quietly, reaching a hand out to run through his son's short hair.

"Dad," Sam said, a soft whispered plea of his own.

"I know, Sammy," John replied, already reaching for the closest strap holding Dean's right wrist to the mattress.

The young doctor made a grab for John's elbow but it was wrenched out of his grip, John's progress not being halted in the least as he moved down to Dean's nearest foot and unfastened that strap, as well. "What do you think you're doing," the doctor asked, his tone almost petulant as he watched Dean use his free right hand to fumble with the strap on his left, slowed by the drugs still in his system.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Doctor Howser?"

"Like I haven't heard that joke before. Mr. Phalanges, you can't just take him."

John moved onto Dean's left foot without missing a beat. "Watch me."

Sam chuckled softly despite the circumstances… or maybe because of them. His dad was rescuing Dean, being the superhero Dean always deemed him to be, the superhero Sam often wished he was.

Dean fumbled frantically with the strap over his left wrist, grunting with frustration when his fingers refused to do what he wanted them to do. His panicked gaze continued to flick around the room, concentrating specifically on the area where Sam was standing.

Feeling a chill move up his spine, Sam turned to look over his shoulder but saw nothing there… even at the tender age of 12, Sam was a good enough hunter to know when to trust your instincts more than your eyes. He locked eyes with his brother and got the non verbal message loud and clear. He returned his attention to his father without breaking eye contact with Dean. "Dad? We should hurry."

Catching the 'conversation' currently going on between his boys, John redoubled his efforts to remove the final strap from his son's wrist. However, Dean was unwittingly making the job much more difficult. John grabbed Dean's right hand and held it firm, ignoring his son's struggles until the boy finally switched his eye contact from his little brother to his father. Dean immediately stopped struggling and let John take over.

The doctor moved back to the door and opened it so he could yell into the hallway. "Nurse, call security."

John looked up from the final strap and glared at the young man who believed himself to be a doctor. "Unless you want me to file a lawsuit against you for committing a young boy to the psych ward just because he had his bell rung a little too hard, you'll belay that order."

The doctor stared at John, mouth agape, then leaned back toward the door again, taking his eyes off John only for the brief moment it took to yell into the hall again, "Never mind, nurse. I have everything under control."

Sam watched his father in awe, smiling when the older man gave him a mischievous smile and wink, then quickly turned his hard glare back to the doctor as he stepped back into the room, the door swinging silently shut behind him.

John finally unfastened the final strap. His gaze then, warm with concern, moved to his eldest as Dean pushed himself up into a sitting position. John caught him when the boy over compensated and collapsed forward, his forehead coming to rest against John's shoulder.

"Can you walk?" He asked the question softly and Dean slowly nodded his head, his spiky hair brushing against his father's neck. "Okay, then. Let's get you home." He carefully manoeuvred Dean's legs over the side of the bed, wrapped an arm around his back and kept one hand on his elbow to assist in the hop down off the mattress.

When his feet hit the floor, Dean swayed again, one hand in a death grip on John's right forearm as the teen fought to get his bearings once again. "You okay?"

"'m fine," Dean replied, not without attitude.

John raised an eyebrow but let the defiance slide this time. Instead, he locked eyes with Sam and jutted his chin toward the door. Sam deciphered the request instantly and stepped past the still stunned doctor to open it.

To Dean's credit, he made it half way across the room before his knees buckled, his father's strength the only thing keeping from face planting onto the tile floor. John ducked his head down and made eye contact with his son, offering up a silent apology for what he was about to do. Reading his father's intentions, Dean fisted the front of John's shirt in one hand, shaking his head in a silent plea.

"Sorry, Sport, but if there really is a threat in this hospital, we gotta get you someplace safe," John whispered. "And I don't think Doogie here is going to let us use a wheelchair to break you out."

"No, Dad, please," then softer, "not in front of Sammy."

"Sammy won't think any less of you, Dean - but he might think less of me if I let you try to stumble your way out of here." Still seeing the rebellion in his son's gaze, John tried another tack. "Look, you want to get Sammy to safety? Well, you know darn well, he's not leaving without you. I need you to not fight me on this, son."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, but offered a curt nod in response. Without another word, John reached down with his free arm and hooked it behind Dean's knees. He grunted with the effort as he lifted his teenage son into his arms, empathized with him as Dean buried his face in his father's neck, embarrassed despite the numbing of the drugs.

"I c'n walk," was mumbled against John's collarbone.

"I know you can, Sport," John replied, juggling his precious cargo a bit higher against his chest. "Come on, Sammy," he said. "Let's get your brother home."

Sam nodded and followed his father and brother out of the room and down the hall. As they waited for the elevator, Sam gazed up at John, cradling Dean in his arms. Although he certainly felt bad for the mortification his brother was sure to be feeling at this tender, child-like treatment, Sam was happy to see his father finally taking care of Dean - better late than never, after all.

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A/N Hey, Everyone! I realized belatedly that I had forgotten to add one of my usual 'little notes' to either of these chapters. Sorry that I haven't been around for a while. Still no inspiration for "Controlled" - as I was writing it the first time, I read a story by another - better - author that went in the same direction I had planned for "Controlled". I'm writing this in lieu of that inspiration but may end up deleting that story if I don't think of something for it soon... it's been a year already! :o( We'll see. But, until then, I hope you enjoy this story. It will contain shameless h/c and schmoop between Dean, Sam and John - cuz I miss John! Let me know what you think? Please? - Much Love, Kelcor