Author: Mirrordance

Title: Less Traveled By

Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.

Hi guys,

First off, MASSIVE thanks to all who took the time to read, alert, favorite, recommend and review the previous chapter of my latest effort, Less Traveled By. More extensive review responses should make their respective ways into your inboxes in the next few days/hours, but in the meantime, I thought I'd show my gratitude with an update of the story :) As always, thank you for your attention and I heartily welcome your thoughts and C & C's so please send them my way if you have the time :) Without further ado, Chapter 3:

Less Traveled By

3: Inside Voice

1997

I've been here before.

The thought was dark but then again, so was the room he was in and so was the world with his sons dead to it.

Sam and Dean slept on beds parallel to each other, and the nurses brought John a cot that they set up against the wall with the room's singular, shaded window. It was in effect the bed furthest away from the door, which rankled at his hunter's sensibilities more than a little, so he chose instead to settle on a cushy armchair next to Dean's bed. His back was to the door but at least this way, he could see his sons and no one could get to them without going through him first.

Order and mission kept him sane in many ways, and this would not be the first time. After Mary... Mary... how could a goddamn name hold so much weight after so long? And did she have to have a common one that he would keep running into again and again along the course of this miserable life? John thinks that even one of Sam's nurses is called Mary, her tag said so-

- After she died, it was how he kept himself and his boys alive and functioning. Do your job. Keep your head. Find her killer. Kill whoever else comes in between. Protect your children.

He scoffed a little bit at that. There can only be so much a guy can put into his control, and this accident that the boys had gotten into was testament to that. They have been hurt before and probably worse, but this latest incident felt so strangely wrong and unseating because misfortunes by random chance... well. He'd always been paranoid about great designs against his family, and now he had to contend with normal shit too?

I've been here before, he thought, and there was a weird comfort to it that both eased and sickened him. Having been here once before meant their lives sucked, but it also probably meant that they could survive it.

Sam had drifted back to sleep after Bradley's check-up and after bothering John for a half hour asking about Dean. Sam had known the factual answers of course, even retained the technicals better than his father, but he needed the nonverbal cues of reassurance and it took John ten minutes to figure that out. He was rusty at this, out-of-practice, having relegated the job to Dean for so long now. It was probably why the kid just up decided to sleep on him.

John settled on the seat, watched his two boys resting, pensively. Sam stirred, open his eyes a little. He found himself hoping for his youngest to wake-up, break the misplaced monotony of what are essentially some pretty sad shit, but the kid just glared at his sleeping older brother and huffed before going back to sleep. The sound was comically derisive, un-self-conscious. It sounded indignant, like Dean wasn't allowed to be asleep because Sam was already awake. John chuckled a little at that.

The nurses brought him a cup of coffee and a sandwich as the hours moved into the pre-dawn and melted into morning. A couple of patients from the same floor shared their flowers and teddies, commiserating with him and with his heroic kids. Most of this stuff he just shoved in a closet and he let the cop outside the door know that he had no room for more. John had also declined a planned visit from the three TV stars of Call of the Blue, who'd heard about the teenage heroes and wanted to visit the boys and also boost their ratings with the PR.

He really did not appreciate all this attention on their family, but at the same time he appreciated profoundly that hunt or no, he'd raised his boys with the orientation of helping people. He just wished sometimes that they could turn that damned selfless streak off when he wasn't looking, when he wasn't with them, when he couldn't look after them.

He took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. He thought back to that 911 call, at the sheer presence of mind of his sons. He thought about Sam's young voice, shaken but determined, growing stronger and stronger as he got deeper and deeper into the situation. And then there was Dean's determined growl, acting without hesitation. He wasn't a fool about the things he lacked as a father, but sometimes... sometimes he really did feel like he did something right. Something right, at least, some of the time.

But he really could not shake that alien feeling in his chest. During hunts his expectations were high, and while a father will always worry about his children, there was almost a sense of comfort to the hunt because one could prepare, and create a sense of predictability. There were specific rules, and there were specific rites... randomness though, randomness he couldn't take, and what had happened to his sons today was illustrative of the fact that life can just take a dump at you sometimes, and that was just her being a bitch.

Dean started coming to, and this pulled him back to the here-and-now. He could see his eldest son's arm muscles tightening, his fingers curling at the sheets. John rose from his seat, leaned over his son as Dean flinched, frowned, fought his way awake to a slitted, glistening gaze.

"Heya Dean," John told him quietly; he knew from unfortunate personal experience that head injuries were a bitch with noise, "You with me?"

It was just mouth and air moving, really, no sound, but John could have heard that breathy "Dad," in his dreams.

"Yeah, it's me."

Dean gulped, licked his lips, closed his eyes like he could only do one thing at a time. A deep line marked the space between his brows.

"Did we get it?" he croaked, and this question turned John's blood cold.

"Why would you ask that?"

"Why else," Dean bit back a groan as he shifted in bed, "Why else would I be in... in a hospital."

"You were in a car accident," John told him carefully, "With Sam-"

He should have known that would be a mistake but like he said... he was rusty, and very possibly even corroded. Dean could have suddenly been struck by lightning, the way he reacted. His eyes snapped open, and he pushed himself up to sit suddenly, a paramount mistake for his head and rib injuries. John called out for help in a panic when Dean's eyes scrunched closed, and he pressed fists against his head as if to push in his pain. He curled into himself, descending back to bed, already gagging. John turned him on his side as he got sick.

Dean clenched his eyes shut at the pain in his head and his ribs from the heaving, didn't appear to care where the damned lost lunch landed as long as he got rid of it. He finished with empty coughs, his ragged breathing the dominant sound in the room. A couple of nurses came in to clean him up.

When John had his sons to himself again, Dean was once more out for the count and yeah, damn it, I've been here before.

There were a couple of well-wishers John did not have the heart to turn away.

A wheelchair-bound Annie Huntington, pushed into the room by her parents Jed and Margie, came by a few minutes after a nurse brought in Sam's breakfast. The Huntingtons brought non-hospital fare for John in an honest-to-god picnic basket of warm, freshly baked breads, sliced fruit and hot gourmet coffee on a thermos. He preferred meat and grease generally, but it sure as hell was not that bad.

"You shouldn't have-" he told them, especially since them bringing in the food might mean they meant to stay for a little bit. Sam still looked green and uncomfortable, sitting up in bed half-awake and playing with his bland oatmeal and flat water.

"Nonsense, John," Jed insisted, "It's the very very least we could do for you and your boys!" He was a festive, gregarious type, John pegged, overly-familiar, had already sat on John's cot and was clinging to his pillow, looking right at home.

"Use your inside-voice, Jed," his wife admonished him, "Dean is still sleeping."

"He's concussed to his eyeballs, dear, he won't hear a thing," Jed said with a casual wave of his big hands, "'Sides, I'm sure he'll be glad we kept his old man company, eh, John?"

He'll be laughing it up all right, John thought miserably, and that was only because his eldest son had a perverse sort of humor about inappropriate situations, including one wherein his surly father had to behave and entertain unwelcome civilians.

"How you doin' there, Annie?" John asked the girl instead; she was quiet and pensive, probably had the grace of her mother instead of the sheer overpowering joviality of her father. She kept glancing Dean's way.

"Is he really okay, Mr. Winchester?" she asked.

"He's fine, sweetheart," Jed assured her boldly, but she was staring at John, waiting for his answer.

"He's fine," it was Sam who replied curtly, booking no objections and entertaining no doubts, "He just needs some time."

"And you, Sam?" she inquired.

The youngest Winchester shrugged, "We should be asking you that."

She bit her lip, shook her head at some thought that streaked her mind that she did not voice. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it up again to say instead, "I can't stand it, the idea that he's just... he's just out there." Her eyes watered, "And that he's g-got an-nother g-g-g-"

"Shush, Annie," Jed said, "You shouldn't think about that right now, just focus on getting better, sweetie-"

"When else should I?" Annie snapped at him, angrily swiping at her eyes, the IV from her wiry hands flailing around, "I'm f-fine, dad, I am. But he's out there, and he's hurting someone right now."

"The girl you were with inside the trunk," John said, "She have a name? What does she look like? Have they cross-checked her description with any missing person?"

"You got a background in this, John?" Jed asked, "Cops were talking about the same things."

"Community nightwatch," John lied easily, "In one of the old places we used to live in, had to go for some training." He focused his attention on the teenage girl, felt her need and sheer hunger to be doing something, "If the cops can't find the perp from your kidnapping, they can probably give it a shot by tracing it from the other kidnapping."

"Her name is Linda," Annie said, "I told her my name too and I said that I was taken from school. I couldn't turn to see her, she was lying behind me, whispering by my ear."

"Cops are probably looking through missing Linda's in the area," John assured her, "They'll cross-check it out of state too if they don't find anything. Did she have an accent of some kind? Did she talk about anything else that has anything to do with a place – cultural references, landmarks, things like that?"

Annie blinked aggressively, trying to remember as much as she could, "I woke up in the trunk and it was really dark and really, really cold. I was shivering, and the doctors said it was probably from the drugs wearing off. I thought I was all alone at first. I was lying on my side, facing the door of the trunk, and then there was this voice behind me, right by my ear. She said 'Are you okay?'

"I was so cold I could barely move," Annie recalled, "My skin felt numb, I couldn't feel anything, I could barely think. I asked her what was going on. I was confused and scared and at first I thought she was in on it, and that maybe my eyes were blindfolded or something. She told me she couldn't remember much but she thinks we're inside the trunk of someone's car. It all came back to me after that. I told her someone grabbed me from outside my school. She said she couldn't remember anything after stepping out of her house this morning, and she was getting agitated trying to remember. She was scared, Mr. Winchester... her voice was shaking, and started rising."

"What else did you talk about?" John asked.

"John -" Jed cut in warily, not wanting to subject his daughter to the stress of the conversation. It was the first time John had seen the joviality fade from his eyes. They were, after all, coping in their own ways.

"Dad, I gotta do this," Annie assured him, "I told her people will look for us, I told her we were going to be okay. I knew I was lying, even then, I knew I was lying. But she sounded so scared. She started crying, and I really didn't know what to do or what else to say. She was just crying and crying and I started getting mad for the two of us. I started kicking and punching at the door and the corners and everything I could reach. That's when I remembered that really awful TV show, and what this v-victim did when she got trapped in the trunk. Next thing I know, I feel the air outside, and some light came in from the hole I had broken through. I could see what I was doing now, and I remember I kept telling Linda, 'We're gonna get out, we're gonna get out.' I clawed at the upholstery, found the latch locking the trunk and fiddled with it, and then I was rolling out.

"I can still hear her crying," Annie told John gravely, her eyes suddenly decades older, "I think I'll always hear her crying."

The Huntingtons left when Annie turned quiet, had apparently tired herself out. Sam gave her a quick wave as her mother and father wheeled her away. She gave him a small smile just before John closed the door behind them.

"You ain't eating," John told his younger son flatly, nodding at Sam's still-filled bowl. The older Winchester skipped the seat by the door that he'd been on all night and went over to the cot by the window, which was nearer to Sam.

"Don't want to rush it," Sam said, adding quickly, "But I get it, I have to finish it and I will. Just not so fast."

"Good," John said, rubbing at his face wearily, "Unless you ah... you want me to call anyone? Get your head sorted?"

"Nah," Sam replied, "I'm fine. Doctor Bradley said so too."

Father and son fell to companionable silence as Sam alternately played with and nibbled at his food. "Dean would hate this," he commented blandly, "He would be moaning and groaning and complaining and everything. If he doesn't projectile it into my head."

"I can't wait," John snorted.

"Did he wake up?" Sam asked, "While I was out, I mean."

"For a little, yeah," John winced, "He tried to get up, got sick, so he's back under."

"He would," Sam sighed melodramatically.

"But you know," John told him quickly, "What that doc said. All this shuteye, it's expected, he's gonna be fine."

Sam glanced at Dean at that, and then nodded. He tilted his head at his father in consideration, "Why were you asking Annie that stuff?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sounded like you were on a hunt, that's all," Sam explained.

"Couldn't hurt to ask I figured," John answered, "Maybe there are things we could look into, with the channels that we have."

"'Cos hunters are kind of like investigators too," Sam pointed out.

"You can say that," John agreed.

"And whoever came after her could come after us, right?" Sam asked, "'Cos we know stuff? That's why there's a cop at the door."

"Well they can try," John assured him, "But it'll be a bitch to get past me."

Sam pressed his lips together in consideration of his father, "If you're here."

"The hell does that mean?"

"They can't get past you if you're here," Sam said warily, "But if you're not, which you sort of are... a lot..." his voice drifted to a mumble, turned uncertain. It was the only reason John could rein in his temper at the shy but also unquestionable accusation.

"I ain't going anywhere, Sam," John growled, "Not 'til this thing gets squared away. You know that, right?"

"I know," Sam said quietly, "I know."

The next time Dean woke, the very first thing John thought to say was, "Sam's fine, before you ask, all right? He's fine. Dean? You hear me?"

"Sam's fine," Dean echoed gravely, as his eyes fluttered open and settled questioningly on his father's face, "Of course he's fine, dad, what are you - "

John sat by his arm on the hospital bed, helped him drink a few sips of water from a straw, "You know where you are?"

Dean blinked at him heavily, but looked like he was determined to stay awake. He raised up his right hand, brought it up to the bandage on his head. He looked around the room to orient himself. When he found Sam asleep on the bed next to his, he glared at his father accusingly.

"You said-"

"He's just sleeping," John told him quietly, "Tired himself out, waiting for you to wake up. I'm gonna hit the call button in a bit, let your docs know you're awake, and a whole bunch of other people who've been waiting for you. But I need to talk to you first."

Dean's eyes were still on Sam, and a frown was still marring his face.

"Dean!" John snapped, "You listening, boy?"

"He's just sleeping," Dean said carefully, and raised his hand to his head again, "But I can't... I don't..."

"What's the last thing you remember?" John asked.

Dean pursed his lips in thought, pressed his palms more firmly against his head, "Car...? Car," he decided more firmly, watching his father's face for non-verbal cues, "We were in the car. No... no hunt?"

John frowned, "Dean -"

"Okay, no hunt," Dean murmured, as if he was sifting around in his head and reading his father's face for the right answer.

"Son, listen," John said after a moment of thought, "This is very important. I know you don't want to scare me or scare your brother, but if you're feeling poorly, or if your memory's all screwed up and there are things you can't get into, you have to be honest, all right? Don't pretend you're fine when you're not, don't push when you can't go further, don't be scared to tell me if there are things you don't know or aren't sure of. If you're stressed and you hurt yourself more, the memories won't come back any sooner. You hear me?"

"What's going on?" Dean asked, green eyes going wide, "What memories? Dad?"

"You hear me?"

"I hear you, I do," Dean insisted, "But I'm pulling up a lot of blanks here and you're really starting to scare me."

"Dean," John began, "About this accident..."

John gave Dean a quick and dirty version of the events that led them to where they were, which predictably agitated him. He sat up, started shifting his weight around restlessly and asking for coffee (which was denied), and asking for the detectives investigating the case to come see him. It was the middle of the night and he didn't give a shit – this request was granted - ready and eager to be grilled, willing for his memories to be jogged back.

Vaughn and Diamond came in right away, with Bradley sitting in on the interview to gage what Dean's condition was and to pull the plug on the whole thing if he thought they were making things worse and compromising his patient's recovery. Sam had woken up to the general commotion, puzzled to find his and Dean's room filled with people: John standing by a chagrined-looking Dean, the two detectives, Doctor Bradley, and some cops hungry for Dean's statement.

Despite the commotion, Sam was not surprised at all that Dean knew the moment he was awake. The brothers stared at each other through the spaces between people's elbows and bodies and arms, their gazes solid and unyielding.

He looks scared, Sam thought of his brother, and he nodded at Dean resolutely in encouragement. The elder Winchester looked embarrassed by the attention and the fuss, pale and slumped against his pillows.

"Okay, Dean," Vaughn told him, "You ready?"

Dean gave him a short nod, "Yeah."

"You know why we're here?" Vaughn asked him.

Dean nodded again, "Yeah. My dad told me, and I saw some of it on the news tonight."

"Any of what you heard about sound familiar to you?" Vaughn pressed.

"No," Dean said, and his voice was a whisper, sounding grave and disappointed, "No."

"That's all right," Vaughn assured him, "We'll work around it, and slowly, all right?"

"What was the last thing you remember, before waking up here?" Diamond asked him gently. Sam knew Dean hated that tone right off the bat, like he was some sort of victim they had to be delicate with.

Dean's brows furrowed, and his eyes took on a sheen, his gaze turning distant. "I was in the c-car," he replied, "My brother was on the front seat." His breath started to pick up, "B-but it makes no sense 'cos... 'cos then, next thing I remember he's on... on the ground. His clothes are different... m-maybe a d-different day? Or was th-that some blood, I think... B-but I'm not all that sure when that was, what came first, it's all... mixed up..." his eyes shot to Sam's in alarm, as if assuring himself that it was just a memory, and that things were better now.

"Dean," Vaughn said carefully, "I'm going to tell you what part of your memory we are most interested in. There is this space, between things being fine and Sam beside you on the car, and then Sam unconscious on the ground. That is what we most need. You saw something on the road, and told your brother to call 911. Do you remember that?"

"No," Dean whispered, "Not right now. But I can, I know I can. I've been remembering more and more since I woke up." His heartbeat was picking up, and they all sensed that in the room from the sound of the machine. This irritated Dean, that vulnerability and overexposure, and his pulse picked up slightly even more.

"It's okay, Dean," Bradley quickly assured him, "If you just take it easy, it'll all come back on its own, just wait and see."

"Don't have the time," Dean bit back at him.

"We have a recording of that 911 call you and your brother made," Diamond said, "I think if you listened to it, you might remember more. Do you mind?"

"Go, go," Dean insisted, "Please."

Diamond did as instructed, and pressed 'play' on his handy recorder for Dean, as he had for John earlier.

A ring, and a quick answer: "911, what's your emergency?"

"Oh God," Dean heard Sam's voice, shaky but determined: "I'm driving along Daffy-Ashland Way and I think there's someone trapped inside the trunk on the car in front of me." He pulled his mouth away from the speaker and yelled at his brother, "Dean! Car and plate?"

"White Ford sedan from late 80's," Dean heard himself in the background. It was surreal, how he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the speaker was himself and yet he had no recollection of the exchange at all. His brows furrowed in concentration, and he leaned forward, listening intently.

"Didn't get a good look at the plate," he had gone on, "Tell 'em we're in fucking pursuit, don't wanna lose 'em but I think he caught a scent of us, he's moving around like-"

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed in alarm, and Dean could hear the car purr in the background.

"W-white Ford sedan from l-late 80's," Sam relayed to the operator, shakily, until his voice hardened and strengthened, "Didn't get a good look at the plates, but we're following so-"

"There!" Dean cried out triumphantly, "The plate number is-"

Then there was the sound of screeching wheels, twisting metal, sickening thumps of bodies tossed and grunts that corresponded to hits and hurts of the two men inside the car. This part had Dean staring Sam's way again, worriedly.

"Sir?" the 911 operator called out, "Sir are you there? Sir? We're tracing your call and sending help, all right? Sir? Sir, are you-"

He was breathless by the time Diamond cut off the recording.

"Dean?" Vaughn called to him.

"One more time," Dean said tersely. His head was pounding, and his heart was speeding up. He didn't notice that his right leg started shaking restlessly.

Diamond did as instructed, and again, Dean listened, listened with all his heart and tried to remember with all his might.

"Again," he said breathlessly, when the second go-around yielded nothing inside his head. Diamond looked at Vaughn, hesitating.

"Dean," John told his son as he glanced at Bradley worriedly, "Maybe you should-"

"Again," Dean insisted through grit teeth.

"Listen, Dean," Bradley cut in, "You can't push this, you'll only make yourself worse..."

"I got this, I swear," Dean implored shakily, "I feel like it's all on the tip of my tongue or something, like there's this glob resting on my mouth. It's driving me nuts. I got this. Again, please."

Diamond complied one more time, and after the recording ended and Dean opened his mouth to demand another run, John cut him off.

"Stand down now, Dean," he commanded darkly, "You're not helping anyone like this."

The statement crumpled Dean's already-desperate expression, and it angered Sam even as he knew that it was the only way to make Dean stop for his own good. Already his older brother was puffing out panting breaths, shaking, and the beeping heart monitor on the wall sounded like it was going to protest soon.

"We will be here anytime anything changes," Vaughn assured Dean earnestly, "Just get yourself better, all right, kid? It'll all come back, and we can get the bastard who's behind this."

The detectives shuffled to stand, and Dean looked all around him desperately.

"No, please," he begged, "I can do this, I can-" Spots were dancing in his vision, mixing in with the dark suits of the cops around the white room, drifting around. He couldn't get in a decent breath. He was just dragging in air, trembling, bunching the sheets on his sides with fisting hands. His father moved aside and made room for his doctor. Bradley removed the nasal canula feeding him oxygen, and hastily replaced it with a mask that had him coughing from the harsher-rushing air.

"No, no," Dean protested, as the head of his bed was lowered flat. He felt tears slip past his eyes and all his defenses, frustrated that no one was listening to him, that no one was letting him try, that no one believed he could do this, could save the other missing girl, could put a stop to the madman and his evil work-

He slipped into this dark void, the weariness of his body reaching hungrily, all grabby hands out to his mind with their dark, scaly tentacles, claiming him, owning him.

TO BE CONTINUED... 'Til the next post!