A/N: According to Wikipedia Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events that are causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner.

A/N #2: I also used some dialogue from "In My Time of Dying" that I'm sure you'll recognize. I couldn't think of anything else, and it was so appropriate.

Also from Wikipedia: Waxy flexibility is a psychomotor symptom of catatonic schizophrenia which leads to a decreased response to stimuli and a tendency to remain in an immobile posture.


Chapter 10 - Synchronicity

The dream went on, just as it always did. The first couple of times he dreamed it John couldn't understand the why of it, until one day it hit him: dreaming about Dean always took the form of the riddle of the Sphinx: What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?

John hated puzzles and riddles. Mary loved them.

The morning sunlight made Mary's skin and hair glow with warmth and so much damn life John felt his throat tighten up in response. On his way home from the hospital, wrapped up in a blue blanket on Mary's lap, Dean looked goggle eyed as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on and how he got out of his mother in the first place.

Dean crawled, and he walked. He played with colored blocks, crayons and coloring books, Hot Wheels cars. He played T ball, and nothing could compare with that wide, excited smile on his face when he found out he was going to be a big brother, the best big brother in the whole world.

He ran with Sam in his arms the night Mary died, just as John told him to.

At four Dean was mute, fiercely protective of Sammy. Then he was five, then six. Nine after that, and then thirteen, a teenager at noon. That shy little boy became tall and lean. He handled weapons, laid down salt lines, and he always looked out after Sam, never mind that business in Fort Douglas. Dean bled for John and he bled for Sam. He was cocky and loud and he was so good at hunting he scared the hell out of John a lot of the time.

John sighed in his sleep as he turned over. Night came, and as always John found himself sitting on that park bench. His face was wet and his chest and throat felt sore and cramped. This was the worst part. This was the part he always hated.

Dean never showed before. Not on two legs or three. It was a terrifying blank spot all these years, and each and every time John would sit there on the bench, not daring to move, until he woke up in his bed, usually in some motel room somewhere.

"God works in mysterious ways," Missouri said. John figured that if he ever laid eyes on that sonofabitch, he'd ask him why. Why He let Mary get taken.

And why He let Dean get taken too.

John turned his face up to the moon, bone bright and white overhead. It was warm here, always was, where ever here was. Late spring, summertime maybe. John realized that he was unarmed, had been all the times he'd ever sat on that bench. No knife in his boot, no gun in his waistband, not even that flask of holy water in his jacket pocket. The only thing he had with him was that ache in his chest.

Someone stood a few feet away, underneath the overhang of that large oak tree there.

John froze. "Dean?"

The branches overhead moved gently in the breeze, shifting light and dark over spiky dark blond hair, faded jeans, brown leather and wide green eyes.

"It's okay, Dad," Dean whispered softly. "It's okay."

"You always say that," John said softly. "You shouldn't have had to say that to me. I should have been saying that to you."

John didn't miss the look of uncertainty flickered across Dean's fine features.

"You know, I put too much on your shoulders. I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that and you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you."

Dean stepped backwards, into the shadows. John couldn't see his face anymore, and that sent a jolt of panic rocketing up his spine.

"Dean? No…" It was John's command voice at first, but then the tone became softer, filled with pleading. "Don't go. Please…"

"I have to," Dean whispered.

John lunged forwards, and something hard and round bumped into his chest. He leaned back, blinked stupidly at his surroundings for a long moment.

He was in his truck.

The rest stop was deserted at this time of morning. Bobby Singer's place was still three days away. He'd have to be there when Sam arrived, and that was something that made John's stomach twist up in knots, because that was the time when things were probably going to get pretty loud and pretty fucked up.

He sat back against the seat as he remembered Missouri Moseley's soft, calm voice: "I can't guarantee a happy ending, but all I do know is that you and Sam have to come together as a family for this."

That was the problem right there. Leaving Sam like that, four months into the search for Dean, well, that was like throwing gasoline onto a brush fire. It was easy to fall back into old patterns, the yelling and the accusations. The only difference this time was Dean wasn't there. He wasn't the buffer anymore, and that was the whole damn point.

John sat up straighter, blinked the sleep from his eyes.

The cell in his pocket felt like a stone weight, heavy and useless. He could call Sam. Try to beg, try to plead with his youngest son to listen to what he'd found out from Missouri about Dean, about the other family. Sam wouldn't listen. He'd made it pretty clear from the last time that he wouldn't be taking any more calls.

John doubted he'd even answer the call.

"There will come a time, very very soon when the others find out where Dean is, and they'll come for him. Then Dean will be lost to you and Sam forever."

John growled a little as he turned the key in the ignition, and the truck rumbled to life.

To hell with that.


Dean hates me, Sam thought as he drifted upwards from sleep that same morning. He hates me because I didn't get to him in time. I didn't have his back that night.

That was the only explanation for the way Dean looked at him the night before.

At least, Sam thought it was.

John blamed Sam for losing Dean. Sam could tell by the way Dad looked at him. The old man didn't have to say a thing.

"How the hell could you lose your brother?"

It was ridiculous. All this time it was "Look after your brother, Dean," "Take care of Sam, Dean," and one fine night Sam loses Dean.

Just like that.

Sam's mind went places he didn't want it to go sometimes. Sometimes he raged at himself, and sometimes he blamed Dean. How the hell could you have been so damned stupid? You let them get the drop on you? You let them take you?

"They" were shadows in Sam's dreams before, black-eyed and laughing, and the fact that they were only human now, just people, somehow made things even worse.

Instead of black smoke swirling around Dean, pouring down his throat, filling him up from the inside out, Sam dreamed that he saw his brother being dragged into this hospital, handcuffed, bruised and bewildered. Dean was defiant, and he cursed them all, struck out with his feet, fought as best he could, until they hit him with that needle, and the drugs surged into his blood and his brain and his body.

Dean's eyes grew dull and dazed. He was put into restraints, drugged and shocked, over and over again, until Dean took his meds willingly. He was a good little patient, no longer a problem, and he didn't struggle as some of the orderlies touched him in the shower, didn't fight as they pushed him face first into the wall or the mattress and fucked him. He was just a nutcase anyway, some John Doe brought in from God only knew where. His own family couldn't keep track of him. Who really gave a damn about him, anyway?

They forced drugs into Dean each and every damn day for four years. Four long years, but there was a part of Dean, buried deep down inside, that still knew who he really was, a part of him that knew exactly who to blame.

You sonofabitch. You ditched me, Sam. You left me.

Sam sat up in bed. He moved slowly, carefully. His head felt a little woozy, the way it always did the morning after he used the ayahuasca. His muscles shook as he threw the covers off, and he stumbled a little as he put his feet on the floor and stood up. All of that he could ignore, because none of it mattered.

It would take him the rest of the day to recover, but he knew more now than he had before, and the way he was feeling wouldn't stop him from making phone calls and doing research. Sam didn't know how he and Hudak had missed the hospital connection the first time. That didn't matter anymore. He was three days out from Bobby's place. Bobby would be pissed if Sam didn't include him in on this, but for now he had to do some digging around so he could tell Bobby what else he'd found out.

Dean didn't deserve any of this. Sam was right about that, at least.

Sam thought Dean had every right to hate him.

Sam didn't realize until it was too late how wrong he really was about that.


John Doe 317 opened his eyes at 10:41am that same morning.

He didn't talk. Had to stay quiet, because Abraham was out there with the shotgun, didn't say a word because Momma was quiet, and she looked so sad lying there on the ceiling. He could smell smoke. He was scared, and maybe this was all his fault.

He waited for Daddy to tell him what to do.

Maybe if he stayed quiet things would change, and Momma would come down from the ceiling, and she wouldn't be so bloody, and Missy would smile and tell him that she loved him, that angels were watching over him. Maybe Abraham would say he was sorry, like he did before, that night he came back, when he breathed again and was warm again, even though he was broken up a little. Abraham held his hand, said that it was all a mistake and he was so damn sorry for all the blood…


"Pupils are responsive to light." Dr. Michaelson said as he straightened up and clicked his penlight off. "He's in there. He just doesn't want to talk to anyone."

Orderly Lena McCandless fidgeted a little as she stood by the door. She'd been assigned to stay just in case there was trouble. It was the first time she was in the same room with Beck's pet freak.

The man sitting on the examination table sat there rigidly. He stared into space blankly, unaware that there was anyone else present.

Dr. Weddington lightly put one hand on one of 317's broad shoulders. "John?"

No answer.

Weddington took 317's right arm by the wrist and very carefully lifted his arm up. Weddington let go.

John Doe 317 didn't even blink. His arm remained in mid-air until Weddington gently pushed it back down to his side. 317 showed no reaction to the motion, did not react to being touched.

Weddington frowned. "Waxy flexibility."

Dr. Michaelson shook his head. "This doesn't fit. 317 was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, not catatonic schizophrenia. Dean's his alter."

Weddington stared at the patient. "He's unresponsive to outside stimuli. Didn't react to the pinpricks. Showed very little response when we tested his reflexes." Weddington removed his glasses and gingerly massaged the spot between his eyes.

"Well?"

"Start him on 2 mg of intramuscular lorazepam. We'll keep him here under observation for the next hour or so." Weddington nodded at McCandless. "You'll stay here as long as we need you."

McCandless nodded.

This couldn't have gone any better if she'd planned it herself.

After Michaelson gave 317 the injection of lorazepam she helped him down off the table, sat him up in bed with his back against the pillows. Weddington and Michaelson left to go down the hall to Michaelson's office. They'd be back in half an hour.

Plenty of time.

McCandless closed the door.

So pretty, she thought to herself. John Doe 317 just stared at her as she ran her fingers through his shoulder length hair. It wasn't damn fair anyway. His skin was better than hers, so smooth and clear. And freckled. It was a damn shame. The lights were on and it was clear nobody was home.

Well, what was the harm of a little grope here and there. Who's gonna tell? McCandless took her cell phone out and snapped off a few quick shots. 317 didn't even react.

She slipped her cell phone back into her pants pocket, bent down and brushed her lips against his. They were a little chapped, but they were firm and soft. She pushed her tongue between his lips and was pleased when he parted his lips and let her in. She kept her eyes open, just to make sure that he wasn't about to go all Hannibal Lector on her.

He didn't. 317 blinked. That was all.

She pulled the blanket down, and undid the drawstring of his pants. She slid her hands in. He was well hung down there. Nice package. She stroked his cock, slowly, gently. He was already half hard, despite the drugs.

"I'll make it good for you, baby," McCandless whispered.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Shit. Shit! McCandless jerked away. She hadn't heard the door open, but it was open now.

Weddington and Beck stood in the doorway. Beck looked like the fucking cat that swallowed the fucking canary. Weddington looked shocked and angry.

"Screwed" didn't even begin to cover this.


Later on that same day Jimmy Novak sat cross legged on his bed and watched the sunlight paint the sky and his window golden.

Jimmy…do you miss your wife and daughter?

Yes. I do. I miss Amelia and Claire.

I want to make sure you understand, Castiel said slowly. You do know that you will probably never see your family again?

I know. Jimmy nodded. I've understood that from the beginning.

We appreciate your devotion, and your service.

It's my calling. I was chosen. Ames…she never did understand.

And Claire?

She deserves a normal life. Jimmy smiled. Everything is as it should be. It's God's will.


Two days later Abraham Bender rose early, the way he always did. There were chores to do around the place. Last night was good, and tonight was going to be even better. They'd picked up this bitch on the highway. Her car had broken down. Easy pickings. Kinda reminded Pa of the good old days. She was tall and fit and looked like she was going to be a good one to hunt. Not much fat on her, from what Pa could see, so he was pretty sure they could make good use of her meat, too.

Lee and Jerry usually fucked the women, and some of the men too, but this bitch was just about as tall and wide as Jerry, and neither boy seemed willing to get their asses kicked just so they could put their dicks in her.

Pa walked past Missy's room and stopped as he looked inside. Missy always did sleep all wild and sprawled out like that, especially when she was younger. Now, since Gabriel left, she slept curled up in a tight little ball. She looked too pale, too young like that, and Abraham really hated to see that. She slept alone now, and he hated to see that, too.

A man had needs, and so did a woman. Abraham knew that. The only thing that bothered him was when his children didn't get along. If Missy didn't want to fuck Lee and Jerry any more, well then, they'd have to accept that, and find other ways to handle themselves.

He managed to soften his footsteps as he walked into her room. She didn't stir, not even as he pulled the covers over her. Pa indulged Missy, maybe a little too much, but she was his baby girl, after all. He couldn't refuse her anything she ever asked for. Missy stirred a little as he covered her up to her chin. Pa figured he was lucky she wasn't playing possum and wake up and slash at him with her knife.

About ten minutes later Pa sat in the kitchen going through the bitch's purse and her suitcase. There wasn't much. A watch, maybe a couple pairs of earrings, nothing pretty or shiny enough that he could give to Missy.

Last night Missy just stared at the woman as Lee and Jerry dragged her unconscious carcass into the barn.

"She looks like a man," Missy muttered, and she turned and went back into the house. Pa doubted his girl would be asking for anything from this one.

He didn't think much of what was in her purse, either. A couple of credit cards and a debit card. Hmph. Plastic. That was useless. There was also a couple hundred dollars, twenties, tens and ones.

That was better.

The driver's license was issued in the state of Pennsylvania. The name on the license was Lena McCandless.

Abraham very nearly didn't look at her cell phone. He knew what one was, sure. Folks figured just because he and his kin lived the simple life that they didn't know what a damn cell phone was. Later on he'd say it was fate that made him flip the phone open. It was all meant to be, all of this was, but before Pa realized that he was getting bored. The pictures on the damn thing were nothing special. The bitch and some fella she was probably screwing, all huddled up together on a couch somewhere. Pictures of some damn dogs. Pa hit the button one more time. He saw wide green eyes, and shoulder length sandy blond hair.

Abraham Bender froze.

He forgot how to breathe for a moment, and when he finally remembered to take a breath the first thing he did was yell out "Gabriel", over and over again.


"Hey, Bobby," Sam murmured softly. Bobby looked the same as he always did: trucker's cap, blue flannel shirt, grizzly and grey and soliday and so damned dependable and steady.

"Sam," Bobby said gruffly. Sam looked past Bobby and froze.

Dad.

John Winchester stood there in the middle of the living room.

Sam's eyes narrowed. His right hand balled up into a fist.

Bobby didn't miss that; John didn't either. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "He came here to see you. We got some things to discuss, Sam."

That was exactly what Sam did not want to hear. He stepped back on the porch, towards the steps. "I don't have anything to say to him, Bobby," Sam snarled.

"Sam, wait a minute," John rumbled as he walked forward. "We have to talk about Dean."

"I don't---"

"Aw, you're gonna ruin my big surprise," a female voice chirped from behind, out in the yard.

Sam froze.

"Howdy, Sammy."

"What the hell?" Bobby whispered.

Sam turned. The woman standing next to the Impala was young, Hispanic, dressed in a denim jacket and faded jeans. Her eyes shone pitch black, and the smile she gave Sam was bright and merciless.

"Meg," Sam whispered.

She actually giggled. "Got some news to share with you about your big brother." She rolled her eyes at John, pouted as she twirled one end of her long dark hair around one finger. "And I wanna be the first one to tell you all about it."


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