A/N: Thanks for the recc's and the reviews! Over 200...dang! Much thanks to my regulars and the new folks, and thanks to the lurkers.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only (and aren't we a sick bunch!) and not for profit.


Chapter 12 – burning daylight

"Thought I'd lost you there, John," Dad whispered. His tongue and his mouth tasted like beer and his hands roamed all over. 317's top was pulled off, and his pants were pulled down over his waistband.

He always did whatever Dad wanted him to do. Always. He couldn't ever remember Dad acting like this, but he didn't want Dad to stop. Didn't want him to go away.

People left him. Even if he didn't remember his own name, he remembered that much.

"Good son," 317 whispered out loud as Dad spun him around and pushed him face first into the padded wall. "I'm the good son…"

Hot breath scorched the back of his neck. "All mine," Dad whispered. He sunk his teeth into the space where neck and shoulder met, and 317 arched his back. Broad warm hands moved from his cock all the way up to his chest and back down again. It was like his body knew the touch. His body remembered, responded to the way Dad touched him, even when his mind didn't. That heavy weight at his back pushed aside all conscious thought.

It was too much trouble to think, so 317 stopped trying.


Lena McCandless sat at the kitchen table. She pressed both hands down on that slick red and white checkered plastic tablecloth as she stared at her hands. They were just as beat up as the rest of her was. Her face was a collection of bruises and slash marks, dark red and purpling, on both sides of her neck, all the way up into her hairline. She didn't look anyone in the eye, didn't want them to think that she was memorizing the way they looked for the cops later. When they marched her in here she got a look at this wind chime that was hanging from a nail in the ceiling by the kitchen door, and she closed her eyes when she realized the wind chime was made of what looked like human jawbone. Some of the cutting utensils that hung from the overhead racks were streaked with specks of what looked like blood.

The kitchen smelled like blood and rotten meat.

The two younger men were in the room too. Judging from the looks of things (and the smell) didn't seem like they ever changed their clothes. They had on the same truckers' caps and grimy flannel shirts, brown pants and work boots they had on the night before, when they stomped the hell out of her by the side of the road and dumped her inside that truck of theirs.

The shorter one leaned against the doorway with his shotgun down at her side. The taller one stood directly in front of the kitchen door with this long handled ax in his right hand. He looked like he knew how to handle himself; so did the other one and that grizzled old man.

McCandless knew if she tried something she'd never get out of the damn house alive. She was nearly as tall as the three men, almost as broad, but nearly and almost didn't count for a damn thing now. She'd been cut and stabbed and beaten and that took all the fight out of her. It was one thing to manhandle a patient. That was something she enjoyed most of the time, but she was out of her league here, and she knew it. Best to just give them what they wanted and hope they let her go.

There was another person there, this young girl in the yellow dress, and at first Lena didn't recognize this one. Her long brown hair was combed out, and she looked clean, not like that psycho bitch with the knife, the one who kept cutting on her until the old man told her to stop. That one's clothes were filthy. She smelled dirty, her face was smudged with dirt and grime and her hair was all tangled around her face. McCandless blinked as she looked Yellow Dress up and down, and the girl grinned at her, wide and toothy.

Hell. It was the bitch with the knife.

"All right," the old man said firmly. "This is the way this thing is gonna go. Do you wanna live?"

Lena nodded without raising her eyes to look at him.

The side of her face stung like fire. She blinked and her head moved up and down like one of those bobblehead dogs people put in the back window of their cars. The old man had reached out and popped her upside the head, just that quick.

Yellow Dress giggled a little.

"Pay attention now," the old man growled, and she forced herself to look at him. Those hazel eyes were cold and unblinking. This thing with the eyes must run in the whole damn family, because staring at the old man did remind her of that John Doe freak. She could see the resemblance, even though 317 had been drugged up to the hairline. Murder lurked underneath that green surface, like ice in a river somewhere.

"If you run, we're gonna hunt you down, and when we catch you, we're gonna make you die real slow." The old bastard threw a couple of yellow legal pads and two black pens onto the kitchen table. "Now. I want you to write everything down that you can remember about where Gabriel is. I mean everything. Otherwise, I'm gonna let Missy use her knife on you again."

Missy in the yellow dress grinned at her. Oh please, give me a reason. I liked cutting on you.

"After that? We're gonna go on a little trip to the crazy place. I wanna check out what you wrote down, so you better not lie to me, bitch."

McCandless nodded again. Her fingers cramped as she picked up a pad and one of the pens and started writing. Serve Beck and the rest right for firing her.

Ventilation shafts ran all through the ceilings in Ward A, and the intensive care unit. The nutcases couldn't climb up to reach the grate, but someone able-bodied could climb in, and down from the roof. It was doable, especially if someone knew the rotation of the orderlies on the floor. McCandless' eyes narrowed as she thought about the layout of the grounds around the building. She wasn't going to leave a damn thing out, especially if it meant that she could walk out of here alive.

Thinking about Beck losing that pet freak of his was good.

Imagining Beck shot to death by one of these hillbilly freaks was even better.

McCandless smiled a little to herself as she wrote down everything.


Deputy Kathleen Hudak stared at the phone in her hand for a moment. Now this was a blast from the past. In her mind's eye she imagined that very tall young man in the black suit she'd met four years ago. "Agent Matthews? So how have you been?"

"Fine." She knew he wasn't, and she wasn't surprised when he answered 'no' to her next question: "Did you ever find your cousin?"

Kathleen settled back in her chair. She recognized the vibe she was getting from Matthews. She had a similar wound. Even after all this time, the pain she felt in her heart about her brother Riley never lessened. He'd gotten into that black Mustang of his and just disappeared one day. Just like that.

It was damned hard to lose a family member like that, and she'd known from the start that this was more than just a favor to some friends or family. A person doesn't look that sad if the favor is casual.

Matthews' tone suddenly shifted, firm and all professional. Kathleen smiled a little, even nodded to herself. She'd used that trick herself. I'm okay because I say I am.

"I'm calling about Sweetbriar State Hospital. I'm following up a lead on another case."

"Sweetbriar, huh? Well," she shrugged, "one of the orderlies committed suicide about a week before. Withers was his name, I think. Went up to the bell tower, tied a rope around his neck and stepped off into eternity. No one knows why. Stress of the job, maybe. Talked to Nathan Beck out there. Said Withers was a model employee. Beck had no idea why he'd take a swan dive like that."

"Who's Beck?"

"Head of security. They save money by having most of the orderlies double as guards. No money in the budget for any real training. The only real job qualification to be an orderly out there is to be healthy and able-bodied. That's it."

"Have they done a tox screen on the body?"

"Autopsy results won't be available for another two weeks. Wouldn't be surprised to find recreational drug use. It's not good to let a job like that get inside your head. Folks cope with stress in different ways."

"I can imagine," Matthews said stiffly.

I bet you can, Kathleen thought silently. She wanted to ask him how he was coping, but after all she hadn't seen the man in four years.

"Anything else you can tell me about the place?"

"There's been the usual allegations of patient abuse throughout the years. Comes with the territory in places like this." Kathleen swore she could feel the sadness deepen. "Dr. Ephraim Weddington is the Director there now. He's been there the longest, about two years. Before he showed up that Director's office was like a revolving door. He's strictly by the book. Even if he wanted to improve the place, he doesn't have the money for it anyway. State budget's in the red nowadays. You mind telling me why the FBI be interested in Sweetbriar?"

"I can't really comment on that."

"Fair enough. Anything else I can do for you, Agent?"

"Uh, no. It's good to hear your voice, Deputy."

"You too. Take care."


Damn Winchesters.

There was tension in the air; Bobby could feel it. They'd all been preoccupied with salting and burning that poor dead girl Meg had ridden to death. Now that was over with, Bobby knew it was only a matter of time before the big blow-up occurred. Things between John and Sam were too raw for anything else to happen. Dean was the only reason they had reached anything remotely resembling an unspoken truce, and that wasn't going to last very long.

Sam sat at the living room table with his laptop. He spent a couple of hours doing research online about Sweetbriar State Hospital and then called that Deputy Hudak. John made several phone calls while he made himself comfortable on the couch.

Bobby sat at the opposite end of the table. He didn't miss the irony, didn't miss the fact that he had placed himself between the two of them. My God, Bobby wondered, was this what Dean had to deal with, every damn day these three were together?

John lifted up his left foot. Bobby narrowed his eyes. "You put your damn boot on my coffee table and you'll draw back with a stump," Bobby growled.

The foot froze in mid-air. "With all those books on the damn thing, who the hell is gonna notice, grandma?" John smirked. He lowered his foot anyway. Slowly. "Well?" he nodded at the phone in Bobby's hand. "What'd you find out?"

"Talked to a couple of hunters in the area. Rae's Tap Room is less than five miles away from Sweetbriar. Most of the employees stop there after their shift."

John smiled slightly. "Good deal. I'll call Ramsey. Get this set up right away."

Sam sighed as he put his cell down. "We might have a way in. Seems one of the employees killed himself for no reason."

"Meg." The way John spat out the word sounded like a curse word.

Sam nodded. "Dean hasn't been at Sweetbriar the entire time. Hudak and I would have found him when we checked the hospitals the first time."

Bobby nodded. John grunted softly, and Bobby didn't miss the sharp look Sam gave his father.

Damn, this was like watching a car wreck in slow motion. Bobby narrowed his eyes. Sam tensed, sat up straighter in his chair. He stuck his chin out in John's direction.

John sat forward.

"Dean wasn't at Sweetbriar all this time," John said calmly. Bobby's head jerked in his direction.

"How the hell do you know that?" Bobby grumbled.

"Missouri told me."

"And when did she tell you this, Dad?"

John quirked an eyebrow at his youngest. The edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut. "Tried to tell you the last time I called you, remember? You hung up on me, Sam."

Sam glared at his father.

"Dean's not alone in there. This other one…Missouri seems to think it's a spirit of some kind. It has a family. A human family. They hunt people. For food. And for sport."

The noise level in the room dropped to zero just then. Pin drop quiet. The grandfather clock in the corner quietly ticked the seconds away.

Sam clenched both fists together, hard. His face blanked as if what John was saying was too painful for Sam to even acknowledge it.

"This other family…they're gonna want him back, just like we want Dean back." John raised his head, looked Sam directly in the eyes. "You and I…we have to do this together, Sam."

"I don't believe a damn word you're saying," Sam snapped. "I'm getting Dean out by myself. I don't need you."

John's eyes flashed dangerously as he sat straight up. "Are you really that damn stupid, Sam?"

"At least I give a damn about Dean. You don't."

"You're going to lose him. We're going to lose him. You hate me that much, you'd do that to your own brother?"

"I don't hate Dean."

"No. You hate me. You always have."

"For Christ's sake, will both of you shut the hell up!" Bobby roared.

Both of them did.

"Are you finished?" Bobby turned in his chair, looked at first John, and then Sam. "Are you? I mean, look, all this angst is highly entertaining and all." Bobby put all the sarcasm he could muster into his voice, which was considerable. "I could sit here all day and watch you two princesses squall and hiss like scalded cats, but none of that is gonna do Dean any damn good. Now, if you need to take this discussion outside in the yard and settle it by kicking each others' asses, I got no problem with that, but you better make it damn fast. Each moment you waste like this is another moment Dean has to stay in that damn place."

Neither idjit said anything.

"Well?"

Sam didn't say a word. He closed his laptop, stood up and grabbed his jacket. John stood up and snagged his own coat off the back of the couch.

"You're damn idiots, you know that?" Bobby grumbled.

John and Sam nodded at the same time. They knew.


"No."

"John?"

317 blinked at the strange man in white. "Come on. It's okay."

"No." He stared at the gurney. His head hurt, a lot, but the longer he stared at the machine next to the gurney, the more the sight of the damn thing made him want to back up. The box was quiet, but it buzzed sometimes. 317 was sure of it.

"No. No." He shook his head. They never listened to him in this place. Maybe if he said the word more than once, maybe…

"No…" He shuffled backwards even though the stranger held onto his right wrist. 317 flinched as he backed up. At first he thought he'd walked backwards into a padded wall. He glanced over his shoulder behind him. It was another man in white.

The new one growled at him, and then hands came at him from all directions, grabbed his skin hard enough to leave bruises, but not in a good way this time. He couldn't breathe because of the arm around his throat, and they lifted him up and slammed him down on the gurney, which was exactly the one place he didn't want to go.

A part of his mind, the calm part that was still untouched by all this, watched as they put the straps across his wrists, chest, and ankles. He yelped when the needle went in the soft thin skin inside his elbow. The air shimmered, turned different shades of blue, light and dark.

"No. Nooo!" It was the only thing he could say, and it wasn't enough. It never was.

"John, this is going to make you feel better." That lying whisper wormed its way into his head. They hurt him and they lied. They always did. John felt his lips skin back from his teeth in a snarl. He was numb; the blue juice inside him saw to that. There was no real threat behind it.

"You want to feel better, don't you?"

They turned the dial, opened the switch, and the white bees flew into his head and swept aside everything, even the word no.


Next post Friday.