Chapter 32 – crazy's on the bus
Good drugs. Beck settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He was in the hospital, after all, with a gunshot wound to the chest, so he might as well kick back and enjoy the drug buzz. He wasn't stupid enough to get hooked on the merchandise he manufactured and sold, so he could afford to let loose once in a while. Those devil's sunrise pills? They were for suckers.
And drug whores like John Doe 317.
FBI agents are just as clueless as the local cops. Dumbasses, every last one of them.
This was a clusterfuck, no doubt about it, but Beck figured so far he'd covered his ass pretty well. That was the first thought that came to him when he woke up in the ER.
"Shot me…" he whispered out loud. "…tried to stop 'em…"
That was all it took; he didn't have to say anything more than that. Good thing was, it was the truth. Well, sorta. He didn't know who shot him, and he never said who had, until the local cops filled in the blanks about John Doe 317 turning up missing, along with Weston and McGillicuddy going AWOL. It was so damn easy.
Yeah, John was a model patient, all right. "Did whatever I asked him to."
"Please, I need my meds. Please…"
"He was a regular little ol' puppy dog."
"I'll be a good boy. I'll be good."
Dean was a whole 'nother animal altogether. Truth to tell, John was willing but fucking him was always more interesting because of Dean. John's eyes would lighten and Dean would be out in the world again, confused and pissed off. That panicked look in his eyes as Beck touched him was quite a turn on. Boy had some fight in him, too, and that was just icing on the cake.
Watching the two of them switch back and forth in the same body was the freakiest thing Beck had ever seen, and after all this he finally knew Dean's last name.
Winchester. Like the rifle, huh? Well, well.
Boy definitely had some Daddy issues.
Beck was still on shaky ground, and he knew it. According to Doc Weddington Beck was the "Heroic guard injured attempting to block escape" but that could change at any moment and Beck knew it. It was good PR, said just to preserve the good name of the institution, and that was a damn laugh, but hey, whatever worked was fine. Weddington might complain privately, might try to blame him for hiring those Winchesters in the first place, but publicly the doc would have to put on that shit eating grin and back Beck one hundred percent unless things went south.
The main problem now was the guards. Beck understood mob mentality. He thrived on it, used it, from the very first day he'd ever set foot in Sweetbriar. They were still pretty shaken by the freaky way Withers had killed himself, and talk was he'd done it because of bad drugs he'd bought from Beck. That was a lie, of course, but enough idiots will believe a lie that's repeated often enough. Ordinarily the other guards would have come to visit him in the hospital, to show their support. They didn't.
Cal Grissom was the only one who stopped by to see him, and Beck wasn't fooled by that, not one bit. Grissom wanted to be alpha male at Sweetbriar, and who would have thought ol' Calvin had ambitions like that?
"That John Doe kid was nothing but trouble," Grissom said the first night he sat by Beck's bed. "Crazy was definitely on the bus with that one. You're well rid of him."
Beck didn't miss that; you're well rid of him, not we're well rid of him. He pretended the drugs had him groggy; didn't say very much.
Worst come to worst, maybe it was time to move on. He had money saved up, and there was a big wide world waiting for him out there. Five years in one place was long enough.
Beck smiled to himself as he drifted off to sleep. No matter, what he always landed on his feet. Life wasn't that bad, and it was bound to get better.
Reidy fastened his seat belt, but he didn't even bother to turn on the ignition. He knew the look on his partner's face.
Time to play devil's advocate.
"All right, Vic. Let's hear it."
"Beck's full of it." Hendrickson frowned. "I'm not buying that story of his."
"Okay. Why not?"
"Sam killed Hudak. Sam Winchester." Hendrickson tilted his head to one side, quirked an eyebrow at Reidy as though that was the absolute dumbest thing he'd ever heard of. "Now if he'd said John, I could have seen that. According to what little information we have, Winchester's pretty protective of his boys. Dean? Yeah, I'd like him just fine for this one, but he was on some heavy duty psych meds that day. Dean's crazy. So's John. Not Sam. Crazy doesn't get you a full ride to Stanford."
Oh, Jesus, Reidy thought to himself. Here we go. When he got like this Hendrickson was exactly like that cop on Law and Order, that Bobby Goren.
Of course, Reidy would never say that out loud; no sense in poking the bear.
"Maybe Sam changed."
Hendrickson snorted, which indicated that he didn't think that was very likely. "There's something else that doesn't add up. Beck was unarmed that day. Hudak was armed. She was the bigger threat, exactly the kind of target an ex-Marine like Winchester would go after. Her throat was slashed. If John Winchester shot Beck, why didn't he shoot Hudak too?"
Reidy didn't have an answer for that one. Hendrickson stared out the window at the cars on the parking lot. "Doesn't make sense. Hudak's gun was still strapped in her holster. If she was alive when John shot Beck, she would have heard the gunshot and pulled her pistol. She didn't. That tells me she was dead before Beck was shot. "
"Well, she knew Sam from before, when he played FBI agent, remember?" Reidy huffed. "Sam probably got the drop on her. Maybe she thought she could talk some sense into him. Maybe that's why she never even unstrapped her gun. That makes sense, Vic."
"Too many maybe's. I'm still not buying it. We have partial boot prints in the brush by the lake that don't match. The Winchesters weren't the only ones up on that hill. Seems mighty peculiar Beck didn't mention that." Hendrickson grunted. He flipped open his notebook, glared at the notes he'd taken from Beck.
Reidy chuckled as he turned the ignition on. Any other agent would have taken this case as a slam dunk and called it a day. Hendrickson didn't. He couldn't.
And that was exactly why Reidy enjoyed working with the man.
Bill Harvelle hooked his walking cane over the lip of the kitchen sink. He leaned against the counter, stood quietly and waited. He could see the back parking lot from where he stood. Ellen and Jo were ten minutes out.
Time was he could lie in wait with the best of them. Not anymore. His days as a hunter ended years ago, but he was still alive, still mostly in one piece, and he had John Winchester to thank for that. Now it was past time to return the favor.
Dean was coming home. Jesus. After all this time.
Jo called hours ago, and she sounded rattled. "Dean's changed, Daddy. He tried to hit Momma."
Ellen's exasperated chuckle was loud and clear, even over the phone line. "He wasn't even close, girl."
Bill laughed. Jo made that annoyed little sound of hers, and Bill was glad to hear it. Better pissed off than scared.
"Dean's been gone for four years, Joanna Beth," Bill drawled softly. "Bet your momma just spooked him, that's all. She has that effect on people."
"I heard that," Ellen growled.
"I'm gonna pay for that later on," Bill rumbled with mock regret.
"You're damn right you are," Ellen called out. Jo giggled, light and cheerful. It was a nice way to end the call, because whatever was going to happen after that wasn't going to be easy or pleasant. Bill decided a long time ago he'd take the good moments where ever he could get them.
Ash shuffled into the kitchen, barefoot and barechested. His eyes were closed, his chin nearly down to his chest, but he made his way unerringly to the refrigerator like a bat using sonar. This one could definitely put a crimp in the Roadhouse's profit margin, and had on more than one occasion.
Bill rolled his eyes.
Ash pulled the door open, hooked his arm inside, fished out a large glass bottle of orange juice without opening his eyes. He twisted open the cap, sniffed it, shrugged, and then drank half the bottle in one gulp.
Ellen's white van pulled onto the lot behind the Roadhouse.
"Ash?" Bill didn't turn away from the window.
Ash's eyes blinked open. His head bobbled a little, and he stared warily at Bill's back. "Yeah, boss?"
"Dean's back."
"Yeah, so I heard. That's why you cleared everybody out."
"Uh huh. Give the kid some room, Dr. Feelgood. No horsing around." Bill picked up his cane and headed out the back door. He didn't bother to wait around for a reply.
"Gotcha." Ash came over to the window just as Jo and Ellen stepped out of the van. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Rufus Tanner pull up in his truck. Good. That meant his services outside would not be required.
Not that he was going to volunteer his services in the first damn place.
The floor rocked slightly as the boxes were unloaded.
"All right, boys," John drawled softly. "This is where we get off."
Sam nodded as he blinked sleep from his eyes. Dean sat with his eyes half closed, his hands loosely in his lap. He looked drowsy, relaxed, but John wasn't fooled. Dean had his mask on. John could see the line of tension all through his eldest son's broad shoulders, knew that all Dean needed was something to focus on, a direction to unleash all that ferocity.
At least with Sam there had been some warning.
"You don't abandon your family. You don't turn against them. Not for any reason."
Dean had drawn another line in the sand, about John this time. Ellen had crossed it, and Dean hadn't given any warning at all.
The Harvelles aren't family, Dad. They're not.
Dean was convinced of that. Living at the Roadhouse for weeks at a time, the kindness Ellen and Bill had shown, growing up with Jo, none of that meant a thing to Dean, not any more.
"They didn't come looking for me, either. None of them did. You, Sam and Bobby came. They didn't."
It was twisted, fucked up logic. John could blame the Benders. He could blame Gabriel. Only thing was, all those bastards were dead and gone, and only Dean was left. John tried not to flinch each and every time he looked at Dean's face. As bad as the bruises and cuts were, who the hell knew what else was inside Dean's head?
If Sam hadn't stopped him, Dean would have hit Ellen.
Scratch that, Winchester. Dean would have kicked Ellen's ass. And then Jo. If he's like this with people he knows, how the hell will he react to strangers?
"I could have ridden up front with Ellen," Bobby groused. His left kneecap cracked sharply as he stretched his legs out in front of him. "Hell, no one's looking for me, just you three idjits."
John grimaced as he raised himself up into a crouch. "You shoulda thought of that hours ago, Singer."
Bobby sniffed. "Somebody had to keep you in check back here, Winchester."
"Uh huh. Yeah." John cocked his head to one side. It was quiet; no more noise from the other side of the wall.
He moved forward, gripped the handholds in the wall. "Sam? Give me a hand with this."
John waited until Sam was up and by his side. They lifted up at the same time and walked the wall to the open doors. One more good hard push forward, and John and Sam heaved the wall out onto the parking lot.
"Okay. Sam, help Bobby. Dean's with me."
"Heck with that. Don't need any help, young'un." Bobby got to his feet stiffly, then bent down and crab-walked towards the open doors. He shrugged off Sam's helping hand, stepped down, and limped off to the side. Sam jumped down and waited.
Dean looked up as John approached. "You're with me, bud."
"Okay." Dean's eyes narrowed as he looked out the doors, past John. John knelt, put Dean's right arm over his shoulder.
"Left leg's bad, right?" John muttered as Dean awkwardly bent his legs underneath his body and pushed up.
"Yeah. Crap. Crap!" Dean hissed as he shifted position.
"Okay." John raised up. "Let's go."
Dean barely reacted as Sam positioned himself on Dean's left side, reached out and put Dean's left arm over his shoulder. Sam put his arm around Dean's waist to steady him; Dean stiffened up when they stepped down. He led with his good right leg. The toes of his left leg brushed the ground, sending a shiver of red hot pain through his body.
There was a moment when John wasn't exactly sure what the hell was going to happen next.
Dean looked around, fully expecting to see the Harvelles, or Rufus Tanner on the lot. The muscles in his jaw tightened; his left hand already clenched into a fist.
There was no one else on the parking lot, just Sam, and John and Bobby.
Dean looked around suspiciously, as though he didn't believe any of this. "Where…where…is everybody?"
John's shrug was casual, almost careless. "Bill and Ellen wanted to give you a little room. You just need some extra space, that's all."
"Oh." Dean didn't look convinced. He grimaced, shifted his weight to his right leg. Sam took one small step forward, and so did John. Dean frowned as he stumble-stepped forward. He hated this, hated needing help. The emotion showed in his eyes, a brief flash that was quickly replaced by blankness. Dean looked like he really didn't give a damn, about any and everything.
That look was a lie. John and Sam pretended not to notice.
Twenty minutes later Dean closed the bathroom door behind him. He was careful not to slam it. He didn't want to bring any more attention to himself than he already had.
He was on fire, and no one else could see it. The burn swept over him, smoldered deep inside him, from his head down to the soles of his feet.
Couldn't tell Sam. And he couldn't tell Dad about the way he really felt. It was crazy.
The way he felt was crazy.
"I'm not crazy," Dean whispered aloud to himself. "I'm not…"
Dude, that was pathetic, his voice whispered inside his head. Pathetic. Crazy people talk to themselves. Duh. You were in the looney bin for six friggin' months and you didn't learn a damn thing.
The ache in his left leg was fire and ice all at the same time. It burned and throbbed, but he lowered the toilet seat and sat down on it anyway. He whispered to himself, over and over again "Not mine, Gabriel's boots, not mine" as he pulled the boots off, and then the socks.
Dean unzipped his jeans and shimmied them down over his hips, down to his ankles. He couldn't reach down that far because of his hip, but Dean didn't care. He pulled and tugged.
"Not my clothes. They're Gabriel's. They're his…"
Missy's tongue all wet and slick...
He could taste Gabriel's memories in his skin
Beck's mouth and teeth nipping at the short hair at the back of his neck...
Dean shuddered. He moaned as he leaned forward. He brushed frantically at his head and neck with both hands.
"Not mine…not mine…get off me...you sonsabitches...get off me..."
Dean kicked his legs out of the jeans, and his left hip screamed in pain as he struggled up on his feet again.
"Got to get this off me, right now, right fucking now…"
He limped over to the shower and turned the water on.
Hot. The water had to be hot. As hot as he could stand it.
Dean took the bottle of body wash and the green bath sponge with him when he stepped into the water spray. He soaped himself up, one long line, from his hair, neck, chest and shoulders, down to his knees. The sponge was too soft, and he tossed it aside with a disgusted growl after a moment or so. Dean used his hands instead, dug his fingernails into his skin.
The water stung the gash on his face, and the bruises.
That was okay, They were his, they belonged to him, belonged to Dean, not Gabriel.
Dean rubbed and he scrubbed, harder and harder. His skin grew red, but he didn't care. He had to scrub Gabriel off to get to Dean again, and if he kept on scrubbing he'd finally be clean again.
TBC next week.
