Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment and not for profit.


GCP 38 – best laid schemes

Then

Half of the employees at Sweetbriar woke up with headaches on that last day.

Acting Chief of Security Calvin Grissom drove in with his eyes slitted against the morning sun. His head hurt like hell. Wearing sunglasses didn't help. Neither did dry-swallowing a couple of aspirin.

Grissom wasn't surprised he felt this crappy lately. The guards were on edge; had been for some time. According to Becky in Administration they were still getting calls from media outlets all over the world now. Two stooges from the Eff Bee Eye had even set up shop in that spare office right next to the infirmary. Everyone played "Let's Pretend" now: let's pretend there's nothing wrong here, let's pretend we have nothing to hide. It was tiresome and fucking nerve racking and it was something they all had to do now, anyway. Best to keep up far Doc Weddington had been surprisingly effective in blocking any further media access to the facility for the good of the patients. All they had to do was hold on and those bastards at Fox News and the rest of the vultures would find another, newer sixty second sound byte and move on.

Cal knew that Gabriel, that Dean kid, was bad news the moment he'd laid eyes on him all those months ago. Beck's little fuck buddy, his pet bitch, had turned out to be far more trouble than he was worth. Grissom had been around a few times when they'd hit the freak with a needle; maybe an air bubble in the syringe would have really calmed ol' green eyes down, saved everyone some trouble and called it a day.

The outside world would never understand what had to be done inside those walls. The outside world wouldn't want to be bothered anyway, because if they did, the freaks wouldn't be locked up in the first place.

As he walked into the Administration building Grissom felt the ache in his head flare up, bright and heavy. It was crazy. He heard this voice inside his head, soft and solemn.

I will lift the veil of secrecy around this place.

Grissom closed his eyes and for a moment colors flared underneath his eyelids, bright orange and deep soft gold.

They will be unable to lie, unable to pretend anymore…

He felt better when he opened his eyes.

A few employees did call in sick, but the majority of them dutifully trudged in to work. A paycheck was a paycheck, and they had bills to pay. Another day, another dollar. Beck was due to come back in a couple of days; the unofficial betting pool gave even odds that things were about to get ugly.

They had no idea.


Sam cleared his throat and tried again. Louder, this time.

"Christo."

Dad didn't move, didn't turn around. For the first time in his life Sam didn't know what to do next. This was Dad, after all: John Winchester was supposed to be tall, dark, and scary as hell at all times. That was the way John looked when Sam walked into the room upstairs. Might have been hours ago. Sam wasn't sure. All he could remember was that hard glint in Dad's eyes, the way his mouth thinned into a firm line as he stood up and turned to leave.

Not now. I don't have time for that emo bullshit of yours, Sam.

Sam got it. At least, he thought he did.

Dean slept through it all, curled up on his side, pale and docile as a week old kitten. Dean reeked of whiskey (No worries, son. Here's a bottle of Jack. Knock yourself out.); that pissed Sam off like nothing else ever could. Dean deserved more, deserved better than that, even if Dean himself didn't think so.

Especially if Dad didn't think so.

Sam glanced down at his fist, uncurled his fingers slightly. Missouri's voice echoed inside his head, soft and somehow weary: I know you think you have the answer to Dean's problem at your fingertips, Sam, but you don't.

It would have been so easy. He thought about it. Step over to Dean's bedside, lean down, and use a light touch this time. Draw out as much of that damn spirit residue as he could, gently, lightly this time. The trouble was, Sam wasn't sure he could do it without Dean waking up. He was also pretty sure that Lim wasn't the least bit interested in light, gentle, or humane.

There is one who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply because it is pain...

Sam would hurt Dean if he did that. That was the whole point.

If he survived Dean would hate him. Dad would too.

They wouldn't miss him after he was gone.

Dean slept, too quiet, too pale, and Sam found himself backing away. Dad had his attention now, pulled him in like a magnet. They'd been at odds ever since Sammy became Sam, and tension and anger rose up between them, raw and prickly, like a wall of thorns. The time he left for Stanford would be polite conversation compared to this. This was going to be the mother of all dust-ups.

The smart play would have been to heal Dean first, and then confront Dad. Sam knew that, but he couldn't do it. Dean would wake up. Sam was sure of that, and he couldn't take seeing that panicked, stricken look in Dean's eyes when he did.

"Sam…pl-pleas'…yuh…you're…killin'…me…"

Dad first, then Dean. Maybe he could even ask Dean's permission first. Right, that would work. Dean couldn't possibly want to live pale and weak like that for the rest of his life, could he?

And after that, well...the credit cards were good, good enough for a plane ticket to Washington DC. All three Winchesters were now in the Featured Fugitives section of the FBI website. Sam briefly wondered how far he'd get.

He could make this work somehow. He could. Dean and John were a perfect pair. Sam could take the weight for Hudak, for everything. It was the least he could do.

It was a plan. Maybe not a perfect one, but a plan nonetheless. It was doable. Sam thought that, right up until the moment he walked up and saw John on his knees.

The back door to the Roadhouse opened and then banged shut.

Sam stared hard at the man walking across the blacktop, but he couldn't make out the face at this distance. Short, dark hair. Purple Henley shirt, faded blue jeans, workboots. Wasn't Bill Harvelle. No limp. No mullet either, so it couldn't be Ash.

Bastard walked like he owned the damn place. That easy confidence pissed Sam off so much his right hand curled up into a fist. Dean moved like that, once upon a time, four years ago, before he disappeared into the night with the Benders.

The newcomer walked past Jo's brown Mustang, disappeared behind Ellen's blue pick-up truck and then momentarily re-appeared near Ash's car. Even after all this time Sam still couldn't tell what make or model the car was. It had four wheels and the original paint job had been stripped down to grey primer.

Sam eased up alongside the white smuggler van. He hesitated for the barest second, drew himself up to his full height. As he stepped out into the open he used his command voice. That was sure to startle the intruder, make him take a step back at least. "What the hell do you think you're doing out here?"

The way those wide green eyes rolled upwards was classic. "Dude. Chill."

Sam's legs buckled. Everything inside and around him crashed to a screeching, jolting halt. He threw out his left palm and leaned heavily against the side of the van.

"D-Dean? Oh, God. Dean?" Sam whispered out loud.

Dean ducked his head slightly. "Yeah. It's me." He stuck both hands in his jeans pockets, then stared down at his scuffed workboots. The swagger was gone. Dean looked young and suddenly unsure of himself, as though he wasn't really certain how Sam would react to the sight of him.

"Your…your hair." Sam edged forward. He stared down at the top of his brother's head. Dean's hair was dark brown now, almost black, all the way down to the roots. "It's…it's…." God, he knew he sounded stupid, but he didn't care. He couldn't think of the right word.

"Darker, college boy," Dean drawled with a shrug.

Sam nodded dully. "Yeah. Darker."

Another careless shrug. "Blondes suck, y'know? Unless they're chicks." The corners of Dean's mouth tugged upwards in a smile, wistful, somehow shy.

Sam crossed the distance between them with one stride. Dean gave a startled yet pleased yelp as Sam's arms wrapped around him and squeezed, fiercely.


I will lift the veil of secrecy around this place, Castiel whispered serenely. They will be unable to lie, unable to pretend anymore…

Jimmy nodded. He opened his eyes and bore witness.

Cal Grissom stood in the middle of the visitors' room at Sweetbriar. He looked around at the patients and their families, but all he really thought about was the solid, dependable weight of his metal baton in his hand. He couldn't remember taking the nightstick out of his locker, but he must have.

All the stress and tension of the last few days, all the worry about Beck coming back lifted up from Cal's shoulders. His headache was gone. He didn't have a care in the world. There was no need to hide how he felt anymore.

He never liked coddling these freaks anyway.

The nearest one within reach was a waste of space named Jack Coleman. He was a twitchy, mousy looking bastard. Grissom presumed the two old fossils sitting at the table with him were Coleman's not so proud parents. It was pretty clear that the freak didn't fall far from the tree. All three of them looked inbred, dull-eyed and totally worthless.

Grissom tightened his grip on his nightstick. He stepped in close and brought the baton down squarely on the top of Coleman's head. The crack of hard wood against bone was mighty satisfying, and Cal didn't even flinch as the blood spray splattered him across his face and chest of his uniform.

The old broad sitting next to Jacky Mouse screamed like a fire whistle. She wasn't supposed to make noise like that. This was a hospital. Things were supposed to be quiet inside a hospital. Or was that a library?

Cal couldn't remember which, but it didn't matter. He was in charge. He whacked her upside the head too.

Daddy Mouse tried to object, but it was no contest. Three dead mice. See how they run? Not any more.

Grissom's face was splattered with warm wetness and what felt like wood chips (bone fragments and brain, the coroner said later on) but he felt fine. Felt great!

For a wild moment he thought about Beck's pet, that pretty fuckable freak with the weird looking eyes. He wanted to go into Freak Boy's cell and do him a favor by bashing his fucking brains out, but then he remembered that Freak Boy was long gone by now.

Oh well. Cal grinned to himself, his teeth stark white against his bloodstained skin. He had plenty to work with right here.


Sam hugged Dean, hugged him hard as if he were trying to erase the gap of four lost years between them.

Dean hugged Sam back just as hard. He felt normal, not hot and feverish. Sam closed his eyes, tilted his nose downwards into Dean's hair and breathed in Dean's scent. Clean. Peach scented. Huh.

Sam sniffed again.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean growled softly, with mock annoyance.

"Nothing," Sam murmured.

"Keep those giant paws where I can see 'em, McPerv."

Sam laughed. There was no hint of Gabriel Bender. Dean looked healthy, felt strong. The wonder of this new, improved Dean was this: he didn't smell like whiskey anymore. Dean had most likely drunk that entire bottle of booze he'd taken from the Roadhouse in one sitting. He shouldn't have been upright, much less conscious.

Must've burned some of it off, Sam thought to himself. Just like Missouri said.

"Sam, where's Dad?"

Sam froze. Oh, crap.

Too late. Tension stiffened every muscle in Dean's body.

"I said, where's Dad?" The edge in Dean's voice was more apparent this time.

"Uh…he's…he's…"

Dean shoved Sam backwards. That was more than enough to remind Sam that Dean was still solid muscle. Dean's expression hardened as he flicked a glance first at Sam, then past him at the back lot.

Dad still knelt there, shoulders slumped, head down. He hadn't moved.

Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously. It was the damndest thing: Sam swore he could feel the air around Dean heat up. Dean's skin took on a slight rosy tint, but he wasn't weak or feverish. Far from it.

Dean was pissed.

He brought his right hand up, straightened out his arm and drove the palm of his hand straight into Sam's chest. Hard.

Being hit was bad enough. It was the shock of being hit, but by Dean this time, Dean, not Gabriel. Heat from Dean's skin penetrated Sam's shirt, blasted into his skin. His chest muscles tightened painfully; Sam's throat hitched as he tried to catch his breath. He stumbled backwards, tripped over his feet and landed hard on his ass.

"You saw Dad was like that, and all you did was stand there and watch?" Dean snarled. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam opened his mouth to say something. Anything. Didn't matter.

Dean was already gone.


Guard Andy Brinkman pulled into his parking space, turned off the ignition and sat there for a moment. He'd had a headache for the past couple of days. Sinus, probably. He always got like that when the weather turned warmer.

Andy got out, walked back and popped the trunk. He pulled the machete out of its sheath and stared at his reflection in the blade. He still didn't know why he'd even put the damn thing in the trunk this morning. It was a whim, that's all.

The gleam of the steel in the sunlight bothered him somehow.

The blade was too clean, too bright. It was begging to be used.

Andy turned and walked towards the administration building with the machete in his hand. He felt good, better than he'd felt in weeks.

They will be unable to lie, unable to pretend anymore…

He had some things to discuss with some of his co-workers, and some of the patients too.


It happened too quick, too fast for a warning shot. The guard smiled at them, wide and cheerful. He lifted the fire ax and ran forward. Hendrickson and Reidy fired until the crazy sumbitch went down.

He never stopped smiling.

The hallway was littered with chopped off limbs and bodies.

One down, more to go.

It was easy to identify the perps from the victims. The assailants were all guards. They went about the business of killing pretty easily; they seemed downright cheerful about it.

Ten minutes later Reidy and Hendrickson barricaded themselves in an office with eight other survivors. Hendrickson stood with his gun aimed at the door, but it seemed that he and his group were out of sight, out of mind. No one knocked on the door or tried to get in. The air roared with the screams of the living and the moans of the dying outside.

Whatever was happening was too big for them to handle. Hendrickson took out his cell and called for help, from the local cops, the FBI, National Guard, hell, everybody.


Jimmy sat quietly on the bench and watched Cal Grissom beat several people to death with his nightstick. The visitor's room was a wreck of broken chairs and tables, battered, broken bodies and blood. Some of the people did manage to get out the doors before Grissom reached them.

Some didn't. Grissom didn't seem to care one way or another.

He turned towards Jimmy and smiled at him. Grissom's brown uniform was slick with blood, from his chest down to his feet. His expression was cheerful enough. He'd always smiled at Jimmy before, but the smile never reached his eyes.

It did now.

Grissom shifted the grip of the nightstick from one hand to the next. He rolled his shoulders like a batter at a baseball game stepping up to the plate.

Be not afraid, Castiel whispered. Jimmy nodded.

Jimmy raised his head and stared Grissom directly in the eyes.


John's eyes were open, but he was lost in his own mind, held there by Dean's voice.

I fought 'em off, I did…

My boy, John thought. I couldn't stop it. Couldn't find you in time…

He called me pretty they shocked me over and over

"Hey, Dad."

John blinked. The voice was soft, almost hesitant.

"Dad?"

The corners of John's mouth twitched upwards in a grin. Better. That voice was so much damn better. He'd rather listen to that Dean voice, not the one that was trapped inside his own head, the eerily calm one that talked about leather restraints, red pills, brutality, violation and loss.

The world slipped sideways, and John found himself back in Lawrence, Kansas, back before dark smoke shrouded the world and the smell of burning flesh was so thick in the air he could hardly breathe. Dean was bright and whole and unbroken then. Kid was so excited about Sammy coming home from the hospital he nearly bounced off the walls. Gonna have a brother, Daddy, gonna be the best big brother in the whole world--

"Dad?"

Four year old Dean stood right in front of him, shiny blond hair and all. John's right hand shook as he raised it. He reached out, put his hand up and touched the side of Dean's face.

Stubble. Light stubble. John squinted. Dean looked different somehow. Bigger.

Soft focus slowly sharpened to crystal clarity. Broad shoulders, wide green eyes and those impossibly long eyelashes, dark and sooty against pale, freckled skin.

Four year old Dean was a hell of a lot bigger now.

Dean's slightly crooked smile grew a little wider. The kid was pale, but that cut on his face and the bruises were barely noticeable.

Jesus, John thought. He looks good. He looks healthy.

John looked down at himself and for a moment he wondered why he was on his knees like that. Dean knelt right in front of him, and the look of concern on the kid's face bothered the hell out of John.

"Hey, Dad."

John reached out. He ignored the shaking in his hands, the stiffness and clumsiness in his fingers. Dean appeared not to notice. John cupped the side of Dean's face and Dean leaned into the touch.

"You're not hot anymore," John muttered hoarsely.

Dean snorted. "Dude, you're my Dad and all, but just so you know, I'm always hot."

John laughed.

They stared at each other hard for a long moment that filled the sunlit space around them. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation. They'd always been able to communicate with just a glance, or a slightly quirked eyebrow. Sam used to joke that they were just like an old married couple, able to finish each other's sentences. Smartass kid.

Those four years apart didn't mean a thing now.

I'm here. Dad, it's me.

I see you, kiddo. I really do…

John raised his hand, ruffled the top of Dean's hair with his fingers. Dean almost wriggled with pleasure. John dropped his hand down to Dean's shoulder. He raised his head slightly, stared at Dean's hair, then met Dean's eyes once more. Color's darker.

I like it.

Okay. John's nod was so slight an onlooker would have missed it.

Dean didn't.

"We havin' a chick flick moment now?"John rumbled.

"Who, us?" Dean shook his head. "Hell no."

"Speaking of chick flick, where's your ---" John turned around just in time to see Sam stagger to his feet behind him. The younger son looked disheveled and thoroughly miserable. He leaned against the side of Ellen's smuggler van and refused to even look in their direction.

Dean groaned.

John turned around and glared at his eldest son. "You smacked Sam?"

"Uh…yeah." Dean grinned, weak and cheesy. He shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Did you hit anybody else while I was out here?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "Do you want me to?"

John scowled. Dean took that as a no.

"Dude, you gotta stop doing this. You already hit Ellen." John sighed. Well, maybe it was time to give this fatherhood thing another chance. "You can't go around hitting family like that, Dean."

"Ellen's not---"

John raised one eyebrow at him and Dean shut up. "I asked her to cut your hair. You gonna hit anybody, you may as well hit me."

Dean looked horrified. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. You're going to apologize to her." Dean opened his mouth to object. John shook his head. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you, son."

"Okay." Dean flicked a glance down at John's hands. His knuckles were bruised and slightly swollen. "Who'd you hit?"

John glanced at his hands. He knew where Dean was going with this. "Tree."

"Uh huh. A tree," Dean said slowly. That mischievous gleam in his eye was just like old times. "What'd it do, pull a knife on you?"

"Not one more word, you hear me?"

"Okay." Dean looked around the field and the smirk on his face eased a little. "We end up out here a lot, don't we?"

John huffed. "Yeah. Yeah, we do."

The look Dean gave him was curious, puzzled.

"What," John huffed. "You gonna hit me too?"

"Maybe. If you don't tell me what happened out here before."

Please, Lord, don't let him remember.

Before there was no way in hell Dean would ever have told John what happened at Sweetbriar. Dean would have been embarrassed by such revelations. Don't ask, don't tell was the Winchester way. Always had been. Things were different now, and as he spoke the words John wondered how much everything had changed, and whether he could do anything to soften the blow.

He leaned forward, motioned for Dean to help him up. John's kneecaps groaned and complained at the sudden change in position, but with Dean's help he was finally back on his own two feet again.

John dusted his palms off on his jeans. Dean's body language was tense, yet his face was curiously blank, as though he dreaded hearing whatever John had to say. He'd accept whatever it was. John knew he would.

"Nothing happened. You were sick. I followed you out. Sat with you for a while. Then we headed back in."

It wasn't a lie. Well, not exactly.

"I remember you telling me that I was okay."

"Yeah," John nodded. "I did that."

The blankness on Dean's face smoothed out, was gone in an eyeblink.

He doesn't remember telling me about Sweetbriar. Thank God. He doesn't. Sometimes we get lucky. Sometimes.

John clapped Dean on his shoulder. "Come on. Guess we better head on in."


Bobby Singer parked next to Jo Harvelle's mustang. The Chevelle was pointed in the opposite direction, nose pointed towards the back lot. He turned off the ignition and sat there for a moment. They'd head back to his place the next morning. By now Rumsfeld had probably eaten all the food Bobby had put out and ripped the yard up because he was bored. It'd be good to see that old mutt again.

Movement on the back lot. Someone was coming. Bobby dropped his hand down to the stock of the shotgun by the drivers side door. He stared hard for a moment, then pulled his hand back.

John and Sam Winchester walked out of the back lot of the Roadhouse. There was someone else with them.

John was in the middle, just as dark and imposing as he ever was. Sam was on his right. Sam frowned up a little and rubbed at his chest as he walked.

Bobby stared at the third man on the left. Dark hair. Gunfighter's strut.

Well, I'll be damned. Bobby laughed out loud.

Dean.

He looked healthy, bright eyed. That short, dark haircut of his was miles away from Gabriel's paleness, and that suited Dean just fine. They walked as a family now, and Bobby recognized the look: We're back. We're together again, you sonsofbitches.

Never mind that it was highly likely that in a couple of hours John and Sam would be at each others' throats. Never mind that Dean still had a long way to go before he truly recovered. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but he wasn't alone either.

Got wall to wall Winchesters now, Bobby thought to himself. This is gonna be quite a show.


Now (Two days later)

Beck fumbled with his door keys. He finally put the right key in the lock and stepped inside. He flipped the light switch and wasn't really that surprised when the lights didn't come on.

Damn. He couldn't remember if he'd paid the damn bill. Probably not.

The last two days had been an unholy mess.

The only good part about this was he'd been nowhere near Sweetbriar when Grissom and the other guards went on their killing spree. It was unheard of, a group of people staging mass murder like that. 127 people dead, patients, other staff, and visitors, including Grissom and the twenty guards who had been shot down by those FBI agents and the cops who came to the scene.

Several patients were missing. For some reason the only one Beck could remember was that Jimmy Novak.

The other weird thing couldn't possibly be right. Rumor was that Grissom's eyes had been burned out of their sockets.

Beck cursed to himself as he walked into the end table in the dark. Fuck. He kept the flashlights in the kitchen. It was pitch dark, and his eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet. He put his hand out and groped his way along, and as he did he thought of Doctor Weddington. The good doctor wasn't even at work when the festivities started. He'd taken a sick day, secure in the knowledge that the now departed and unlamented Cal Grissom had everything well in hand.

Beck snorted. Good luck with that.

His fingers skated across what felt like worn smooth leather. Beck stopped short. He squinted and blinked into the darkness, and the features of the man standing in front of him in the dark gradually swum into focus.

Heavy stubble. Broad shoulders. Beck saw death in those dark eyes.

McGillicuddy.

A bolt of pure fear shot up Beck's spine. He tried to backpedal, he wanted to, but he couldn't move fast enough.

Wrong…not McGillicuddy. Winchester…like...like the rifle...

Something that felt like bone and skin, hard as steel, crashed into Beck's face.

Daddy's home, Beck thought hazily. Everything around him faded into black.


John Winchester and Nathan Beck. I figure those two deserve their own chapter. To be posted later on this week.