Chapter Three
Sam rolled over onto his side and hissed in pain, his hand hovering over his hip for a moment.
He stared across the room at the door and wished that Dean and his Dad would burst through and take him away.
Sam didn't know how long he had been here but he was almost positive it was over a fortnight. The small window in the room was far too high for Sam to reach and didn't provide much light, half the time Sam couldn't even tell what time of the day it was. When the lights in his room turned off- for the night, Sam assumed- he was plunged into darkness for what seemed like hours and despite being far too old to be frightened of the dark, Sam often found sleep eluded him.
He couldn't quite figure out what was going on. Bates hadn't been satisfied with just taking blood and had started extracting bone marrow as well. That ruled out the doctor as being a vampire as far as Sam knew. Sam was starting to realize that the doctor wasn't in fact a monster at all- or at least not the type of monster he was used to- but nothing more than a man. That didn't ease Sam's fear of him though; humans could be just as dangerous as any demon or ghoul.
Sam knew there were other people with him besides the doctor and his cronies. He heard the other prisoners' cries as they were dragged down the hall past his door, sometimes returning to their own rooms but most often not.
Sam fiddled with the hospital bracelet on his wrist. He read the code printed on the laminated plastic band for the hundredth time.
"M-BSPN666," Sam whispered but the meaning of the number and letter combination evaded him.
Closing his eyes, Sam tried to sleep despite the deep ache in his hip. Instead of drifting into unconsciousness though, Sam thought about his brother and father. He wondered if they knew he was missing yet and, if they did, would they ever find him.
A tear slipped out and rolled down Sam's cheek and he began to sob. He had never been so terrified of anything before. He didn't know how long Bates would let him live… he wondered if right now the doctor was preparing a deadly cocktail of poisons to inject into his veins while he smiled and said it was antibiotics. If Bates was as unsympathetic about taking Sam's blood and marrow, what else would he take? The youngest Winchester didn't kid himself. He knew that the doctor could take his life anytime he wanted. He knew that eventually Bates would tire of him and he would be powerless to stop the man from ending his life.
"Somebody please help me," Sam whispered in misery. He drew his knees up to his chest, buried his face into the pillow- ignoring the smell of old puke- and cried until he fell into an exhausted slumber.
SPN
The first time Dean called and got Sam's voicemail, he didn't panic.
The second time Dean called and got Sam's voicemail, he left a message.
The third time Dean called and got Sam's voicemail, he began to sense that something was very wrong.
John looked up from his journal and peered curiously at his eldest son.
"What's the matter?" he asked Dean as the young man stared at his cell phone, brows knitted together worriedly.
"Sam's not answering his phone," Dean answered.
John shrugged, "Maybe he's busy."
Dean shook his head, "No, I left him a message and I know Sam would call me back."
John leaned back in his seat and set his pen down. He didn't know what to tell Dean. Maybe Sam just wanted to be left alone now that he had decided he wanted to go to school instead of hunting monsters and saving people.
Dean seemed to read the look on John's face and he protested, "Oh no, Sam wouldn't just abandon us, Dad. He'd at least call to let us know he arrived at Stanford safely, don't you think?"
"I don't know, son," John mumbled and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Ever since Sam had become a teenager, John had found out that he didn't really understand his youngest son and by the way he had acted the night he left, the eldest Winchester wouldn't be all too surprised if his boy had decided to call it quits on them as well as the hunting life.
Dean shook his head and tried his brother's number yet again.
Sam wouldn't leave them hanging, Dean was certain of it. Even if he was still pissed from the argument, he'd at least talk to his older brother. Wouldn't he?
SPN
The Dunhill Psychiatric Hospital in Marshalltown, Iowa sat on an expansive parcel of land about six miles outside of the city. The hospital had been built in the late nineteen fifties and was considered to be one of the finest mental health facilities in the state. The grounds featured a spacious garden and greenhouse, a tennis court, and an in-ground pool. Cathcart Hall- the main residence- was a large redbrick building that sat upon a shallow swell at the front the grounds, surrounded by carefully tended rosebushes. Visitors and passersby alike had a clear view of the hall from the road and often told the staff that they appreciated and felt comforted by its charm.
Doctor Bates smiled at the young woman at the nurses' station when she greeted him. He nodded to other familiar faces as he walked past without giving them his full attention. He was a man on a mission. Making his way towards the elevators, Bates straightened his tie and checked his suitcase for the hundredth time that morning.
It wasn't that he was nervous, no he had been through this enough times to know that Findlay trusted him; the emotion that was making his heart beat faster and his palms slick with sweat was excitement.
Bates had the lift all to himself and he cringed a little at the tinny, carefree music piping in from the speakers. He straightened his tie out of habit even though he knew it wasn't crooked.
He greeted a fellow doctor when the woman stepped into the elevator.
"How are things going at North?" she asked Bates conversationally.
He deadpanned, "Same as always."
The woman doctor smiled, "Keep up the good work."
Bates smirked and exited the elevator when it stopped on his floor. Walking casually past the offices and taking no notice of the colourful prints of flowers on the walls, he knocked sharply on the wooden door at the end of the hallway.
"Come in," Findlay's voice called out and Bates stepped into the director's office.
"What have you got this time?" Findlay asked, curiosity tinging his voice.
Bates walked right up to the younger man's desk and set his suitcase on top of it.
"Just the usual batch, Will," he muttered as though bored.
William Findlay, director of the Dunhill Psychiatric Hospital, sighed and ran a hand through his sandy-coloured hair, his blue eyes already beginning to glaze over.
Bates picked a dozen manila folders from his case and spread them out for Findlay to examine. The younger man flipped through a couple of them, barely glancing at the photos of young men and women with shaved heads and deer-in-the-headlights looks on their faces.
"You could have sent someone else up if all you needed was to give me these," Findlay told Bates, holding up the folders for emphasis.
The doctor looked up and smiled, "I could but I didn't want anyone else to have the pleasure of showing you this."
Bates opened up the one folder that he hadn't handed to the director and pointed at a picture of a young man that had been paper clipped to the necessary forms. The young man had a lean face, a slightly long nose, stubbly hair that might be chestnut brown if allowed to grow out and green eyes. Instead of the familiar shell-shocked expression, the boy was glaring at whoever was taking his photograph.
Findlay lifted the photo and was about to read the kid's information when Bates slipped the folder away from him and held it up.
"He was found in Ohio, can't be older than twenty," Bates told the director, "Exceptionally healthy. Not a single thing wrong with him."
Findlay folded his hands together and rested them atop his desk, "Great. He should bring in some good cash then."
Bates smiled knowingly, "He has a very rare blood type, Will. And he's a universal donor."
"So you'll want to keep him for a while then," the director said and Bates nodded.
Findlay leaned back in his swivel chair, "Okay, well, North is your kingdom."
Bates handed over the young man's file to be put with the others. Leaning over the desk he shook hands with Findlay and stood, smoothing out his suit.
Before reaching the door, the doctor turned around, "By the way, we had to terminate F-CNJW829 earlier today."
"I'll have her file shredded immediately," Findlay promised and Bates left the office.
Bates whistled a little as he walked down the hall and decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator; if only to escape the chirpy music. He gave a cursory nod to the nurse on duty as he entered the lobby and stepped out into the crisp September air.
North was indeed the domain of Doctor Arthur Bates. All within its walls were his subjects and his rule was tyrannical. Built only two years after Cathcart Hall, the North Hall held none of the redbrick's character. Originally designed to house dangerous and 'incurable' patients, the North Hall jutted up from the surrounding land like a massive grey tower. Under Bates' reign, the residence was his own personal playground where young men and women were forced to donate their blood and even their organs for the doctor's clientele. Findlay was the North Hall's gatekeeper. No one from Cathcart Hall entered the residence as long as William Findlay continued to receive a part of the profit that Bates made. Findlay was happy to turn a blind eye to Bates' work as long as didn't interfere with the rest of Dunhill Psychiatric. Like Bates, William Findlay was also a greedy man and his avarice would always win out against the lives of men and women he did not know.
SPN
Dean's phone trilled out the chords to 'Smoke on the Water' and the young hunter nearly jumped on the device, smiling because he just knew it was Sam calling.
"Sammy, where've you-" Dean halted mid-sentence when he was greeted by an unfamiliar male voice.
"Am I speaking to a John or Dean Winchester?" the man asked and immediately Dean knew that something was off.
Clearing his throat, Dean put on his game face, "This is Dean Winchester. Can I ask who is calling?"
"Sheriff Evan Teller from the Kettering Police Department," the man answered and Dean relaxed a little bit.
"Oh, you'll want to speak to my Dad then," Dean pulled the phone away from his ear sadly and handed it over to John who had just stepped inside with their dinner in brown paper bags.
The two Winchesters made a trade and Dean eagerly opened the greasy take-out bag, inhaling the scent of French fries and burgers.
"Hello?" John asked, keeping an eye on his eldest son to make sure Dean didn't get carried away and inhale his burger as well.
"John Winchester? This is Sheriff Teller from the Kettering Police Department," the man repeated.
"How can I help you?" John asked, slightly confused. They never received calls from cops unless they knew someone on the force. John was pretty sure he didn't know anyone in Kettering, Ohio.
"Do you have a son named Samuel?" Teller asked and John felt a sliver of dread pierce his heart.
"Yes," he answered, "What's this about, Sheriff?"
"Your son's duffel bag was found in a dumpster outside of the Greyhound station in my city, Sir," Teller answered and John's grip on the cell phone tightened.
"What?" John exclaimed, causing Dean to look up from his meal and raise his eyebrows in curiosity.
"I'd rather not discuss the details over the phone," Teller said but before he could say more the frightened father spoke up.
"Have you found Sam? Is he alright?" John asked and Dean shot out of his chair to hover nervously by his father's side.
"So far we've only found your son's duffel but-" Teller began again, always hating this part of his job the most when he heard John speak to Dean.
"Pack your stuff now, Dean, we have to get to Ohio," John snapped unnecessarily at his eldest.
"John? Mr. Winchester," Teller managed to get the distraught man's attention, "I just need to ask you one question before you go: Did you know that Samuel was here?"
John sighed, "No, but I knew he was gone, if that's what you mean. He was going to California for school."
"Alright Sir," Teller said and John could almost hear the unspoken questions that surely popped into the man's head: If your son was going that far for school, was he running away from something? Why make your son take transit? Why not drive him across the country yourself?
John closed the phone and tossed it to Dean who caught it deftly.
"What's going on Dad? Where's Sam?" his son asked urgently as he grabbed both their bags and carried them out the door, his dinner completely forgotten.
John waited until they were in the safety of the Impala before he spoke, peeling out of the motel parking lot without even checking out.
"Someone found your brother's bag in a dumpster," he said quietly, terrified of what that could mean.
Dean's mouth gaped open for a moment in shock and then he ran a shaking hand through his hair, "No, oh no… What happened? Is Sam okay?"
John shook his head, "I don't know. The Sheriff said they only found Sam's duffel."
Dean shivered and wrapped his arms around his middle.
It was going to be a long drive to Ohio.
W
The ride to Kettering was silent and tense. Neither Winchester spoke nor did Dean even think about turning on the radio.
Both men were trying not to go into total panic-mode; they told themselves that it was more than likely Sam was perfectly fine and that he'd just, what, decided to toss his duffel bag into some sketchy bus station dumpster? Yeah, that was believable.
John gripped the Impala's steering wheel with white knuckles.
All he could think was that his youngest son, his baby boy might be in trouble, hell, he might be… no, John couldn't accept that. Sam was alive.
Dean listened distractedly to the Legos rattle in the classic cars heating vents. He vividly remembered that day, that was the day Sam had shoved one of his little green army men into the ashtray in the backseat. Dean smiled sadly at the memory.
Ah, Sam, where are you? Dean wondered. Dean didn't think Sam would just take off and disappear into the wild blue yonder. Sure, the kid had wanted to go away to school but not go fall off the map completely.
Dean wiped angrily at his eyes as they began to prickle with tears. He caught his Dad watching from the corner of his eye and grumbled something about allergies.
John gave his eldest a grim smile and released one hand from the wheel to give Dean's shoulder a squeeze.
"Don't worry, we'll find Sam," he tried to sound optimistic.
Dean had no doubt that they would find Sam. The only question was, would they want to?
A lump grew in Dean's throat as he imagined his eighteen-year old brother lying cold and still on some morgue slab. All because he'd wanted to go to school.
Get a grip, Dean! He chastised himself; you don't even know what happened so before you go all doom and gloom, wait to hear what the cops have to say!
Dean didn't think he could wait that long. He wanted to find his brother now!
Sighing, Dean turned his head so he was staring out the passenger window, not really seeing the scenery as it flew by, John pushing the Impala as fast as she could go without attracting attention.
Author's Note:
1. Thanks to RainbowBetty, reannablue, DianaLadris802, SamDeanLover28, Static O. Sventura, sarah, Souless666, liz, AshleyMarie84, cold kagome, AlxM, BranchSuper, SPN Mum, MysteryMadchen, L.A.H.H, DjinnAtwood and Guests for reviewing.
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