Picking Up Where We Left Off (Gen, 2/13)

[sams1ra]

Title: Picking Up Where We Left Off
Disclaimer: I own nothing supernatural related. Yet…
Rating: R, for language and violence.
Category: Gen.
Pairings: None.
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, OCs, other canon characters.
Spoilers: For all episodes aired in the US. This story is mostly AU for season 3, but some characters and events will be mentioned.

Comments: Duh.

A/N: For all who recognize this story - you've got quite a memory =) *hugs you all* Also, just in case you're wondering, Sam's gonna play a part in this story - from chapter 5 on. It's Dean and John till then =)

Much love to my beta tru_faith_lost for the great work. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Summary: Twenty five years ago, a demon killed Mary Winchester and tainted her son. Six years ago, someone drugged and abducted Dean Winchester. Nine months ago, one of a yellow eyed demon's tainted kids killed Sam Winchester. A few days later, the gates to hell opened, and all hell broke loose. And now, everything's picking up where it left off.....

 

Chapter Two

(Still 2002)

The world was fading in and out of existence. One moment he was in a motel room, the next in his car, and the next moment he was in a bed, only he wasn't really. He was strapped down, a stranger sitting by his side.

Dean blinked, and when he opened his eyes, flashes of bright light danced before them. Hazy faces peered at him from above, blocking some of the light and talking around him in a language he could not understand.

Words were tossed around in rapid succession. Words like LOC, BP and diaphoretic, and he had no idea what language that was. Maybe he could understand more if everything wasn’t going in fast forward.

Dean groaned, feeling hot and cold, sweaty and nauseated. He tried to get out of the bed, tried to explain that the movement was making him feel sick, but strong hands held him tight, refused to let him move. He had no energy left to fight.

The movement stopped at last. He was brought into a bright room buzzing with action and sound, but none of it made sense to him. He cried out when someone shot a light so bright into his eyes, it felt as if his corneas were on fire. Dean tried to fight, but his feeble attempts were quickly overcome.

Someone slapped his cheeks gently, and Dean tried to focus on a face, but his vision swam and he shook with involuntary tremors. Breathing was difficult, and his chest hurt from the pounding of his heart against it.

Someone was talking to him. The sound was almost reassuring, but he couldn’t put the sounds into legible words.

He felt a cool metallic touch across his chest, and then shivered even harder as cool air met exposed flesh. A needle pricked the inside of his elbow. That's when panic hit. He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. It didn’t hurt all that much. He wasn’t usually squeamish around needles, but instinct told him to fight, so he did.

Someone held him in place. Dean fought hard as his arms and legs were strapped to the bed. Now his heart was truly pounding, the only sound he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears. His chest burnt with exertion. He cried out at the pain in his wrists and ankles. He wasn’t even aware of the agony that was his wrists up until just now.

Pain gained a whole new definition when something was forced into his mouth. A plastic tube, shoved down his throat. Dean gagged on it, suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. Something was trying to kill him, and whatever it was, he wasn’t going to go without a fight. Strong hands held his head in place, preventing any movement as something was poured down the tube. Dean felt it go down, past his throat, into his stomach. He gagged, trying to bite the tube, and fought for breath, but the strong hands were persistent.

He didn’t even feel the second prick in his arm, just the warmth spreading through him, the crushing weight of his chest, and the darkness that greeted him, blanketed him, shielded him and allowed him to rest at last.

---

Officer Carlos Martinez walked down the hall, back from the nurse's station, sipping his coffee. He'd learned long ago not to drink the crap the vending machines claimed was coffee, unless he felt like getting himself admitted for a day or two.

The kid that was brought in was still behind the double doors accessible only to those of the medical profession. Every now and then, a nurse went in and out of the room; ordering tests, bringing back results and medical supplies.

Carlos looked at his watch. His shift would be over in a little under two hours. The paperwork alone would take that long. He sighed, walking up and down the corridor.

Twenty minutes later the double doors opened, the kid wheeled out of the room and into an elevator. The boy looked out for the count, arms and legs restrained to the gurney. Figures. Carlos wondered if they were taking him to rehab. Waste of time, he could tell them that much. Most of the kids that went through rehab ended up using again anyway.

Seeing the doctor getting out of the room, Carlos hurried over to talk to her. The doctor was a petite Asian woman in her early fifties. Carlos had seen her around the ER a couple of times.

"So," Carlos started, falling into step with the doctor, "let me guess, the kid's tox screen came up positive," he said with a confident smirk. The doctor stopped for a moment, looking him up and down.

"Yes," she said, and kept walking.

"I knew it. Can spot a junkie a mile away," Carlos boasted. The doctor didn’t seem to be listening. "So, what was he on? EX? LSD? Cocaine? Heroine? It was an overdose, right?"

The doctor stopped short at that, and Carlos had to take a step or two back. The doctor narrowed her eyes.

"I will file a report with the police after the tests are completed. But yes, with the amount of drugs in his system he came very close to an overdose," she said, and Carlos nodded knowingly. The doctor flipped through the file in her hands. "He has enough anti-psychotics in his system to sedate a horse," she added, and Carlos's smirk faded from his lips. He frowned.

"Why would a guy shoot up anti-psychotics?" He asked. The doctor gave him a sharp look, and he suddenly felt hot under her piercing eyes.

"He didn’t," she said dryly. "He has rope burns on both wrists. Skin raw and bloody. Kid fought hard against something, that's for sure," she added, leafing through the file again. "Sprained wrist, contusions to his face and abdomen, bruised ribs, wheezing and a possible arrhythmia – I've sent him up to the cardiac ward for some more tests. Might suffer brain damage. We won't know for sure until all the drugs are out of his system." The doctor finished, closed the file, and looked at officer Martinez in a way that made him feel two inches tall.

"How long…?"

"Could be hours. Could be a couple of days. I can't tell for sure until I know exactly what's in his system."

"This… this was an assault? Someone did this to him?" He asked, making sure.

"Looks like." The doctor said briskly, picking up another file. "Guy's a mess. You should probably find his family, get them out here. He's gonna be here for a while," she added before heading off in another direction.

Carlos stared after her for a moment, before calling it in. Someone forced that kid to take anti-psychotics. The paperwork for that would take so much longer than two hours…

---

This was so weird. It was like he was watching life from the sidelines, fast forwarding parts without having any control of how much he skipped.

Dean's eyes snapped open, the memory of something down his throat making him agitated. But there was nothing in his throat now. His hands were free, no longer restrained. Not completely free, though. There was an IV line in his arm, fat drops dripping slowly down the line.

He could hear something beeping in the background, an unsteady rhythm. Breathing came easier now, but it wasn’t until he tried to run a hand over his face that he realized it was because of the oxygen mask.

"Hey, don’t take that off," someone said, rearranging the mask back over his mouth and nose. "It's good to see you're awake." The voice was friendly, kind. Dean blinked, trying to bring his surroundings back into focus. A woman in her mid thirties. Brunette. Dressed like… Oh crap. Was he in a hospital? "Can you tell me your name, honey?" She asked.

Dean pushed the mask aside, but his throat was too tight. He couldn’t speak. The monitor beeped faster now, still out of synch.

"It's okay, sugar. It's okay," the woman, nurse, Dean realized, said soothingly. A moment later she brought a plastic cup to his mouth, helped him to a few sips of water. It was only after that he felt the terrible taste in his mouth. The nurse smiled sympathetically. "That's charcoal." She answered his unasked question. "They gave you active charcoal back in the ER." She added, and brought the cup back to his lips. Dean drank thirstily. "Better?" She asked. He nodded lightly, eyes too heavy to keep open. "Good. You just rest now, hon."

The next time he opened his eyes, it was dark, he was wearing different clothes and the beeping sounded a little more regular. Both his wrists were bandaged. He wondered a little about that. There was an IV in his arm. He couldn’t remember if it had been there before or not, but an IV usually meant a hospital. He would have cursed if he had had the energy. As it was, he simply let his eyes close and succumbed to the darkness once more.

---

John Winchester wasn’t the kind of man who liked having too much free time on his hands. Especially when he was by himself, and even more so, when there was nothing he could do about it.

Most of the time, he used his free time to research, but an eighteen hour drive didn’t really allow that. Even implementing his 'car brakes are for pussies' and 'speed limit's just a suggestion' rules, there was simply too much time for his mind to go where John did not want it to go.

He should have guessed something was wrong. He should have kept in touch more often, should have kept an eye on the boy, should not have let him off on his own… But mostly and most distressingly, he had no idea what alias Dean had used. Which insurance card. And that posed a really, really big problem.

John still wasn’t a hundred percent sure what to do when he got to the hospital, and hurried to the ER. He had spent nearly an hour in the car, trying to remember the nurse's name. He thought it was Lacy or Laney or something like that, but he couldn’t be sure. He headed for the nurses' station, deciding there was really only one way to go. Total and complete hysteria. If you acted crazed enough, people tended to want you out of their way. It was worth a shot, anyway.

"I'm here to see my son," he told the nurse talking on the phone in front of him. "I got a call last night that my boy was in the ER. I need to see him." John pressed more urgently. The nurse popped her gum and kept talking on the phone. John ran his fingers through his hair. Worry and helplessness were not all that difficult to fake at the moment.

Turning around, he stopped another nurse walking down the hall. "Please," he said, "I have to see my son! They wouldn’t tell me what's wrong with him. I don’t even know…" And he choked. Didn’t really have to fake that at all. "I have to see my son!" He raised his voice - just enough to show his distress, but not enough to freak anyone out. The nurse seemed to respond to that.

"What's your son's name? When was he brought in?" She asked. John skirted around the first question.

"Last night. I… I talked to him around noon, but then I tried calling again and kept getting voicemail until someone picked up and said she's a nurse here and that her name was Lacey? Lacy?"

"Lucy?" The nurse asked, trying to be helpful. John snapped his fingers, pointing at her.

"That's it! Lucy. She called, saying I had to get here right away. And I tried, I really did, but it took me so long to drive here." John ran his fingers through his messy hair. "I knew I shouldn’t have let him go to that… thing," he stumbled, "but you know how kids are…" He was babbling, and he knew it. The more he talked, the more of her time he was taking away, and the more she'd want to get rid of him.

"What's your son's name?" The nurse asked again, walking over to the computer terminal. John cursed under his breath.

"They brought him in yesterday, and I tried to get here. No one would tell me what's wrong with him over the phone. I don’t even know if he's… Oh, God… He isn't, is he? Tell me he isn’t!" At that, he grabbed her arm, trying to look desperate enough.

"I understand, sir, if you could just tell me his name…"

"They're all I have, my boys," John went on, "Sammy, that's my youngest, he's in college now. Full ride and everything. One of the big ones, too. He's smart, Sammy. Always has been, even as a kid."

"His name is Sammy?" The nurse asked, already clicking away on the computer.

"No," John said quickly, "That's my youngest, he's at school!" He tried for irritated now. "You have my son's things! You have his phone! I tried calling again, I kept trying, but it was turned off! I was miles away, and I was trying to reach my son, and I don’t even know if he's… if he's alive, and you turned the damn thing off!" He raised his voice, pounded on the admission desk. It was risky, but giving out the wrong name was riskier.

"I'm sorry, sir, but some of our wards have a strict no cell-phone policy." That nurse must have been a saint, the way she didn’t even lose her cool.

"People are talking all over the place; you want to tell me there's a no phones policy? That's crap! What about that guy?" John snapped, pointing at a guy sitting in one of the plastic red chairs, talking on the phone.

"Well, sir, this is the ER. If your son had been brought here yesterday, chances are he's not here anymore."

"Not here?" John raised his voice, "What do you mean, he's not here? They told me… Eighteen hours! You have any idea what it is to drive for eighteen hours, not even knowing if your son is okay?" He yelled, "You have any idea what that feels like?" He had to stop for a minute, because his act was getting less and less an act, and he couldn’t afford to lose his cool. Taking a deep breath, John ran his hands through his hair.

The nurse was looking things up on the computer, which was good on so many levels, but a security guard had already locked his eyes on him. He would have to be more careful.

"Sir, I understand," she said, a little clippie – he was getting to her, "but I can't help you if you don’t tell me…"

"Can't help me! Is this some sort of joke? You people think it's funny?"

"No, sir!" She said quickly. John was getting to her, and he wasn’t giving up on that edge.

"Where's my son! You took his things, and you called me, and now you won't even tell me where he is!" John cried. "What am I going to tell Sammy now, huh? 'Sorry, kiddo. I know you wanted to be there, but the damn hospital wouldn’t let me see your brother until it was too late?' That what you want me to say? Huh?"

The nurse sighed, the expression on her face barely concealing the fact that she really wanted him to go away and never come back. She turned back to the computer.

"Sir," she sighed again, "We had over a hundred people come through here yesterday. If you could just…"

"He's twenty three, 6'1'', dirty blond hair, he… He likes extreme sports. Must've broken every bone in his body at one time or another. Has a lot of scars. He's proud of 'em, too. Awfully good at what he does." John choked up at that, and it wasn’t an act this time. The nurse clicked on the keyboard again, and John's stomach lurched at her expression.

"Donald Nash?" She asked. John nodded, recognizing the name as one of Dean's aliases. The nurse nodded back. "He's up in the cardiac ICU, up in third floor. Just follow the orange line to the elevators," the nurse said. John just blinked, sure he'd misheard her.

"The cardiac ICU?" He asked, making sure.

"Third floor." The nurse nodded, and John swallowed, feeling his knees growing weak.

"Thank you," he said softly, and then grabbed her arm again. "Thank you." He repeated, squeezing her arm lightly. She smiled, nodding at him, and he hurried off towards the elevators.

---

It was easier now that he had a name, an alias. He found Dean in the fourth room on the right. There were six beds in the room, all of them occupied, most by older men and women. It made his son stand out like a brightly lit episode in a TV horror show.

John walked over to him, taking in the sight of his firstborn attached to an IV and some sort of machine that measured his heartbeat. His unsteady heartbeat. Dean had a nice shiner on his left eye, standing in stark contrast to his pale skin. A blanket prevented John from seeing any more injuries.

Dean didn’t stir at the sound of his father's footsteps. John leaned against his son's bed, watching, not touching.

"Hey! You're not supposed to be here!" John turned his head quickly at the sharp words and even sharper tone of voice. A nurse stood in the doorway. "I'm calling security," she announced, her hand already on the phone. John got to his feet.

"He's my son," he said simply. The nurse hesitated for a long moment, looking from John to Dean and back, and finally put the phone down.

"You're not supposed to be here," she repeated.

"They called me last night," John said simply. "I would have gotten here sooner, but I was too far away," he explained, looking back at Dean. "How is he?" He asked. The nurse studied him for a long moment before giving a slight nod.

"I'll get his doctor," she said, turning back and leaving the room. She came back a few minutes later, accompanied by a doctor. And a cop. Damn it.

"Mister Nash?" The doctor, a balding fat man, asked without even looking at John. John stood up straighter, eyes flicking from the doctor to the cop and back. What had Dean gotten himself into?

"I'm doctor Fitzpatrick," the man introduced himself, and John nodded at him. "Your son was brought in last night." The doctor was looking at the chart in his hands again. "He was given the initial treatment in the ER. They pumped his stomach, gave him some active carbon to soak up the drugs…"

"Drugs?" John was sure he'd heard wrong. Not drugs. Not Dean. Not again. Dean had promised he wasn’t using that stuff again. The doctor pushed his thick glasses further up his nose, glimpsing at John.

"Unfortunately, it didn't help all that much. You see, there are different ways to deal with different drugs. The anti-psychotics were in his system for a while. It will take time for them to wear off." He went on. John blinked, now sure he'd heard wrong.

"Excuse me?"

"The doctors down in the ER thought Donald might suffer from arrhythmia due to the drugs. That means his heart was beating irregularly. He was given an ECG test, which confirmed the arrhythmia. He was given fluids and oxygen for a while. I'm happy to say he regained consciousness on his own." The doctor droned on, his eyes never leaving his notes. "It will be a while before the drugs leave his system. We won't be able to ascertain any brain damage until then…"

"Whoa, wait, wait, wait, hang on a second!" John said, overwhelmed by the news. "My son doesn’t do drugs!" He said, his voice not as steady as he'd hoped it to be. "And what are you talking about, brain damage?"

The doctor peered at him from behind his thick glasses, scratching his thinning hair. "Well, he hasn’t been conscious long enough for us to make certain… With the amount of drugs in his system, it is likely…"

"My son doesn’t do drugs!" John insisted. Not anymore.

"Mister Nash, it appears Donald had been a victim of an assault. We found him in his car, barely conscious," the cop interrupted. John opened his mouth, but no words came. He closed it.

"What do you mean?" He asked at last. Never had he heard of a ghost or a poltergeist or any other supernatural being forcing drugs on someone. Not unless they were already using, or thinking of using.

"There is evidence…" the cop started, but the doctor interrupted him.

"We're monitoring your son with a Holter cuff, for the arrhythmia," he said, making sure John knew who was in charge of the conversation. "It has to stay on for twenty-four hours. He's on a nitroglycerin drip to help get his heart beating normally again. As for his other injuries, other then the possibility of brain damage, nothing is life threatening. He suffered a few cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist…"

"When…" John swallowed, started again. "When will we know? About the brain damage?" He asked.

"Well, scans came out clean, which is encouraging, but nothing is certain. As I said, he hasn’t been conscious long enough for us to be sure. Couldn’t even tell us his own name," the doctor answered. John narrowed his eyes.

"He had his wallet in the car," the cop answered before John had had time to ask.

"I will be back for rounds at ten. The nurses can answer your questions until then." The doctor finished. He handed the notes over to the nurse and then left the room. The nurse offered John a smile.

"I know," she said, "but he really is a very good doctor. He runs the ward. You really are lucky he's your son's physician." John looked back at this pale son, at the bruises on his face, at the IV in his arm, the Holter cuff monitoring his heart.

"My son…"

"Is going to be just fine," the nurse said quickly "These were some very powerful drugs, and his system was full of them. Brain damage is a possibility, but we have to stay positive and pray for the best." She finished. "I'll get you a chair," she offered a moment later. "Dr. Fitzpatrick is usually very strict about visiting hours, but I suppose we can make an exception." She smiled at him. "Please make sure your cell phone is turned off," she added as she brought his chair over. John thanked her, and she smiled at him before leaving to her duties.

John walked over behind the chair, leaned against the back with both arms stretched before him, and watched Dean sleep.

The cop cleared his throat, reminding John he was still in the room. John turned his head to him.

"I know this can't be easy…" he started, and John looked back at Dean, already running through his list of options; what Dean might have been hunting, what could have happened. "We're keeping an eye on him," the cop went on. John said nothing, clenching his jaw. He didn’t know if it was supposed to be good news or not. Didn’t feel like it, anyway. Especially with a fake name and fake insurance.

"Anyway, uh…" The cop scratched his head. "I'm gonna need a statement from him when he wakes up," he went on. "You know, if he's…" He gestured. John gave him another look, finally taking a seat. "We'll catch 'em, sir. Wherever they are, whoever they are, we'll catch 'em," the cop added a moment later. John frowned.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. The cop jutted his chin in Dean's direction.

"The people who did this to them. They won't get away with it." The cop said, and John did his best not to roll his eyes. "My name's Carlos Martinez, Mr. Nash. I was the one to find your son," Carlos introduced himself. John gave him a non-committed nod. "Well, uh," Carlos sighed, nearing John and taking something out of his pocket. "This here's my card, if you need anything…" he offered. John took the card, his attention still on his son and all the machines he was attached to. A moment later he straightened up in his chair, stopping Carlos just as he was about to leave.

"What do you mean 'did this to them'?"

TBC

Previously: Where it all started >> 2 >> 3 >> 4 >> 5 >> 6 >> 7 >> 8 >> 9a >> 9b >> 10 >> 11 >> 12 >> 13 

Comments

[sams1ra.livejournal.com]

I so totally did not mean to imply you were copying off of Mink's work.
Oh, I got that. *hugs*
The next chapter is already with my wonderful beta, so more coming up soon! =)