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: Please?
A/N: Much love to my beta ![[info]](https://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
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.....
( 'Anything else?' John asked. Dean finished his drink and lay back, closing his eyes. 'Dean?' 'Hmm?' 'Now I'm gonna give you the third degree,' John said and Dean groaned. ) Picking Up Where We Left Off
Chapter Three(Still 2002)
Dean woke up again late in the afternoon. He still seemed a little disoriented, his words a little slurred. He relaxed in the presence of his father, but John recognized the banter and misdirection his son was tossing his way, knew it was Dean's way of trying to mask his pain. A glance at the monitors Dean had been hooked up on helped calling his bluff.
Dr. Fitzpatrick pulled John aside. "We found three types of anti-depressants in his system," he said. John frowned. "There were also sedatives and stimulants. Definitely not something one would mix for the purpose of getting high," the doctor went on. "Well, not unless they were stupid." He shrugged and signed something a nurse shoved into his hands, barely looking at it.
"Can you tell if there's gonna be any lasting damage yet?" John asked.
"Well, it's a little early to be a hundred percent sure about the lasting effects of taking contradicting drugs." The doctor pushed his glasses higher up his nose. "There will probably be some side effects; you should expect him to feel nauseated, jumpy, and confused," the doctor said, "But what you should be most concerned about at this time is his heart."
John's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it seems the nitroglycerin we've been administrating isn't doing its job," Fitzpatrick explained. "We are going to try switching him to some other medications, give him some more tests, but frankly, Mr. Nash, you should prepare yourself for the option that medications would simply not suffice."
"What is that supposed to mean?" John demanded gruffly.
"Well, should your son's arrhythmia not be resolved by the new medications, we would have to consider a more permanent solution," the doctor explained.
"Meaning?"
"We would have to implant him with a pacemaker," the doctor said bluntly. John stared at him, waiting for a smile, a wink, anything that might indicate that the doctor was joking. Fitzpatrick stared back. John fumbled for a seat as his heart dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles.
"I understand how this sounds, Mr. Nash, but let's worry about it if and when the time comes," the doctor said, checking his watch. "Let's see how Donald does with his new medication first. Your son is young and, otherwise, quite healthy. At the moment, a pacer is a distant possibility, but it is still a possibility. We'll just have to wait and see," the doctor finished. "Now if you'd excuse me, I have other patients to see," Fitzpatrick said quickly and left the room, leaving a dazed John behind. John ran a hand over his face and wondered where the good doctor had learned his bedside manners.
Dean had dozed off again by the time Dr. Fitzpatrick left, and John spent the next hour sitting next to his firstborn, thoughts and worst-case scenarios playing in his mind.
"Mr. Nash."
John was startled out of his reverie by the familiar voice. He turned and nodded at the cop who entered the room. Carlos tucked his cap under his arm and neared Dean's bed.
"Officer Martinez. To what do we owe the honor?" John asked and got up from his seat.
"No, no, please, sit down." The cop waved at him to sit. "I was just making my rounds," he explained. "It's our policy to secure victims of an unsolved crime."
"I appreciate that," John lied and smiled at Carlos. Having the police breathing down their necks, even if it was done with the best intentions, was going to be a problem. Especially when the Billing department found out the insurance was fake.
"Oh, I… have something for you," Martinez said and handed John a plastic bag. John looked quizzically at the officer. "These are the things that were on your son when we found him," Carlos explained. "My partner asked me to tell him he had a sweet ride."
John smiled at that, and looked at his son, half expecting him to smirk and make some smart-mouthed remark, but Dean was still asleep.
"He does love that car," John noted and looked inside the bag. It contained Dean's leather jacket, his phone, car keys, necklace, wallet, ring, and bracelets. "Thank you for these," John added.
"Don’t mention it," Martinez said dismissingly. "Any news about his condition?"
"Doc said to wait and see," John answered. Carlos gave a knowing nod.
"The best way of saying shut up and keep out of their way," he said with a slight smile. John couldn’t help the smile that ghosted his lips.
"How are the others doing?" John figured it sounded nonchalant enough. "The other victims, that is," he clarified. Martinez glanced at him.
"Far as I know, Donald is one of the lucky ones," he answered.
"How many others are we talking about?"
The cop studied John before answering. "A few," he said. "I don’t think they all ended up here, though."
"No one died, I hope," John said, gauging the cop's reaction.
"Not that I know of."
"Why were they brought into different hospitals? Weren’t they all found together?" John asked.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Nash, I can't comment on an ongoing investigation," Martinez answered.
"Of course," John said coolly, "But surely, you have leads," he tried.
"I really can't comment on that," the cop repeated, and John knew enough cop-talk to understand that meant they didn’t have any leads. Martinez seemed to be getting restless, defensive. John could tell that pushing more buttons would probably do more harm than good, so he changed his direction.
"About my son's car…"
"Oh, I'm afraid it's been impounded. It's protocol," Carlos said apologetically, and John cursed under his breath. There were only so many times the Impala could be impounded and have no one check the trunk. Good luck and Winchesters didn’t really meet that often.
"Where can I…?"
"Down on Stevenson. About six blocks from here. Not sure about their hours, though. They like to close early," Carlos said, trying to be helpful. John nodded his thanks.
"I'm gonna need to find a motel," John noted, mostly to himself, but the cop heard him anyway.
"There's one not too far from here. It's not fancy, but it's cheap," Martinez offered, and John thanked him.
"Dad?"
"Right here, kiddo," John said quickly, his attention back on his son.
"Why don’t I leave you two alone," Martinez said, "If you need anything…" John thanked the cop again as Carlos excused himself.
"How are you doing, tiger?" John asked.
"What are you doing here?" Dean asked instead. John blinked.
"I've been here for a couple of hours, remember?"
Dean frowned, thinking. He was still sluggish, in no condition to answer any of John's questions, so John just sat beside him and kept him company until a nurse came by to tell him visiting hours were over.
John was more than a little surprised when Dean grabbed his hand. Dean's green eyes locked on his, and for a moment, John was sure Dean was going to ask him to stay. Dean hadn’t asked him to stay since he was eighteen. He didn’t this time, either, just let go of John's hand, and closed his eyes again. John squeezed his shoulder once, before he left the hospital for the night.
It was too late to pick up the car, but John at least made sure the trunk hadn't been tampered with. He got himself a room in a nearby motel and took a long shower, losing himself in thought and steam.
He had meant to go out, get some dinner, try to get his hands on as many newspapers as he could from the last week or so, but as soon as his tired body slumped on the bed, he was gone.
John woke up just before dawn, his stomach rumbling. He drove to the nearest Seven- Eleven, getting two large cups of coffee, a box of doughnuts and a paper. He finished the first cup of coffee before getting to his truck. He started on the second cup back in the motel room, when he spread the paper on the bed and started reading.
The story was already in the paper; four people ended up at County hospital because of an overdose, three more ended up in another hospital. Police suspected foul play. No further details. Well, none that mattered. Apparently, one of the victims was the son of some smalltime politician and had been reported missing over a week ago.
John finished the last of the doughnuts, crumpled a dirty napkin and tossed it to the floor. He took another sip of the coffee only to realize there was none left. He looked at the time; still too early to go to the impound lot, far too early for visiting hours. Might as well start with research. Not for the first time, he wished his son had kept a journal like his old man. John had no idea what Dean might have gone after, what he was hunting. And he had no idea if the job was finished.
John had found a stack of old newspapers at the front desk and started going through them, looking for anything that looked like his kind of interesting.
John got to the impound lot just as they opened it, retrieving Dean's car. He waited until he was parked behind the motel before he started looking inside the Impala for clues. The only thing John was able to come up with was that his son was a pig. He took out all the food wrappers and empty snack packages. A car like that deserved better. He'd have a talk with his son when Dean was up to it.
He drove back to the hospital, getting there just as they rolled Dean back to his room, no longer in the ICU, but still on the cardiac floor. A nurse smiled at him and told him Dean had had a good night and that the tests showed improvement in his condition. Any doubt John might have had went out the window when Dean asked him if he'd brought something edible for breakfast instead of whatever slop the hospital decided to call food.
"So, how'd you know?" Dean asked around his cold scrambled eggs.
"Know what?" John asked, pulling a chair closer to Dean's bed.
"About the hospital, about where I was. I mean, we were supposed to meet on Friday, right? I still have a couple of days," Dean said nonchalantly. John stared at him for a long moment, until Dean pushed his tray aside. "What?" he asked.
"It's Sunday, kiddo," John said somberly. Dean frowned and blinked uncertainly at him.
"Oh," he drawled, "so… did we meet on Friday?" He asked, scratching his brow. John clenched his jaw, and offered his son a glass of water. Dean accepted the glass, but didn’t drink it.
"How are you feeling?" John asked.
"Slow," Dean answered after a short pause. "Like… I can think stuff, but it takes forever to say it, and it doesn’t come out right anyway."
"Dean, what were you hunting?" John asked at last. Dean frowned. "What did this? What were you after?" John clarified. Dean shrugged. "Well, did you get it? Do you remember? Did you finish the job?" John pressed on. Dean shook his head helplessly.
"I don’t remember a job. I don’t remember… I… I was looking for something to do. I don’t remember a job…" Dean closed his eyes, and for a moment he looked so much like a little boy, it was almost overwhelming for his father.
"Try, Dean. I need to know. I need to know what you were after. I need to know if you finished the job," John said. Something hurt at least seven people. Something hurt his son. John had to make sure that something wasn’t going to hurt anyone else. That it was dead.
Green eyes stared helplessly at him and John sighed. Dean was still hazy about what day of the week it was, John reminded himself. He pushed himself to his feet, patting Dean's leg.
"Get some rest," he said.
"Are you going?" Dean asked in his lost little boy voice. John hated that voice.
"I have to," he said, "I need to make sure the job's done." I need to make sure you're safe. Dean nodded, not looking at his father. "I'll be back later," John added, and Dean nodded again.
"I'm sorry," Dean said it so quietly John nearly missed it. But he didn’t.
John looked back at his son, gave a slight nod. "I'll take care of it," he said. I'll make sure whatever did this to you is dead. Whatever you were hunting, I'll make sure you're safe. It was a promise, to his son as well as to himself. Nothing hurts his babies and gets away with it.
There was a fire. That much didn’t take John long to find out. An old apartment building downtown. It didn’t burn to the ground, but not much was left of it. It felt like the best place to start.
The building was closed off, but that had never bothered a Winchester before. John treaded lightly among what was left of the house. He couldn’t find any traces of ozone or sulfur, but it didn’t mean much. After all, the fire could have burnt the evidence. That left him with no clues. He had a gut feeling the fire was somehow connected to everything, but with no solid evidence to back that up, John had to write it as a coincidence. At least until he managed to get his hands on some more information.
John made it back to the hospital just in time for the afternoon's visiting hours. He wasn’t the only one waiting to see his son, though.
"Mr. Nash," Carlos nodded at him. John nodded back. "Nurses say it's alright for me to take a statement," the cop clarified. John said nothing. "Uh, actually, Mr. Nash, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to talk to Donald alone for a few minutes."
John stared at the cop for a moment, before giving another nod. He went to the gift shop and picked out a couple of car magazines for Dean. John was already at the register when he went back and got a couple of peanut M&M packs.
The cop was still there when John made it back to Dean's room. John leaned against the wall, keeping out of sight behind the curtain dividing the room, and listened.
"…Remember me getting you out of your car?" Carlos asked.
"I already told you, no," Dean said, sounding tired and heavy. "I… remember some stuff, but… I don't know, it's all… blurry. I don't even know what's real and what's not."
John wondered how much of that was true.
"The doctor says you're missing days," Carlos noted. "What's the last thing...?"
Dean licked his dry lips, scratching his arm. "Sunday. I… I finished a job, and I had some time to kill. I was supposed to meet my Dad," Dean shrugged, blinking heavily at the cop. "It gets blurry after that."
"Other people have turned up with overdoses from anti-psychotics. Some are in real serious condition. You wanna tell me you know nothing about that?" The cop pushed.
"Dude, missing time, remember?" Dean snapped. He was getting tired of this.
"Anything you can give us. How many were there? Black, white, Latino? Any names you might have picked up, aliases? Do you remember any of the other victims, anything?"
Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry, I really don’t remember," he said tiredly. The cop stared at him for a long minute before replacing his pen back in his pocket.
"Alright then," he said. "If you remember anything…" Dean gave a slight nod and the cop was gone.
"Do you really remember nothing at all?" John asked, and Dean jumped, startled.
"Jesus, Dad! Are you trying to kill me?" Dean breathed. "Just because I’m in the cardiac ward doesn't mean you're allowed to give me a heart attack, you know."
John pulled the curtain aside and leaned against Dean's bed. "That whole Swiss cheese for brains thing, is it real?" He pushed. Dean sighed.
"You're gonna give me the third degree now?" He asked tiredly. John shrugged.
"I'm gonna give you these," he said, dropping the magazines and the candy in his son's lap. A slow smile spread across Dean's lips.
"See, I knew they forgot some basic first aid," he said, reaching for the M&Ms.
"You need anything?"
"Water," Dean asked, and John refilled his glass with the cool liquid.
"Anything else?" He asked. Dean finished his drink and lay back, closing his eyes. "Dean?"
"Hmm?"
"Now I'm gonna give you the third degree," John said and Dean groaned. "What do you remember?"
"Not much. I already told you." Heat. Smoke. Pain. Screams. Weird smells.
Sighing, John ran his fingers through his hair, scratching his beard. "Try," he said, "What's the last thing you remember? Before I called you?"
Dean paused for a moment before he answered. "A diner." Scared eyes. Phone call. Red light. A tube down his throat. A needle. "I… I was hungry. Ordered a cheese steak sandwich and some fries. Don’t remember getting 'em, though." Dean turned his head away from his father, letting his eyes close. "Waitress was off limits," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Too young. Looked twelve, but she was pro'lly older. Too young. Off limits," he repeated tiredly.
"Did you talk to someone in the diner? Were you in the middle of a job?" John prodded.
Hunger. Thirst. Feeling like he was flying, but underwater. Chanting. A cop. Bright light. Nausea. Thirst.
"Don’t remember," Dean said, licking his chapped lips. John refilled his glass again, Dean accepted it gratefully. "I remember… things. Fragments," Dean said once John had taken the glass away. "I don’t know what they mean. Can't even tell if they're relevant, if they happened before, or after I got here." Dean closed his eyes again, already drifting. "I remember drugs, I think. Remember feeling…" He trailed off. "But that must have been here, right?" He opened his eyes half-mast. John watched him for a long moment before asking;
"You're not using again, are you?" Because he had to know. He had to be sure.
"No, sir," Dean slurred. Darkness. Cries. Smoke so thick he couldn’t breathe. Pain. Light so bright it hurt. And then darkness.
"Would you tell me if you were using again?"
"I'm not using, Dad," Dean protested irritably. John sighed.
"Alright. Get some rest. And try to remember the name of that diner."
TBC
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