nilchance | FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 9

Title: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:

beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.

Hospitals were all the same, Sam thought. Sterile, clinical, and utterly depressing. And the area outside the morgue had to be the worst of all. The cheerful needlepoint banner above the door with that damned Psalm on it wasn't helping. What the hell did most of these people know about walking through the valley of the shadow?

"If you don't stop bouncing your legs like that, I'm going to stab you," his father murmured, not looking up from the three-year old magazine he was thumbing through.

"Sorry." Sam stilled with effort, looking at the doors again. "Wonder what's taking so long?"

"Don't know. Think you could look a little less eager? You're identifying your brother's body, not waiting for your first date," John whispered.

"Oh. Yeah," Sam quickly schooled his features into a quiet sadness. Or something.

"Once we get Dean back, remind me to have him give you some acting lessons," John snorted. His cellphone chirped, and he scooped it up. "This is John."

A blast of sound came from it, and John pulled the phone back from his ear. "Slow down, who is this?"

Sam leaned closer, trying to hear. It wasn't that hard.

"This is Bobby, you misbegotten son of a bitch!"

"What'd I do this time?" John asked, lips twitching.

"Not you, that boy of yours!"

In unison, Sam and John sat straighter. "Dean? You saw him? Is he all right? Is he with you?" John asked. "Where are you?"

"South Dakota. Damned right I saw him." For a moment, Bobby hesitated. "John, there's something not right with him. He didn't know me."

"Damn," John breathed.

"They're following him. I pulled up as he was fighting a demon. He's not the Dean I know."

"What do you mean?" Sam demanded.

"Hell, son, I helped to train you two. I know what your dad taught you, and I know that with Dean, most of it didn't stick. He fights like he lives, rough and tumble. This... I got into it with him," Bobby admitted. "He was spooked. I figured I'd take him out, get him in the truck, bring him to you. Faster than trying to explain this clusterfuck."

"Is he all right?" John asked, hoping Bobby hadn't had to put him down too hard. Bobby'd been Special Forces once, drilled so hard that he once clocked John for startling him in his sleep.

"He's great. I've got a broken nose and two busted ribs."

"The hell?"

"Remember how you tried to teach him your fancy Marine moves? They stuck." Bobby sighed. "It'd be a damned beautiful sight to behold, if he hadn't been beating my ass."

"The demon? You took care of it, right?"

"Wasn't much left. Dean unloaded a clip in its face. Mind you, he'd already thrown a goddamn machete through its throat at that point."

A human victim. John blinked. "Dean? Are you sure?"

"Dean. Looks like you, with his momma's eyes, and with blue hair. He looks good, John. Really good. Don't think there's an ounce of fat on him right now. Plenty of new muscle, though. He hits like a damned mule."

John rubbed his eyes. "Shit, I'm sorry, Bobby. I never thought-"

"S'okay. You're on your own getting him back, though. He's heading west, if that's any help. I'll put the word out to the others, tell them not to approach him, but if they see him to let you know." Bobby hung up without a goodbye.

Sam stared at John with stricken eyes. "Amnesia?"

"He took a pretty wicked hit to the head," John noted.

"Thought that didn't actually happen that way," Sam started to reply when the morgue doors opened.

"Wynn? John and Sam Wynn?" a small solicitous looking man asked. "I'm Dr. Burrow."

John glanced at Sam, got a small nod in return. Showtime.

Sam rose from his chair like a sleepwalker, reaching for Dr. Burrow's hand. He'd slept better in the last few nights, but there were still circles like gouges under his eyes. Sam, Lord love the boy, played it up. "Hi. Can we-..."

"Of course," Dr. Burrow said smoothly. He turned on his heel, started to head off through the double doors.

John levered himself up off the chair, and the prosthetic creaked a little. When Dr. Burrow looked back, raising an eyebrow, John grabbed for Sam's arm and grunted. "Need a little help up." To the doctor, he gave a pale smile. "Sorry. My leg-" Is more singular than it used to be, you asshole. Bet you park in the handicapped spot. Fucker. Not entirely faking his struggle upright, John managed to steady himself and shrugged sheepishly. "It's new."

To his credit, Dr. Burrow hurried back. Probably didn't want the crip falling on his watch. Little did he know how much his night was about to suck. "No, sir, I'm sorry. I didn't realize. Take your time."

Yeah. And John hadn't needed the extra time when he was coming to identify his son's body.

Behind Dr. Burrow, Sam rolled his eyes.

"Thank you kindly," John said dryly, squeezing Sam's arm when he saw him about to snicker.

John had seen a lot of morgues in his time. They didn't differ much, except maybe the shade of industrial paint they slapped on the easy-to-rinse tiles. John found himself casing the room with a professional eye, listening for any rattling coming from the drawers. The room had cold spots all over the damned place, but that was the vents. And anyway, he wasn't here to work.

Finally, they came to the last slab in the room. The sheet had been drawn up over the body, but a white tag dangled. Someone had hastily scrawled 'Wynn, D.' Despite the alias and knowing that his son was elsewhere, safe, John felt a chill. This was someone else's boy, some poor bastard's kid. It could've easily be one of his.

He squeezed Sam's arm again, tighter. Sam gave him a sidelong look, paler than he'd been in the hallway. So he'd felt that, too.

Dr. Burrow came to the head of the slab, his gloved hands touching the sheet. "I can give you a moment."

"Just do it," John said, not bothering to hide the harshness.

Mouth thinning, Dr. Burrow nodded and pulled the sheet back.

Jesus. The kid didn't even look like Dean. Same short hair, maybe, but that was pretty much where the resemblance ended. For one thing, there was a neck tattoo that John recognized distantly as a street gang's sigil. Old track marks from when the kid had gotten desperate enough to inject into the jugular.

Sam leaned into him, one hand coming up to his mouth, a quiet sound escaping him. John got the feeling that much wasn't entirely faked.

John dragged his eyes up, letting Dr. Burrow feel the full weight of his displeasure. "What the hell is this?"

Dr. Burrow blinked. "Excuse me?"

"This. Is not. My son." Taking the kid's wrist, as gently as he could with the rigor and the embalming that'd kept him basically together for the long weeks since the wreck, John turned the body's arm over. There were track marks up and down it and, to John's regret, an old Semper Fi tattoo. Poor bastard. "This young man was an addict. My son was- is not."

Sam was doing a good job of faking hyperventilation behind him. Dr. Burrow looked between them, beyond alarmed. "I- oh- I assure you I had no idea-"

"Get somebody who does," John growled. "Now. Best run. My other son's a lawyer."

His other son was wheezing, propped up against the table. Good thing his hair was long, because that was the only thing saving him right then. Not that John could blame him for hysterics. It was one thing to have a picture and Bobby's word. It was another to hold that toe tag in your hand and know the doctors had screwed the pooch, that it'd be some other family clustered around this table in a few hours. The bullet had grazed them, but it'd missed this time around.

Dr. Burrow whipped past them, his voice carrying back a panicked apology. He must've been spooked, to leave them alone in a room full of cadavers. A curious tech glanced in, but left them alone.

Sam reached out and plucked off the toe tag, pocketing it. "Dean'll want that," he said, not looking up. From the way he rubbed the tag like a touchstone, Dean would be lucky to pry it out of Sam's hands. "Your other son's a what now?"

"Lawyer," John said staunchly. "Best one around. Or you will be. What the hell kind of settlement money were you going for there, Sammy?"

"Heh. Just wanted him to go away, actually." Sam lifted his head, considering the corpse with more comfort than a 22 year old should. Fuck; 23 now. John felt strangely guilty for not sending along a card or something. "You know, this morgue's really... clean. Like ghost clean."

"Yeah. Noticed that myself. Feels like Pastor Jim's old place."

"It should," broke in a third voice. "He trained me."

Christ, a few weeks in bed and they both got rusty. John felt his hand twitch for a gun that wasn't there, looking sharply up at the young man in the doorway to the morgue.

The young man flashed a crooked smile and a nametag that declared him 'Fr. Andrew', a title that didn't suit him in plain clothes. "Good to see you, Mr. Winchester. If I'd known it was you-"

"Andrew?" Sam broke on. "Andrew who used to kick my ass in football? Andrew who plastered the rectory walls in Playboy?"

Andrew grinned. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, my son. And fuck off, those Playboys were totally your brother's. Anyway, if I'd known it was you I'd have saved you the walk. I've been trying to tell this people for the last month that they'd screwed up two 20-ish white males that came in that night. If I'd known it was Dean, I'd have thrown down harder, but..." he shrugged at John. "Sorry, sir. Can't keep track of everything. They put me in charge after that blond psycho-bitch offed Jim, and we're up to our goddamned eyebrows. So to speak. I was off the night Dean came in, and by the time I got back, he was gone."

Yeah, John thought with a sigh, Andrew still talked too much and way too fast. "S'all right. Just tell me what you know."

Andrew's eyes flicked to John's leg. He paled. "Oh, hell. What-?"

"Focus, Andrew." John's patience was creaking with the strain. "What happened?"

"I don't know. Trauma's not my ward." Andrew didn't bother not staring baldly at John's leg, his expression shifting from shock to regret, to a sort of tired 'ah, well, them's the breaks.' "They transferred me there after Dean trashed the place. They screwed up their paperwork, like I said. Dean Wynn didn't have a record. Our friend here did. But there was a huge fucking wreck on the interstate, they came in together, both unconscious and were on the same ward with the same basic kind of trauma..." Andrew shrugged, grimacing. "Dean Wynn, who wasn't actually Dean, got the ID and the doctors were told not to give him morphine, because he'd react badly. Josh Mitchell, who was Dean, got I.D.ed as a repeat offender, with cops hanging around his room waiting for him to be solid enough to haul to jail. But they gave him morphine to go with that major surgery he needed. You can probably see where this is going."

Tipping his head back, John closed his eyes. "Jesus. Yeah, I can, but tell me anyway." As an afterthought, he glanced at Sam. "Dean has bad reactions to sedatives. He gets paranoid-"

"I remember. I was there when we found that out." Sam winced. "And he couldn't remember who he was. And there were people hovering, cops hovering, when- oh, fuck."

Andrew sighed, removing his glasses to press his palm hard against his eye. "Yeah. And then he started having nightmares. Started trying to get out of bed, looking for-" Andrew glanced at Sam, then back at John, "-for someone he couldn't identify. They put it on his report, upped the sedatives. He got more out of control. One of my new guys got worried, tried to run an exorcism. He almost got choked to death with an IV tube for his trouble. Which was when they decided to strap Dean down."

It was like a car wreck, the worst possible combination of factors. John looked down at the corpse, feeling his pity drain away. Sam was silent beside him, that bright mind following this down to its conclusion.

"He stayed that way for a few days. Must've come to at some point," Andrew continued. "As far as they figure, Dean got hold of the cord to his heart monitor, bit his lip so he was frothing blood, and pulled the cord. Faked a cardiac. When they came running, he looked like he was seizing, so they pulled the straps off. He grabbed the adrenaline needle they brought in. Shoved it in his chest and took the dose. Proceeded to demolish the whole fucking place, including two cops, in seven minutes with an IV rack. Somebody from security timed it from where they were hiding down the hall. Should've figured he was yours then, actually. Then Dean tore ass out of the hospital. Hot-wired a car after picking the lock with said adrenaline needle. He's the fucking Macguyver of hospital escapes."

John felt his lips tug in a pained smile. "That's my boy."

Sam blew out a long, slow breath. "Wow."

John shot him a sidelong look. "Wow?"

"Dad, if I'd woken up like that? I'd still be there." Sam stretched, letting some of the tension drain from his shoulders. "I-"

Andrew tensed, glancing back towards the doors. "They're coming." He quickly assumed prayerful posture, looking up as Dr Burrow came back in with two other people-one, a doctor, and one in a suit.

John stood there, arms crossed, face thunderous. "Have you figured out what happened to my son yet?"

The doctor flushed, and Dr. Burrow stepped a little closer. Still out of reach, John noted wryly. "This is Dr. Moran, he treated your son."

"I-There's been an unfortunate mistake made," Dr. Moran stammered. "The night you and your sons were in the accident, there was another accident up the road a few miles-an SUV with Mr. Mitchell driving plowed into a school bus, among other vehicles. The children were on their way home from a football game- it was a particularly bad accident."

"This has to do exactly what with my son?" John snarled, limping forward. "Where is Dean?"

Sam laid an artfully shaking hand on his arm. "Dad, settle down, please-"

Okay, so maybe Sammy didn't need those acting lessons.

"The helicopter that airlifted your son here also brought Mr. Mitchell-we're a small county, Mr. Wynn. We only have one trauma ward," Dr. Moran said, wringing his hands. "Somewhere along the way, their files got switched."

"You switched my son's records with a drug addict?" John said softly, eyes slashing across the three men across from him.

"Dealer," Andrew noted, staring beatifically at the ceiling. He had the smug look of a man who knew he couldn't be fired. "Felon, technically."

"You have to understand- your son had track marks, too!"

"He was in the hospital for a near-electrocution!" Sam said sharply. "They drew blood, put in an IV! "

"Oh. I-" Dr. Moran began.

The suit stepped forward smoothly. "Mr. Wynn, I'm sure you understand, we had nearly twenty trauma cases coming in that night-"

Ah, the hospital lawyer. Now, the show could really begin. "All I understand right now is that I've spent over a month thinking that my son-" John covered his face with his hand, unexpected emotion welling up in his throat. "My Dean," he continued, voice far from steady, "was dead, laying on a slab."

Sam's hand stroked his back lightly. "Dad," he murmured.

"And now you're telling me it was a mistake." John's face tightened. "I'm not going to ask you again, gentlemen. Where is my son?"

The last sentence was boomed with such force, such menace, that it was all Sam could do not to step back from his father.

The lawyer seemed ready to speak when Dr. Moran blurted, "We don't know."

John turned the full force of his glare on the little man. "Excuse me?"

With a pained look, the lawyer stepped forward. "Why don't we move this to my office?"

Giving John a sideways glance, Sam stepped forward smoothly. He had that smile that promised trouble. "I think that'd be a good idea."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

janissa11.livejournal.com

Killing me DEAD. I am loving this so much there are no WORDS. Gahhhh. Oh DEAN. And John, and oh SAM.

From:

Especially when you make plans...

FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 9

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