Picking Up Where We Left Off (Gen, 1/13)
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, Bobby, 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: Yes, please.
A/N: You might recognize this story. I posted it a long time ago, however it seemed to have taken a different turn, so I decided to rewrite it. Hope you enjoy it!
Much love to my beta tru_faith_lost for the great work. All remaining mistakes are mine.
This plot bunny was born while I was reading minkmix's ' Removed'. If you hadn't read that, you have no idea what you're missing. It's awesome.
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 One
Moose and Goose Motel, 2002.
"Nngh." That was all the protest Dean had managed to put into sound. "Umphgh!" he added a moment later, when no better words came to mind. His eyes were heavy, his entire body screamed at him to go back to the dark haven of unconsciousness. Dean would have happily obliged, if not for the incessant ringing. He squinted his eyes, glared at his cell phone, growling deep in his throat. He should totally salt and burn the thing. Totally.
Stop the damn ringing! Was what Dean meant to say. What he actually said was another "Ugh!" Fingers clenching around the offending phone, Dean turned onto his back, flipped the phone open and brought it to his ear, growling again.
The person on the other side of the line didn’t seem impressed.
"Dean. You there?" The voice was familiar, and still, just beyond Dean's reach.
"If I said no, would you hang up?" Dean slurred.
"Dean!" The sudden, irritated shout made him flinch. "You better not be shacked up with a girl somewhere! I find out I've been wasting time because you can't keep it in your pants, I'm taking the Impala back!" Dean's eyes flew open. Oh yeah, he so recognized the voice alright, and it was pissed.
"No, sir." He slurred, looking dazedly around the room, just to make sure. He didn’t remember a girl, but then again, that didn’t always mean there wasn’t a girl…
The room was mostly dark. Faint light filtered in through closed curtains. No girls around. Dean wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed.
"Well, where the hell are you? I've been waiting for you for the past six hours! You think I don’t have better things to do?" His father demanded. Dean blinked, resting his arm across heavy eyes. He was so tired, his mind working in slow motion, body screaming for the relief of unconsciousness. "Well?" His father demanded after a pregnant pause.
"Weren't we supposed to meet on Friday?" Dean asked. He was pretty sure it was Friday.
"It is Friday. Has been all day long," John snapped. "Where are you anyway?" Dean frowned.
"No, it's Sunday. I still got all week," Dean said slowly, turning onto his side and pushing heavily to his feet. Yeah, bad idea. He lay back down, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, his body too tired to fight gravity just yet. The silence from the other end of the line resonated for a long time before John started talking again.
"You been drinking again?" He asked, and there was a little bit of concern bubbling through his snappiness. Dean stared at the water-stained ceiling. Could be, the way he was feeling. But it didn’t really feel like a hangover. "Dean…" his father sighed. "It was your idea to meet. You wanna keep playing games, you don’t wanna show up, I got another job all ready…"
"No." John was going too fast; Dean was fighting to catch up. "Dad, no." He felt bad, wrong. A quick onceover revealed old traces of blood, but not enough to cause alarm. His right wrist was swollen and hurting, but the injury didn’t seem new. Nothing felt broken, but he did have more than a few painful bruises. He could tell he'd been sleeping in his clothes. His entire body ached, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Cotton made out of lead, that is. He rolled over to his side again, forcing himself up.
"I'll… I'll be there as soon as I can, I promise," he said, swallowing to wet his dry mouth. "Just… You just wait, okay?"
"You alright?" John asked after another long pause. Dean shook his head, trying to clear it.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, running a hand over his face. "Just tired is all. I'm on my way right now, okay? You just wait."
"Yeah, okay." John conceded, "But you better get here soon. I don’t have all week, you know."
Dean hung up, rubbing his eyes with his hand. A headache was beginning to form right behind his eyes. His body felt so heavy, but he had to go, had to meet his father. He forced himself up and off the bed, walking to the bathroom on unsteady feet.
He filled a glass with lukewarm tap water and drank it slowly, forcing it down his dry throat. His hand shook slightly when he put the glass back. Whatever this was, it was no hangover.
Getting out of the bedroom, Dean leaned against the doorframe and looked around at his motel room. A generic motel room, just like any other he'd been in. With a tired sigh, he pushed himself away from the door frame and started looking for his duffle. It wasn’t there. In fact, none of his things were in the room. Not even his toothbrush. Nothing. Just him and the clothes he wore.
Dean frowned, but didn’t bother thinking about it for too long. Thinking felt like too much of an effort right now. He tucked his cellphone back in his coat pocket and opened the door.
Huh. The key still dangled on the outside. Strange. Not like him to be this reckless. But then again, thinking? So not his thing right now.
Getting out of the room, he pocketed the keys and looked around for the Impala. His heart stuck in his throat for a minute when he couldn’t see it. He forced himself to calm down, take a step back.
Dean leaned against a wall, resting his head back. God, he just wanted to close his eyes, go back to sleep. Nothing made sense. Dad had said it was Friday. If there was one person who didn’t screw around with timetables, it was his father, and if he'd said it was Friday, then it probably was. Which was a whole lot of weird, because Dean could have sworn Friday was still five days away.
Maybe his father had gotten it wrong.
Trying hard to push the cobwebs out of his mind, Dean scratched his head. A paper. A paper would have the date on it. He didn’t have a paper though. Opening his eyes and squinting at the glaring sun, Dean looked around the parking lot.
The main office wasn't far. Maybe they'd have a paper. Worth a shot. With a soft groan, he pushed himself away from the wall, taking a minute for the world to decide which way it was spinning, and what color everything should be. He walked over to the main office in what was so clearly not a straight line even Dean could see it, feeling lightheaded and nauseated, heavy and strangely uncoordinated.
The pimply kid at the desk did have a paper, but he wanted the room key first. It took Dean more than a few seconds to realize what the kid was talking about, and then a few more to fish the keys out of his pocket. He shook his head again to try and clear it. Friday. Damn.
"You okay, mister?" The kid asked. Dean ran a hand through his hair, leaning heavily against the counter. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, his vision swimming a little. "Hey, mister?"
"Huh?" Dean blinked, breathing hard. He was sweating, finding it hard to focus.
"Should I call an ambulance or something?" The kid offered. Dean blinked at him. He could tell something was wrong, could tell his mind was three steps behind, but he couldn’t figure out why. He did know an ambulance was probably not the best way of getting to his father anytime soon. He shook his head.
"Nah, just… You have any water around?" He asked hoarsely, suddenly feeling parched. The kid might have said something, but Dean missed it. He blinked, and by the time he opened his eyes, the guy was back, holding a glass of water and offering him some Tylenol. Huh. Fast kid. He took the water and the pills, thanking the clerk and again refusing the ambulance.
He walked out of the office, falling back against a wall, feeling like there was something he was supposed to do, something he wanted to ask, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.
He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and just rested for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Shading his eyes from the sun, he spotted his car across the street and frowned. Why the hell had he parked it there?
Taking a deep breath and hoping the pills would kick in soon, Dean started for the car, still feeling his heart pounding in his chest. The keys were still in his pocket, and after struggling to insert them into the keyhole for several seconds, he gratefully collapsed into the driver's seat, feeling too exhausted to stay on his feet a moment longer. He rested his head against the wheel, closing his eyes, and tried to remember why he was out of bed.
Oh, yeah.
Dad.
Reluctantly, he started the car, easing into traffic. His mouth was dry again, his heart racing, and sweat trailed down his back and neck. His eyes felt heavy, but Dean fought to keep his mind clear.
He managed it for about ten minutes, until he reached a red light and stopped the car. It was then that exhaustion finally won. He couldn’t get himself to reach his hands up and grab the wheel, couldn’t force them to shift gears. He wished the car had head rests. His head felt so damn heavy; his entire body screamed with bone-deep exhaustion.
The light turned, but Dean couldn’t have cared less. Breathing was a priority now, just breathing and staying conscious, and stopping his heart from pounding its way out of his chest.
The drivers behind him leaned hard on their horns, but Dean barely heard them. God, he felt sick. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to refuse the ambulance. He wanted to open a window, get some fresh air in the car, but he just didn’t have the energy to move anymore. Had he been more alert, he would have noticed the police cruiser three cars behind him, but as it was, his vision was swimming, his mind racing in neutral. He couldn’t really wrap his mind around the cop knocking on his window, telling him to get going, pal.
Carlos knocked on the driver's side window of the black Chevrolet. "Hey, would you get movin' pal?" It was nearly the end of his shift, and being stuck in traffic because some asshole wasn’t paying attention wasn’t really something he wanted to do. He glanced over at the line of cars behind the black car. Huh. Didn’t usually get this busy this time of day.
Still, he had to use the bathroom, and this idiot was making him wait longer. If the guy was using his cell phone while driving, Carlos was so gonna fine him. Being a cop had its perks sometimes.
The moron in the car kept ignoring him as the light changed back to red, and the restless drivers honking their horns were starting to give Carlos a headache. What were they honking for anyway? Light was red. Rolling his eyes, Carlos knocked on the Chevy window again. It was a short light, it'd change again any moment, and Carlos wanted to make sure this moron wasn’t going to give him any trouble. The driver blinked stupidly at him. Oh, great. Just what he needed.
He kept his hand hovering over his gun holster, just in case. You never knew these days.
Carlos looked up at the light, then at the line of cars and sighed. He had a feeling in his gut that this was going to be one of those days. The light turned green again, and the driver still didn’t move. Carlos didn’t blame them for honking this time, even his partner was getting irritated.
"Come on, light's turned green twice now. You gonna move it or not?" Carlos demanded, pounding on the window again, peering inside the car. He frowned. "Hey, mister, you alright in there?" Maybe it was the light, but from where he was looking, the driver looked like shit warmed over.
Bending over slightly so he could take a better look, Carlos cursed. The driver seemed barely conscious. Definitely going to be one of those days. He knocked on the window again, glancing at his partner back in the cruiser, and then back at the driver.
"Listen, sir, I'm gonna get the door open, okay? No funny business, I just want to make sure you're alright, okay?" Carlos asked. Eight year olds drew automatic weapons these days, he sure as hell wasn’t going to risk it.
He opened the driver's side door, crouching down to take a better look at the driver.
A young man, early twenties. Pale as a sheet, dark circles around his eyes, more than a few bruises lining his face, a week's growth of scruffy beard. The man was sweating heavily, hands shaking. Just great. He had a junkie on his hands. And he really had to use the bathroom.
"Sir, you alright?" Carlos asked again. The green eyes that tried to focus on him were glazed. The man's breath was coming quick, shallow. Damn, he looked bad. Carlos hesitated a moment, and then called it in, calling for EMS and signaling for his partner to direct traffic.
"Sir, you think you can step out of the car?" Carlos asked. The driver closed his eyes and dropped his head, chin nearly touching his chest. Just great. Carlos cursed under his breath. "Sir, I'm gonna get you out of the car now. No funny business, alright? Just nice and easy." He said, not even sure the driver had heard or understood him. Damn junkies. He hated them, especially the ones who got behind the wheel.
Easing the guy out of the car wasn’t as simple as it seemed in his head. Carlos set the guy down on the pavement, back resting against the black car. The kid sure looked miserable. Served him right, messing with drugs, Carlos couldn’t help think.
"You alright?" he asked again, cursing and grimacing as he got his answer. The guy puked all over his shoes. Definitely one of those days.
Carlos wiped his brow. The kid sure was heavy, and practically dead weight in his arms as he pulled him up and away from the road, onto the sidewalk. He couldn’t help resenting his partner a little as he saw him easing into the classic car, driving it away to clear room for traffic. And here he was, stuck with a stoner until EMS got there. And did anyone care that he really really had to pee? Damn junkies.
The kid was propped up against a building, taking in shaky breaths, barely conscious. EMS sure were taking their sweet time. Guy's gonna keel over any moment. Carlos radioed Central, asking for an ETA on the EMS. Any minute now, the operator promised. Yeah, yeah.
Carlos peered down at the driver, wondering what he was on, if the trip was worth it. The guy was shaking now, his whole body trembling, and Carlos was getting nervous. Been a long time since he had practiced first aid, wasn’t sure he remembered what to do.
He sent a little prayer to God and the Mother Mary when he heard the sweet wail of sirens nearing. Two paramedics got out of the ambulance, still arguing about something or other as they made their way to him.
"What's wrong with him?" One of them asked, kneeling next to the barely conscious driver. Carlos shrugged.
"Found him like that, in his car. Middle of traffic. Junkie, if you ask me." He answered. "Kid puked all over my shoes when I got him out of the car," he added irritably. The paramedic sent him a sympathetic look before turning to her patient.
"Sir, can you tell me your name?" She asked, taking his hand and checking for a pulse. "Sir?" She asked again when he failed to answer. "Pulse is really fast. He's diaphoretic." she reported to her partner, then turned, pulled out a pen-light, and shone it in Dean's eyes. He shirked away from the light.
Carlos excused himself for a second and rushed into a nearby diner to relieve himself. By the time he was back, the paramedics had already inserted an IV line and were loading the young man onto the ambulance.
"You coming with us?" One of them asked. Carlos sighed. Paperwork. He hated paperwork even more than he hated junkies.
"You guys going to County, right?" He asked, making sure. The paramedic nodded. "I'll meet you guys there." He said.
There was no wallet, no driver's license, no ID on the guy. Maybe there was something in the car. He would go over to the hospital after he searched it. Anyway, his cruiser was still here, and his partner still gone, probably testing that old car.
Carlos sighed, reporting everything over the radio as he watched the ambulance take off. Five years till his pension kicked in. He couldn’t wait.
The call went to voicemail. John gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes. Dean was pushing it. The boy was missing his brother something fierce; John knew that. Hell, a blind man could see it half a country away, but Dean was totally pushing it.
He didn’t disobey orders, didn’t fight the way Sam did, but he was drinking too much, letting himself get distracted by pretty girls, talking out of line. And now this.
They parted ways. John wasn’t sure whose idea it was, it just… happened. They both needed some time to cool off.
It was Dean's idea to get together, though, Dean's idea to hunt together again. So having him ignoring John's phone calls and over twelve hours late was pissing John off a little. It didn’t help that the last time they spoke, Dean sounded off. A worried John was usually a pissed off John.
He ordered another cup of coffee and called his son again, counting the rings. The call was answered after the forth ring.
"Dean?" There was a lot of background noise and it took a moment before someone actually answered him.
"Hello?" Thing was, whoever it was, it definitely wasn’t Dean. For starters, it was a woman.
"Who is this?" John demanded.
"My name is Lucy, I'm a nurse here at County. Who am I speaking to?" John could practically feel his heart in his throat. He swallowed.
"County?" He asked when he was able to talk again. He wanted to ask which county, but he needed more information first.
"Yes, sir. The caller ID said 'Dad', so I believe we have your son here in the ER." The nurse continued. John's heart picked up speed.
"What happened?" John did his best to control his voice.
"I really can't answer that, sir. You'll need to speak with his doctor for that, but I don't believe he's in any serious danger." John closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair.
"Was it a car accident?" He asked. Was Dean drunk?
"No, sir. You really should get here soon, though. We're going to be admitting him overnight at the very least, and he's not really in any shape to fill out any forms…"
"Where is he?" John asked, realizing he didn’t know. He calculated the distance in his head after the nurse answered him. It'll take 18 hours at best to get there. "I'll be there tomorrow." He said. "He's okay though, right? It's not too serious, right? He's not…"
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give out that information."
TBC
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Disclaimer: I own nothing supernatural related. Yet…
Rating: R, for language and violence.
Category: Gen.
Pairings: None.
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Bobby, 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: Yes, please.
A/N: You might recognize this story. I posted it a long time ago, however it seemed to have taken a different turn, so I decided to rewrite it. Hope you enjoy it!
Much love to my beta tru_faith_lost for the great work. All remaining mistakes are mine.
This plot bunny was born while I was reading minkmix's ' Removed'. If you hadn't read that, you have no idea what you're missing. It's awesome.
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 One
Moose and Goose Motel, 2002.
"Nngh." That was all the protest Dean had managed to put into sound. "Umphgh!" he added a moment later, when no better words came to mind. His eyes were heavy, his entire body screamed at him to go back to the dark haven of unconsciousness. Dean would have happily obliged, if not for the incessant ringing. He squinted his eyes, glared at his cell phone, growling deep in his throat. He should totally salt and burn the thing. Totally.
Stop the damn ringing! Was what Dean meant to say. What he actually said was another "Ugh!" Fingers clenching around the offending phone, Dean turned onto his back, flipped the phone open and brought it to his ear, growling again.
The person on the other side of the line didn’t seem impressed.
"Dean. You there?" The voice was familiar, and still, just beyond Dean's reach.
"If I said no, would you hang up?" Dean slurred.
"Dean!" The sudden, irritated shout made him flinch. "You better not be shacked up with a girl somewhere! I find out I've been wasting time because you can't keep it in your pants, I'm taking the Impala back!" Dean's eyes flew open. Oh yeah, he so recognized the voice alright, and it was pissed.
"No, sir." He slurred, looking dazedly around the room, just to make sure. He didn’t remember a girl, but then again, that didn’t always mean there wasn’t a girl…
The room was mostly dark. Faint light filtered in through closed curtains. No girls around. Dean wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed.
"Well, where the hell are you? I've been waiting for you for the past six hours! You think I don’t have better things to do?" His father demanded. Dean blinked, resting his arm across heavy eyes. He was so tired, his mind working in slow motion, body screaming for the relief of unconsciousness. "Well?" His father demanded after a pregnant pause.
"Weren't we supposed to meet on Friday?" Dean asked. He was pretty sure it was Friday.
"It is Friday. Has been all day long," John snapped. "Where are you anyway?" Dean frowned.
"No, it's Sunday. I still got all week," Dean said slowly, turning onto his side and pushing heavily to his feet. Yeah, bad idea. He lay back down, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, his body too tired to fight gravity just yet. The silence from the other end of the line resonated for a long time before John started talking again.
"You been drinking again?" He asked, and there was a little bit of concern bubbling through his snappiness. Dean stared at the water-stained ceiling. Could be, the way he was feeling. But it didn’t really feel like a hangover. "Dean…" his father sighed. "It was your idea to meet. You wanna keep playing games, you don’t wanna show up, I got another job all ready…"
"No." John was going too fast; Dean was fighting to catch up. "Dad, no." He felt bad, wrong. A quick onceover revealed old traces of blood, but not enough to cause alarm. His right wrist was swollen and hurting, but the injury didn’t seem new. Nothing felt broken, but he did have more than a few painful bruises. He could tell he'd been sleeping in his clothes. His entire body ached, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Cotton made out of lead, that is. He rolled over to his side again, forcing himself up.
"I'll… I'll be there as soon as I can, I promise," he said, swallowing to wet his dry mouth. "Just… You just wait, okay?"
"You alright?" John asked after another long pause. Dean shook his head, trying to clear it.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, running a hand over his face. "Just tired is all. I'm on my way right now, okay? You just wait."
"Yeah, okay." John conceded, "But you better get here soon. I don’t have all week, you know."
Dean hung up, rubbing his eyes with his hand. A headache was beginning to form right behind his eyes. His body felt so heavy, but he had to go, had to meet his father. He forced himself up and off the bed, walking to the bathroom on unsteady feet.
He filled a glass with lukewarm tap water and drank it slowly, forcing it down his dry throat. His hand shook slightly when he put the glass back. Whatever this was, it was no hangover.
Getting out of the bedroom, Dean leaned against the doorframe and looked around at his motel room. A generic motel room, just like any other he'd been in. With a tired sigh, he pushed himself away from the door frame and started looking for his duffle. It wasn’t there. In fact, none of his things were in the room. Not even his toothbrush. Nothing. Just him and the clothes he wore.
Dean frowned, but didn’t bother thinking about it for too long. Thinking felt like too much of an effort right now. He tucked his cellphone back in his coat pocket and opened the door.
Huh. The key still dangled on the outside. Strange. Not like him to be this reckless. But then again, thinking? So not his thing right now.
Getting out of the room, he pocketed the keys and looked around for the Impala. His heart stuck in his throat for a minute when he couldn’t see it. He forced himself to calm down, take a step back.
Dean leaned against a wall, resting his head back. God, he just wanted to close his eyes, go back to sleep. Nothing made sense. Dad had said it was Friday. If there was one person who didn’t screw around with timetables, it was his father, and if he'd said it was Friday, then it probably was. Which was a whole lot of weird, because Dean could have sworn Friday was still five days away.
Maybe his father had gotten it wrong.
Trying hard to push the cobwebs out of his mind, Dean scratched his head. A paper. A paper would have the date on it. He didn’t have a paper though. Opening his eyes and squinting at the glaring sun, Dean looked around the parking lot.
The main office wasn't far. Maybe they'd have a paper. Worth a shot. With a soft groan, he pushed himself away from the wall, taking a minute for the world to decide which way it was spinning, and what color everything should be. He walked over to the main office in what was so clearly not a straight line even Dean could see it, feeling lightheaded and nauseated, heavy and strangely uncoordinated.
The pimply kid at the desk did have a paper, but he wanted the room key first. It took Dean more than a few seconds to realize what the kid was talking about, and then a few more to fish the keys out of his pocket. He shook his head again to try and clear it. Friday. Damn.
"You okay, mister?" The kid asked. Dean ran a hand through his hair, leaning heavily against the counter. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, his vision swimming a little. "Hey, mister?"
"Huh?" Dean blinked, breathing hard. He was sweating, finding it hard to focus.
"Should I call an ambulance or something?" The kid offered. Dean blinked at him. He could tell something was wrong, could tell his mind was three steps behind, but he couldn’t figure out why. He did know an ambulance was probably not the best way of getting to his father anytime soon. He shook his head.
"Nah, just… You have any water around?" He asked hoarsely, suddenly feeling parched. The kid might have said something, but Dean missed it. He blinked, and by the time he opened his eyes, the guy was back, holding a glass of water and offering him some Tylenol. Huh. Fast kid. He took the water and the pills, thanking the clerk and again refusing the ambulance.
He walked out of the office, falling back against a wall, feeling like there was something he was supposed to do, something he wanted to ask, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.
He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and just rested for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Shading his eyes from the sun, he spotted his car across the street and frowned. Why the hell had he parked it there?
Taking a deep breath and hoping the pills would kick in soon, Dean started for the car, still feeling his heart pounding in his chest. The keys were still in his pocket, and after struggling to insert them into the keyhole for several seconds, he gratefully collapsed into the driver's seat, feeling too exhausted to stay on his feet a moment longer. He rested his head against the wheel, closing his eyes, and tried to remember why he was out of bed.
Oh, yeah.
Dad.
Reluctantly, he started the car, easing into traffic. His mouth was dry again, his heart racing, and sweat trailed down his back and neck. His eyes felt heavy, but Dean fought to keep his mind clear.
He managed it for about ten minutes, until he reached a red light and stopped the car. It was then that exhaustion finally won. He couldn’t get himself to reach his hands up and grab the wheel, couldn’t force them to shift gears. He wished the car had head rests. His head felt so damn heavy; his entire body screamed with bone-deep exhaustion.
The light turned, but Dean couldn’t have cared less. Breathing was a priority now, just breathing and staying conscious, and stopping his heart from pounding its way out of his chest.
The drivers behind him leaned hard on their horns, but Dean barely heard them. God, he felt sick. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to refuse the ambulance. He wanted to open a window, get some fresh air in the car, but he just didn’t have the energy to move anymore. Had he been more alert, he would have noticed the police cruiser three cars behind him, but as it was, his vision was swimming, his mind racing in neutral. He couldn’t really wrap his mind around the cop knocking on his window, telling him to get going, pal.
Carlos knocked on the driver's side window of the black Chevrolet. "Hey, would you get movin' pal?" It was nearly the end of his shift, and being stuck in traffic because some asshole wasn’t paying attention wasn’t really something he wanted to do. He glanced over at the line of cars behind the black car. Huh. Didn’t usually get this busy this time of day.
Still, he had to use the bathroom, and this idiot was making him wait longer. If the guy was using his cell phone while driving, Carlos was so gonna fine him. Being a cop had its perks sometimes.
The moron in the car kept ignoring him as the light changed back to red, and the restless drivers honking their horns were starting to give Carlos a headache. What were they honking for anyway? Light was red. Rolling his eyes, Carlos knocked on the Chevy window again. It was a short light, it'd change again any moment, and Carlos wanted to make sure this moron wasn’t going to give him any trouble. The driver blinked stupidly at him. Oh, great. Just what he needed.
He kept his hand hovering over his gun holster, just in case. You never knew these days.
Carlos looked up at the light, then at the line of cars and sighed. He had a feeling in his gut that this was going to be one of those days. The light turned green again, and the driver still didn’t move. Carlos didn’t blame them for honking this time, even his partner was getting irritated.
"Come on, light's turned green twice now. You gonna move it or not?" Carlos demanded, pounding on the window again, peering inside the car. He frowned. "Hey, mister, you alright in there?" Maybe it was the light, but from where he was looking, the driver looked like shit warmed over.
Bending over slightly so he could take a better look, Carlos cursed. The driver seemed barely conscious. Definitely going to be one of those days. He knocked on the window again, glancing at his partner back in the cruiser, and then back at the driver.
"Listen, sir, I'm gonna get the door open, okay? No funny business, I just want to make sure you're alright, okay?" Carlos asked. Eight year olds drew automatic weapons these days, he sure as hell wasn’t going to risk it.
He opened the driver's side door, crouching down to take a better look at the driver.
A young man, early twenties. Pale as a sheet, dark circles around his eyes, more than a few bruises lining his face, a week's growth of scruffy beard. The man was sweating heavily, hands shaking. Just great. He had a junkie on his hands. And he really had to use the bathroom.
"Sir, you alright?" Carlos asked again. The green eyes that tried to focus on him were glazed. The man's breath was coming quick, shallow. Damn, he looked bad. Carlos hesitated a moment, and then called it in, calling for EMS and signaling for his partner to direct traffic.
"Sir, you think you can step out of the car?" Carlos asked. The driver closed his eyes and dropped his head, chin nearly touching his chest. Just great. Carlos cursed under his breath. "Sir, I'm gonna get you out of the car now. No funny business, alright? Just nice and easy." He said, not even sure the driver had heard or understood him. Damn junkies. He hated them, especially the ones who got behind the wheel.
Easing the guy out of the car wasn’t as simple as it seemed in his head. Carlos set the guy down on the pavement, back resting against the black car. The kid sure looked miserable. Served him right, messing with drugs, Carlos couldn’t help think.
"You alright?" he asked again, cursing and grimacing as he got his answer. The guy puked all over his shoes. Definitely one of those days.
Carlos wiped his brow. The kid sure was heavy, and practically dead weight in his arms as he pulled him up and away from the road, onto the sidewalk. He couldn’t help resenting his partner a little as he saw him easing into the classic car, driving it away to clear room for traffic. And here he was, stuck with a stoner until EMS got there. And did anyone care that he really really had to pee? Damn junkies.
The kid was propped up against a building, taking in shaky breaths, barely conscious. EMS sure were taking their sweet time. Guy's gonna keel over any moment. Carlos radioed Central, asking for an ETA on the EMS. Any minute now, the operator promised. Yeah, yeah.
Carlos peered down at the driver, wondering what he was on, if the trip was worth it. The guy was shaking now, his whole body trembling, and Carlos was getting nervous. Been a long time since he had practiced first aid, wasn’t sure he remembered what to do.
He sent a little prayer to God and the Mother Mary when he heard the sweet wail of sirens nearing. Two paramedics got out of the ambulance, still arguing about something or other as they made their way to him.
"What's wrong with him?" One of them asked, kneeling next to the barely conscious driver. Carlos shrugged.
"Found him like that, in his car. Middle of traffic. Junkie, if you ask me." He answered. "Kid puked all over my shoes when I got him out of the car," he added irritably. The paramedic sent him a sympathetic look before turning to her patient.
"Sir, can you tell me your name?" She asked, taking his hand and checking for a pulse. "Sir?" She asked again when he failed to answer. "Pulse is really fast. He's diaphoretic." she reported to her partner, then turned, pulled out a pen-light, and shone it in Dean's eyes. He shirked away from the light.
Carlos excused himself for a second and rushed into a nearby diner to relieve himself. By the time he was back, the paramedics had already inserted an IV line and were loading the young man onto the ambulance.
"You coming with us?" One of them asked. Carlos sighed. Paperwork. He hated paperwork even more than he hated junkies.
"You guys going to County, right?" He asked, making sure. The paramedic nodded. "I'll meet you guys there." He said.
There was no wallet, no driver's license, no ID on the guy. Maybe there was something in the car. He would go over to the hospital after he searched it. Anyway, his cruiser was still here, and his partner still gone, probably testing that old car.
Carlos sighed, reporting everything over the radio as he watched the ambulance take off. Five years till his pension kicked in. He couldn’t wait.
The call went to voicemail. John gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes. Dean was pushing it. The boy was missing his brother something fierce; John knew that. Hell, a blind man could see it half a country away, but Dean was totally pushing it.
He didn’t disobey orders, didn’t fight the way Sam did, but he was drinking too much, letting himself get distracted by pretty girls, talking out of line. And now this.
They parted ways. John wasn’t sure whose idea it was, it just… happened. They both needed some time to cool off.
It was Dean's idea to get together, though, Dean's idea to hunt together again. So having him ignoring John's phone calls and over twelve hours late was pissing John off a little. It didn’t help that the last time they spoke, Dean sounded off. A worried John was usually a pissed off John.
He ordered another cup of coffee and called his son again, counting the rings. The call was answered after the forth ring.
"Dean?" There was a lot of background noise and it took a moment before someone actually answered him.
"Hello?" Thing was, whoever it was, it definitely wasn’t Dean. For starters, it was a woman.
"Who is this?" John demanded.
"My name is Lucy, I'm a nurse here at County. Who am I speaking to?" John could practically feel his heart in his throat. He swallowed.
"County?" He asked when he was able to talk again. He wanted to ask which county, but he needed more information first.
"Yes, sir. The caller ID said 'Dad', so I believe we have your son here in the ER." The nurse continued. John's heart picked up speed.
"What happened?" John did his best to control his voice.
"I really can't answer that, sir. You'll need to speak with his doctor for that, but I don't believe he's in any serious danger." John closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair.
"Was it a car accident?" He asked. Was Dean drunk?
"No, sir. You really should get here soon, though. We're going to be admitting him overnight at the very least, and he's not really in any shape to fill out any forms…"
"Where is he?" John asked, realizing he didn’t know. He calculated the distance in his head after the nurse answered him. It'll take 18 hours at best to get there. "I'll be there tomorrow." He said. "He's okay though, right? It's not too serious, right? He's not…"
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give out that information."
TBC
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