Devastation and Reform 10/15

[faye_dartmouth]

 

A/N: Remember it's all still AU and hopefully not redundantly so. Thanks for those who review--it's about the only thing that helps me remember I'm still posting this fic :)  Previous parts here.

-o-

Chapter Ten

Henricksen was practically strutting as he paced back and forth across the room with a smugness that made Dean want to lie to him just for the sake of it. Because sitting there, being submissive, answering questions like a good little boy just wasn't his style, but at this point, he had no choice.

The problem was that Henricksen could see that, sense it, and he relished his position even more. He appeared calm, without any rush, as he continued his line of questions, which were, in fact, less questions than gloating and philosophizing. It was a game that Dean didn't want to play, normally wouldn't play, but it was for Sam and that was enough to give him pause and was enough to grant Henricksen the smallest amount of respect.

"The fact is," Henricksen said, pausing in front of the two-way mirror, "you Winchesters have the most staggering body count following you around that I've ever seen. Lots of people are transient, move around a lot, but isn't it coincidental? The places you keep showing up all have strings of horrific murders and attacks. That's a bit more than coincidental, don't you think?"

Dean shrugged. "Trouble has followed us all our lives."

"More like you create trouble," he retorted. "Isn't that right, Dean?"

A smirk crossed Dean's face as he took a measured breath. "Believe it or not, I have many things I'd rather do than sit around and think of ways to get the FBI after me."

"So you admit that you've broken the law?"

Dean leaned back with a sigh. "You caught me," Dean said. "I've got a string of unpaid parking tickets like no other. Oh, and I jaywalked the other day. I know I should have walked down to the corner, but it was just so far away."

Henricksen's face showed no amusement. His eyes narrowed, and he paced to the side of the room. "The wise-ass routine is getting a little old, don't you think? It's not going to get you out of here. Not this time. You somehow managed to weasel your way out of Baltimore, and you managed to sneak out of the prison in Arkansas, but those were the minor leagues, my friend."

"You're forgetting about how you managed not to catch me in Milwaukee," Dean goaded, with a sly smile.

Henricksen's casual attitude flickered. "But I got you this time, didn't I? And I can promise you, no small scale county facilities now. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

It was Dean's turn to lose his humor. He clenched his teeth and said nothing. He'd already resigned himself to this and he wouldn't be baited, not with Sam's freedom in the balance.

That was the only opening Henricksen needed. He sauntered back toward the table. "It's not so much a question of whether or not you're guilty," he said. "It's more a question of how."

Dean refused to reply. Turning hismelf in was one thing; confessing to all the charges against him was a little harder.

Henricksen continued. "Seems to me you're working with someone. It almost has to be. Someone else who could help you set up for all those theatrics you use to convince people of your point."

Dean raised his eyebrows, feigned interest, but again said nothing. Talking wouldn't get him anywhere.

The agent's eyes narrowed, feeling Dean out. He persisted. "Is it Bobby Singer?" Henricksen prompted. "I'd guess your Dad's old friend Caleb, but the guy turned up dead last year."

The references to friends, alive and dead, made Dean flinch. "I'm not working with anyone," Dean growled. It did not escape his notice that Henricksen knew more about him than he had even guessed, was aware of his connections, everything. It wasn't just his ass on the line, it was a lot of people, all for just helping him.

"It's someone, Dean," he said with a smooth grin. "Or a lot of someones. No way you've managed all this by yourself. Your daddy taught you well, but not that well."

"Leave my dad out of this."

"Awww," Henricksen said with mock sympathy. "Did we hit a raw spot, Dean? I know your dad's death is recent. And he left you with a mess of troubles, didn't he? The list of crimes starts with your daddy."

It took everything Dean had to control his seething. "You don't know what you're talking about," Dean said with a humorless smile.

"I think I know exactly what I'm talking about," Henricksen countered. "You're the oldest son of John and Mary Winchester. You lived a quiet and happy life for four years until the night of your brother's sixth month birthday. That was the night Mommy went up in flames and Daddy went off the deep end. Your aunt and uncle were pretty worried about you—seems you were shutting down emotionally, went a little mute on them, but Daddy skipped town with you and Sam before anyone could do anything about it."

The agent took to pacing, long, easy strides against the far wall as he spoke. "From then on, you were always on the road. A few years here, a few years there. A string of school files longer than anything I've ever seen—it's amazing you graduated and that Sam got into any college with his splotchy record. Then there's the insurance fraud we've traced to you, everything from stitches to broken bones to surgery, all topping off with the death of dear old Daddy."

Dean tensed, determined not to show his weakness.

When Henricksen got no response, he went on. "Of course, you have to account for the multiple notifications to CPS and all the bruises—clearly Daddy wasn't quite as loving as he should have been. It's no wonder Sam went off to school, cut all ties. He was going to get into law school. He would have been top of his class." He paused, looking at Dean disdainfully. "Until you came back into his life."

That was meant to hurt, and it did, but Dean wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. "Come on," Dean said, leaning back in his chair, forcing a relaxed tone. "We've been here and done this. Can't we get on to something new? Something a bit more recent?"

"Recent?" Henricksen repeated, considering. He laughed a little. "You mean like your association with one Madison Walker Or how about your arrest in Oklahoma?" He shook his head. "The way I figure it, all of this runs together. Your childhood, Sam's time away, your dad's death, your most recent disappearing act. The way your father managed to raise you like ghosts—almost makes me think there's a whole lot more there going on than we really know. What kind of connections did your dad have, anyway? I know he was in Vietnam—that kind of experience does things to a man. What'd it do to your dad?"

"Look, do you actually have any questions about something relevant or are you just going to speculate about the horrors of my childhood. So my dad never cried, never tucked me in at night, and spanked me when I was a kid. Still doesn't help you figure out just how I've managed to commit mass murder across the country, does it?" Dean was irate, his sarcastic edge vicious.

Henricksen grew silent, his jaw working angrily. "Relevant? You want relevant? Okay. Let's talk about relevance. How about Emily Watson?" he asked, throwing down a photo of a pretty and smiling young woman.

Dean tried not to look long at the photo.

"Found raped and murdered in her own home in St. Louis," Henricksen added, tossing down another picture of her mutilated body, bloody and half naked. He threw down another photo. An older couple, smiling and eating apple pie. "A couple that disappeared in Indiana after you passed through. Niece refuses to talk much about it, but says you were there."

Furrowing his eyebrows, Dean wondered how Henricksen had made that connection.

Pleased by Dean's silence, Henricksen tossed another photo out. "Evelyn Sanders--her throat slit in her own home. Your DNA was all over that one."

As was Sam's, but he trusted that Sarah would never talk. Her father...maybe...

"How about this one?" Henricksen said, putting another photo on the pile. "Meg Masters. Missing from her home in Andover for a year before she turns up dead in your friend's house."

Bobby undoubtedly had a story for that, but Dean knew the circumstantial evidence was mounting. On all counts.

"How about this one?" Henricksen said. This time it was a cop, looking smug. "Peter Sheridan. Baltimore cop. Partner says he was killed while transporting you. Right before you escaped. Sound a little suspicious, huh?"

That one really wasn't his fault, but Dean doubted that would make much difference. The older man seemed to be getting a steam on, and Dean didn't want to risk getting in his way. He was screwed enough as it was. Handcuffed to a table, he doubted he'd get much in the way of defending himself should the clean-cut cop decide to cross the line. Which, if he believed all that stuff was Dean's fault, he wouldn't blame him, even if the guy was a moron.

The photos came faster now. "Margaret Tanner. Albert Tanner. Hell, the whole town of River Grove, which I still can't figure out. But I do know that you were there. And that that couple was plugged by a couple of shots that matches the caliber of a gun you carry. You and your little brother. How about Brady Reynolds? The disappearance of Ava Wilson? Madison Walker, which looks more like Sam than you, but we're not really here to talk about Sam, are we?"

Dean took a measured breath. The agent was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get some kind of response. His only defense was to stay impassive. But he had to admit, the list of people he hadn't saved was staggering. Disheartening. That hurt more than the implication that he'd been the one doing the murdering.

"How about him?" Henricksen said, putting out the photo of a young man, a cop, smiling broadly in his uniform. "Garrett Townsend. Three years on the force. Still in a coma over at the hospital from wounds he incurred while trying to make your arrest."

Dean clenched his teeth. This was too recent, too unfair. They'd try to save the cops—they really had. But when push had come to shove, Dean had to pick Sam before them. He couldn't really be sorry for it, but anytime someone was hurt when he could have saved them, it was hard to take.

"And this," Henricksen said, placing the photo of another cop in full uniform. This one was older. "Stuart Reynolds. Been on the force 24 years. He has a wife and three children. He died at the scene of the warehouse."

Carefully, Dean licked his lips, knowing he needed to tread lightly. People in law enforcement protected their own, were defensive of their own. "I didn't kill him," Dean said.

"He died coming to arrest you."

"And what did he die of?" Dean shot back, measured but still strong.

Henricksen's confidence shrunk at that. "Multiple lacerations."

"A mauling, right?" Dean prompted.

"It's inconclusive."

"Look, man, I appreciate the vote of confidence here, but I can't make wounds like that."

"Okay, then, smart ass, if you didn't do it, who did?"

"We've already been over this," Dean said shortly. "The answers are no different this time."

Nonplussed, Henricksen sat down, tilted his head. "We started this conversation," he agreed. "But we never finished it."

Sighing, Dean couldn't contain his frustration. It was fun to mess with guys as tightly wound as Henricksen. But there was no point, no gain to it, and Dean was just getting tired of the redundancy. "I've already told the truth."

The agent snorted at this, tipping back in his chair. "You mean that confession of yours back in Baltimore? About spirits and ghosts? What's your excuse this time? How do you explain you guys once again being found at the epicenter of a string of murders?"

"We're not killing those people," Dean said with a shake of his head.

"Then what are you doing?"

Dean's chin stuck out indignantly. "We're trying to stop it."

Henricksen leaned in, critically. "Stop what?"

"You mean, you? Mr. Answers? You don't know?"

Henricksen slouched back, smiling somewhat. "What? An evil spirit? A poltergeist? That's what you tell people—which is really pretty clever. Feeding on people's fears and doubts and playing the savior of the very thing you're doing to them."

"If that was our gig, which it isn't," Dean began, noting emphatically, "then how do we always show up after things start happening?"

"You guys are ghosts, like I said. Who knows when you get places and when you leave."

"Right, so in all your research, interviewing all those people we've screwed over, why haven't more of them hated us? I mean, you talked to them, right? What'd they tell you? Because most of them have seen what we've seen. They know the truth."

Henricksen's face paled and his lips thinned. "Tell me the truth, Dean," he said, the humor in his voice lessening.

"I've tried," Dean replied. "And you know it all anyway. You just won't believe it."

"That's because it's crazy," Henricksen snapped, throwing down the file. "You desecrate graves, steal things, tamper with evidence, prey on people when they're hurting. You impersonate officers of the law, lawyers, doctors—anybody to get to what you want and need. You and your brother must have some sadistic kink to get off on that stuff, but the thing is, I don't care. It's just my job to stop you and your string of crimes and killings."

Dean’s eyes didn’t waver from Henricksen’s, staring back at him daringly. He had nothing left to lose, and no lie would get him out of this. The truth was his only recourse--besides, maybe it would help him cop an insanity plea if it all went truly south. "You lock us up? You're just condemning more people to die. We hunt the things that you don't believe in. The things that people like you leave innocent people to suffer from. When the cops can't stop something, we do. And we don't get to wear fancy suits or drive a BMW. We do it because it's the right thing to do."

"Aw, Dean, that's quite inspiring," Henricksen said, with mock sympathy. "I almost believe you. I'd believe you a lot more if you told me how you killed those people, the cops. How you pulled off all those special effects."

"I didn't kill anyone!" Dean yelled, his frustration breaking. There was always room to crack a joke, but Dean could only take so much. The walls were closing in on him, and he had nowhere else to go, no way out. Just him, Henricksen, and a long list of charges that could end his life. "But people are dying because you're too stupid to see the truth!"

Henricksen's sigh was a mix of frustration and weariness. "Fine," he relented. "You know, why don't you just spend some time tonight thinking over what you want to say. And we'll resume this scintillating conversation in the morning. Maybe the night will give you a new perspective on your situation."

There was an ominous glint in Henricksen's eye as he moved behind Dean.

"Let's get you cuffed and ready to move," he suggested coldly.

Dean had no choice but to comply as Henricksen pulled him to his feet. He didn't struggle; he remained stoically still as Henricksen brought his arms together behind his back, fastening a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

"I'm sure you'll love your accommodations," he said with a smile. "In fact, I'm pretty sure they're less bug-infested than the usual places you stay."

The man's smugness made Dean cringe inside, made him want to turn around and hit him, but he willed himself to stay still and silent. He wasn't getting away from this one, and he could see no reason to make his situation more uncomfortable than it already was.

Still, humility was hard to swallow, no matter how much he knew he needed to.

-o-

The sleep was hard to shake. It clung to him, laying heavily on his mind, and he didn't know how long he lay there, unable to shake it free.

His awareness came back to him slowly, filtering through the haze one revelation at a time.

The first thing he knew was that he hurt. He couldn't remember why, and at that point, it didn't even matter. All he knew was that there was pain, throbbing, distant, real.

The second thing he knew was that he was in a hospital. More than that, he'd been drugged. Sedated. They'd told him that much last time.

Last time.

His memory was jogged and awareness hit him again, harder this time.

They vision quest had gone wrong—again. The puma had gotten a hold of him, which was why he hurt. His shoulder was nearly unusable right now but they told him he was going to be okay. It'd hurt, but he was going to be okay.

But they hadn't been able to tell him where Dean was. Dean just wasn't here.

His eyes were open but it took him a minute to realize it. It took him another minute to make sense of the world around him.

The room came into focus, and it looked vaguely familiar. It was the same room he'd been in before. Same blank walls, same machines, his body still stretched out on the same bed.

Still no Dean.

His head was clearer though, and it was easier to keep the irrational panic at bay. Drugs did things to him—it was simply his curse. For as big a guy as he was, he couldn't hold his liquor and sedatives always made him loopy.

Panicking wouldn't help him right now, though. He needed to keep it together, keep himself awake, and figure out what the hell happened. The calmer he remained, the more likely he was to get answers.

He'd been in enough hospitals to know he wouldn't have to wait too long for someone to check on him. He thought about pressing the call button, but it was above his shoulder to the right, and he simply didn't think he could wrangle his left arm in that direction without passing out from pain.

When the door opened, he was ready—expecting a nurse, maybe a doctor. Preferably Dean.

The man who walked in was clad in a familiar white coat, but his face didn’t trigger any recognition in Sam’s muddled brain. The other doctor had been friendly, gentle. This man was taller, thinner, his face drawn and serious. His hair was dark, grayed around the edges, with stark thin eyebrows that cut low across his forehead.

He didn't know why, but this felt wrong. Very wrong. His desire for Dean flared up again, and he felt his control slipping.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm Dr. Beason," the man said. "I'm a psychiatrist here at the hospital."

Sam's defenses flared. A shrink wasn't something he was expecting, and it wasn't a good development. He said nothing.

"I've been asked to assess you," he said simply, moving around toward Sam's bed.

Uncertainly, Sam kept his face impassive. "Assess me? By who?"

The man shrugged. "It's of no consequence," he said.

The brush off was more than Sam could handle. "Where's my brother?"

"Your brother's fine," he said shortly, with a dismissive cock of his head.

That wasn't the answer Sam was looking for. His defensiveness did not abate. "Great. So where is he?"

"That's of no concern to you right now, Sam," Dr. Beason said easily, picking up Sam's chart and pulling a pen out of his pocket. "You, however, are doing much better from what the notes on your chart say. You were admitted yesterday for severe lacerations, correct?"

Sam ignored him, refusing to relinquish his question. "Where is my brother?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The doctor was unimpressed. "Your brother has been arrested by the FBI. Where they've taken him, I don't know. But I do know that I've been asked to look into your case, try to figure out what trauma you've endured emotionally."

That was more information than Sam had counted on. The news on his own situation was hard to swallow, but the knowledge of where Dean was—that was nearly impossible to understand, to accept.

Dean had been arrested. Dean would never let himself get arrested. Dean was smarter than that, Dean would never let that happen. Not again. Not now. Not with things as they were. Dean was better than that. Unless—

Sam's stomach went cold and his vision darkened. He was going to throw up.

His body was convulsing with it, and he strained to his side, desperate to alleviate the growing pressure that was building in his esophagus. Suddenly something grabbed him, pulling him to the side and shoving his head down. Normally he'd resist, put up a fight, but he was too busy emptying his stomach to even attempt it.

The process hurt more than it seemed like it should, and he felt every claw mark on his chest as though it were being made. His shoulder simply felt numb.

When he was down, he didn't have the willpower to move, and he panted, his head still hanging down, bangs in his eyes.

He was then rolled efficiently onto his back.

"We're going to have to get someone to clean that up," Dr. Beason said. "But that can wait, Sam. First, I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

Sam could still taste the burn of bile in his throat and his eyes were watery. Every breath strained at his stitches. Even that wasn't enough to assuage the terror he felt knowing what Dean surely had done.

Dean had traded himself for Sam's treatment.

And Sam didn't know what to do about that.

"Sam?"

Sam flicked weary eyes to the doctor who simply wouldn't seem to go away. "I have nothing to say," he said finally.

The doctor didn't seem surprised. "Well, that will certainly make this difficult," he said. Then he smiled. "But not impossible."

There was nothing to say, nothing Sam wanted to say anyway, so he merely stared back, daring the doctor to keep going.

The doctor, however, was not fazed. "Okay, then," he said. "If you're not willing to talk about yourself, then let me do a little speculation.

Tensing, Sam narrowed his eyes, but kept silent.

"I think you're suffering from a prolonged and untreated case of post traumatic stress disorder. The fire and your girlfriend's death turned your world upside down. Then, a year later, your father dies suddenly in a car accident you were all involved in. Your brother represents the only stable thing in your life. You feel like you need him because without him, you have no grounding. You do need grounding, however, the life Dean has you living is counterproductive to your recovery. The things you've seen, Sam, the things Dean's made you do, I'm sure that's taking a toll on you."

Sam felt himself trembling and tried to steady himself. Now was not the time to be weak. "Dean's doesn't make me do anything," he said. "I'm with him because I want to be."

The doctor's smile was sad and wan and completely condescending. "You're in denial, Sam," he said. "You condition has me worried enough to warrant committing you for psychiatric evaluation."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. "There's nothing wrong with me," he gritted out.

"You're showing no awareness of reality. You haven't coped with any of the losses in your life, and it's made you susceptible to following your brother on foolhardy and illegal activities across the country, with little regard to your safety or his."

The litany echoed in Sam's brain, making his heart race. "I'm coping just fine," he said.

"Sam, are you aware of what your brother has been doing?"

"My brother hasn't done anything," Sam said, shaking his head desperately.

"He's being held on multiple felony charges," Dr. Beason said. "He's wanted in at least three states for murder, among other things." The doctor shrugged.

These were things Sam already knew. He kept up with the FBI database, checking it, trying to see how hot the trail was on them. It didn't make it any easier to hear, especially when he was laid out and drugged up in a hospital bed and Dean was locked up somewhere.

The look the doctor gave him was absolutely pitying. If Sam had had the strength, he would have scowled. He settled for a hardened look of resolve. "I don't have to talk to you."

Dr. Beason frowned a little, unimpressed. "Why don't you want to talk to me?" he asked. "What are you afraid you're going to say?"

He was persistent, Sam would give him that. Panic simmered just below Sam's resolve. "I just have nothing to say to you."

"Not about what you've been up to? What Dean's been up to?"

"We're taking a road trip," Sam ground out, the lie so ingrained that sometimes he nearly believed it.

"Taking in the sights, robbing banks, desecrating graves, and killing people," the doctor said with a nod. "Sounds normal enough. Tell me, Sam, how long has this been going on? When did Dean's behavior start? I know you were clean once; you went to college. But how long has it been like this for Dean?"

"Dean hasn't done anything," Sam insisted, his voice cracking. Sam could handle interrogation; he could handle pressure. But the meds were making him woozy, he couldn't move. Even lying took more effort than his body had to expend. And Dean was in jail because Sam had been stupid enough to get himself mauled.

Dr. Beason sighed. "Unless you can talk rationally about your brother's behavior, then I'm afraid we have to take a more aggressive approach to your therapy, Sam."

"I don't want therapy," Sam replied, his voice hitching. "I want to leave."

Dr. Beason noted something on Sam's chart. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that," he said easily. "You could be a danger to yourself. Or others."

Sam struggled, trying to sit up, to move, to do something, but sit there and listen. "I'm not dangerous," he hissed, cursing the weakness of his own body.

"Not with those sedatives still in your system," the doctor noted dispassionately. "You need to rest more."

Reason was lost on Sam. He was losing control, and he knew it. He just wanted out, he wanted Dean. "I want to leave," he repeated. "You can't hold me here."

"I can hold you here," he said, looking up with a slight smile. "I don't think you understand, Sam. I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling you how it is. Either you start your treatment on your terms, or we'll start it on ours. Either way, Sam, you will talk. It just depends if you'll do it in restraints and on medication or not."

With that, Dr. Beason replaced Sam's chart on the end of his bed, nodded with an airy nod, and walked out the room, flicking the light off as he did.

Alone in the darkness, Sam worked to catch his breath, the doctor's words resounding within him with a clarity he could not shake. 

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