Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ A Sea of Waking Dreams ❯ An Outsider ( Chapter 3 )

Chapter 3

 

Since John's death, Bobby had sort of become the Winchester go-to guy of choice, and it bugged Dean that he couldn't be so now.

 

Well, okay, maybe that wasn't completely true. Dean could have gone to him, and freely. The one time the older Winchester had picked up the phone like he'd promised he would after the old hunter had left New York, Bobby had been….well, Bobby-like. He'd griped and grouched and demanded to know why Dean had waited a whole day to make good on his promise, but at the same time he's made sure they were both surviving, at least, if they weren't exactly okay yet. He'd been the same as ever, and that had been comforting, in its way.

 

So, yeah, maybe Dean could've gone to Bobby, and maybe it would've even made him feel better.

 

But Bobby couldn't help Sam, any more than Dean could. Neither of them could really help, because neither of them could figure out what was going on in the kid's head. And if they didn't know the exact problem, how were they supposed to find a solution?

 

Dean hated it. All of it. He hated being helpless. He hated not knowing what Sam was thinking, He hated having to figure out bills and money and food all on his own.

 

He'd forgotten how much he hated working alone.

 

But as much as he hated all that—well, he hated what he was about to do even more.

 

Dean had agonized for a long time over his decision to go to an outsider for help. He'd only done it a couple of times before, and every time it had felt like pulling his own teeth. Even when he'd gotten help from other hunters, or people like the Leandros brothers, who at least knew the score—well, it still never felt right, going to anyone other than Bobby, or sometimes the Roadhouse, if the situation called for it.

 

And this time was going to be even worse. This was going to be one of those horrible times when Dean went to a civilian. An innocent person who knew nothing of the danger that could come from associating with Winchesters.

 

And Dean would do it willingly—for Sam.

 

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

 

Dean waited until Sam was asleep before making the call. He really didn't want to explain to the new Sam what he was doing. Then he'd have to explain why, and who knew how Sam would react? He might get angry, or maybe even confused as to why he needed help at all. Dean didn't know, couldn't predict it—which, actually, was pretty much the problem.

 

He could've called Missouri or Georgina King, he supposed. They could've told him exactly what was going on in Sam's head, and in about ten seconds, besides. But to do that they would've had to dig into Sam's mind again, and somehow the thought of invading his little brother's privacy like that again was deeply disgusting to him.

 

And this was the only other option.

 

So, Dean waited until Sam fell asleep, and then snuck over to the other bed and called Dr. Thornton.

 

IT didn't occur to him until the phone was already ringing that the doctor might not be there at eleven o'clock at night. He wasn't sure how doctors' schedules worked—did they just take off when they decided to, or did they work a certain number of hours every day like everyone else? And if it was the latter, what was that certain number of hours? And if it was the former, well, what if some patient had an emergency in the middle of the night?

 

And most importantly, why were all these questions only occurring to Dean now?

 

And pointlessly, it turned out, because a couple of minutes later Dean had been connected to Dr. Thornton's phone.

 

His first thought was that no one had any right to be so polite when an almost complete stranger gave him a ring at eleven P.M.

 

His second thought was something along the lines of, Well, okay, I've got him on the phone. Now what?

 

“Uh…Dr. Thornton?” he asked awkwardly, clearing his throat nervously. “I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Dean Granger, from a few days ago. My brother was a John Doe at your hospital—”

 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Granger,” Dr. Thornton said after a moment, sounding surprised but truly pleased all the same. “Of course I remember you. I don't think I'll forget you or your brother for a long time yet.” His voice softened a little then, sympathetic. “How are you doing with all that, anyway?”

 

Dean honestly didn't have a clue what to say to that, for a number of reasons—not the least of which was the fact that the doctor had even cared enough to ask.

 

“Actually, that's what I'm calling about.” Dean cleared his throat again—apparently it was a nervous habit of his, which really bugged him, since he generally hated nervous habits. “Look, don't take this the wrong way, but how sure are you that you're not gonna get interrupted?”

 

“Pretty damn, considering the fact that almost no one knows I'm still here and I've got my pager turned off. Mr…erm…Granger, what exactly is this about?”

 

“It's Dean,” Dean corrected immediately. Like he didn't have enough problems without having to keep track of aliases. “And…well, I just wanted to make sure. I'm taking enough of a risk calling you at all, without getting anyone else involved.”

 

“I'm afraid I don't understand. What risk?”

 

Dean sighed quietly and rubbed his forehead, feeling one of the headaches he'd become all too accustomed to beginning to build behind his eyes. “Okay, doc, here's the thing. You seem like a decent guy. When we talked at the hospital you even seemed to really care about my brother. So I'm taking a big leap of faith here, and trusting you.”

 

“Okay…” Dr. Thornton said slowly, sounding confused. “Uh…thanks, I guess. Now what's this all about?”

 

Dean glanced over at Sam—who chose that moment to roll over on his side, facing Dean and pillowing his head on his uninjured arm—and threw caution to the wind.

 

“I found Sam.”

 

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then Dr. Thornton said calmly, “I'm assuming you didn't open with that because you were afraid I'd hang up and get the cops on your tails. Which is actually a little ridiculous, since I wouldn't even if I had the faintest idea where the hell you were calling from.”

 

Dean felt an upwelling of admiration and unexpected warmth at the words, and he found himself smiling a little. “Yeah, well, gotta be sure. He did cause you guys a lot of trouble.”

 

The doctor's voice went quiet again. “Yeah, he did at that. But if anyone could plead not guilty by reason of insanity, your brother could.”

 

Far from making him angry, the words gave Dean a bone-deep feeling of relief. Because at least if it came to that, God forbid, they'd at least have someone on their side.

 

“Well, see, that's the thing. Sammy's not like that anymore. He knows what's what now, and I think he remembers. But he's not okay. He's not okay at all.”

 

“How do you mean?” Dr. Thornton asked, suddenly brisk. “He's not…hurting anyone, is he?”

 

Dean felt any warmth toward the man giving way to anger. “Seriously? That's the conclusion you jump to? After all your talk about it not being his fault? And here I thought…”

 

“No, no, that's not what I meant,” Dr. Thornton cut him off mid-sentence. “What I meant was, is he hurting himself?”

 

And just like that, all the fight went out of Dean. He leaned forward and rested his head in his free hand, wishing with all his heart that he could dismiss the question as ridiculous.

 

“No. Not physically.” Not yet, anyway. “But he's just so…different. Normally he's this babbling mess—likes the caring-and-sharing deal so much it makes me sick sometimes. Every therapist's dream, that's my brother. But now…”

 

“Now he doesn't do the…caring-and-sharing thing anymore?” the doctor filled in.

 

“Yeah. He's withdrawn—even when I try to talk to him he won't tell me what's bothering him.”

 

“Well, Dean, that could be very easily explained. He might just need someone else to…”

 

Dean shook his head even though the doctor couldn't see him. “No, doc, you don't get it. I don't blame you. But trust me on this—if he won't talk to me, he won't talk to anyone.” He paused for a second, then said, “And there's more.”

 

“I figured there would be. These kinds of things usually don't come singly. And they're definitely never simple. But why don't you tell me everything, and we'll see if I can't use my nice little Stanford education and medical degree to help you out?”

 

“You went to Stanford?” Dean blurted out, then regretted his rise in volume when Sam stirred a little and made a small sound. He reached across the space between their beds and rubbed a hand up and down Sam's arm until he stilled. Then he leaned back again and went on, much more quietly. “Sam went to Stanford.”

 

“Did he?” Dr. Thornton said with interest. “It's a good school. Must be a smart kid.”

 

“Yeah, he is,” Dean said, not without some pride. “He liked it there. Uh, listen, doc, I don't want to be rude, but I really don't want Sam to find out I called someone outside the family, so you think we could…I dunno…speed this up a little?”

 

Dr. Thornton chuckled. “Why do I get the feeling you're not exactly used to politely hurrying things along?”

 

Dean felt himself smiling a little, and uttered one of the phrases that he usually saved for Sam and Bobby.

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

XXX

 

Bu the time Dean hung up, it was almost midnight, and he'd gotten up twice more to soothe Sam back to sleep. He felt a little bad for keeping Doc Thornton on the phone for so long, but that was pretty much trumped by the fact that for the first time, he felt that the situation might not be completely hopeless.

 

He put the phone down on the nightstand and leaned back against the pillows, glancing over to make sure Sam was still asleep. He itched to just get up and go over to the other bed and slide under the covers next to his little brother and make sure everything stayed okay, but—well, Dr. Thornton said not to.

 

Well, okay, he hadn't exactly said not to. In fact, he'd encouraged Dean to get Sam to sleep through the night as best he could, to start. But he'd also said it would be best to try to get things headed back toward “normal”—for both of them.

 

“Obviously, it will happen slowly. But Sam needs to get used to—well, not being alone, exactly, but to having you out of his sight again. It's the only way he'll be able to function the way he did…before.”

 

And, okay, so it was kind of obvious advice, but it made Dean feel better to hear it, to know that wanting to leave Sam alone was actually okay.

 

Well maybe not okay, especially according to the Big Brother Handbook, but…necessary.

 

Sadly, Dr. Thornton had been less helpful on the “Sam's a Murderer” front. Mainly because, as he'd put it, “As a psychologist, I need to be able to put myself in my patient's shoes. To understand, at least on a basic level, what they're going through. But in Sam's situation—which, admittedly, I know little about—that's just not possible. I'm pretty sure no one has ever been in Sam's exact situation before.”

 

Which was, unfortunately, true. If Sam felt misunderstood, well, then it was actually because he was, this time.

 

Dean wished he could get it. Wished with all his heart that he could be experiencing this, instead of Sam. Or at least that Sam would just talk to him.

 

But…one step at a time. First he'd work on getting them back to everyday life. In order to feel normal, first they'd have to act normal. Fake it `til you make it, and all.

 

Dean heaved another sigh and slid down until his head rested on the pillows, closing his eyes.

 

Tomorrow, he'd start looking for a hunt. He'd make it an easy one, something he could do quickly and easily, and something very close. But it would be a hunt—it would be at least a stab at the norm.

 

And for now, that would have to be good enough.

 

XXX

 

It took Michael the greater part of the night to track down the right motel. True, the tip about the car was a help, but without plate numbers he couldn't actually track down either the car or its owners with a quick phone call.

 

Still, it wasn't as if he didn't have any time on his hands nowadays, and by the time the sky began to lighten, he had a location—the location of his daughter's killer.

 

Now he just had to figure out what he'd do with it.

 

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Author's Note: Well, you all knew it was coming, so it shouldn't be much of a surprise when I beg forgiveness for not updating sooner and for the short chapter. But I've been swamped! First it was finals, now it's my new job taking up more of my time than I thought it would.

 

But I finally did get something up, and I'm mostly caught up on everything else, too. So maybe this time it won't be quite so long. I hope.

 

Also, I know this story is proceeding slowly, mostly due to the fact that I started it completely spur-of-the-moment. But I hope to be able to pick things up soon.

 

AND, for anyone who is wondering where they are, we should be seeing Cal and/or Niko in the next chapter! That's the plan, anyway…

 

So, enough of my babbling. Review, please, guys!