See Chapter One for details…
Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!
OoOoOLong legs easily took the steps two at a time, a strange sense of urgency propelling Sam into the house, skidding to a halt inside the doorway as he caught sight of his grandparents in the sitting room. Their friend, Edna Rubins sat across from them, a delicate, china teacup in one thin hand. All three looked up in surprise at his abrupt entrance.
"Sam, we didn't think to expect you back so soon," Molly began, with her usual smile, but it faltered as he strode into the room.
"Tell me," he began, cutting straight to the point, "that you didn't have my brother committed."
And waited for the denial, the shock, the concern. But none of it came. Instead Molly looked frantically to her husband for direction. Theo's gaze behind his wired glasses was firm, implacable and wholly unapologetic and Sam's heart sank.
"Oh no." Shaking his head, disbelieving, Sam moved to tower over to his grandfather. Voice low with outrage, he demanded "How could you do that to him?"
"Sam, please calm down," Molly said. "I know this is difficult for you..."
"Difficult for me?" Incredulity verily shone in his tone. "Dean's the one you had committed."
"For his own good," Theo stated.
"Grandpa..." Shocked, Sam stared down at the man. "You don't get to make that decision."
"Well someone had to." Sam was forced to take a step back as Theodore Madison struggled slowly to his feet. "It's obvious the boy is a danger. And I'll be damned before I see another member of this family bring disrepute to our name."
The vehement way he spoke, something suddenly, irrevocably clicked inside Sam. "You did this to Mom, didn't you." It wasn't a question, and the way Molly gasped, he knew he'd struck pay dirt. "That was why she stopped speaking to you. You thought you couldn't control her, so what? You had her put away in some mental institution? Just like what you've done to Dean?"
"That's enough!" Theo snapped, just as Molly replied, tentatively, "It wasn't like that Sam."
"Then what was it like?" His anger, his disappointment fuelled his strength to look Theo straight in the eye and not cringe under that furious, paternal glare. "Explain it to me."
"We loved Mary." Molly rose, gently took his arm, and he didn't have the heart to shrug her away. "We didn't send her anywhere, but she needed help. More than what we could give her."
"We got her that help," Theo cut in, brusquely. "The same help Dean will get. And quite frankly son, I'm disappointed."
Sam opened his mouth, ready with a the feeling is mutual Grandpa reply.
"I know what you have in that car."
The words stunned Sam. He closed his mouth and took a step back. What could he honestly say? Enough armaments for a small, Central American coup and a plethora of hunting paraphernalia of the definitely abnormal kind.
Peripherally, he was aware of Edna Rubins setting her cup down and reaching for the purse at her feet, in preparation for taking her leave. But Sam moved, slapping down the photos Danielle Stevens had given him onto the coffee table in front of her, the most direct answer to Theo's challenge that he could give.
"The only thing Dean has tried to do here is find that poor girl's killer," he bit out, pointing at the scattered pictures, "something no one in this town seems interested in."
"That has nothing to do with this situation."
"It has everything to do with it Grandpa," Sam shot back, and he was suddenly, furiously angry at the injustice of it all. "Dean was right. People, they bury their heads in the sand, they don't want to know the truth. And a girl is dead..."
The hitch in his voice caught him by surprise. A girl is dead. Jess, Mom, Amber, Colleen. Just as Molly and Theo didn't want to know the truth about their daughter, this small, unassuming town didn't want to know the truth about what it harboured, what it kept hidden.
"She's dead," he repeated. His voice sounded strangely small, like it had that night when he'd said those same words to Dean. Standing outside the blazing college building, the smell of fire, of burning remains forever etched into his memory. God it had been nearly a year now since Jess' death and it could still sucker punch him like this, leave his stomach hollow, his heart aching like some old battle wound.
He felt Molly reach for his hand. "We understand dear," she tried.
"No." He shook his head, giving her a small, sad smile. Only now did he realise what Dean had been trying to tell him all along. It wasn't his pig headed nature that had made his brother so reluctant to let their extended family back into their lives. When things became so very black and white, straddling that fence between normal and insane was no longer an option. Looking down at where his grandmother was clasping his hand, he spoke gently, "Until you open your eyes, until you're willing to see the truth, you're never going to understand. You're never going to understand Dean. Or me."
And perhaps there was a glimmer of something in Molly's sympathetic eyes, some spark of awareness, of shame even.
"This is nonsense," Theo huffed, effectively ending the moment and his grandfather strode away, only to halt by the dining room table, leaning a heavy hand onto its surface. "Next you'll be spouting that supernatural nonsense, just like your father…"
And what? You'll have me committed too? Sam didn't say the words though, seeing how hard his grandfather was suffering. His health hadn't been great the last few years though he hid it well.
"I don't...I don't understand."
The tremulous voice of Edna Rubins drew Sam's gaze from his grandfather, to see the woman holding onto one of the photos he'd thrown down, her face pale, a papery hand pressed to her mouth.
Frowning, Sam moved carefully to her side, titling his head to see what had distressed the woman. It was a picture of the smiling, partying Amber, the one that had grabbed and held his attention back at the diner with the sheer life in her eyes. But Edna Rubins reached out to touch the silver, crescent-shaped locket decorating the dead girl's throat.
She slowly raised her eyes to Sam, bewildered, and gone was the formidable woman they had met the previous day. She appeared small, frail, old, as she spoke a name. "Howard?"
OoOoO
Prowling before the desk, Dean's fingers itched for a weapon, calculating the maximum damage he could do with his fists alone, reasoning it would be good enough for a scum bag murderer. Vaughn remained seated, giving him a cold, reptilian glare that had a whole new meaning now.
"You sick sonofabitch," Dean accused, darkly. He knew in his gut he was right, that this man had murdered Colleen and Amber and allowed a kid to be executed for his crime. If Vaughn gave him an excuse, he'd demonstrate just how dangerous his control issues really were.
"I think we've established that you are the sick one, Dean," Vaughn retorted. "You can either sit down now or I will call for those gentlemen who brought you here and we'll begin your drug treatment right away."
"Why did you do it Vaughn, huh?" Dean asked softly, dangerously. "Why kill your own daughter?"
And the amusement was gone as Vaughn paled, looking stricken. "You're delusional," he stated, hastily. "I would never, never have…"
"No?" Dean cut him off again. He leaned forward, palms pressed to the desk, looming over the man. "That's not what she told me last night."
"I take that back, you're insane," Vaughn spat, rising to his own feet.
"That's right," Dean hissed back. "I am." The look of fear that arose on the doctor's face was almost worth it. "So why? Was she out of control? Wouldn't do as daddy told her?"
"I...you..." Vaughn spluttered, clearly at a loss.
It hadn't been so long ago Dean had told Sam he didn't understand people, that they were just plain nuts. It was far easier to deal with the monsters they encountered night after night. A silver bullet, a salt-laden shotgun, some gasoline, maybe a ritual or two and they were gone by morning. For most of the supernatural creatures, it was simply in their nature to do harm, an instinct to kill or some hotbed of leftover emotion. Some of it was truly, scarily evil, demonic stuff, but for the most part it was like putting down animals gone bad.
But for a man to murder his own daughter, his own family, then to kill again in such a brutal manner, well, that was a whole nother kind of evil in Dean's book.
And he saw it, in the man's eyes, the confession, that cold, unrepentant sneer. Whatever Vaughn saw reflected back was enough to finally make him break. He grabbed for something under his desk, a silent alarm no doubt.
"I need some help in…!" he began yelling, before Dean was on him.
Grabbing the doctor's lapels he dragged him around the desk and shoved him backwards over it, punching the man once, twice, a third time, knuckles cracking Vaughn's glasses, the sight of blood only fuelling his outrage. Vaughn's struggles began to wane, kicking feebly.
Dean drew back his arm again, but hesitated, suddenly disgusted at the pitiful moans, the way the coward tried to defend his face, blood smearing across his cheeks, the muttered 'please' and 'stop'.
Grabbing Vaughn by his shirt, Dean hauled him upright so they were face to face. "Did they beg too?" he growled, giving the man a shake. "Did they cry?"
Vaughn didn't reply as the door burst open, the orderlies, the guard taking in the scene before them.
"He murdered his daughter," Dean had time to blurt, in his anger stupidly forgetting where he was, what they thought he was.
He was tackled roughly, manhandled away from Vaughn, hard hands bruising his arms, his shoulders. His bare foot caught against the chair and he stumbled, only to find himself shoved face first into the wall. A second later, before he could turn, defend himself, he felt the guard's baton crack against his skull.
"...a psychotic break," he heard Vaughn's frantic voice, as he slid down the wall, legs suddenly boneless. "...delusional...
Dean took a breath, tried to clear his darkening vision, tried to tell them the truth, but nothing was co-operating. Idiot, he swore at himself, always always watch your back.
Semi-conscious, he was dragged roughly out of the room, head lolling between his shoulders, the floor blurred and somewhere at the back of his mind he bitterly wondered if getting two knocks to the head in as many days was some kind of personal record.
He couldn't help the moan that escaped as they hefted him onto a hard mattress, tried to will his weak limbs to co-ordinate properly as he felt restraints round his wrists, ankles.
God. He'd joked to Sam earlier that day. He couldn't be helpless, not now, not with Vaughn and what he knew Dean knew. He fought against the invasive hands, desperate, but he could barely open his eyes without the room spinning, without his stomach threatening to disgorge it's spare contents.
"He..." Dean coughed, tried again, but his voice was faint, weak and cracked. "Listen to me."
"Sssh," he heard Vaughn soothe from somewhere to his right. "It's alright Dean. We're here to help you."
So the good doctor routine was back now that Dean was strapped down. He surged against the restraints, fuelled by fear of what Vaughn could do to him like this, but nothing gave.
"You can go now," he heard Vaughn say, and Dean raised his head, tried to plead with them to stay, to not leave him alone, but he couldn't find the air, the strap around his chest too tight. "Yes, yes I'll be fine, just some bruising."
He let his head thump down to the pillow, squeezing his eyes shuts and swallowing heavily against the urge to throw up as the bright lights above sent searing needles through his brain.
Only to snap his eyes open again as he felt Vaughn take a seat at the side of the bed. Without his glasses, the doctor appeared different, less clinical, and Dean took some satisfaction in his swollen nose, the flecks of blood decorating the front of his sterile overcoat.
"You won't..." he began, but cut off the unforgivably lame 'get away with this'. Instead he settled for watching the man, tense and waiting.
Vaughn took out a handkerchief, dabbed at his nose, checked the swath of material before re-pocketing it. "I'm not an evil man," he began, not looking at Dean, gazing instead at his hands.
Dean couldn't hold back his snort of disbelief, rolling his eyes. "Tell it to Oprah. Or better yet the cops."
Vaughn ignored him. "You wanted to know why and I think...yes I think you deserve to hear the truth." The doctor straightened, nodded to himself. "Colleen was my only child and I loved her, very much. But she had to be taught, to be shown that her disobedience was wicked. That boy would never love her, not the way I loved her..."
The way he spoke of his love sent spidery shivers crawling up Dean's spine. It felt wrong on so many levels.
Vaughn looked at him now, squinting slightly. "I sent her to God Dean," as if that was all the explanation he needed.
"Yeah right," Dean breathed out, slumping back against the pillows, wrists twisting against the leather. "She was pregnant. But you knew that."
"Her wickedness was out of control. I had to do something before it was too late."
As if that explained everything. Maybe to someone as messed up as Vaughn, it did. He didn't even ask Dean how he knew about the baby.
"And Amber. That was you too wasn't it."
"Amber..." and there was some soft regret. "She was a weakness, I'll confess. I tried so many times to help her, to punish her. But she wouldn't listen. She tried to run away, I couldn't have that. I couldn't have that on my conscience, knowing the sin she would spread."
"You're one fucked up psycho, you do realise that," Dean stated, matter of fact, unable to help himself, then flinched when Vaughn rose.
"You remind me of your mother, Dean," the doctor said, simply. "But unlike my daughter, unlike Amber, I helped her before the devil could take her."
Gaping like an idiot, Dean shook his head to rid it of the image of his mother in a place like this. "Don't you talk about my mom," he snarled, angrily. "You don't know anything about her!"
"But I do." To anyone else, Vaughn's serene smile would have been comforting. Instead it creeped the hell out of Dean. "Your grandparents, they sent her to me, to heal her, make her whole and without sin. Just as they've sent you."
"You're lying," he bit back. He couldn't even imagine...no, no way could they have done this to his mother.
"But you're already too far gone, aren't you Dean," Vaughn was saying, as he turned away, began fiddling with something over by the table. "But I can still help. I can still save your soul."
Dean strained to look, tried to prepare himself for whatever Vaughn was going to do to him. The idea of Sam finding him tied up and carved out was enough to make him struggle furiously against the restraints.
"I forgive you your actions against me," Vaughn continued, his calmness somehow more terrifying than anything else. "I understand, I do Dean, you cannot help this evil inside of you. But I can release you from it, from all your sins."
He turned around, held something sharp and glinting to the light, tapped on the syringe.
"Oh no, no, no, don't do this!" Dean yelled, as his sleeve was drawn up, fingers clawing into the mattress as he felt Vaughn stab the needle into his arm. "Someone help me! Help!"
"I am, I will," Vaughn promised, withdrawing the syringe.
And Dean felt it hit him, felt the wooziness in his already aching head, the way his struggling limbs were turning leaden. He fought it with everything he had. His father had once commented that his son never knew when to back down, to stop fighting, and Dean had always thought one day he'd die like that, blaze of glory, taking as many sons of bitches with him when he went.
But never in his darkest, fatalistic moments had he thought it would be like this, quietly, softly.
"You don't have to do this," he pleaded, voice little more than a whisper. He couldn't bear the thought of Sammy finding him like this, not like this.
"The problem with this type of sedative," Vaughn ignored him, his voice sounding as if it were coming through thick glass, "is that in very rare cases it can cause a seizing of the airway." He reached and lifted Dean's head gently, then slid out the pillow from underneath.
Holding it in his hands, he murmured something which sounded like a prayer. Eyes drooping, Dean knew he was losing the fight. The pillow loomed above him, pressing down over his nose, his mouth, cutting off his air.
As the darkness covered his eyes, smothered his breaths, somewhere in the distance he thought he heard Sam call his name.
END OF CHAPTER NINE