Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

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Summary – John never disappeared before the pilot episode, so Dean never went to Stanford to find Sam. Two months later and they discover the demon went after Sam after all… Alternate Reality, graphic wincest in later chapters

A/N – Okay, so after finishing Cracks In The Glass, I thought I'd take a break from posting anything new for a while…and then I came across this on my computer and couldn't resist fixing it up :) This is completely unrelated to the Full Moon stories, Sam and Dean are brothers here, and there will be wincest later on, so if that's not your thing I give you fair warning now…

I need to point out beforehand that while I have researched the medical side of this story and I am pretty well informed about the stuff mentioned in this and later chapters, I am (surprisingly enough) nota doctor. I'm also taking a few liberties with various things which may or may not become apparent later on. A lot of these are necessary to the plot and will make sense later, but if any of you find anything to be hugely unrealistic, please feel free to comment and tell me what I've gotten wrong so I can fix it :)


After working for nearly seven years at Sacramento State Psychiatric Hospital, Linda Grey thought she had been immunised against every kind of situation. She'd dealt with violent and disturbed patients before, patients who'd needed five orderlies to hold them down and administer the strongest sedatives before the doctors could check their vitals, even a few murderers who'd managed to escape prison with an insanity plea. She'd seen the darkest and worst impulses of the human mind, and had long ago learnt to leave her work in the hospital when she went home each night.

But the young man lying in Room 51, in the white hospital bed with glazed eyes, wires and tubes feeding his lifeless body like some futuristic man-machine hybrid…he worried her.

He'd been admitted involuntarily two months ago. Acute schizophrenia was the doctor's diagnosis, after hearing the stories. The man himself was unable to speak.

Linda had read the case file before taking on the patient. Apparently the boy had been fine before the onset of his illness. He'd been a promising student, gifted with a full-ride scholarship at Stanford University. He'd had friends, a live-in girlfriend. He'd just scored a 174 on his SATs and had an interview to study pre-law at the same school.

An intelligent and decent guy, by all accounts. Or so everyone had thought.

Linda couldn't suppress the shiver as she checked Samuel Winchester's vitals. He had to be fed and medicated intravenously; even his gag reflex had given up. If his condition progressed any further the doctors would have to think about assisted breathing.

Sam had been admitted to Sacramento State Psychiatric Hospital a few months ago and had lain catatonic in the sterile white room ever since. Occasionally one of the other day nurses would wheel him into the closed-off courtyard outside and sit with him for an hour or so after his 'consultation' with the doctor. Privately Linda wondered why they bothered continuing with the consultations, seeing as Sam was never an active participant.

No visitors had called to see him since his admittance. Linda couldn't blame his friends for staying away, but she wondered about his father and brother. From the police records dug up on Sam, it had been discovered that his mother had died in a fire when he was a baby. His friends told the police that Sam never talked about his family. He had never visited or received visits from his father or brother in the four years he'd been at Stanford, and since the mother had died there was no address listed as a contact for either of them.

Linda straightened the thin bed sheet covering Sam and tugged the string to open the blinds. The sunlight drifted lazily in through the window beside Sam's bed. A beam shone directly onto his face but there was no reaction, no squint against the light. The doctors had run tests when he was first brought in, shining a penlight into his eyes. His pupils contracted and dilated, but no awareness sparked.

Linda spent another few seconds just looking at Sam. He was a handsome boy, fox-sharp features softened by shaggy brown hair that was combed away from his face. His eyes were an odd shade, sometimes a brilliant green, sometimes darker. As she watched, his eyelids flickered closed for a second, opening on the same cold and empty expression.

She shivered again and walked toward the door.

Dean Winchester shuddered involuntarily as he stepped through the automatic sliding glass doors and out into the sunlight. The noise of planes taking off and landing was loud behind him.

He was never flying again. What kind of dumbass spirit causes plane crashes anyway? And why did he have to be the one to deal with it?

He stood for a second, quietly rejoicing at the feel of solid ground beneath his feet and fresh air on his face. The parking lot in front of him was full, people jostling luggage in their arms as they headed toward the doors behind him. He stuck his hands in his pockets, stepping aside for a pretty redhead with a suitcase in tow. One of his most charming grins was sent her way and Dean turned his head to watch her pass, making no attempt to disguise his interest. He was still studying the movement of her ass when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, jolting him out of his happy daze.

He turned to see his dad standing next to him, an outwardly disapproving look on his face. It would have been effective, if not for the small smile twitching the corners of his lips. "Son, do I really need to remind you to have a little respect for women?"

Dean grinned and ducked his head. "No sir. Just admiring her hand luggage."

"Sure you were. Anyway, I had a chat with Jerry, he says thanks. He's gonna keep us informed if anything comes up again, but I think we got it."

"Yeah, well, if it does come back then you can go on the damn plane by yourself. I'm never flying again." John mock-frowned, then broke into a smile.

"C'mon then, let's get back on the road."

Doctor Yoshimura strode into Room 51, clipboard in hand. He wore a white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck, mainly for show. The patients he dealt with rarely needed their chests listened to. The day nurse was walking toward the door and he narrowly avoided a minor collision.

"Doctor! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." She blushed a little, plump cheeks reddening.

"That's okay. How is Mr Winchester today?"

"Same as ever." She turned to look at the patient lying still in the bed.

Yoshimura sighed. He'd only been working at Sacramento for six months when he heard he was getting Samuel Winchester as a patient. He'd secretly been delighted by the news. Six months on the job and he was being given the chance to analyse someone with sudden onslaught acute schizophrenia, and the man was responsible for deaths. He'd been in the newspapers for weeks. How many doctors got a break like that with their first job?

But then he'd seen Winchester. The man hadn't moved a muscle except to blink for two months. And after such a long time, Yoshimura reluctantly conceded that his being 'gifted' with a big case was more like being lumbered with a dead weight. It was unlikely the patient would ever come out of his catatonic state.

The nurse went back to her rounds, pausing at the door to look back at the bed. Some of the nurses had complained about Sam Winchester, which was the only bizarre thing about the man as far as Yoshimura could tell. The nurses claimed that they were plagued with feelings of unease around the patient, like they'd stepped into a cold shower each time they entered the room. Doctor Yoshimura had never felt anything strange whilst in Room 51, and thought it was unusual for the nurses, most of whom had been working at Sacramento for years, to suddenly develop irrational fears.

He went through the routines, noting down the man's vitals on his chart. No change, big surprise. In a few more months the higher powers would probably decide to move Winchester to a long-term care facility. It was clear that psychiatric help wasn't needed.

When the patient first arrived, the doctors had decided that the restraints should be used at all times and a nurse assigned to watch him. They'd given up on the restraints a month ago, and the nurse was replaced by a drop-in check up every half an hour.

Yoshimura flicked through the papers chronicling Winchester's condition, his brow creased in disappointment. He'd really hoped for something big with this patient, a chance to really explore his own theories, maybe even have his findings published.

He took another long look at Sam Winchester. The featureless, vacant expression was slightly eerie, he admitted to himself. It wasn't the drooling, stupid face of so many of the other patients. It was almost like the man was watching something beyond the ceiling, something Yoshimura couldn't see. A loud crash in a nearby room jolted him out of his considerations and he jumped a little, quickly looking around for anyone who might have seen him start. A nurse paced by the open doorway, white shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. He sighed in relief and turned back to the patient.

Who was looking straight at him.

This time he let out an unashamed yelp, leaping backward and nearly colliding with the unused visitors' chair behind his legs.

"Doctor? Is everything alright?" The nurse walked back into the room, and on seeing what must have been a stricken expression on his face, started toward in concern.

"You…you…" He tried to get the words out, but the sight of Sam Winchester's eyes, that intent and paralyzing green gaze holding him like a pinned bug on a board, stopped his thought processes. He pointed wordlessly, hardly realising he was doing it.

The nurse followed the direction of his finger, blinking once and then seeing. She gasped and took a step back. "Oh my goodness, he's awake?"

Sam's eyes narrowed a little and then his brows creased in obvious confusion. "Dean?" The word was a whisper, dry and cracking like burning paper. Then he closed his eyes for a long second.

When they opened again, they were set back in the old familiar expression, staring blindly at the ceiling as if it held all of life's secrets.

Doctor Yoshimura, once freed from his paralysis, took a hesitant step forward. "Mr…Mr Winchester?" He whispered, half-afraid the man would turn that knife-gaze back on him. But there was no response, no movement. Just that neverending staring contest with thin air.

"Did-did that actually happen?" Yoshimura turned at the question. The nurse had retreated to the doorway, both arms clinging to the frame like she was about to fall off a cliff. "Was he awake?"

He shook his head a little, more to clear out the fug of bewilderment. "I'm not really sure what happened. But he said something."

"Dean. He said Dean."