Broken and Brusied

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by SeparateLivesSeparateLovers, Feb 21, 2013.

  1. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> He awoke lying down, his back pressed against tiles that felt cold even through his thick sweater. Not fully conscious, his head lolled and he couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. He automatically tensed as he snapped painfully back to reality and his fingers closed around the hilt of a switchblade. He lifted it up to his eyesight- not sure he would be able to sit up- and saw it fully extended, covered in drying blood. He closed his eyes, trying to remember something. Anything.
    Dean Rasmussen.
    That was his name. As he grew surer of it, things became flooding back to him. His wife, his job as a detective. His son, Ross, who was only three. He sat up and shoved his head between his knees immediately, his head spinning. Dean realized he must have been drugged, for some reason. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths as he tried to remember the last case he had started to work on.
    He couldn’t.​
    Dean struggled to his feet, knife still in hand. He glanced down at it, wondering whose blood was on it, wondering why he had it. Leaning in the doorway, he noticed his wife was asleep on their bed, her back to him. He walked over to the bed slowly, still unsteady, and sat on the old pillow-top, careful not to wake her. He stared down at the knife, worry creasing his brow. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and he reached over to wake his wife. He shook gently, he knew he had, but she flopped towards him as if he had jerked her shoulder roughly. He frowned, peering closer as his eyes adjusted fully to a sight he didn’t want to comprehend.
    His wife was dead, he knew, but he shuddered at how she was covered in lacerations, her eyes wide and staring in horror at nothing. A stream of blood had dried down her cheek, and he could see inside her. Finally, he screamed, in rage and in sorrow. “Ross!” he shouted, running to his child’s room. “ROSS!” He kicked open the door, falling to his knees as he saw that the crib, once white, was painted with splatters of red. He began to cry, softly, knowing all was lost.
    There was a soft sound, and he jerked his head up in surprise. “Ross…? He whispered, rising gradually. The sound came again, and he looked into the crib. Ross stared up at him, his stomach bleeding, but still alive. “Ross,” he murmured. But the child began to scream.
    Dean tried to pick up the child, but Ross wouldn’t stop. He would hurt himself, he knew, if he didn’t bandage him. So he grabbed the struggling boy, who he noticed with alarm he was growing ever weaker.
    He jogged carefully down the wooden stairs as not to jolt Ross too much in his arms. The bandages were in a small cupboard over the fridge, he recalled as he laid out Ross gently on the kitchen table, as if he were to change him. Dean grabbed the bandages from the cupboard and carefully peeled the boy’s shirt away from his wound, causing Ross to whimper softly.
    He was nearly finished when there was a heavy pounding on the front door.

    “FBI! Open up!” a male voice called. Dean took the time to tape off the bandages before walking over to pull the door open. The man grabbed him without prelude, and he called to the woman, “My son! Help him! Kitchen-” he was shoved roughly into the unmarked police car.
    “You didn’t read me my rights,” he joked weakly to the FBI agent.
    “Shut up,” the man replied.
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  2. Abigail had been working as a cop for quite some time, but she still got nervous every time she got in the car, knowing that she was heading towards a situation she had to deal with, that whoever had called couldn't handle on their own. It made her feel important, like she mattered, made a difference, and she liked it. This time, she was nervous, as always, as she gathered her things and went to the car with her male colleague. All she really knew about it, was that it was bloody. And apparently, the man had murdered someone. His wife, maybe even his kids, if he had any, she thought. Only the thought of it made her sick - this man must be sick, she thought. Why would anyone murder their own family? Luckily, Abigail didn't have a family, so she could devote her life to what she loved - her job.

    As her male colleague drove closer to the house where it all had taken place, Abigail tried to prepare herself for what she would see once she got there. She tried to picture the most horrific things, but she knew that each time was different - she would still be surprised to whatever she saw once she got there. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath - this was her job, she was good it, she would handle this in a professional way. No feelings, just work, she thought. She knew that she sometimes was seen as coldhearted, although that was the last thing she wanted people to think of her. But it was just, that sometimes, she had a hard time showing emotions. And right now, in this particular situation, maybe that's a good thing, she thought, as the car stopped and she opened the door.

    As expected, her male colleague pounded on the front door, and soon a man opened it. The killer, Abigail thought. It took a few seconds before she realized that he was talking to her - his son. Was he still alive? Abigail was confused as she went to the front door, stepped inside without hesitation, determined to find the man's son. And it didn't take long, she found the kitchen right away. And yes, the son was there, lying on the kitchen table. Abigail noticed that the man had tried to bandage his son, and she quickly continued where he had stopped. This doesn't look good, she thought, but she did her best to bandage the baby. Once it was done, she looked around, quickly. Blood. She grabbed the baby, trying to be gentle although she just wanted to run out of there and never come back. This was just too weird, she thought, as she stepped outside. She spotted the ambulance and handed the little boy over to a male, ready to give the baby the care it was in such a bad need for.

    Soon, Abigail opened the door to the car where her male colleague and the man, was in. "Seems like you handled this by yourself pretty good", she said, and then glanced at the man in the back of the car. "I found your son. He's in good hands, I bandaged him up the best I could before the ambulance took over", she said, and then she turned around, looking out the window. Although the thought of this man killing his family made her want to throw up, she thought it would be rude of her not to mention his son. He had actually asked her. She bit her lip as the car started driving. Whatever this man had done, she thought, he was still a human. Although she'd like to kick his ass, she wouldn't. She would treat him with respect, she thought, and glanced at him again, quickly, maybe with a bit of curiousity in her eyes.
     
  3. Dean relaxed, but only slightly. Ross was okay, he kept telling himself. Ross will be fine. He watched the familiar scenery outside the windows and remembered his wife's smile, her laugh and felt something twist inside him. He almost started sobbing, then, and it took every ounce of his being not to. he looked on his wrist for his watch, and was only partially surprised to find that it was gone, a pale outline in its place. He leaned forward to the cops and asked the man the date. The older man frowned at him. "Why the hell does that matter?" He growled at Dean, and Dean sighed, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Please," he replied simply. "Tell me." The officer sighed and informed him that it was July eighteenth of the year twenty-fifteen, and Dean slumped back into his seat, surprised. He had lost over two weeks of time. Dean clenched his hands into fists and leaned his head on them, an outward sign of pain that he didn't think went noticed.

    "Chin up," Maria would tell him. "It's just an obstacle; we'll get where we're going eventually." he reflected briefly on the irony of her famous statement. She, he thought, had definitely got where she was going. The thought overwhelmed him with sorrow, and his nails cut into his palms. She was gone, and he had possibly done it. How could he have? Why would he? what was wrong with him to do this. He lifted his head and looked out the window, wishing everything were alright. A tear escaped his notice and it stopped in the center of his cheek, quivering like a lost animal.
     
  4. Sooner than Abigail had realized it, they were back. Her male colleague knocked on her door with a bit of a grin before he opened it. "Didn't you hear me? I said that the two of us could have a chat with him, I'll just fill in some papers first. I'll get you in 25 when I'm done", he said, and left. Just like that. Abigail watched as he walked away, realizing that she was all alone with the man, who had probably killed his family. She glanced at him before she got out of the car. She opened the door to the passenger side and grabbed his arm gently. "Hey, Abigail!" her colleague shouted, which made her jump a bit as she turned around. "I'm just joking, let me take care of him", he said, and gently pushed Abigail aside, before grabbing the man's arm, with much more force than Abigail, even a bit too much, maybe. "Better put these on", he said, and handcuffed the man without hesitation.

    The door shut, and Abigail was alone in '25' - a waiting room, or something like that. She wasn't really sure of what it was, but she had been there with criminals a couple of times, waiting for her colleague to fill in the papers. Chat with someone. Let everybody know that they were there. Well, she wasn't all alone, she reminded herself, and glanced at the man, sitting in front of her, on the other side of the room. She knew that it would probably be better if she sat beside him, but she felt like she needed the space between them. Soon her colleague would come back, and they'd head to the interrogation room, listen to what he had to say - he would probably claim that he was innocent, as everyone did, Abigail thought. Or maybe he would tell them the truth right away, but she didn't want to get her hopes up too high. She glanced at the man, wondering when her colleague would get back. Usually it took a while. She looked at the man, a bit closer this time. "My colleague is just checking some things. You'll be taken to the interrogation room, we'll have a quick chat with you, and then your cell will be ready for you. I'm just explaining, in case you haven't been here before."
     
  5. Dean gave her a sad smile, and nodded his head. "Yes, I've been through it, but I was in your position," he clarified tiredly. He had secured his official status of detective two years ago. The handcuffs too cold on his wrists, or maybe his skin was too hot, he wasn't sure. He would tell them everything he could, but most likely they would simply write him off. Maybe they would give more thought to it because he was a detective, but this station wasn't his- that one was a few miles away. "I'm Detective Rasmussen, and I've solved a few cases in this situation before." He didn't say anything else, staring down into his lap where he twisted the simple gold band that encircled his ring finger. He slipped it off, and read the inscription on the inside.It was simple, but Maria had never been a complex person.

    To Dean, the only one for me. Love, Maria.

    Dean sighed softly, and it occurred to him to double-check the date with the female agent. "What day is it today?" he asked her. He was tired, and unusually light-headed. He supposed it was just nerves and stress. He worried about Ross, but knew any information pertaining his son would be told to him as soon as possible, so he found no need to ask. He idly noticed the lack of a ring on the agent's hand. He wondered about it briefly, as he admitted she was almost as lovely as Maria, but not quite.
     
  6. Abigail looked at him with more curiousity in her eyes than she intended to as he explained who he was. All of sudden, she felt as if the man could be more than just a cold-blooded killer, someone interesting, maybe. She tried not to think about it though - this was her job, getting personally involved in any way wasn't good. Detective Rasmussen. Maybe his job was too much for him, she thought. She smiled slightly at him when he asked about the date, mainly to be polite. Then she thought about it. What date was it? "July eighteenth of the year twenty-fifteen", she said, repeating what her colleague had said in the car earlier.

    "Abigail, I'm back!" he said as he opened the door and walked towards them. Abigail looked at him and stood up. Now is the time, she thought, and was just about to walk over to Dean, as her male colleague got to him. Of course, she thought. She couldn't help but feel a bit embarrased and sorry for the guy as her colleague harshly grabbed him and started walking through the corridor. As they passed her, she looked at Dean, embarrased, helpless, maybe. She'd like to say 'stop' and let Dean walk by himself, or at least be treated less harshly, but she kept her mouth shut. He probably deserves it, she thought, although she deep down knew that she was lying to herself.

    "Dean, right?" Abigail asked, and looked at Dean, although she knew that that was his name. She just wanted to make sure. They had all sat down in a gray, boring interrogation room. Her colleague, Trevor, pressed the button and the recorder started. He said all the necessary information all in a row - apparently he had done this many times before - such as date, time and why they were there. "Dean", Trevor said, and looked at him. "As we all know, you were brought here because of what happened in your home. I'd like you to go through that day, everything you can remember", he said, and leaned backwards in his chair. Abigail waited for Dean to say something - this seemed interesting, and she paid much attention to it all. In her lap, she had a piece of paper to take notes, and a paper. She glanced at it and then she looked at Dean again.
     
  7. Dean closed his eyes briefly, twisting the ring in his hand. He knew they wouldn't believe him, that he was simply crazy.

    "I'm a detective," he began. "I was working a murder case, and I was close to finding the killer. I went to bed last night." He glanced at Abigail, then continued. "I woke up in the middle of the night, on the bathroom floor. I felt dizzy and sick, and there was a knife in my hand, covered in blood." He stopped, twisting his ring again. "I-I went back into my room, and my wife-Maria- was asleep. I put the knife on the bedside table, and went to wake her. She wasn't asleep." He gulped. "I ran into my son's bedroom, and there was blood all over the place. I thought he was dead, too, but then he'd made some sort of noise, like a whimper. When I went to pick him up, it was like he didn't know me. He was screaming in a second. It was as if... as if I had done it to him."

    He brought his cuffed hands to his face, hiding in them. His doubts were still there. Had he really done that? He couldn't have. But that's what it looked like.
     
  8. Trevor nodded slightly, but Abigail could tell that he didn't believe a word of what Dean was telling them. She, on the other hand, wasn't that sure of it. Of course, it was very unlikely that what Dean was saying was true, but still. She made a quick note in her papers. He actually sounded pretty sad about what had happened. Psychopaths are good at lying, she thought, and looked up at him and swallowed.


    "It'll be easier to tell what happened once we get some information about the crime scene - DNA and things like that", Trevor said, as if technical and scientific information was all that mattered. Abigail nodded, because what Trevor said was true, but of course, Dean's story was very important as well. "Unless there's someone who wants to see you in jail or punished somehow, it's most likely that you're the one who did it", Abigail said. "Of course there are all sorts of possible explanations to what happened, but I'm thinking DID - dissociative identity-", Abigail said, but got interrupted by Trevor, who grinned at her. "Oh, Abigail, please. This man doesn't suffer from several personalities, you have no idea-", Trevor said, and this time, Abigail interrupted him. "Trevor, let me finish, please", she said, as calm as she could. She glanced at Dean, quite embarrassed by the way Trevor was behaving.


    Once they were finished, Abigail went with Dean to his cell. Maybe Trevor is right, she thought. But that was her first thought - Dean didn't remember what had happened, and his son was terrified of him. She didn't doubt that he was the one who had committed the crime, but she wasn't sure if he was really telling the truth. "I'm sorry if I was too quick to bring DID up. I'm not a psychiatrist and I don't really have that much experience of the condition, but that was my first thought... Anyways, I'm sorry if I was too... I don't know", she said, and unlocked the handcuffs and opened the door to his cell.
     
  9. Dean leaned against the metal frame of his cell, feeling the cold through his shirt. It reminded him of waking up on the floor, and he shuddered. "I know I don't have DID, Agent." he said. "I've spoken with enough people like that to know, myself." he paused for a moment, staring off into space. "Even if I did, DIDs aren't really that drastic of a personality change, not usually. I wouldn't- kill my family, or try to. I don't have any of the childhood symptoms-" he raised an eyebrow. "And by that I mean my parents have never raped me, or harmed me psychologically. I'm not violent, or depressed, or abusive to myself or anyone else. I am -was- a normal detective. A wife, a son, a job, everything a guy could ever want." The last sentence was bitter in his mouth. "I don't remember it. DIDs describe 'not being in control' of their body.'"

    He sighed, folding in arms in a defensive position. "But you don't believe me. I wouldn't if I were in your position. I'd mark me off as insane and shut me away, move on to someone else's case. But I'm telling you the truth." he locked eyes with her, and didn't look away. "I didn't kill my wife, I didn't maim my son. My son was probably traumatized from the attack. Ross is only three."

    Dean stepped sideways into the cell, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "I don't know why I'm even trying. Feds always rely on the cold, hard facts, don't they?"
     
  10. Abigail was, for some reason, surprised about what he knew about DID. She nodded some as she listened. Obviously, he had thought about it, probably considering it as well. "I get what you're saying. But", she said, unsure if she was going to continue or not, "not everybody remembers it." She swallowed, not really feeling like talking about it there and then, but hey - they were probably never going to talk about it again. "It's common that DIDs have memories that are 'locked up' in other alters because they were too traumatic for the host personality to handle... and also, not everyone are co-conciouss - aware of what's happening - with their alters..." she sighed, he had probably heard all of that before, and she wasn't there to try to convince him that he had a personality disorder.

    "We don't know much yet, once we get some technical information from the crime scene, it'll all be easier", she said, and couldn't help but to feel a bit sorry for him. If he was totally sane, and hadn't done it, it was unfair not to listen to him just because people assuming he was insane. She glanced down the hallway and then she looked at him again. "Look, I'll talk to you once we get more information. And even though it would show that you were the only one there, I'll listen to you. I won't value your words less just because we suspect that you're not... well, all mentally healthy", she said and glanced at him quickly before finding the keys she was looking for. "There's a button for you to press, beside the door, if you need someone to come to you for some reason", she said. "I'll see you later", she said, closed the door and locked it.
     
  11. Dean paced, pressing his hands to his eyes. He knew, somehow, he didn't have DID. He had never showed symptoms, but he wondered now at what she said. Could he? Did he? Doubt swirled in his mind that he banished. He-or any other personality of his that he may or may not have- was incapable of something so evil, so cruel. His son had been panicking when he'd found him, but that didn't necessarily mean that it was because he had been there. He might've just been reacting to another human presence like a cornered and injured animal.

    He couldn't unsee his wife, staring at nothing, or his son's injuries. They replayed in his mind over and over again, every second, every detail, until he sat on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest and his hands were pulling at his hair. He cried quietly, not wanting to alert anyone of his visible sorrow. He didn't like pity. His mind still played the days' events like a broken movie, and it was all he could to to hold on.
     
  12. Abigail sighed, thinking of what had happened during the day. Before she left work, Trevor had told her not to worry. Soon she'd move on to some other case - tomorrow there would be some other crime to investigate. She knew that he was right, she wasn't going to have much time to think about Dean and what had happened. She somehow felt like it was her responsibility in a way, and honestly, she was curious about the whole thing. It felt wrong just letting it go like that. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it didn't feel right leaving Dean. Not like she didn't trust her colleagues, but she felt a responsibility for things to turn out good - or, as good as it could. That wasn't a feeling that she had felt too many times before - it was new to her, and she wasn't sure whether she liked it or not. She knew she had to move on, but at the same time, she still had some unfinished things in the case that her and Trevor had to take care of before either of them moved on to another case.

    ~

    The following day, Abigail met Trevor right as she stepped inside. He wasn't usually this eager about anything really, which made Abigail a bit suspicious - what was going on? She didn't even have time to ask before Trevor opened his mouth. "I got a call from the technical team about the case with Dean Rasmussen", he said, and she nodded, eagerly. "They've found Dean's DNA in the bed, and where their son was sleeping. It seems like they won't look further into it, since it's proof enough for them that he's the murderer", he said, and Abigail bit her lip. Really? "But they-" she said, but Trevor interrupted her. "I know. They have to do some more search at the crime scene in order to confirm that Dean committed the crime and not only was there, since it would be odd if he wasn't, since he lives there", he said and shook his head. "Honestly, Abigail", he said, and put a hand on her shoulder, "don't get your hopes up too high. If it wasn't Dean who did it, whoever did it must be a pro. There's nothing at the crime scene that doesn't belong to Dean, his wife or their son, so far", he said, and Abigail took a step back. "So far", she said, thinking that they weren't done with it. "You have to remember that Dean is innocent until the opposite has been proofed", she said, slightly upset as she went to her desk.

    "Dean", she said, sitting down at the other side of the table. "I got some news", she said, trying not to think of Dean's handcuffs that was still on. She thought it was a bit unnecessary, but as everyone always said, you could never be too careful. "We got some information from the technical team, from the crime scene. It seems like there's no other DNA or anything that doesn't belong to you, your wife or your son... they aren't done with it yet, but... Trevor told me that they're pretty much convinced that it's you... and they probably won't look further into it than necessary in order to confirm that it's you", she said, looking down at the table. She felt sad about it, but she felt that it would be best if Dean knew the truth. "And so, I thought that maybe you could tell me about... friends, or someone you know... in case there would be any motive for anyone else to commit such a crime", she said, and looked at him.
     
  13. Dean shifted in his seat. His handcuffs were slightly too tight and the rubbed against his wrists. He didn't complain, though, for his own reasons. He had a feeling he was a dead man walking, so he looked her in the eye and listened. Of course they thought it was him- he was the single witness-besides his son, who he hadn't heard about- and the police force just looked for the quickest way to close cases these days.

    He had been working a case for a few months, hunting down a man who called himself "The Writer" and thought of gruesome ways to murder civilians. The last case had led him to find someone who would've given them important information- but he and his task force had been too late, finding the man's body horribly mutilated and hung in his own classroom. The man had been a kindergarten teacher.

    He told this to Abigail.
     
  14. Abigail nodded slightly as she listened to him. She didn't really see the connection though. Was the murder of Dean's wife gruesome? Abigail didn't know for sure - she had avoided looking at pictures from the crime scene since she knew it would just give her nightmares. She knew it was a part of her job to deal with those kind of things, but she didn't like to watch those pictures, pictures of dead people or other cruelties, if it wasn't all necessary.

    "That sounds sad", she said, not sure of what to say about it. She looked thoughtful for a moment, looking at Dean in silence. "Is there any connection between you and "The Writer"? I don't think I understand why you're bringing that case up", she said, feeling slightly embarrased for having to ask him to explain it to her. She wrote something down in her notes though.
     
  15. Dean suppressed a sigh. With the way all these FEDs thought, he was never going to leave here. As time wore on, he had become more sure of the fact that he didn't kill his wife or maim his son. He was positive. ""The Writer" is a psychopath, Abigail. Someone threatens him, he does all he can to take them down. And he succeeded, so far, in taking me down." he raised an eyebrow at her, feeling exhausted.

    He closed his eyes and took a moment to slow his heartbeat, just because he wanted to see if he still could. He had spent years in biofeedback training- Maria always told him if he could control himself, it wouldn't be as hard to fall asleep as it had been. So he learned how to raise and lower his body temperature and pulse. He concentrated and lowered his body temperature a little bit. It was too warm in this stuffy interview room.

    Dean opened his eyes and looked at Abigail warily. "You still don't believe me, do you?"
     
  16. Abigail nodded. Yes, of course. Why didn't she see that? Now that he told her, it seemed too obviously for her not too recognize. She was happy that the two of them were alone - she'd be embarrased if Trevor or someone else was there to see it, that she didn't understand such a simple thing.

    "You still don't believe me, do you?" he said, and she looked at him, thoughtful. Did she believe him? She hadn't really thought of that. All she had thought of was the technical team getting enough proof for them to say that he was guilty. Any other option hadn't really crossed her mind. Maybe he was crazy after all, she thought and tilted her head slightly.

    "I don't know what to believe. I want to believe you", she said, biting her lip. Was that even true? Yes, of course it was. Why would she want it to be true that he had actually killed his wife, and almost his son as well? "...it's just that... there will be proof..." she said, unsure of what to say next. She sighed, obviously having a hard time figuring out what to tell him. "I want to think that you didn't do this, but I don't see how that'd be possible", she said, looking at him, with a trace of maybe pain or sorrow in her gaze. She wasn't supposed to get involved, personally involved, in cases like this, she knew it.
     
  17. "There will be proof that I and my family were in our home," he replied. "Where we usually are. And there won't be proof that anyone else was there, but that doesn't mean I did it. And I did not." He saw emotion in her eyes, something besides the apathy he'd seen lately, and that gave him hope. It was small, but it was hope nonetheless.

    "I still can't remember how I ended up on my floor, or why, but I'm positive I didn't do it. The more likely situation besides your assumption of me having some mental disorder-which I don't- is that I was drugged, and arranged and framed. My son..." he trailed off for a moment, then regained his composure. "My son was injured and afraid, traumatized by what had happened. Looking back on that night-" he felt a shiver move along his spine. "Looking back, it's obvious to me that's the reason for his behavior. Not that anything I say can prove that until I can see him. If he's okay." he lowered his head and ran his hands through his hair, his mind heavy with concern for his son, grief for his wife, and his love for the both of them.
     
  18. ((You can fast forward if you don't have anything else to add to their conversation.))

    Abigail looked at him as he spoke, thoughtfully. Everything that he said - or, most of it, at least - seemed to could really be true, as if what he was saying could be a possibility. She reminded herself of the fact that he was still innocent and had to be looked at as one.

    "I guess we - someone in my team - should have a talk with "The Writer". If that's possible", she said with a sigh. It probably wasn't. "At least, we can look into other cases where "The Writer" has been involved... and maybe we'll get something out of that", she said, although she wasn't sure if what she said would really be of any help in the end.

    "You seeing your son sounds like a good idea", she said, with a bit of a smile on her lips as she continued, "and we'll see what happens. Unfortenately, he's still pretty young... but if you didn't hurt him in any way - if you didn't commit the crime - he shouldn't be scared of you or anything like that", she said, thinking out loud. "I'll check with the hospital. Maybe we can make an arrangement for the two of you to meet as soon as possible. If he's healthy enough", she said, suddenly sounding slightly worried about it.
     
  19. "I'm not sure that's possible, but you can try. I've never actually attempted conversation with 'The Writer'. And there are several cases involving him." she was talking to him like almost an equal. He was a detective, after all. There had to be something to do with that.
    Dean nodded, a smile gracing his lips. "I would really like to see my son," he told her. "He's all I have left."

    ((Skipping ahead a bit, sorry I've neglected to post!))

    Dean opened his eyes to someone banging on his cell door insistently. "Get up," a male voice called, but not unkindly. "You're going to go see your son." He sat up and dressed quickly, brushing his teeth and running a hand through his short-cropped hair. Dean knocked lightly on his door and the officer opened it for him, handing him a hot plate of eggs and bacon. He nodded his thanks and ate quickly as they walked, handing the empty dishes to the officer when he was finished, who dropped it on a random officer's desk with a smirk, who scowled back before pushing out of his seat.

    Dean got in the small car and gave a short greeting to Abigail, who was sitting in the passenger seat. He was suddenly nervous, but also happy to see his son, who was well enough to accept visitors and had reacted positively to seeing his father. He hoped his son had valuable information, but he wasn't going to press him. He wanted to enjoy his reunion with his son.

    The officer and Abigail escorted him down the sterile, white hallway and checked in with the nurse at the desk, who gave them all a wide, overly kind and fake smile and waved them through, saying, "Room 12B." His stomach flipped as he put his hand on the door. "I'll wait out here," the officer said, and Dean and Abigail entered.

    Ross was hooked up to several monitors, but was awake and looking at the television screen, which was playing an old Pokemon rerun. Dean thrust his hands in his pockets. "Ross?" he murmured quietly. His son looked over at him and smiled, and Dean knew everything would be okay. He knelt by Ross's bed and put his forehead to his sons'. "I missed you, Daddy," Ross whispered. "I was so scared." Dean smiled. "I was scared too, believe it or not," he said, and his son laughed. "Not you, Daddy!" he exclaimed. "You're never scared." Dean kissed Ross's forehead as a male nurse stepped in, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had long, black hair. "It's time for your pain meds, Rossy boy," the nurse said with a grin, and Ross grinned back. "Okay," he replied happily as he injected the contents of a needle into the boy's IV. "Have a good day, sir and ma'am," he said, backing out. Dean nodded at him.

    Ross smiled again at his father, who smiled back. Suddenly, the boy's eyes rolled back into his head and he started to convulse. "GET A DOCTOR!" Dean screamed. He heard the officer barge in and tear him away from Ross's side. A different, female nurse rushed in and began trying to hold Ross still, and the officer helped.

    All he could do was stare and think, no...
    And then... that damn nurse.

    In a blind rage, he sprinted out to where he'd seen the nurse go. "GET BACK HERE, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" he screamed. He saw the male nurse then, who he knew now to not be a nurse, as his hair color had changed, although the same features. Either it was a wig or he'd swapped wigs. "It's no use, Dean," the false nurse called with a grin. "My story will play out to your death."