Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ In Front of Me ( Chapter 1 )

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Asylum
Supernatural, AU
Dean/Sam

Summary: For the past few years, Dean Winchester has been a resident of various mental health facilities and has gained quite a reputation since being forcibly admitted. Abandoned by his father who had previously been a patient himself, the only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brother.

*Disclaimer* I do not own anything. Except maybe the occasional OC. Supernatural is property of Eric Kripke and others.

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Ch. 1: In Front of Me


9/23/2006 10:15 a.m. Oak Grove Sanitarium, MI.

“Good morning, Dr. Singer,” a nurse greeted the newest addition to the staff.

“Good morning, Nancy,” he replied with a practiced smile. He was a little distracted this morning. It was his first week at the facility and already, one of his patient's cases was getting to him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He'd reviewed everyone's patient information, medication and personal history as was typical before the first face-to-face meeting, but one person was standing out to him especially.

Dean Winchester, male, age 27.

“Good morning, Doctor,” an orderly nodded to him pleasantly. “You're meeting Winchester today, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am.”

Dean seemed to be something of a local legend around here.

“Good luck, Doc.”

He kept his concern from showing upon his face in response, and merely uttered a `thank you'. Dean was a special case. He manifested symptoms from what could have been several disorders and yet he somehow defied classification. He was atypical. He was also said to have a taste for physical confrontation when he felt provoked, as well as an odd and secretive manner. He mostly kept to himself yet would engage the other residents in a friendly, seemingly open manner at times. He enjoyed card games or other activities that could be used to gamble.

It was hard to determine from the case notes, but the difficulty other professionals had had in working with him might have been due to methodology.

Female doctors had been forbidden as Dean had a penchant for trying to seduce them which had not been wholly unsuccessful. Rumor had it that he had even convinced one to alter his medication, and it was during this time that some of his stranger behavior had occurred. In one instance, he had grabbed a piece of cutlery, proclaiming it to be silver, and proceeded to attack one of the other patients with it.

In the file, it was noted that Dean, upon interview, had calmly and un-remorsefully stated that he `had to be sure'. The accosted patient sustained minor injuries and had been moved to another facility. Dean had also been moved, and that is when he came to stay at Oak Grove. It had been 2 years now.

Dr. Singer entered his office, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. He liked having time to prepare. Time to relax and put himself in the correct frame of mind for helping his patients. It involved separating from the overly analytical and worried mindset that he came into while poring over each person's file. There were notes from the other doctors, prescriptions, and the diagnosis, as well as a record of any notable behavior. He didn't pay much attention to the other doctors' assessments of the patients, past understanding the way in which they would have been treated. A diagnosis was not set in stone. Sometimes there were things that could be overlooked or missed and that could result in a misdiagnosis. He felt very strongly that each doctor should re-evaluate the patient and decide whether they agreed or disagreed with the assessment and whether they felt treatment was worthwhile as it was.

This Dean character... he felt as if something was amiss in all of this.

The doctor settled into his hard-backed chair and rubbed a hand over his face.

Delusions. Occasional violence, especially when feeling challenged. A sharp mind. His gut instinct would be to look into mild schizophrenia. Although according to the notes, Dean could be quite social when he felt like it. He did not seem to exhibit any problems with emotional expression or flattened affect. But then again, he tended to be a loner.

There was no indication of what these `delusions' might be. Without knowing this, it was hard to say whether a person was actually experiencing visual or aural hallucinations like one might if they were schizophrenic or whether they were paranoid delusional. The difference would be believing the FBI was after you to kill you, versus seeing agents actually stalking you. And perhaps to some that seemed like splitting hairs, but the treatment of such would change depending on such things. Not to mention the entire diagnosis.

He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath inward and slowly breathed out. These first interviews, truth be told, made him a little anxious. It was truly walking into the unknown, unprepared. On more than one occasion, he'd seen patients who were so unstable, misunderstood and at the end of their rope, or suffering from inappropriate medication, that he'd been attacked. It wasn't always physical, but that sort of personal aggression was hard to deal with professionally. Especially when maintaining an unflappable exterior was crucial to working with a specific patient. With many violent or aggressive types, showing even a flicker of fear or of being startled was the death knell and progress from that point on would be impossible.

Part of what troubled him was the benzodiazepines Dean had been on during the last two years. Varying doses, and a rotation of different drugs, but it all started with Dean's previous psychiatrist, Dr. Kubrick. The initial dose at the time when the decision to administer the drugs was made was atypically high. Meant to relieve anxiety or paranoia, the drugs could also paradoxically cause an increase in aggression and behavioral disinhibition. Not to mention interaction with other prescriptions mentioned in his patient record. There was a possibility that Dean's attack on a fellow patient was brought on by medication he was taking. The incident happened only about a month or so after his new regimen began. Afterwards, his hostility remained fairly consistent, though his doses were discretely lowered during the transition here to Oak Grove. Dr. Kubrick continued to see him in the weeks before he was moved, but his notes seemed strangely abbreviated and uninvolved.

Until now, Dr. Kubrick was overseeing his case from afar, sending in therapists for the one-on-one, and coming in person only once every 6 months or so.

It was all very atypical. Even the rumors bothered him. Why would the staff be convinced that it was Dean's doing that his medication was changed when it was clear from the file and the doctors notes that the change was made by none other than Dr. Kubrick?

A knock came at the door. His time was up.

“Come in,” he intoned.

A dark-skinned orderly with a face as expressive as a stone wall poked his head in. “You ready?” he asked the doctor.

His name was Paulo, Dr. Singer knew. He was actually a nice guy, just extremely serious while working. He happened to have an excellent game face which is why he'd been chosen to be Winchester's escort, most likely.

He nodded his assent and a sullen, dark-haired young man was propelled into the room. “In you go, tiger,” Paulo said.

Winchester shrugged off his hand and threw himself into one of the stiff leather chairs on the other side of the desk. Paulo took up residence outside the office door until he was needed.

“So, you're the new shrink, huh?” the young man said, eyeing him and looking quite unimpressed. “You don't look like much.” He tossed out the insult casually. “You lose a game of cards to get this gig or what?”

“You seem to be quite a celebrity here. Maybe I won that game of cards.”

Dean's eyebrows rose slightly. “Alright, alright,” he nodded in grudging respect. “So maybe you don't have a stick lodged up your ass after all. Nice to see once in a while.”

“So, Dean--”

Dean shook his head and leaned forward, giving the psychiatrist a conspiratorial look. “Just call me Batman.”

Dr. Singer quirked a brow.

“Goddamn, you're serious, Doc.” Dean settled back into his chair. “It was a joke. You do understand what jokes are, don't you?” His hands were never still. Just now they formed a loose sort of cage where they were cupped between his knees and looked like a Rubix cube or something similar would be quite at home there. It would probably just be something to fiddle with. Dean didn't seem to have the patience to actually solve it.

“From you? I think it's a defense mechanism,” Dr. Singer said, giving him a look much like the type given to a wayward son. It was one of those no-nonsense, cut-the-B.S. kind of looks.

Dean laughed a little. “Yeah, right. So what's your name, Doc? Apparently I didn't get the memo, and Dr. Evil didn't exactly keep me in the loop.”

“Are you referring to Dr. Kubrick?”

“Yeah, a certified asshole. You know, you don't need a degree for that sort of thing - for some people being an ass just comes naturally. But I guess if he tried being like that in the real world instead of here he'd be getting his ass kicked. I'd be first in line.” (Personally, Dean felt that the only thing the man had going for him is that he was vaguely reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Though it was in a craggier, Jesus-freak sort of way.)

“He's had a long and highly esteemed career,” the psychiatrist said. “If you think he is bad at what he does, why do you think that is the case?”

Dean shrugged. “Ass-kisser, maybe?” The younger man was starting to look a little agitated, though he was hiding it. His eyes were flicking around the room from time to time. “How the hell should I know? It's not like we can lodge formal complaints in these holes.”

“Did you like Stonybrook more than you like it here at Oak Grove?”

“The nurses there were hotter,” Dean muttered.

“I think that will be all for today, Dean. Thank you for your time.”

Dean gave him a weird look. “Why thank me? It's not like I have a choice to be here or not.”

“There is always a choice.”

“That human-shaped brick wall outside begs to differ.”

The psychiatrist stood and extended his hand to his patient. Dean gave him another strange, calculating look but rose to clasp and shake it. “Pleased to meet you, Dean. I'm Dr. Robert Singer.”

“Nice ta meetcha, Bobby,” Dean returned with a flippant smile.

---
January 2007...

Dr. Singer met with Dean twice a week for the next several months. During this time, he began weaning him off of the benzodiazepines. He had yet to get the younger man to open up and mention anything pertaining to delusions, anxiety or hallucinations. In fact, aside from a short attention span that seemed to stem from boredom and a hair-trigger temper, he appeared to be pretty normal.

This did not indicate that he was, not by any means, because he could have merely been hiding suspect behavior. It was not uncommon to encounter extremely talented actors in places like this.

His hostility, according to other staffers, appeared to be lessening as his doses decreased. It was a good sign. He might still contain all sorts of aggression but he was showing less susceptibility to acting on it.

---
April, 2007...

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Singer asked Dean during the course of another session. It had been four months now.

“In general? Peachy.”

“And how did you feel when you first started seeing Dr. Kubrick?” What he really wanted to know was how Dean felt personally in regards to the changes in his medication.

A dark look crossed over Dean's face. “Pissed off.”

“In general? Or just at him personally?”

“All of the above,” Dean nearly growled. “He was a dick. Didn't listen to a thing I had to say and started pumping me full of chemicals. And he's supposed to help people not be crazy? I felt like a total basket case because of him.”

“You felt normal before you started seeing him?”

“Well, yeah. There's nothing wrong with me, Doc. I got stuck in here because of a misunderstanding.”

Dr. Singer sat back, digesting that. So Dean did not think he had any cause to be here, receiving treatment. He did act rather normal, it was true. But it was rare to find someone living in a facility for so long that hadn't exhibited some erratic behavior that would have caused them to be here in the first place. And if Dean was mostly normal, why wouldn't he have been released? Many patients only stayed here until suitable medications had been worked out that would enable them to live their lives more or less like everyone else.

“Why did you attack the man at Stonybrook?”

Dean shrugged. “He had awful hair. Couldn't let that go, could I? It was driving me nuts, staring at it day after day.”

“Dean,” Dr. Singer warned.

The young man rolled his eyes and glared, eyes averted. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Arresting green eyes tilted to meet his. “Maybe he was a werewolf,” he intoned ominously.

The doctor met his stare seriously, wondering if there was any truth to the statement. Rather, if Dean believed what he was saying.

Dean's serious face dissolved suddenly and he laughed with a mocking smile. “Werewolves, Bobby? Seriously? Man, but I had you going.”  

“That's Dr. Singer, to you,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, whatever, Bobby,” Dean said good-naturedly. “Listen, you got any more of those books you let me see before? I'm getting bored with the selection of chick novels, which is practically all they've got down in the common room, and they're fresh out of Hustler.”

“I do. But what makes you interested in things like folklore, Mayan rites and the history of gun-smithing?” Dean was showing definite tendencies towards such subjects, and had for several weeks now. It had taken some time to ferret out something of interest to his patient... lots of systematic word-dropping, spread out over the last many months. It had to be done slowly, and inconsistently so as not to be obvious. Just now was the first time he was going so far as to bring it up.

“I read it for the articles,” Dean said with a wink.

Amusingly enough, it was Dean's boredom in this place and his dislike of structure that had the spiky haired young man get up in the middle of a session to start gauchely going through his bookshelf, exposing the very information Dr. Singer had been looking to obtain. Luckily, he had prepared for such a scenario, and had a diverse sampling of subjects represented. He was surprised at Dean's selection of a dusty old book describing the history of Religion in the greater British Isles, as well as Common Lore, and even the Pagan beliefs in the area. Especially as it was located next to a book on Nude photography. He was even more surprised that Dean seemed to know some Latin.

“Really,” Dr. Singer said blandly. “And here I was wondering if you actually knew how to read.”

“What can I say?” Dean said with a smirk. “Some of the smart ones are born pretty. Don't be fooled by the packaging.” He got up and stretched before sauntering over to a book-lined shelf. “We can't all look like eggheads or the gene pool would be in some seriously deep shit.”

Dr. Singer shook his head. Dean Winchester certainly did not suffer from a low opinion of himself.

“Actually, this stuff reminds me of my dad,” he said as he skimmed the titles on the books' spines. “He used to read to me and my brother when we were young, tell us stories. He also liked guns and stuff. He was a hunter.”

Dr. Singer made a mental note to look into Dean's family history. “Where is he now?”

“Dunno.”

“And your brother?”

He was surprised to see Dean's shoulders tense. “Around.”

“You haven't said much about your family. Were you and your brother close?”

“Aw, who cares?” Dean said, thumbing through a heavy tome. “We haven't seen each other in years.” That awkward stiffness in his frame remained. “Are we done here? I wanna get something to eat.”

“Sure.”

“I'm borrowing this one,” Dean said on his way out, covering his agitation with one of his usual flash smiles. “Thanks.”

---

Dean slipped out of the office and around the corner, his own personal bodyguard picking up the rear. “Hey, tin-man,” he called over his shoulder at Paulo. “Have a heart and piss off, would ya?”

“That's the worst Wizard of Oz reference I've ever heard,” the tall man said. “And you got it all wrong. The tin man was missing a brain, not a heart - that was the lion.”

“Well aren't you just a wealth of pop culture information,” Dean said sarcastically. He rolled his shoulders in irritation. He might not have had some kind of apple pie childhood, but he didn't need to be schooled on the Wizard of Fucking Oz. “Besides, tell me that I could have made a crack about your brain without you trying to kick the shit out of me.”

“There is no `try'.”

“Thank you, Yoda,” he muttered. He really wanted to be left alone. He felt sorely agitated and his mood was not improving. He felt the familiar itch for a good old fistfight. Raising his voice, he said, “I would totally own your ass in a fight. But I don't need the extra tarnish on my reputation.”

“Right, like anyone would see more tarnish upon an already completely tarnished record.”

“It isn't that bad,” he scoffed.

“Yes, Winchester, it is. You're psychotic, man.”

“Whatever. I don't see you pissing yourself standing here next to me.”

“Well, I'm not going out of my way to piss you off.”

“Really?” He said with a scowl. “I feel pretty pissed off right now. Maybe I'll go all Tyson on your ass and bite your fucking ear off.”

“In your dreams, princess. I'd have you on the ground, rolling around in agony before you could even blink.”

“Nothing like a bit of male bonding, huh?”

A few minutes later, Dean took the left turn towards his room instead of taking the route to the cafeteria. His ominous shadow said, “I thought you wanted to eat?”

Dean shifted the book he was carrying to his other hand. He gave a semi-lewd grin. “Naw, I'd rather polish the jewels a little before the roommate comes back from stuffing his face.” He turned the handle of his room. “So, seriously, Polly, piss the fuck off.”

He didn't bother to look at the man before shutting the door in his face.

God damn. You'd think that being kept in semi-isolation would afford a little more privacy. Instead, he always had some meat-head or another stalking his every move.

Paulo was alright. Had a sense of humor at least, despite appearances. But Dean just wanted some room to breathe. Maybe he should stage something really crazy if just to get tossed in a single room with a door that locked only on the outside.

He flopped down on the thin, dingy bed and put his hands behind his head.

He hadn't let himself think of Sammy in a long time.

Damn Bobby for bringing him up. For dredging up these feelings that were best left buried.

He hadn't seen his brother in ages. He wondered if Sam even knew where he was. Or if he did, if he would even think of coming to see him. Sammy was only 10 years old the last time that they'd seen each other. He could still see the fear in those tear-filled eyes, could still feel the ache in his chest as they embraced for what would be the last time. He still resented his mother for splitting them up. Sure, he could understand her feelings regarding their dad, but still. The way she'd gone about it had fucked everything up.

And now he'd gone and gotten himself stuck in this place.

He might have hoped to be released when they realized there was nothing wrong with him, letting him out on `good, sane behavior', but then that asshole Kubrick had to fuck it all up. He swore that whatever shit they were making him take was fucking with his head. And he was more certain now than ever that was the case. Since Bobby had started seeing him, the fog in his head was clearing, and the violent impulses had receded.

Maybe with Bobby's help, he could finally get the hell out of here and back to living his life.

Maybe he could find Sam again. Actually talk to him this time, instead of just checking that he was alive and well at college.

The corner of his mouth turned up. Sam was so much older now, insanely tall, and yet he still had the same old girly, longish hair that Dean had always teased him for when they were younger. His face had lost the childish round cheeks and was now chiseled and lean, but Dean could still see his baby brother in the soulful eyes and the expressive mouth.

He'd been watching Sam study in a coffee shop that day that everything had gone wrong. The windows were floor to ceiling and he could easily see in from outside from where he lounged in the shadow of a large oak tree, dark coat and hair blending in with the trunk he leaned against. He'd toyed with going in there, laying eyes upon his brother in person and seeing what sort of reaction he'd be met with. He wanted to know if Sam had thought about him nearly as much as he'd thought of Sam.

He'd wanted to hold Sammy's face in his hands, to feel something solid between them, to reassure himself that they were both real. He'd wanted Sam to look into his eyes, and his lips to quirk up into a smile. He'd wanted...

Dean threw his arm up over his eyes, feeling them burn.

In the end, he'd been afraid. He didn't want to go in there only to find that Sam hardly recognized or remembered him. He wondered what their mother might have been telling him all these years. That he was just like Dad? Crazy? Erratic? A bad influence?

A girl had walked up to Sam's table then, smiling at him. Sam had looked up and Dean swore that for a moment, his eyes had drifted outside as if spotting him. He watched those brows draw together briefly, the way they used to when something was bothering him and his grey eyes would become ridiculously luminous and irresistible. He could never withstand that puppy dog look Sam was so good at.

He'd ducked around the tree as the girl recaptured Sam's attention by sitting down across from him, his heart pounding in his chest.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Dean whispered aloud in the quiet confines of his luxurious cell. He'd asked himself that more times than he could count.

If only he'd just gone in there that day, things could have been different. Maybe he wouldn't have gotten himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. And what was the point in tracking Sammy down just to `check in' on him? He knew that wasn't all he wanted. He didn't want to be some unknown phantom, lurking around like some ghost that wanted to be a part of life but never could be again.

He rubbed at his face, then put his hands behind his head again, gaining control over his thoughts and reactions once more. The ceiling was cracked and painted a dingy white. It was the color of depression. Of loss. “God, I miss you,” he said quietly into the still air.

He hated the thought of Sam going through life, attending that fancy school, dating random girls, maybe one day marrying one, and never thinking of him again.  

He wondered if he still felt it had been worth it to stay with his dad when he'd been given the choice.

He wouldn't allow himself to think on it. His dad had needed him most. He needed protection against himself, a certain threat, versus Sammy who might need protection against the things that went `bump' in the night. It was the only decision he could have made at the time, wanting to keep their family intact. And yet... if he did allow himself to dwell upon it...

He was pretty sure he never would have let go of the small hand that had gripped his so tightly.

---

“Mr. Campbell?”

The sound of someone's voice came through the fog, but it was all distorted. “Mr. Campbell?”

Sam's eyes were closed but everything seemed too bright, and noises too loud. He tried to cover his eyes with his arm, but he seemed to have misplaced it.

Something very strong smelling was put under his nose and a firm, cold hand on his forehead kept him from moving away. He groaned.

“He's coming out of it. Get some water.”

Sam's eyes fluttered open and the world was a riot of light, white, and unfamiliar faces. “Where am I?” he rasped, barely able to speak.

“You're in the hospital, Mr. Campbell. Try not to speak.”

He felt a blind flash of panic then, wondering if he had lost his arm and that that was why he couldn't move it - but it was there, attached as always.

“What happened?” he asked, accepting the water. His throat felt like raw meat, like he hadn't used it in ages. Speaking was inordinately difficult.

“There was an accident,” a man in a lab coat said shortly. “Please refrain from speaking. You need to conserve your strength.”

Sam ignored him. “What accident? I don't remember anything.”

One of the nurses was whispering something to the nurse next to her. She looked concerned. She was shaking her head as if in disagreement with her coworker.

“It is probably for the best, son.”

“No,” he argued, his voice gaining strength though the urge to cough was starting to plague him. “I need to know. What happened?”

“We aren't entirely sure, but you were brought in 10 days ago by a man who claimed to be your father. He said there was an accident.”

“My father?” he whispered, his eyebrows drawing together in disbelief. “But it couldn't be...” I haven't seen him in years. How would he even know where I was? “My mother - where is she?”

“We're sorry, son. She didn't make it.”

“Didn't make it--?!” he started angrily and then fell into a fit of coughing. “What are you talking about?! What in the hell happened?”

His gaze spun about the room wildly, eyes touching every face. They were like dark strangers. Monsters. Nothing made sense. Nothing--

He saw images then. Confusing flashes. His mother's face, smiling at him in the car. His current girlfriend laughing and taking his hand. He'd been introducing them that day. There was a park. Then there was screaming. Blood. His mother's lips forming words. He saw his father's face, briefly. Just a moment. Focused, closed off. Grim. Looking over his head at something. Were they connected? He didn't know.

He realized his hands were shaking. No, not just his hands. His arms, his whole body. He--

“Oh, dammit, we're losing him again!” someone shouted as the room grew dim.

---
TBC

A/N: Title is from a song by Infected Mushroom. I thought it captured some of the mood. Plus, it's just an awesome song. ^^ (Have a listen.)

Infected Mushroom - “In Front of Me”

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

I see the doors that I can't open
Adding locks from time to time
When it opens something blocks me
And I'm asking myself why
Did I take the step I wanted
Was it just a state of mind?
I feel sorry for myself
Every time I close my eyes.

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more.

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more.

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more.

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more.

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

Why can't I see what's in front of me?

What's behind the door I wonder
Must be brighter than my past
Will I feel a little different
When I take myself across
Was it really worth the turning?
Was it just a foolish task
I feel sorry for myself
when I open up my eyes...

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more.

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more.

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more.

And I fall into a hole
And I can take no more...