Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ Saeed ( Chapter 3 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: selena281 
Non Anime: Supernatural Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 01.01.2012 | Pages: 7 | Words: 7.8K | Visits: 229 | Status: Work In Progress
Non Anime: Supernatural Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 01.01.2012 | Pages: 7 | Words: 7.8K | Visits: 229 | Status: Work In Progress
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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. 3: Saeed
Dean winced against the pounding of his head. Something felt off, but he couldn't find it in him to even open his eyes. His brain felt like it had been on the wrong end of a meat grinder.
He remembered Dillan putting him in a choke hold... He'd been running past him to...
Sam.
Dean's eyes flew open and he jerked upright. Or, tried to. He seemed to be in the infirmary, restrained upon the bed he was lying in. Frustration seared through him. Now is not the time for this shit! He strained at the straps, trying to find some give so he could work his way out.
“Nice to see you awake, Winchester.”
Dean growled in the back of his throat.
One of the assistant psychiatrists was looking down at him blandly. He wasn't particularly tall, short, skinny or fat. He wasn't particularly anything, except his eye sometimes carried an odd gleam of what looked like envy. The brunet man would have looked young and even wholesome if it weren't for the strangely expansive full beard he wore which looked so out of place on him. It was Dr. Kubrick's crony, the one who'd been overseeing his `medication' while Kubrick oversaw his case remotely. This guy, he was a real dick, just like Kubrick.
“As you can see, we found it might be prudent to restrain you, especially given your track record,” Dr. Walter's voice was softly chiding. His eyes said he thought this was a riot. “We were afraid you might hurt others. We were afraid you would hurt yourself.” He smiled apologetically. “We just want what's in your best interests.”
MY best interests?
“What's my cocktail this time, Doc?” Dean sneered with an answering smile that was equally insincere. He was still pulling at his bonds, the urge to smash Walter's face in becoming overwhelming. He didn't feel right.
“Oh, I think you'll find it already chugging away in your system, making you right again.”
Dean gritted his teeth, feeling a small surge of panic as his hostility spiked. “Where's Dr. Singer?” Were they going to work him over like last time? Would they get their hands back on him, taking him out of Bobby's care? He'd just been starting to feel normal again!
“Dr. Singer is off for the next few days. He left the facility today at 3:30 p.m.” The bearded assistant doctor informed him pleasantly. “Don't worry; we'll be taking good care of you.”
“I don't need taken care of,” Dean bit out. “I'm fine. And I have a right to know what medications you're giving me.”
Walter came over and sat down on the bed. His presence there was infuriating. Dean could hardly stand it, or tolerate the feeling of the bed dipping beneath the man's weight. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” the man said, shaking his head bemusedly. “You, of course, know about every single medication noted in your file.”
Dean's eyes narrowed. “And what about those that you aren't reporting?”
Walter laughed. “What are you trying to imply there?”
“Exactly what you think.”
“Careful, Winchester.” Walter's eyes held a subtle glitter above his professional smile. “You can't prove anything, not with your word against ours. You'll just wind up looking more paranoid and delusional than you already are.”
“I'll kill you if I ever get the chance,” Dean said darkly.
“Do you mind if I put that in your file?” Dr. Walter asked amiably, poising a pen above the small notebook he carried. “I think it would be a nice addition, a real winner for placing you back in solitary. You were happy there, I wager?”
“Yeah, it was fucking great.”
Walter snapped his notebook shut, aiming a wide smile his way. “What a life. Helping people attain their full potential. There's nothing else like it.” He shook his head ruefully. “Now then.” He produced a small syringe from the pocket of his white jacket. Removing the cap, he held it up and then tapped it to make any air bubbles surface the depressed the plunger enough to force some of the liquid from the needle's metal tip. “I'll just leave you with a parting gift and let you get some rest.”
---
“Dean?” a voice faded in from nowhere. “Dean?” It was faint, like it was coming in through a layer of cotton balls.
He couldn't place it, but his body was already reacting, breaking out into a cold sweat as if the voice was coming from beyond the grave. And here he was, strapped to a bed and drugged half out of his mind. Helplessness echoed the thought and made him absolutely furious.
“Dean.”
He felt something brush his face. Something cold, clammy. His muscles jerked, and he knew his arms and legs were still securely strapped down. Jesus. He was trapped. His fists clenched and re-clenched uselessly.
“Dean, are you in there?”
Suddenly, bright light was shining into his naked eye, the lids being held open. “G...Get away...from me,” he ground out, throat working reflexively.
“Dean, it's Dr. Singer. Can you understand me?”
“Bo..bby?” he wasn't sure if he should believe it. Though it did sort of sound like him.
He heard the doctor sigh in response. “Or `Robert',” he corrected. “But I guess I'll let it go this time.”
Dean was sure then, that this was Bobby, all right. He'd always gotten a kick out of the doctor's lack of enthusiasm over his nickname. Bobby was a good sport about it, though.
“Dean, can you open your eyes?”
“I dunno, they don't seem to be thrilled at the prospect.”
“All right then. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I...” Dean paused. “I don't seem to remember at the moment.” He wasn't sure what he should say. Surely Bobby could see there was something wrong with him, but would he assume that this was a sort of relapse? Would he believe it if I told him about Walter? Or did Walter have a point? Would he be written off as paranoid and delusional?
Goddamn, he felt tired.
“Dean, I'm going to let you sleep,” Bobby's voice faded in and out. “I'll be back later to check on you.”
---
When Dean woke up again, he felt a bit better. He also found that he could sit up, so he did so right away. It made his head swim violently.
“Hey, take it easy, tiger.”
Firm hands were pushing him back down onto the bed. They belonged to his favorite goon, Paulo. He groaned as his stomach suddenly began cramping up with hunger. “C'mon, let me up, man, I got stuff to do.”
“Like what, Winchester? Can't be to take a piss, they got you all hooked up.” The solidly built orderly indicated the IVs in his arm and Dean realized they must have him cathed. He tried to move the blankets aside to double check but the full body straps had been swapped for wrist restraints. He could sit up all right, but he wasn't going anywhere. His legs were as immobile as before.
Paulo moved the blanket aside slightly so Dean could see the edge of the catheter bag strapped to his leg.
Christ. Caths really bugged the shit out of him. Not to mention, it seemed overkill for being in here for a few hours. “I'm hungry.”
“Yeah, I'll bet you are, being on liquids for days. But they'll just send a tray down now that you're with it.” Paulo picked up his radio and made the call.
Days? Dean frowned. “What do you mean `days'? I've only been here a few hours.”
“Nope. Dr. Singer was already gone when they brought you in and you were still out of it when he came back. And I happen to know that he was not in the entire weekend.”
“So, it's Monday?” Dean asked, trying to get his bearings.
Paulo shook his head. “Tuesday. Doc came to see you Monday but said you needed to sleep it off.”
“Shit.”
“No kidding. What'd you do this time?”
Just tried to see what the hell brought my brother in here like that, strapped to a cart like he was a corpse. Dean suddenly did not feel like talking. At least not to anyone but Bobby. This was personal. “Where's Singer?”
Thinking about Sam was making him restless. Worse than restless. Especially since several days had slipped past since he'd seen Sam's face, and had tried to get to him. He needed to make sure Sammy was ok. What if he's woken up while I was stuck in here? Fear overrode some of his anxiety at their first meeting in over 10 years. He was half out of his mind with worry and being prevented from acting according to his instincts was making him hostile. Maybe Bobby could get him unlooped and he could try again to get in to see Sam. But there was absolutely nothing he could do from this bed.
“He'll be back this afternoon.”
“I'll be waiting.”
---
“Good afternoon, Dean,” Dr. Singer greeted him as he came in the room. “How are you feeling?”
“Like Miss America. Can you get me the hell out of here already? It's driving me nuts and I can't even get a proper fucking meal. If they hand me one more fucking fruit cup, I swear to god--”
“Something's bothering you.” Bobby pulled up a chair, checked his vitals and shone the light into his eyes again. “I haven't seen you like this before.”
“I just want out,” he said shortly.
Dean tried to put Sammy from his mind, but the more he tried, the more he thought about it, and the angrier he was that he was being kept from him. He was pissed at being kept here, pissed at Dillan, pissed at med-happy Walker, and he guessed just pissed off in general. It was all accompanied by a fluffy haziness that felt like dementia.
If he told Bobby about Sam, would it help or make things worse? Agitation fizzled through his protesting body. He couldn't stand it.
“What's wrong, Dean? Be honest.”
Dean grit his teeth. “It's...” It really went against his instincts to say anything at all, but the words were starting to slip out. “It's Sammy. He's... I don't know what happened, but he's my brother and I saw him come in.” He shook his head. “What the hell did they put me on? I feel like shit.”
“Anti-depressants, and anti-psychotics.”
“What the hell for?” He wanted to shout. “I'm human, shouldn't I be allowed to react to things? Are you going to medicate my brains out if I show a flicker of anything you don't think you like?” Was his trust in Bobby unfounded? Did he agree with what they'd done?
“Dean, I want to level with you here,” Dr. Singer said frankly. “I have been re-evaluating your medications and weaning you off of the ones I feel were causing your aggression to get the better of you, and with good results. But erratic behavior is always cause for alarm, especially in cases like yours. We don't want any accidents. Even at your best, you have poor impulse control--”
“So does 80% of the population,” he retorted.
Dr. Singer said nothing for a moment. “Are you finished? May I continue?”
“Only if you can do something about these meds that are making the inside of my head feel like strawberry shortcake land. I feel like I'm stuck in the mind of a 5 year old girl. It's creeping me out.”
“I'll tell you what. I'll do the minimum preventative drug therapy I am allowed. In return, I need you to be on your best behavior.”
“Seems like a rotten deal for me.”
“Well, I suppose it might look that way, but I know something you don't know.”
Dean looked suspicious. “Yeah? What's that?”
“If you show some sort of consistent stability, I think it's possible they'll let you visit Sam.”
“What?” Dean was all alert and tense. “Why? Why would they do that?”
“Well, in cases of catatonia, things or people that are familiar can sometimes bring sufferers out of it. You're family. We did a blood test to verify you are related, though this information has not been released to the entire staff. They weren't sure of anything at first, only that your brother had a note on him when he was brought in. The only thing on it was your first name, the name of this facility and the state.” He watched Dean for a reaction. “So, what do you say?”
Dean dropped his head back on the pillow, utterly floored. “Ok, you have a deal.”
“Oh, but there is one other thing.”
Dean closed his eyes briefly, face not betraying any emotion he might have been feeling. He gave the doctor an expectant, deadpan look, lips twisting briefly. “And that would be?”
“He can't be told anything about his accident. At least not yet. His memory, if he wakes up, is bound to be hazy for a while. It has been suggested that you pretend you know nothing, at least for a time, so he isn't shocked back into it. The longer he spends conscious and responsive, the slimmer the chance is that he will lapse back into a catatonic state.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“You could pretend you aren't related, so that you won't be seen as a source of information.”
“Uh, yeah. You think he'll fall for that?”
“I don't know. How important is it to you that he remains awake, if he wakes up at all?”
Dean glared at him. “What do you mean `if'? Of course he's gonna wake up.”
“Of course,” Dr. Singer said placatingly.
---
One and a half weeks later...
It was a lazy afternoon and several of the residents were playing a friendly game of cards with some severely high stakes.
“Hey, Dean,” one of the older residents said, a frown twitching on his face. “Anybody ever tell you that you eat a lot?”
“Mn? Mrelly?” Dean was playing with his cards in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He laid the sandwich down on his knee while he grabbed a handful of Cheetos from the bag he'd just won from the guy. He was in good spirits, this being his 5th winning hand in a row.
“Yeah,” a bulky guy with a shaved head said hostilely. “And you cheat.” This garnered nods from the rest of the group.
“Ladies,” Dean laughed. “I do not cheat.”
“I miss women,” a guy that had somehow gotten dubbed `Pokey' said glumly. “I don't know why I signed myself into this place.”
“Because,” said a 20-something biker that went by the name Garnet, “in addition to your shit memory, you were a hopeless klepto-stalker.” He had a serious expression and a long black ponytail that was bound with many hair ties, evenly spaced all the way down, and looked like he might be part Native American. Dean wasn't quite sure on why he was in here unless he was severely OCD or something.
“I did not steal stuff!” Pokey claimed indignantly.
“Yes, you did,” argued Garnet without any inflection in his voice. “And you still do. I want my dreamcatcher back.”
“Well, seeing as I don't have your dream whatsit feathery thing--”
“It was a gift from my late grandmother. Your turn, Dean.”
Dean played a card and dug into the bag of Cheetos. Card games could sometimes be quite entertaining, even without the winning. He usually kept his mouth shut and enjoyed the show.
“Well,” Pokey said sullenly, “my point was, I miss getting laid.”
“Don't see that changing just by you gettin' outta here, son,” Garth, the older guy with a cloud of ginger colored Einstein-like hair, commented.
Pokey played his card with a monumental frown on his face. “Would it kill them to let us get a little action?”
“You know,” Jared drawled, “you could always just bat for the other team. Prolly some guys here that are hard up enough for it.” Jared was a mean-looking weight-lifter with a shaved head. He could pretty much say whatever the hell he wanted and no one had the balls to challenge him on it. He was also about the last guy in the world that would be interested in other dudes. Dean suspected that underneath that burly exterior, he had quite a sense of humor.
Pokey looked horrified. “The hell you say to me?”
Jared played a card. “Just sayin'. If you're gonna waste time bitching about something you can't change, I'm more than happy to point out a solution. `Course, it don't matter to me if you'd rather wear out your right hand.”
Pokey turned 4 shades of red.
“Well, I mind,” Garnet said, “seeing as I have to share a room with him.”
“Maybe he's in denial,” Garth added with a twitter of a laugh. “Better watch your ass, Garnet. Since he's already started taking your shit, maybe you're next.”
“Yeah, right, Pokey's a bitch,” Garnet mused, regarding his cards and planning his next move. “No way he'd get the jump on someone. Besides, if he even tried, I'd break both his hands.”
“Pretty rough stuff,” Jared said to Pokey. “What would you do without your girlfriend or your backup girlfriend?”
“Guess he'd have to hope someone in here was desperate enough to do his sorry ass,” Dean said, adding to the smaller man's horror. “Read `em an' weep, boys,” he said as he won the game. Score one more for team Winchester, he thought with a smirk.
“God dammit,” Jared cursed. He glared at Dean as he dug into his back pocket and then slapped a small box into the spikey-haired man's hand. “Motherfucker, I should crush your spine. That was my last pack of smokes.”
“Want to come outside and watch me smoke one later?” Dean asked with a charming lift of his brows.
“Ass,” Jared muttered. “I don't know why I even play with you.”
Dean smiled as he got up and stretched. “Beats the hell out of me. Unless it's because I'm one of the few assholes who actually use the gym and can spot you.”
Jared nodded with a so-help-me-god expression upon his face.
Dean grabbed his winnings off of the table, piling them into his arms. Snacks, smokes, a shirt or two, some cash, hair gel, and a novel by Nelson DeMille that Garth had only gotten to read the first half of. It was a good lot.
“Off already?” Garnet asked.
“Yeah. Stuff to do.”
“I hear you've been visiting someone,” Pokey said, piping up now that he had a chance to put someone else in the hot seat. “One of the patients here.”
“You don't say,” Dean said as if it was a revelation. “You find out who it is, be sure to let me know.”
Pokey deflated a little in his confusion.
“There's a rumor you're in to see that sleep-case Campbell,” Garth said.
“Well hey, it's a good cover, then,” Dean said glibly. “They'll never miss me as I'm pleasing the ladies in the east wing.” He wasn't ready to say anything about Sam. Not yet. Maybe after he woke up, it would be clearer how he could handle things. Should he let anyone know they were related? That would explain the time he was spending with Sam, but... he had a few hostiles that might take out their aggression on his brother to spite him, and he didn't want that.
“Why would they let you in there?” Pokey asked.
“In where?” Jared said.
“In either place,” Pokey insisted. “But I meant Campbell's room.”
“Why? You interested?” Jared ribbed him. “I heard he's pretty, for a guy.” As Pokey spluttered, the weight-lifter looked up at Dean. “What do you think, Winchester?”
Dean shrugged. “Sorry. Not my type.”
The bickering continued even after he left and he was glad to be out of there. Their joking was all in good fun, but they were getting a little too close to the truth.
He stopped by his room, grateful that he no longer had to share it with Ed, to drop off his winnings. Since his supposed `psychotic break' the day Sam was brought in, he'd had to endure the drastic change in the medications he was being forced to take, but the plus side to it was that he now had a room to himself. He guessed staffers were worried he might kill Ed in his sleep. Which anyone might have wanted to do even on a good, sane day.
He dumped the stuff onto his mattress and then got on his knees to check under the bed. The line was mostly intact. He adjusted it a little then nodded and got to his feet. Dusting his hands off, he looked around the room. He'd go to see Sam in a few minutes, but first, he needed to do a couple things. He'd go wash up, brush his teeth and all that jazz, then swing by the cafeteria to see if he could make some more salt shakers go mysteriously missing. He needed at least one more aside from the one in his jacket.
There wasn't a lot of action at this facility, but you couldn't be too careful. Besides, he had heard a few ghost stories.
---
Dean used the key they'd given him to enter Sam's room. They monitored the hall pretty frequently, checking this room at least every 30 minutes. He wasn't sure when the last pass was, so he would have to work quickly. He dropped to his knees and crawled partway under the bed, reaching into his jacket for one of the salt shakers. The rubber stopper in the bottom came out pretty easily, and he continued the line he'd begun drawing 2 days ago, tracing the perimeter of the bed, just far enough in that no one should notice it unless they stooped down.
When the salt shaker was empty, he plugged it and put it into his jacket, grabbing out the other one and repeating the process.
As he thought, it took the full 2 salt shakers to finish the line. That left him with one spare for emergencies, the one he carried on him at all times. Couldn't be too careful. The last thing he needed was a spiritual intervention. Same went for Sammy. Only he was in a compromised state, so he was much more at risk.
Dean came out from under the bed, feeling a lot better at finally being able to complete the protective ring of salt. He'd like if he could get a hold of some chalk, but he hadn't yet located anyone that had any.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at his brother. “You're a regular sleeping beauty, you know that?” he said to Sam. “The guys are all talking about you and you haven't even met anyone yet. Guess you make quite an impression.”
Sam was still, and not even a muscle twitched in response. His face was like a smooth mask. Untouchable. Dean reached out to poke it. “Bitch,” he said softly, missing the comeback that would have been sure to follow if Sam had been awake to hear him.
Little Sammy had been so upset the first time he'd called him that, turning red and thrusting out that bottom lip so far you could hang something on it. It was adorable. `I am not a bitch,' he'd informed his older brother with a mighty glare. `You... jerk.' Their mom had flipped when she found out, catching them in the middle of that kind of exchange on more than one occasion. Which was hilarious. After a time, the bitch/jerk thing had become a sort of in-joke for them.
Dean sighed and got to his feet, the silence getting to him more than usual this time.
I'll come back tomorrow, early, he thought as he got up and let himself out, feeling bad about having such an abbreviated visit. ”'Night, Sammy.” He turned off the light and let himself out.
He didn't see Sam's lips move, or hear the faint word, hardly louder than a breath as his brother unconsciously uttered, “Jerk.”
---
Dean tossed and turned that night in his room. Sleep was just damn elusive at times. On nights like these, he would have loved to go outside, wander around the expansive grove of oak trees that this place was named for. Or, at the least, get out of this room and stretch his legs in the halls. But that wasn't possible. They were locked up nice and tight in their rooms at lights out. Not a good system to be on if you were a night owl, which Dean was.
It was eating away at him, he'd just realized tonight, that he was starting to wonder if Sam was ever going to wake up. He'd had some half-deluded notion that after a day or two, Sam would pop out of it like a daisy and they could have the full on awkward reunion they were owed.
Dean rubbed his hands over his face. What was he going to tell Sam after that, about Mom, or his girlfriend? Nobody was really sure what had even happened. All they know is that the two were on the unwitting end of a bloodbath, and that Sam was brought in, in pretty rough shape himself, by a man claiming to be his father.
According to Dr. Singer, after Sam's condition stabilized, the physicians at the general hospital realized he was showing signs of `comatoid catatonia'. Dean had committed the words to memory, but it was just bunch of mumbo jumbo to him. Apparently it was a comatose state that didn't have a medical cause and could have been brought on by an emotional shock to his system. Like a deadly level of stress that made parts of a person just shut off.
They'd had no way to contact the man who'd brought Sam in, and the police apparently had no luck locating John Winchester, whom they'd found, with some digging, to be his father. All that left was the note. Dean guessed that they might as well bring Sam where his surviving family was being kept. Probably why they did the blood test, to see who `Dean' was supposed to be.
Their mom's death came as a shock... but he wasn't all that broken up about it. Sometimes he'd missed her over the years. But he'd never forget her looking him in the eye, telling him he was just like his father, and walking out on them. Are you supposed to forgive something like that? He wasn't sure, but forgiveness was going to be a long time in coming. Still, he hadn't hated his mom. Maybe resented her a little, but he certainly hadn't wanted to see her dead.
But Sam was different. He'd lived with her since he was 10. How hard must that have been for him? And his girlfriend, too... That had to have been rough.
Dean rolled over and faced the wall. He wondered absently if Sammy was more upset over mom or his girlfriend. Was it the same girl he'd seen in that cafe a few years back? Could it have been serious?
The thought unsettled him. He chose not to dwell upon it.
Instead, he considered the circumstances of the deaths. Had something attacked them in the park that day? Was that why Dad had been there? It was possible he'd been hunting something and followed it there. Or was it a fluke and just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Like finding yourself on the wrong end of a crazy bastard's knife? Maybe it was just some psycho serial killer deal.
“Mn,” he groaned aloud, brow furrowing as he found his mind drifting back to the girlfriend. He needed a distraction. He obviously wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon.
He rolled over and got up, going to the small, bolted down dresser that held his clothes and some odds and ends. Rifling through one of the drawers, he pulled out a flashlight he'd won in a game of poker. He put the penlight in his teeth and grabbed Bobby's big ass book off the top of the dresser. He could at least read while he waited for dawn.
He put it on the bed, flopping onto his stomach and training the flashlight upon it. He was on a page that was discussing what modern day medicine had dubbed “Rip Van Winkle Syndrome,” where the afflicted could fall asleep for days, months, even years. It was attributed here to tree spirits who sapped the life force from someone. Even so, the affect was the same. One might awaken to find everything in their life had changed. Spouses, friends, or family might be dead or had moved on. He flipped past the rest of it, not wanting to dwell on that sort of thing. Sam was going to wake up. He would.
He skipped to another section, trying to take in what it was saying. After a few minutes, the words began to swim before his eyes.
“Wake up, damn, you,” he said into the empty room. He covered his eyes with his hand. “Just wake the hell up already. Sam.”
---
TBC
A/N: Chapter title from:
Infected Mushroom - “Saeed”
I feel ashamed, again and again
Nothing to give, and no-one to blame
During the day, I guess I'm OK
[x5]
At night
I sit by your side
Waiting for you, to give me a sign
I'm counting the days
And have nothing to say
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins
I've got nothing to say to you
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...
I feel ashamed, again and again, nothing to give, no one to blame, during the day
I guess I'm OK
At night, I sit by your side
Waiting for you, to give me a sign
I'm counting the days, and have nothing to say
(cut the chain of lies, you've been feeding my veins)
[x6]
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins
I've got nothing to say to you
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins
I've got nothing to say to you
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies I've been beating myself without nothing to say to you, nothing to say to you
---
Extra Song Bonus!! I couldn't help but make a reference in the fic to “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies. This song and band are awesome. Youtube it. (The lyrics are hella long, so I won't post the all here. Plus you really have to hear the delivery. But here is part:)
Suicidal Tendencies - “Institutionalized”
I was in my room and I was just like staring at the wall thinking about everything.
But then again, I was thinking about nothing
And then my mom came in and I didn't even know she was there.
She called my name and I didn't hear her and then she started screaming: MIKE! MIKE!
And I go:
What, what's the matter?
She goes:
What's the matter with you?
I go:
There's nothing wrong mom.
She's all:
Don't tell me that, you're on drugs!
I go:
No, mom, I'm not on drugs. I'm okay. I was just thinking, you know, why don't you get me a Pepsi?
She goes:
NO, you're on drugs!
I go:
Mom, I'm okay, I'm just thinking.
She goes:
No, you're not thinking, you're on drugs! Normal people don't be acting that way!
I go:
Mom, just get me a Pepsi, please.
All I want is a Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me.
All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me!
Just a Pepsi!
They give you a white shirt with long sleeves
Tied around you're back, you're treated like thieves
Drug you up because they're lazy
It's too much work to help a crazy
I'm not crazy - Institution
You're the one who's crazy - Institution
You're driving me crazy - Institution
They stuck me in an institution,
Said it was the only solution,
to give me the needed professional help,
to protect me from the enemy - Myself
I was sitting in my room when my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up a chair and they sat down.
They go:
Mike, we need to talk to you.
And I go:
Okay what's the matter?
They go:
Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you've been having a lot of problems,
And you've been going off for no reason and we're afraid you're going to hurt somebody,
And we're afraid you're going to hurt yourself.
So we decided that it would be in you're best interest if we put you somewhere
Where you could get the help that you need.
And I go:
Wait, what are you talking about, WE decided!?
MY best interests?! How do you know what MY best interest is?
How can you say what MY best interest is? What are you trying to say, I'M crazy?
When I went to YOUR schools, I went to YOUR churches,
I went to YOUR institutional learning facilities?! So how can you say I'M crazy?
They say they're gonna fix my brain
Alleviate my suffering and my pain
But by the time they fix my head
Mentally I'll be dead
I'm not crazy - Institution
You're the one who's crazy - Institution
You're driving me crazy - Institution
They stuck me in an institution,
Said it was the only solution,
to give me the needed professional help,
to protect me from the enemy - Myself
Doesn't matter, I'll probably get hit by a car anyways.
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.
______________________
Ch. 3: Saeed
Dean winced against the pounding of his head. Something felt off, but he couldn't find it in him to even open his eyes. His brain felt like it had been on the wrong end of a meat grinder.
He remembered Dillan putting him in a choke hold... He'd been running past him to...
Sam.
Dean's eyes flew open and he jerked upright. Or, tried to. He seemed to be in the infirmary, restrained upon the bed he was lying in. Frustration seared through him. Now is not the time for this shit! He strained at the straps, trying to find some give so he could work his way out.
“Nice to see you awake, Winchester.”
Dean growled in the back of his throat.
One of the assistant psychiatrists was looking down at him blandly. He wasn't particularly tall, short, skinny or fat. He wasn't particularly anything, except his eye sometimes carried an odd gleam of what looked like envy. The brunet man would have looked young and even wholesome if it weren't for the strangely expansive full beard he wore which looked so out of place on him. It was Dr. Kubrick's crony, the one who'd been overseeing his `medication' while Kubrick oversaw his case remotely. This guy, he was a real dick, just like Kubrick.
“As you can see, we found it might be prudent to restrain you, especially given your track record,” Dr. Walter's voice was softly chiding. His eyes said he thought this was a riot. “We were afraid you might hurt others. We were afraid you would hurt yourself.” He smiled apologetically. “We just want what's in your best interests.”
MY best interests?
“What's my cocktail this time, Doc?” Dean sneered with an answering smile that was equally insincere. He was still pulling at his bonds, the urge to smash Walter's face in becoming overwhelming. He didn't feel right.
“Oh, I think you'll find it already chugging away in your system, making you right again.”
Dean gritted his teeth, feeling a small surge of panic as his hostility spiked. “Where's Dr. Singer?” Were they going to work him over like last time? Would they get their hands back on him, taking him out of Bobby's care? He'd just been starting to feel normal again!
“Dr. Singer is off for the next few days. He left the facility today at 3:30 p.m.” The bearded assistant doctor informed him pleasantly. “Don't worry; we'll be taking good care of you.”
“I don't need taken care of,” Dean bit out. “I'm fine. And I have a right to know what medications you're giving me.”
Walter came over and sat down on the bed. His presence there was infuriating. Dean could hardly stand it, or tolerate the feeling of the bed dipping beneath the man's weight. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” the man said, shaking his head bemusedly. “You, of course, know about every single medication noted in your file.”
Dean's eyes narrowed. “And what about those that you aren't reporting?”
Walter laughed. “What are you trying to imply there?”
“Exactly what you think.”
“Careful, Winchester.” Walter's eyes held a subtle glitter above his professional smile. “You can't prove anything, not with your word against ours. You'll just wind up looking more paranoid and delusional than you already are.”
“I'll kill you if I ever get the chance,” Dean said darkly.
“Do you mind if I put that in your file?” Dr. Walter asked amiably, poising a pen above the small notebook he carried. “I think it would be a nice addition, a real winner for placing you back in solitary. You were happy there, I wager?”
“Yeah, it was fucking great.”
Walter snapped his notebook shut, aiming a wide smile his way. “What a life. Helping people attain their full potential. There's nothing else like it.” He shook his head ruefully. “Now then.” He produced a small syringe from the pocket of his white jacket. Removing the cap, he held it up and then tapped it to make any air bubbles surface the depressed the plunger enough to force some of the liquid from the needle's metal tip. “I'll just leave you with a parting gift and let you get some rest.”
---
“Dean?” a voice faded in from nowhere. “Dean?” It was faint, like it was coming in through a layer of cotton balls.
He couldn't place it, but his body was already reacting, breaking out into a cold sweat as if the voice was coming from beyond the grave. And here he was, strapped to a bed and drugged half out of his mind. Helplessness echoed the thought and made him absolutely furious.
“Dean.”
He felt something brush his face. Something cold, clammy. His muscles jerked, and he knew his arms and legs were still securely strapped down. Jesus. He was trapped. His fists clenched and re-clenched uselessly.
“Dean, are you in there?”
Suddenly, bright light was shining into his naked eye, the lids being held open. “G...Get away...from me,” he ground out, throat working reflexively.
“Dean, it's Dr. Singer. Can you understand me?”
“Bo..bby?” he wasn't sure if he should believe it. Though it did sort of sound like him.
He heard the doctor sigh in response. “Or `Robert',” he corrected. “But I guess I'll let it go this time.”
Dean was sure then, that this was Bobby, all right. He'd always gotten a kick out of the doctor's lack of enthusiasm over his nickname. Bobby was a good sport about it, though.
“Dean, can you open your eyes?”
“I dunno, they don't seem to be thrilled at the prospect.”
“All right then. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I...” Dean paused. “I don't seem to remember at the moment.” He wasn't sure what he should say. Surely Bobby could see there was something wrong with him, but would he assume that this was a sort of relapse? Would he believe it if I told him about Walter? Or did Walter have a point? Would he be written off as paranoid and delusional?
Goddamn, he felt tired.
“Dean, I'm going to let you sleep,” Bobby's voice faded in and out. “I'll be back later to check on you.”
---
When Dean woke up again, he felt a bit better. He also found that he could sit up, so he did so right away. It made his head swim violently.
“Hey, take it easy, tiger.”
Firm hands were pushing him back down onto the bed. They belonged to his favorite goon, Paulo. He groaned as his stomach suddenly began cramping up with hunger. “C'mon, let me up, man, I got stuff to do.”
“Like what, Winchester? Can't be to take a piss, they got you all hooked up.” The solidly built orderly indicated the IVs in his arm and Dean realized they must have him cathed. He tried to move the blankets aside to double check but the full body straps had been swapped for wrist restraints. He could sit up all right, but he wasn't going anywhere. His legs were as immobile as before.
Paulo moved the blanket aside slightly so Dean could see the edge of the catheter bag strapped to his leg.
Christ. Caths really bugged the shit out of him. Not to mention, it seemed overkill for being in here for a few hours. “I'm hungry.”
“Yeah, I'll bet you are, being on liquids for days. But they'll just send a tray down now that you're with it.” Paulo picked up his radio and made the call.
Days? Dean frowned. “What do you mean `days'? I've only been here a few hours.”
“Nope. Dr. Singer was already gone when they brought you in and you were still out of it when he came back. And I happen to know that he was not in the entire weekend.”
“So, it's Monday?” Dean asked, trying to get his bearings.
Paulo shook his head. “Tuesday. Doc came to see you Monday but said you needed to sleep it off.”
“Shit.”
“No kidding. What'd you do this time?”
Just tried to see what the hell brought my brother in here like that, strapped to a cart like he was a corpse. Dean suddenly did not feel like talking. At least not to anyone but Bobby. This was personal. “Where's Singer?”
Thinking about Sam was making him restless. Worse than restless. Especially since several days had slipped past since he'd seen Sam's face, and had tried to get to him. He needed to make sure Sammy was ok. What if he's woken up while I was stuck in here? Fear overrode some of his anxiety at their first meeting in over 10 years. He was half out of his mind with worry and being prevented from acting according to his instincts was making him hostile. Maybe Bobby could get him unlooped and he could try again to get in to see Sam. But there was absolutely nothing he could do from this bed.
“He'll be back this afternoon.”
“I'll be waiting.”
---
“Good afternoon, Dean,” Dr. Singer greeted him as he came in the room. “How are you feeling?”
“Like Miss America. Can you get me the hell out of here already? It's driving me nuts and I can't even get a proper fucking meal. If they hand me one more fucking fruit cup, I swear to god--”
“Something's bothering you.” Bobby pulled up a chair, checked his vitals and shone the light into his eyes again. “I haven't seen you like this before.”
“I just want out,” he said shortly.
Dean tried to put Sammy from his mind, but the more he tried, the more he thought about it, and the angrier he was that he was being kept from him. He was pissed at being kept here, pissed at Dillan, pissed at med-happy Walker, and he guessed just pissed off in general. It was all accompanied by a fluffy haziness that felt like dementia.
If he told Bobby about Sam, would it help or make things worse? Agitation fizzled through his protesting body. He couldn't stand it.
“What's wrong, Dean? Be honest.”
Dean grit his teeth. “It's...” It really went against his instincts to say anything at all, but the words were starting to slip out. “It's Sammy. He's... I don't know what happened, but he's my brother and I saw him come in.” He shook his head. “What the hell did they put me on? I feel like shit.”
“Anti-depressants, and anti-psychotics.”
“What the hell for?” He wanted to shout. “I'm human, shouldn't I be allowed to react to things? Are you going to medicate my brains out if I show a flicker of anything you don't think you like?” Was his trust in Bobby unfounded? Did he agree with what they'd done?
“Dean, I want to level with you here,” Dr. Singer said frankly. “I have been re-evaluating your medications and weaning you off of the ones I feel were causing your aggression to get the better of you, and with good results. But erratic behavior is always cause for alarm, especially in cases like yours. We don't want any accidents. Even at your best, you have poor impulse control--”
“So does 80% of the population,” he retorted.
Dr. Singer said nothing for a moment. “Are you finished? May I continue?”
“Only if you can do something about these meds that are making the inside of my head feel like strawberry shortcake land. I feel like I'm stuck in the mind of a 5 year old girl. It's creeping me out.”
“I'll tell you what. I'll do the minimum preventative drug therapy I am allowed. In return, I need you to be on your best behavior.”
“Seems like a rotten deal for me.”
“Well, I suppose it might look that way, but I know something you don't know.”
Dean looked suspicious. “Yeah? What's that?”
“If you show some sort of consistent stability, I think it's possible they'll let you visit Sam.”
“What?” Dean was all alert and tense. “Why? Why would they do that?”
“Well, in cases of catatonia, things or people that are familiar can sometimes bring sufferers out of it. You're family. We did a blood test to verify you are related, though this information has not been released to the entire staff. They weren't sure of anything at first, only that your brother had a note on him when he was brought in. The only thing on it was your first name, the name of this facility and the state.” He watched Dean for a reaction. “So, what do you say?”
Dean dropped his head back on the pillow, utterly floored. “Ok, you have a deal.”
“Oh, but there is one other thing.”
Dean closed his eyes briefly, face not betraying any emotion he might have been feeling. He gave the doctor an expectant, deadpan look, lips twisting briefly. “And that would be?”
“He can't be told anything about his accident. At least not yet. His memory, if he wakes up, is bound to be hazy for a while. It has been suggested that you pretend you know nothing, at least for a time, so he isn't shocked back into it. The longer he spends conscious and responsive, the slimmer the chance is that he will lapse back into a catatonic state.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“You could pretend you aren't related, so that you won't be seen as a source of information.”
“Uh, yeah. You think he'll fall for that?”
“I don't know. How important is it to you that he remains awake, if he wakes up at all?”
Dean glared at him. “What do you mean `if'? Of course he's gonna wake up.”
“Of course,” Dr. Singer said placatingly.
---
One and a half weeks later...
It was a lazy afternoon and several of the residents were playing a friendly game of cards with some severely high stakes.
“Hey, Dean,” one of the older residents said, a frown twitching on his face. “Anybody ever tell you that you eat a lot?”
“Mn? Mrelly?” Dean was playing with his cards in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He laid the sandwich down on his knee while he grabbed a handful of Cheetos from the bag he'd just won from the guy. He was in good spirits, this being his 5th winning hand in a row.
“Yeah,” a bulky guy with a shaved head said hostilely. “And you cheat.” This garnered nods from the rest of the group.
“Ladies,” Dean laughed. “I do not cheat.”
“I miss women,” a guy that had somehow gotten dubbed `Pokey' said glumly. “I don't know why I signed myself into this place.”
“Because,” said a 20-something biker that went by the name Garnet, “in addition to your shit memory, you were a hopeless klepto-stalker.” He had a serious expression and a long black ponytail that was bound with many hair ties, evenly spaced all the way down, and looked like he might be part Native American. Dean wasn't quite sure on why he was in here unless he was severely OCD or something.
“I did not steal stuff!” Pokey claimed indignantly.
“Yes, you did,” argued Garnet without any inflection in his voice. “And you still do. I want my dreamcatcher back.”
“Well, seeing as I don't have your dream whatsit feathery thing--”
“It was a gift from my late grandmother. Your turn, Dean.”
Dean played a card and dug into the bag of Cheetos. Card games could sometimes be quite entertaining, even without the winning. He usually kept his mouth shut and enjoyed the show.
“Well,” Pokey said sullenly, “my point was, I miss getting laid.”
“Don't see that changing just by you gettin' outta here, son,” Garth, the older guy with a cloud of ginger colored Einstein-like hair, commented.
Pokey played his card with a monumental frown on his face. “Would it kill them to let us get a little action?”
“You know,” Jared drawled, “you could always just bat for the other team. Prolly some guys here that are hard up enough for it.” Jared was a mean-looking weight-lifter with a shaved head. He could pretty much say whatever the hell he wanted and no one had the balls to challenge him on it. He was also about the last guy in the world that would be interested in other dudes. Dean suspected that underneath that burly exterior, he had quite a sense of humor.
Pokey looked horrified. “The hell you say to me?”
Jared played a card. “Just sayin'. If you're gonna waste time bitching about something you can't change, I'm more than happy to point out a solution. `Course, it don't matter to me if you'd rather wear out your right hand.”
Pokey turned 4 shades of red.
“Well, I mind,” Garnet said, “seeing as I have to share a room with him.”
“Maybe he's in denial,” Garth added with a twitter of a laugh. “Better watch your ass, Garnet. Since he's already started taking your shit, maybe you're next.”
“Yeah, right, Pokey's a bitch,” Garnet mused, regarding his cards and planning his next move. “No way he'd get the jump on someone. Besides, if he even tried, I'd break both his hands.”
“Pretty rough stuff,” Jared said to Pokey. “What would you do without your girlfriend or your backup girlfriend?”
“Guess he'd have to hope someone in here was desperate enough to do his sorry ass,” Dean said, adding to the smaller man's horror. “Read `em an' weep, boys,” he said as he won the game. Score one more for team Winchester, he thought with a smirk.
“God dammit,” Jared cursed. He glared at Dean as he dug into his back pocket and then slapped a small box into the spikey-haired man's hand. “Motherfucker, I should crush your spine. That was my last pack of smokes.”
“Want to come outside and watch me smoke one later?” Dean asked with a charming lift of his brows.
“Ass,” Jared muttered. “I don't know why I even play with you.”
Dean smiled as he got up and stretched. “Beats the hell out of me. Unless it's because I'm one of the few assholes who actually use the gym and can spot you.”
Jared nodded with a so-help-me-god expression upon his face.
Dean grabbed his winnings off of the table, piling them into his arms. Snacks, smokes, a shirt or two, some cash, hair gel, and a novel by Nelson DeMille that Garth had only gotten to read the first half of. It was a good lot.
“Off already?” Garnet asked.
“Yeah. Stuff to do.”
“I hear you've been visiting someone,” Pokey said, piping up now that he had a chance to put someone else in the hot seat. “One of the patients here.”
“You don't say,” Dean said as if it was a revelation. “You find out who it is, be sure to let me know.”
Pokey deflated a little in his confusion.
“There's a rumor you're in to see that sleep-case Campbell,” Garth said.
“Well hey, it's a good cover, then,” Dean said glibly. “They'll never miss me as I'm pleasing the ladies in the east wing.” He wasn't ready to say anything about Sam. Not yet. Maybe after he woke up, it would be clearer how he could handle things. Should he let anyone know they were related? That would explain the time he was spending with Sam, but... he had a few hostiles that might take out their aggression on his brother to spite him, and he didn't want that.
“Why would they let you in there?” Pokey asked.
“In where?” Jared said.
“In either place,” Pokey insisted. “But I meant Campbell's room.”
“Why? You interested?” Jared ribbed him. “I heard he's pretty, for a guy.” As Pokey spluttered, the weight-lifter looked up at Dean. “What do you think, Winchester?”
Dean shrugged. “Sorry. Not my type.”
The bickering continued even after he left and he was glad to be out of there. Their joking was all in good fun, but they were getting a little too close to the truth.
He stopped by his room, grateful that he no longer had to share it with Ed, to drop off his winnings. Since his supposed `psychotic break' the day Sam was brought in, he'd had to endure the drastic change in the medications he was being forced to take, but the plus side to it was that he now had a room to himself. He guessed staffers were worried he might kill Ed in his sleep. Which anyone might have wanted to do even on a good, sane day.
He dumped the stuff onto his mattress and then got on his knees to check under the bed. The line was mostly intact. He adjusted it a little then nodded and got to his feet. Dusting his hands off, he looked around the room. He'd go to see Sam in a few minutes, but first, he needed to do a couple things. He'd go wash up, brush his teeth and all that jazz, then swing by the cafeteria to see if he could make some more salt shakers go mysteriously missing. He needed at least one more aside from the one in his jacket.
There wasn't a lot of action at this facility, but you couldn't be too careful. Besides, he had heard a few ghost stories.
---
Dean used the key they'd given him to enter Sam's room. They monitored the hall pretty frequently, checking this room at least every 30 minutes. He wasn't sure when the last pass was, so he would have to work quickly. He dropped to his knees and crawled partway under the bed, reaching into his jacket for one of the salt shakers. The rubber stopper in the bottom came out pretty easily, and he continued the line he'd begun drawing 2 days ago, tracing the perimeter of the bed, just far enough in that no one should notice it unless they stooped down.
When the salt shaker was empty, he plugged it and put it into his jacket, grabbing out the other one and repeating the process.
As he thought, it took the full 2 salt shakers to finish the line. That left him with one spare for emergencies, the one he carried on him at all times. Couldn't be too careful. The last thing he needed was a spiritual intervention. Same went for Sammy. Only he was in a compromised state, so he was much more at risk.
Dean came out from under the bed, feeling a lot better at finally being able to complete the protective ring of salt. He'd like if he could get a hold of some chalk, but he hadn't yet located anyone that had any.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at his brother. “You're a regular sleeping beauty, you know that?” he said to Sam. “The guys are all talking about you and you haven't even met anyone yet. Guess you make quite an impression.”
Sam was still, and not even a muscle twitched in response. His face was like a smooth mask. Untouchable. Dean reached out to poke it. “Bitch,” he said softly, missing the comeback that would have been sure to follow if Sam had been awake to hear him.
Little Sammy had been so upset the first time he'd called him that, turning red and thrusting out that bottom lip so far you could hang something on it. It was adorable. `I am not a bitch,' he'd informed his older brother with a mighty glare. `You... jerk.' Their mom had flipped when she found out, catching them in the middle of that kind of exchange on more than one occasion. Which was hilarious. After a time, the bitch/jerk thing had become a sort of in-joke for them.
Dean sighed and got to his feet, the silence getting to him more than usual this time.
I'll come back tomorrow, early, he thought as he got up and let himself out, feeling bad about having such an abbreviated visit. ”'Night, Sammy.” He turned off the light and let himself out.
He didn't see Sam's lips move, or hear the faint word, hardly louder than a breath as his brother unconsciously uttered, “Jerk.”
---
Dean tossed and turned that night in his room. Sleep was just damn elusive at times. On nights like these, he would have loved to go outside, wander around the expansive grove of oak trees that this place was named for. Or, at the least, get out of this room and stretch his legs in the halls. But that wasn't possible. They were locked up nice and tight in their rooms at lights out. Not a good system to be on if you were a night owl, which Dean was.
It was eating away at him, he'd just realized tonight, that he was starting to wonder if Sam was ever going to wake up. He'd had some half-deluded notion that after a day or two, Sam would pop out of it like a daisy and they could have the full on awkward reunion they were owed.
Dean rubbed his hands over his face. What was he going to tell Sam after that, about Mom, or his girlfriend? Nobody was really sure what had even happened. All they know is that the two were on the unwitting end of a bloodbath, and that Sam was brought in, in pretty rough shape himself, by a man claiming to be his father.
According to Dr. Singer, after Sam's condition stabilized, the physicians at the general hospital realized he was showing signs of `comatoid catatonia'. Dean had committed the words to memory, but it was just bunch of mumbo jumbo to him. Apparently it was a comatose state that didn't have a medical cause and could have been brought on by an emotional shock to his system. Like a deadly level of stress that made parts of a person just shut off.
They'd had no way to contact the man who'd brought Sam in, and the police apparently had no luck locating John Winchester, whom they'd found, with some digging, to be his father. All that left was the note. Dean guessed that they might as well bring Sam where his surviving family was being kept. Probably why they did the blood test, to see who `Dean' was supposed to be.
Their mom's death came as a shock... but he wasn't all that broken up about it. Sometimes he'd missed her over the years. But he'd never forget her looking him in the eye, telling him he was just like his father, and walking out on them. Are you supposed to forgive something like that? He wasn't sure, but forgiveness was going to be a long time in coming. Still, he hadn't hated his mom. Maybe resented her a little, but he certainly hadn't wanted to see her dead.
But Sam was different. He'd lived with her since he was 10. How hard must that have been for him? And his girlfriend, too... That had to have been rough.
Dean rolled over and faced the wall. He wondered absently if Sammy was more upset over mom or his girlfriend. Was it the same girl he'd seen in that cafe a few years back? Could it have been serious?
The thought unsettled him. He chose not to dwell upon it.
Instead, he considered the circumstances of the deaths. Had something attacked them in the park that day? Was that why Dad had been there? It was possible he'd been hunting something and followed it there. Or was it a fluke and just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Like finding yourself on the wrong end of a crazy bastard's knife? Maybe it was just some psycho serial killer deal.
“Mn,” he groaned aloud, brow furrowing as he found his mind drifting back to the girlfriend. He needed a distraction. He obviously wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon.
He rolled over and got up, going to the small, bolted down dresser that held his clothes and some odds and ends. Rifling through one of the drawers, he pulled out a flashlight he'd won in a game of poker. He put the penlight in his teeth and grabbed Bobby's big ass book off the top of the dresser. He could at least read while he waited for dawn.
He put it on the bed, flopping onto his stomach and training the flashlight upon it. He was on a page that was discussing what modern day medicine had dubbed “Rip Van Winkle Syndrome,” where the afflicted could fall asleep for days, months, even years. It was attributed here to tree spirits who sapped the life force from someone. Even so, the affect was the same. One might awaken to find everything in their life had changed. Spouses, friends, or family might be dead or had moved on. He flipped past the rest of it, not wanting to dwell on that sort of thing. Sam was going to wake up. He would.
He skipped to another section, trying to take in what it was saying. After a few minutes, the words began to swim before his eyes.
“Wake up, damn, you,” he said into the empty room. He covered his eyes with his hand. “Just wake the hell up already. Sam.”
---
TBC
A/N: Chapter title from:
Infected Mushroom - “Saeed”
I feel ashamed, again and again
Nothing to give, and no-one to blame
During the day, I guess I'm OK
[x5]
At night
I sit by your side
Waiting for you, to give me a sign
I'm counting the days
And have nothing to say
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins
I've got nothing to say to you
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...
I feel ashamed, again and again, nothing to give, no one to blame, during the day
I guess I'm OK
At night, I sit by your side
Waiting for you, to give me a sign
I'm counting the days, and have nothing to say
(cut the chain of lies, you've been feeding my veins)
[x6]
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins
I've got nothing to say to you
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies I've been beating and beating and beating myself...
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies you've been feeding my veins
I've got nothing to say to you
I hope I can chill and stay the same
Stop the bleed inside and feel again
Cut the chain of lies I've been beating myself without nothing to say to you, nothing to say to you
---
Extra Song Bonus!! I couldn't help but make a reference in the fic to “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies. This song and band are awesome. Youtube it. (The lyrics are hella long, so I won't post the all here. Plus you really have to hear the delivery. But here is part:)
Suicidal Tendencies - “Institutionalized”
I was in my room and I was just like staring at the wall thinking about everything.
But then again, I was thinking about nothing
And then my mom came in and I didn't even know she was there.
She called my name and I didn't hear her and then she started screaming: MIKE! MIKE!
And I go:
What, what's the matter?
She goes:
What's the matter with you?
I go:
There's nothing wrong mom.
She's all:
Don't tell me that, you're on drugs!
I go:
No, mom, I'm not on drugs. I'm okay. I was just thinking, you know, why don't you get me a Pepsi?
She goes:
NO, you're on drugs!
I go:
Mom, I'm okay, I'm just thinking.
She goes:
No, you're not thinking, you're on drugs! Normal people don't be acting that way!
I go:
Mom, just get me a Pepsi, please.
All I want is a Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me.
All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me!
Just a Pepsi!
They give you a white shirt with long sleeves
Tied around you're back, you're treated like thieves
Drug you up because they're lazy
It's too much work to help a crazy
I'm not crazy - Institution
You're the one who's crazy - Institution
You're driving me crazy - Institution
They stuck me in an institution,
Said it was the only solution,
to give me the needed professional help,
to protect me from the enemy - Myself
I was sitting in my room when my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up a chair and they sat down.
They go:
Mike, we need to talk to you.
And I go:
Okay what's the matter?
They go:
Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you've been having a lot of problems,
And you've been going off for no reason and we're afraid you're going to hurt somebody,
And we're afraid you're going to hurt yourself.
So we decided that it would be in you're best interest if we put you somewhere
Where you could get the help that you need.
And I go:
Wait, what are you talking about, WE decided!?
MY best interests?! How do you know what MY best interest is?
How can you say what MY best interest is? What are you trying to say, I'M crazy?
When I went to YOUR schools, I went to YOUR churches,
I went to YOUR institutional learning facilities?! So how can you say I'M crazy?
They say they're gonna fix my brain
Alleviate my suffering and my pain
But by the time they fix my head
Mentally I'll be dead
I'm not crazy - Institution
You're the one who's crazy - Institution
You're driving me crazy - Institution
They stuck me in an institution,
Said it was the only solution,
to give me the needed professional help,
to protect me from the enemy - Myself
Doesn't matter, I'll probably get hit by a car anyways.