Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ Killing Time ( Chapter 4 )

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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. 4: Killing Time


Two months later...

Dr. Robert Singer was relaxing in his office when rapid knocking burst upon his door. He consulted his watch, seeing that it was still early for his 10 a.m. appointment. “Come in?” he said.

Paulo, the orderly poked his head in. “You have a few minutes, Doc?”

Dr. Singer ran a hand over his greying beard. “Is Winchester with you?” he guessed.

“Yeah. He wanted to come early for some reason.”

“It's fine.”

Paulo moved from the doorway and ushered in his charge.

“Heya, Bobby.” Dean greeted him as he slid into the room and sat sloppily in one of the available chairs. He certainly had a way of sprawling that made him look like he was lying on a bed instead of actually sitting in a chair.

“That's Robert, or Dr. Singer. Dean, we've talked about this.”

“Sure, sure,” the young man said congenially with a fat smile upon his face. “Whatever you say.” It was obvious he took great joy in trying to harass him with the informal nickname.

Dr. Singer internally shook his head as he got more settled.

“So, listen, Doc,” Dean said brightly, leaning forward in his chair. “I have great news!”

“Oh? And what might that be?” `News', he ruminated absently, could be the most trivial of matters to his patients, such as discovering a new crack in the wall, or hearing that a new side dish was going to be served in the cafeteria. Or, depending on the patient, it could be something that was all in their head. It didn't really matter what it was. As long as it was important to them, his job was to show interest and not minimalize their feelings. It was a good sign when they wanted to share information with him, confide in him. It showed trust and that was key to his being able to help them.

Of course, he did expect more from the young man in front of him than an accounting of cracked plaster. But he would refrain from further expectations. There had been days where he wasn't sure whether Dean didn't suffer from general delusions, but it was still something that was hard to pin down. He was pretty closed-lipped about important things.

There was an intense gleam in Dean's eyes as he said , “Sammy's waking up today.”

Dr. Singer tapped a pencil against his leg. Sam Campbell, Dean's brother, was suffering a sort of `comatoid catatonia', a condition that is diagnosed only after the common medical/neurological etiologies of a coma had been considered and ruled out. Catatonia as a psychiatric coma was rare, but not unheard of. It could arise from many different sources such as depression, emotional or psychological trauma, or even as a symptom of a condition such as schizophrenia. It was undetermined as to what the cause was in Sam's case. As such, treatment was difficult.

Sam had entered the hospital a little over 2 months ago. He'd shown signs of cognizance, yet had not regained a wakeful state in this time.

He was afraid that it was having an affect on Dean's stability. Around 3 weeks after he'd started visiting his brother in his room, Dean had seemed to suffer a breakdown. Nothing overt to the casual observer, at least not at first, except for a tendency to avoid others. But as time passed and there was no change in Sam's condition, Dean got worse. His behavior and speech had become vague and a little odd and he started to avoid others entirely. He spent a good portion of his time holed up in Sam's room and could be openly hostile if anyone so much as mentioned his brother or leaving his side. Robert suspected that they had been very close and that the pressure had finally gotten to him. Unfortunately, he'd had to alter Dean's medication to compensate for it. This exacerbated the strange behavior, but Dean now seemed to be eating and taking better care of himself, and was not as adverse to socializing as before.

If Sam did ever regain consciousness, it was quite possible that Dean would recover completely and the medication could once more be reduced or eliminated. However, this idea that Sam was going to wake up soon might just be another flight of fancy. He'd seen the cycle of depression, denial and hopefulness plenty of times.

“What makes you so sure?” he asked the dark-haired young man.

“I just know. I visit him everyday, you see.” He seemed proud over this fact. “So I can just tell.” His head tilted in challenge, as if he was expecting he might be argued with.

Dr. Singer nodded, deciding to go for a positive note. Who was he to say it wouldn't happen? It was possible. Just not likely. Either way, Dean needed his hope. “Well, if he does wake soon, I look forward to speaking with him.”

“Not before I do.” Dean said warningly, eyes sharpening and body language becoming closed. “I found out first. It's my right.”

Robert didn't argue with him but made note of the aggression and over-protectiveness. “You will be his first visitor,” he confirmed and Dean visibly relaxed.

The doctors, himself included, would naturally need to see Sam first and make assessments. But there was no need to tell Dean `no' and upset him further. He really would be the first `visitor' after all. Just not the first person to interact with Sam. It was best to find ways to say `yes' to the patients whenever possible. It let them maintain stability and calm which was better for them.

---

Sam felt like he was going to be sick. His head felt like hell and he was horribly disoriented. He clutched the sheets as a wave of nausea and a detached wave of panic lapped at him.

He'd woken up a few minutes ago in a room he'd never seen before, stomach gurgling emptily and his throat on fire. His vision was also blurry. Still, he could make out that the room was square, had a window on one end to his right and had short vertical blinds along the wall behind him and wrapping around to his left where there was a door. They only went about halfway down the wall from the ceiling and seemed to indicate somebody having some odd taste for placing windows.

Upon inspection, he was also hooked up to a bunch of tubes and a few wires. They really bugged him, just seeing them sticking out of him, so he started pulling them out. The medical tape really hurt when he pulled it up off of his inner arm but he winced more over the sight of the needle with its flexible plastic wings that he had to slide out of his vein. It made his knees go kind of weak and his head start to spin. There was another sticking out of the top of his left hand, and he got rid of that one, too.

He guessed that if he was hooked up to this much equipment, and had no idea how he got here, he was probably out of it enough that they might have him on a catheter. He shuddered. Seriously, medical shit could really freak him out.

He took a deep breath and flipped the blankets off of his lap and did indeed find himself so endowed. “Oh, god,” he said as his stomach protested the thought of the tube that had a direct line to his bladder being put in, or being pulled out again. “Great.”

Sure, he was smart enough for med school but there were more than a few reasons he chose law. One of those reasons was currently staring him in the face. He was squeamish as hell about stuff like this.

There were more tubes on the catheter contraption than he'd expected, as well as a valve, and even a balloon-like thingy. It definitely looked like something that needed expertise to remove. He had the urge to just try getting rid of the thing himself, but he was afraid of either passing out mid-effort, or permanently damaging his own equipment. He flipped the blanket back over himself and turned his head away quickly, eyes wide, jaw set and expression somewhat blank as he tried not to think about it. Tried to forcibly to forget its existence.

His eyes started roving the room again after the initial panicked feeling subsided. It was very white in here. The room, the blankets and sheets, his hospital gown. At least, he thought it was a hospital gown.

“Where's a nurse when you need one?” he said in a voice that was raspy with under use. He looked for a nurse's call button. They ought to be able to get this thing off of him, and the sooner the better. But he couldn't find one. Another oddity was the lack of a television mounted near the ceiling. All hospital rooms had those these days, didn't they? There were two doors, one with a thin, rectangular window, on the same wall with the blinds, and the other with none. The one with a window was the way out. The other was probably a bathroom. He felt like he could stand to shower, as if he'd been in bed for days, though not before finding that nurse he needed.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and noted that his back felt like utter hell. How long had he been in this bed?

Standing proved to be an unforeseen obstacle to walking. He nearly crashed face-first onto the linoleum when he attempted it, knocking over the rack that held the IV bags he'd been connected to in the process. He caught himself on the bedside table that luckily enough was bolted to the floor. Though, that is a bit odd, he thought.

Sam gathered himself and shuffled slowly to the door via the perimeter of the room, steadying himself with the wall. He felt astoundingly weak and rubber-legged. But he was determined, perhaps to a fault, and he refused to sit around, waiting for someone to happen by. He'd go find someone himself.

He made it to the door and triumphantly turned the handle. There was a small click, like the sound of a lock being released.

Edging out of the room, he was taken quite suddenly by a wave of disorientation. The hallway looked nothing like a hospital. For one, there were no bumper rails. Secondly, the floor was made of a sort of laminated red brick which did not lie level and gave the impression of being somewhat haphazard and cockeyed. And another thing, the hall was deserted. Hospitals were busy places. Nurses, doctors, and other staff could always be seen bustling to and fro. He felt his brows draw together in a an anxious frown which was becoming more and more familiar upon his face.

But if this isn't a hospital... Where the hell am I?

He could hear some distant voices and was no longer sure if he should seek them out or avoid them.

---

Dean rounded the corner, swinging Sam's room key on his finger as he whistled. He'd been by 3 times already today, but thought another visit couldn't hurt. Just as he'd told the doc, he was certain it would be today that Sam finally snapped out of it. He'd said something to Bobby about his keen observational skills or whatever, but really? He just had a feeling.

“Hm?” He saw someone down the hall, leaning hard against the wall, clothed in one of the facility dresses, and wearing nothing on their feet. Well, they weren't really dresses. More like a cloth hospital gown that had little snap buttons all the way up the back and reached most people's knees. He should know. He'd been wearing one himself shortly after Sammy had come here.

He stopped in front of Sam's room, eyes still on the person making their way slowly down the hall, leaning heavily against the wall. Aside from the fact that nothing was down there except for the locked entrance to the women's residences, something was bothering him about the patient. He frowned, and the urge to check into the stranger tugged at him insistently. He'd been holding the key out to unlock Sam's door, but found himself pocketing it distractedly before continuing down the hall.

As he got within maybe 20 feet, the person suddenly straightened from where they'd been hunching over and Dean's heart started to thud in his chest. There was something about them - their frame and their profile. Something so familiar, even down to the sweep of wavy hair at the back of their neck. “Sam?” he said, not sure what he was expecting. Maybe a stranger's face wearing an odd look? Maybe a hearty `piss off'? It didn't really matter, as long as they turned around.

The brunet turned to him with lost eyes, bangs falling across his pale forehead in a way that made him look so vulnerable and much younger than he was. “Where am I?” Sam said in a tight, roughened voice.

Oh, god, Sammy, you're awake. The relief that washed through Dean in that moment threatened to buckle his legs.

He wanted so badly to run to Sam and embrace him. It had been so long, and he'd been so worried... but he had to remember what Bobby had told him. He shouldn't let Sammy know it was him right away. He had to play the stranger at least until his baby brother wasn't in danger of relapsing. As much as it hurt him to act like he had no ties to Sam, especially when all he'd ever wanted was the chance to see him and talk to him again, it was for the best. He put his own feelings aside.

“You're in a hospital,” Dean said casually.

“No,” Sam said, gritting his teeth, “I'm not. Don't lie to me.” He gestured vaguely to the realm around them with his dark grey eyes. “This look like any sort of normal hospital to you?” His tone was sharp. Wary.

Dean held his hands up to show he was harmless. It stung that Sam was suspicious of him, of all people. He gave his brother a crooked smile. “Yeah, it isn't much to look at, is it? But it is a hospital. Technically.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is Oak Grove. A hospital for drug rehab, recovering alcoholics, and the occasional mental case.” So, he was exaggerating a little. OG was mainly for mental cases. But he was trying to reassure Sam, not make him more twitchy than he already was.

Sam fixed him with an assessing gaze. “And which one are you?”

Dean considered lying, but decided not to for some reason. “A misdiagnosed mental case,” he said with a wink. “How about you?”

“Me?” Sam seemed confused. “I don't... know. I... woke up here and--” he broke off and his eyes had a sort of glazed look. His skin was pretty pale, too. More so than seemed normal.

“Hey,” Dean said, “maybe you shouldn't be wandering around out here. You don't look so good.”

“I'm fine,” Sam said faintly, stubbornness echoing in his voice.

“C'mon, I'll help you back to your room,” Dean offered, reaching for Sam, and had his hand abruptly swatted off.

“I said, I'm fine,” Sam ground out. “I don't need your help.” He turned away and actually had the nerve to start edging down the hall again, despite the sweat that had broken out on his brow. He was the poster child for stubborn and obstinate, just as he always had been when he got an idea in his head.

“For chrissakes,” Dean muttered impatiently, grabbing Sam and slinging his arm around his neck, amid protests. “Quit acting like a stubborn little bitch and let me help you!” he said in irritation. He felt Sam's entire body stiffen and caught a glimpse of wide grey eyes staring at him like he was the Sphinx. “Where's your room?” he said gruffly, looking down the hall and hoping Sam wasn't already busily figuring out who he was.

He needed to be more careful, not fall into old habits or do anything else that might give him away.

“Fourth door down on the right,” Sam said quietly. “I think.”

“All right then.” Dean noticed that the hip and waist beneath his hand were too thin and that he felt kind of strange holding Sammy like this. He shook his head. It had to be the switching back and forth between relief, elation, anger, and relief again in quick succession. Not to mention the lies, and having Sam's gaze resting on him from so close up.

They made it back to the room and Dean eased Sam through the doorway, taking in the state of things inside. The standing rack that held the bags of IV fluids was on the floor and there was a mess of tubes and wires scattered about. “Jesus, what'd you do, ripping all that stuff off you like that?”

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, looking cowed.

“Hey, don't apologize to me, I'm not your keeper.” Dean tried to keep his voice sounding off-handed and uninvolved, unlike a moment ago. This acting thing was harder than he'd thought. “I just feel bad for the med staff,” he explained with a shrug, helping Sam sit on the bed. “They were trying so hard to keep you in one piece. Seems like a shitty way to say `thank you'.”

“Seems like you know an awful lot about it,” Sam said then, gazing at Dean through the tops of his eyes. His lips were in the beginnings of that pouting look that was so hard to resist.

Dean looked away. “You're kind of well known around here. It isn't every day we get someone in who can't even wake up long enough to take a piss on his own.” He tried to create some distance between them with his words. “There was a pool going, betting on how long you'd be out of it.”

“Is that so,” Sam said so quietly, Dean wasn't sure if he was meant to hear it.

“Well, I should be going,” Dean told him, turning his back on his brother, even though he wanted to stay. “Seems like I owe people some money.”

“Wait!”

Dean looked over his shoulder, making sure to affix an unimpressed look upon his face. “What?”

Sam looked conflicted, staring at him with those expressive grey eyes of his. “Do I... know you?”

“Nah. I'd remember you.”

Sam's face flushed a little and Dean wondered why his own words had come out sounding vaguely solicitous. He hadn't meant them to, but... He shrugged and tossed Sam a questionable smile. He supposed if Sam thought he was being hit on, it was all the less likely that he would assume they were brothers.

“Um,” Sam said.

Dean let himself frown discouragingly. “What now?” He was afraid Sam was going to ask him his name. He wanted to avoid that for at least a bit longer. “You need a nurse or something? I can think of one thing you probably weren't too eager to pull off of you.”

The flush on his brother's face was instant. “Geez, have some decency, would you?” Sam muttered. He rubbed a hand over his face, seeming to collect himself. “Fine, just--,” he looked away. “Just get someone then.”

“Sure thing, princess,” Dean shrugged again, heading for the door.

---

Sam watched him go, aggravated that he hadn't managed to ask the guy his name. He wasn't sure they'd ever met before either, but... there was something that was so familiar about him.

His dark hair was spiky and long on the top, shorter on the sides, and his eyes... they reminded him of someone. Sam ran his thumb over his lip, deep in thought. The guy's face was arresting and those green eyes sometimes had a strange look to them. Sam was certain that he would remember meeting someone like him before, but...

He lay back in the bed, trying to assess his fucked up state of being. He felt weak as a kitten, and had even been reacting oddly to things. Out in the hall, he'd felt a strange mix of desperation and uncertainty that had peaked at the man's arrival. He'd felt oddly threatened and had responded with anger.

The man had ignored him and made short work of his protests, herding him along like he'd done it every day of his life. It almost reminded him of his brother Dean.

Sam closed his eyes. But Dean hadn't ever made him feel antsy like this, not that he could recall. And he certainly hadn't been able to make him blush with a few careless words and a tilted smile.

I'm just out of sorts. Thinking too much about things. I'll be back to normal in no time.

Besides, what were the chances he'd meet his brother here anyway? He hadn't been able to locate him even when he'd tried.

He wondered if he'd gotten a chance to ask the guy to stay, if he would have. He didn't really want to be alone. Just now, he could hardly even imagine there being other souls in this place. The dark-haired guy with his mercurial moods seemed almost like an apparition. Or perhaps he himself was. What if he'd died and just didn't realize it?

“Sam?” Green eyes met his, making his heart skip a beat as the subject of his thoughts poked his head into the room. “Some doctors and stuff will be by in a minute. Hang tight.”

Sam nodded.

“You okay?” The guy asked, giving him a scrutinizing glance.

Sam nodded again, thinking, No, I'm not.

“You want me to stay or something?” the dark-haired man offered lightly, as if he hadn't just said a moment ago that he had places to be.

Sam was surprised. It was like his thoughts had been clearly spoken aloud, but he hadn't said a word. And here again was the strangely caring manner that phased in and out from the self-proclaimed mental case. Though the guy had said he was misdiagnosed... “Not if you have somewhere to be.”

He'd just said a minute ago that he had to get going. Had that been just an excuse?

The guy shrugged with a rueful smile. “Ah, well. Guess the guys can wait a bit to collect on our bet, huh, Samm-?”

He looked vaguely uncomfortable suddenly as he sat on Sam's bed. A little twitchy.

That was odd, wasn't it? Sam thought. It had almost seemed like he was going to say `Sammy'. But only his family had ever called him that, making him sound like a little kid. Could he be 100% sure this wasn't his brother? He hadn't seen him in over 10 years. Hell, he didn't even know if Dean was alive.

“So, what's your name?”

“Muhammad,” the green-eyed man said with a flourish. To Sam's skeptical look, he added, “Muhammad the Majestic.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, whatever, man.”

“What, you don't think I'm majestic?” His lips were curving up into a half smirk that was kind of fascinating to watch unfold. “And here I was being humble. I've been told that magnificent is a more fitting description,” his eyes were playful beneath the dark fringe of his lashes, “usually during pillow talk.”

Sam started to laugh, but it died in his throat as fingertips brushed his cheek. He was suddenly having trouble remembering to breathe. There was suddenly a lot less space between them than he remembered. Green eyes filled his vision.

A knock came at the door. “Mr. Campbell?”

The intensity of those strange eyes left him as his visitor turned towards the door and said, “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”

“Yes,” Sam spoke up as his visitor left the bed, “come in.”

A gaggle of men and women in white coats crowded in through the door. Sam felt anxiety wash over him. Why were there so many of them? They were all looking at him expectantly and many held metal clipboards in front of them with pens poised.

Sam looked for spiky dark hair but saw none. His green-eyed spectre had vanished, leaving once again without giving a proper name.

Within moments, he was subject to a barrage of questions from one of the doctors while the rest listened and took notes. A woman, presumably a nurse, began righting the fallen IV stand and coiling tubes and wires. She even tucked him back into his bed as he struggled to answer the questions about how he felt, why he'd been out of bed and why he'd taken it upon himself to remove the IVs and such.

He explained the best he could, and expressed his desire for food, a shower and (embarrassingly enough) the removal of the cath.

The one nurse spoke to him as a doctor shone a light in his eye. “Honey, are you sure you'll be able to take care of `business' by yourself? You look a little worn out.”

“Get it off of me or I'll take my chances taking it off myself,” he said with a steely gaze.

Her eyebrows raised in surprise, disappearing beneath fluffy blonde bangs. “All right, sugar,” the older woman said. “Have it your way.”

“Marilene,” one of the men said warningly.

She rolled her eyes. “Right, right.” She looked at Sam and said, “Sorry, Samuel,” in a way that made him certain she'd been reprimanded for the way she addressed patients before. She was pretty nonchalant about it, and he bet that if all of them left the room, he'd be back to `Sugar' in no time.

“Sam,” the man that had shone the light in his eyes said, “I'm Dr. Robert Singer. Please feel free to ask for me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Sure thing, Bobby,” Sam said absently. For some reason he thought his brother would call the man that, and he couldn't help himself. He really missed him. All the doctor needed was a grungy ball cap on his head and some auto-mechanic tools in his hands to really look like a `Bobby'. He just had the face and the beard for it. But his eyes were sharp, showing a great intellect, and were kind as well. Dean would've had a field day teasing someone like him.

Sam didn't notice the weird look he received. “Please call me Robert, or Dr. Singer,” the man replied. He certainly was as even-keel as he looked. “You may find it easier to contact me that way.”

“Sure. Sorry.” Sam flashed him a half-hearted smile that fell off his face almost instantaneously.

“Marilene will assist you with your requests for now. Please try not to venture outside again. We'll make arrangements for you very soon, just allow us a little time.”

He nodded at the doctor, wondering why everyone was so bent out of shape over him leaving the room.

“Alright, ladies and gents,” the blonde nurse said, waving everyone out. “Give us a little privacy.”

Once they were out, she turned to Sam. “Alright, honey, show me your goods.”

He groaned internally, wanting to do nothing but ignore such a request, but saw no alternative if he wanted to be rid of the catheter.

He really shouldn't be this shy. It wasn't like he'd never been seen naked before; he'd had several girlfriends and was no stranger to the bedroom. Besides, someone had to have put this thing in in the first place. But he couldn't help his face flushing with discomfort. He felt like a bug on a plate.

“So, I saw you had some company earlier,” she said conversationally as she waited for him to be ready.

His brows drew together. “Do you know him?”

She shrugged and started working on the cath - fiddling with the valve or something. “Sure. He's a regular character. Cute, too.”

“What's he in here for?”

“Oh, I can't tell you that,” she said regretfully. “Patient confidentiality and all. But I'm sure you can figure out why most people are here if you are observant enough.”

“He said he was misdiagnoss--gah!” Sam said as he felt something horribly unpleasant in the locale of his nether regions. He glared accusingly at the nurse.

“All done,” she announced, putting the thing aside and taking the cath bag off of his leg. “Good job.”

He dropped his head back onto his pillows and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. That queasy feeling was back. He was grateful that she had been nothing but professional, and that she had distracted him with conversation, but it had still been awful.

“You still up for that bath?”

“Innaminute,” he muttered, his parts still feeling violated. “And it was a shower I wanted.”

“Look, poptart, I know you may think you can handle a shower,” she said dubiously, “but I'm the one responsible if you fall and crack your head.” He opened his eyes and she was standing with her arms crossed over her chest. “You can have a normal bath or a sponge bath. Your choice.”

He frowned at her, wanting to argue.

“The sponge bath leaves a lot less to the imagination,” she prompted, guessing correctly that modesty was a consideration. “And it'd be harder to do your hair up right.”

“You're making me sound like some kind of girl,” he accused.

“Just think how nice it will be to scrub some shampoo into it with some deliciously hot water. It'll feel so much better if you can wash it for real.”

Damn it. She has a point. His hair felt sort of lank and unappealing to him and it was one of the reasons he'd really been set on getting a shower or something in the first place. “Okay, you win.”

“Glad you can see reason. Just give me a minute to start the tub filling.”

---

Dean left Sam with the doctors, feeling wildly unsettled.

Was I just flirting with my own brother?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He'd only been trying to throw Sam off the scent, able to sense the questions that were brimming under the surface, a breath away from being asked, and had decided that embarrassing him or being lewd would be a good way to take the heat off... keep him from asking his name... But... He hadn't counted on Sam reacting like he did, blushing at him like that. Dean hadn't even realized what he was saying afterwards, or even what he was doing, until the doctors arrived and he'd been nearly close enough to kiss him. It wasn't intentional, it had just sort of happened.

Jesus. Was I going to kiss him?

Just how far was he planning to take this `I'm-not-your-brother' thing? It was obvious he was taking this acting role too far.

But the problem might lay in his desperation not to lose Sammy to the coma again. So what if he was throwing himself into this role in order to be convincing? So what if he had nearly taken things too far? He was doing it for Sam. And Sam would understand why he had to do this. Even if there was some sort of awkward mishap along the way.

He told himself these things, and it made perfect sense. And yet... he could remember all too clearly what it had felt like to be too close to those deep grey eyes.

---
TBC

A/N: Chapter title is from the song Killing Time. I really love this one. If you listen, check out the original one, not the Paul Oakenfold remix. (At least at first). Youtube *hint hint*. (I take no responsibility for any of the videos, and heartily recommend you just listen without looking at them. I'm only plugging the songs.)

Infected Mushroom - “Killing Time”

In my dreams
(I can kill you)
Close to me
You open the cage and he sets you free
Come to me
(we run away forever from this misery)
Lost my mind
Are you calling me

Killing time that I left behind
Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around
I'm always falling down
Killing time that I left behind
Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around
It's coming for you now

(So how can it be)
The color of the world had turned dark on me
(Falling free)
Losing my reflection and my clarity
(Talk to me)
I feel the sickness taking over me
(Let me be)
Imagining that you are here with me

Killing time that I left behind
Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around
I'm always falling down
Killing time that I left behind
Everything changes to a point that it stops and it turns around
It's coming for you now