Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ I Wish ( Chapter 6 )

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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. 6: I Wish


Robert Singer stood in his office, staring down the haughty glare of the young man who was now officially his most pain-in-the-ass patient at OG.

“Why the hell not?” Dean yelled.

“Because I said so, you idiot,” he practically yelled back.

“Well I can't do it anymore. Find someone else!”

“There is no one else, Dean. You're it.”

“You have a whole loony bin full of people and you're telling me that I'm the only one who can room with my brother?” He wasn't buying it. Bobby had to be fucking with him. The only thing is he didn't know why.

“What aren't you telling me, Dean?” Dr. Singer said harshly, his eyes piercing. “I know there is something or you would not be acting like this.”

“There's nothing,” Dean growled. “So why don't you drop it and show a little cooperation?”

“You're seriously taking this attitude with me?” Bobby was incredulous.

Dean didn't care. He was pissed off. Either he needed to get out of the rooming with Sam arrangement, or the shrink needed to admit that his medication was fucking with his head. He hadn't forgotten how nonchalant the man had been when he'd been drugged fucking senseless shortly after Sam came in. Everything was all `calm' and `copacetic', blanketing over situations that could be seriously jacked up, leading him through hell with a carefully modulated voice, trying to fool him into thinking everything was okay, was normal.

“You're damn right, I am,” Dean spat. “Ignoring what I'm trying to tell you - you're getting to be just like the rest of them. Me rooming with Sammy is a mistake. But you don't wanna listen. You're so goddamn sure you're right.” His green eyes flashed and he looked a little unhinged. “And if I said that there's something seriously screwed up with the `medication' you're feeding me, I'd be the last person you'd fucking listen to, right? I'm stuck in here, so I must be crazy. I must have no idea what I'm talking about, right?! You were just placating me when you gave me any credit or acted like you gave a shit!”

Dr. Singer was amazed at how badly this was getting under his skin. Dean was practically foaming at the mouth, and here he was wanting to meet his ranting head on. He couldn't, of course. Couldn't. It wasn't professional. Oh, but this was setting him right off. Dean had no idea how many strings he'd pulled for him. To drastically alter his medication from the regimen Dr. Kubrick had prescribed, especially after the mauling of that patient was on his record, along with the near-constant fighting he'd been involved in at Stonybrook and even here, it had been a battle. It had been a risk. But he'd seen something in Dean that he wanted to save. There was something self-destructive and fragile in him, and it had been drowning in hate, hostility, and a sea of medications. That infuriating devil-may-care attitude was just a good cover for everything going on in his head. It may have fooled others, but it didn't fool him.

Robert wracked his head for the least volatile thing he could say. Right now he really just wanted to throttle Dean. It was obvious how deeply he cared about his brother, and to be disowning it now, after everything he'd seen... to be acting like Sam was a bother and a burden... that was what was crazy. And Dean was stubbornly claiming that nothing was amiss. “What do you mean your medications are screwed up?” he asked gruffly.

For a moment, Dean froze like a deer in headlights. Then his eyes were sliding to the side, avoiding meeting his. “I just don't feel right,” he said, anger seeming to have evaporated. He started pacing, and it was edgy, nervous.

“I can't fix it if you don't give me more information, Dean.”

“Jesus,” Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Is it making your temper worse?”

“No, no,” Dean said tightly, waving the suggestion off. “Though I see why you might think that.”

“Sexual dysfunction?”

“What?” Dean said hostilely, shooting him an incredulous look. “That's where you're taking things?”

Dr. Singer crossed his arms. “It's a professional guess. You could try answering the question.” Getting information out of Dean could be like pulling teeth.

The dark-haired young man sighed explosively. “It's more the opposite. Things are working too well.” He ran his hand through his spiky hair. His eyes flicked to Bobby's to gauge his reaction.

“And this heightened arousal has found a target?” the psychiatrist said, suddenly seeing how all of this tied together. It was about Sam, all right, just not in a way he ever would have anticipated. He wasn't going to come right out and say anything. He was pretty sure Dean would explode in denial. “And you are worried about the outcome?”

“Yeah,” Dean admitted quietly, his face betraying the conflict he'd apparently been housing the past week. “I thought at first it was like... stress or relief or something. Something with me that would pass. But it isn't passing, and I don't like it.” He turned cagey eyes to the psychiatrist. “It's the medication, isn't it?” There was a wary hope in his voice.

Dr. Singer didn't have the heart to tell him that it probably wasn't. “It could be.” He sighed. “Dean, I have to ask... was it necessary to go through all of that, yelling and carrying on, just because you had a hard time telling me about this?”

Dean gave him an unfriendly glare. “Sorry if I have more of a problem with this than you do.”

“Dean,” Dr. Singer sighed again, and removed his spectacles. “I have seen a lot of things. I am not so quick to judge.”

“Yeah, well I have no problem judging it,” Dean said in a rough voice. “It's messed up. Totally, completely fucking mental. And I need you to fix it before something happens.”

“Will you cooperate with my suggestions?”

Dean looked shifty. “Maybe.”

“Ok, that's a start. I'll re-evaluate your medication and see where the problem may be.” He gave Dean a frank, no-nonsense look. “In all of the uproar of the last few months, have you been engaging in self-gratification?”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Green eyes were uncooperative.

Robert ignored that and continued. “Part of the issue can be solved if you just make sure to do so regularly. Daily, if necessary. A drought in that arena most certainly could have a negative impact on wayward thoughts and impulse control.”

“Right. Like a need a shrink to tell me something basic like that,” he said sarcastically. “Let me write that down so I don't forget it.”

“If you were already doing something basic like that, I wouldn't have to be telling you this,” Robert said in irritation. “And you wouldn't be having problems keeping your hands to yourself.” He nearly said, `keeping your hands off of Sam,' but thought better of it. He implied it with his eyes, however, and Dean looked away. “The other thing you can do is create some dissonance between you. I know you get along well, but you need to fight a little, like brothers. Be unreasonable. Piss him off. Just don't take it so far that he feels like he's lost his only support in this world.”

Dean nodded glumly, looking like things were starting to sink in. “Never thought I'd be having this conversation,” he muttered, taking a seat and hanging his head. His hands steepled in front of him.

“Now,” Dr. Singer said, “the reason I wanted to keep him isolated is because I'm afraid that someone is going to call out to you by your last name.” If that happened in front of Sam, the gig would be up. And it had not been long enough yet for him to handle something like that, or the inevitable conversation that would start regarding the accident and the death of their mother. Sam was improving, but as Dean himself had said, even a simple conversation about family had sent him skittering towards oblivion.

More than anything, Dean was terrified of losing Sam to unconsciousness once again. He was scared of doing it himself, unintentionally, just like before. The worry over being desirous of his sibling paled in the face of that.

“I just want him to stabilize a bit more. If even you are afraid of triggering an episode, how ready do you think Sam is to be brought into the fold?” Dean was still hanging his head, and was silent. “He needs his brother. You're the only one that can give him that, even if you are lying to him about it. His subconscious probably recognizes you.”

“Doc,” Dean said, looking up at last. His mouth quirked up at the corner, the ghost of a smile. “Any chance I can get a bottle of Jack Daniels or something? I could really go for a drink.”

---
Dean did a lot of thinking after that. What did it mean to be an older brother? For most, didn't it involve a barrage of harassing the younger sibling, incessant teasing, and a god-given gift for being `right'?

He tried to imagine what would piss him off if he had been the younger sibling instead of Sam, and did his best to live up to it.

Instead of using the common showers, for instance, he now used the one in their room, and did his damnedest to use up every ounce of hot water available. This had gone on for close to a week now, and every time, Sam would shout “Dean!” in  this fucking hilarious, tight-lipped, I-can't-believe-you! sort of way. He was starting to look forward to it.

Dean lay back on his bed, arms pillowing his head, a huge smile on his face as Sam's pissed off voice issued from the shower. This time, Dean had left just enough hot water to fool him into thinking Dean hadn't done it this time. “What's the matter, Samantha?” he called out in his slightly deep voice. “Taking too long on your hair again?”

The water slammed off and Sam was soon storming out of the bathroom, towel around his waist held in a fist. Wet hair straggled about his face and dripped down his chest. His jaw was set rigidly, his mouth compressed in what only ended up looking like a 5 year old's angry pout. “All right,” he snapped. “I know what you're doing? And it's enough! Okay?” He looked like he actually expected the words to have some kind of effect, and that it was an effort to hold his temper.

Dean settled back onto the bed more comfortably, feeling his mouth turn up into the amused smirk that Sam was growing to be infuriated by. “Don't know what you're talking about, Sam,” he played dumb, heaving a sigh for good measure. He raised his eyebrows at his brother, looking non-plussed.

Sam's wrathful 5-year-old look intensified. “You,” he shook his finger at Dean, looking like he wanted to do a lot more than that. “I'll get you,” he promised in a clipped voice, shaking his head indignantly. “And you won't like it.”

Dean just shrugged and smiled.

Sam spun on his heel and slammed back into the bathroom. It was good he was getting his strength back.

“Whatever you say, Samantha,” he called, loving how infuriated the name made his brother.

“Screw you,” Sam growled out.

The really funny thing was, Sam was particular about taking his shower in the morning, after he woke up. That was why Dean had been able to entertain himself with this for so long. He managed to wake up, use the shower and be busily looking harmless by the time Sam went to use it. And Sam refused to give in and alter his schedule. It would be letting Dean win.

This arrangement was just fine with Dean. The longer it went on, the funnier it got.

“I've really been missing out all these years,” he said to himself. Who knew it could be so fun to harass one's little brother? He'd been so focused on keeping Sammy safe that he hadn't realized his true duty as an older brother.

---

“Aw, man,” Dean complained. “Why are you so good at checkers? I've been playing them since before you were born. This is so not right!”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, busily plotting his next move. “And how long is that?”

“Not important,” Dean said dismissively.

Grey eyes flicked up to his. “You sensitive about your age or something, Dean?”

“`Course not,” Dean waved him off. He knew that taunting, unimpressed tone. Sammy was fishing for info. “I'm just not the sharing type.” He played his next move and instantly regretted it.

“Looks like you're getting flustered to me,” Sam said with a raise of his eyebrows as he made a ridiculously good move. “Just sayin'.”

“Ah, whatever,” Dean tossed out. “Be right back. I'm gonna hit the head.”

“Uh-huh,” the younger man said, primly triumphant. “Running away now, I see.”

“Oh, shut up, Sam.” He unfolded his legs and slid off the bed. This was their 5th game in a row and he was starting to really hate checkers. It was nearly as bad with rock-paper-scissors. Sammy had always known when he was going to throw scissors.

Sam watched the door close behind Dean with a smile. He picked up the book that he had sitting on the table beside the bed and began to read. Wait for it...

Wait for it...

“Sam!” Dean bellowed. “What the hell did you do with the toilet paper?”

“I don't know, Dean,” he called back, unable to completely suppress the laugh in his voice. “Maybe you used it all up.”

“Bullshit,” came the angry reply. “There was some in here earlier!”

“I don't know, man, you got me,” he said, and settled more comfortably on his bed with a triumphant grin, amid a stream of curses.

---

The library was quiet, except for a small group of residents that liked to play cards most afternoons. Nobody bothered them or told them to shut up as it was not a real library (and thus had no librarian to do the shushing), and was more of a glorified title for a sitting room with a hell of a lot of useless books on some bare bones shelving units.

“So,” Garth said to Dean as he played a card, “how is the new roommate working out? We hardly see you anymore.”

“It isn't,” Dean growled, still in a bad mood that Sam had pulled one over on him. “He's a pain in my ass.”

“Like, literally?” Pokey piped up, practically quivering in his seat.

Dean gave him a look that could have peeled paint off a barn door. “No, not literally, you dumb shit.” He slapped his card down on the table. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Well, Garth has a point,” Jared said, laying down a card. “We haven't seen much of you since the vegetable princess opened her eyes. Hell, even before then.”

“Aw, you're just pissed that your gym schedule got messed up,” Dean said, sitting back and taking a swig of a warm coke he'd won off of Pokey. “I told you I couldn't do shit with those meds they were giving me.”

“I think you're just getting lazy.”

“Maybe married life is making him soft,” Garnet deadpanned, laying down a card.

“Shouldn't it be doing the opposite?” Pokey said as he stared at the cards in his hand. “Seems to me.”

“Jesus,” Dean said in annoyance. “Do you mind?”

“Jesus...” Pokey said speculatively. “I like that name better. Go ahead and use it. I'll answer.” He played a card.

“I'd say he's not getting laid,” Garth announced. “From the look of him, he's strung tighter than a gnat's ass stretched over a rain barrel.”

“Garth!” Dean looked at him in horror. “What the fuck, man?” Garth shrugged, lips twitching up in a smile. “No way. I'm the bitch? Have you even fucking seen the other guy?”

“I heard he's a looker,” Jared said as Garnet responded with, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“You're all a bunch of cocksuckers,” Dean said, picking up his cards again with a scowl. They weren't going to be letting up anytime soon. They were having too much fun. He'd have to make them pay through the teeth with their imminent loses. “Jesus. He could be my brother or something for all you know.”

“You rang?” Pokey said. He held his fingertips to his head as if channeling a higher power. “Hmm... I see it... it's becoming clearer. He is most definitely not your brother. Brothers should not be doing the things I see before my own startled eyes--”

“Pokey,” Dean said authoritatively, re-establishing the nickname with the finesse of a bully, a subtle threat lurking in his voice. “This is just a friendly reminder, but I know of at least three ways to make your life a living hell.” He shrugged and lifted his eyebrows with a smile as he looked at the smaller man. “Well, off the top of my head, anyway.”

“Better watch yourself when Dean goes all butch, little man,” Jared said to Pokey. “Scare-y! I was on the wrong end of that when I first got in here.”

“That's right, and you better fucking remember it,” Dean said with a satisfied nod now that he was back in control again.

“So, Dean,” Garnet said flatly, perusing his hand of cards, “when do we meet the wife?”
---

Sam was reading a book on law when Dean burst into the room, a dark cloud hanging almost palpably over his head. He raised his eyebrows at his roommate. “Rough day at work?”

“Oh, not you, too,” Dean groaned, throwing his jacket down onto his bed.

“What?” Sam asked calmly as he turned a page.

“Nothing,” Dean replied, flopping down onto his bed with his legs hanging over the edge.

“You lose or something?”

“Hardly. I cleaned house. Made a hundred bucks.” They didn't usually play for cash, but Dean was feeling ruthless today, especially with the ongoing ribbing.

“And where are you planning to spend that?”

“Wherever I damn well please,” he said with annoyance. Sam had a point. How would he even spend it when he was stuck in here?

“Which is nowhere, while you're stuck in here,” Sam had the gall to point out directly, still reading his book like he didn't have a care in the world.

“Yeah?” Dean challenged flippantly. “Maybe you could make yourself useful - batting those big, soulful eyes at the staff so they'd let you out and you could get me some alcohol or something.”

Dean felt Sam's questioning gaze rest upon him. He didn't meet it.

“`Soulful?'”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean backpedaled gruffly. “Bad choice of words. Point is you look like a fucking boyscout.”

“I do not,” Sam said with irritation.

“You do so - eyes brimming with truth and sincerity and all that.”

Sam slapped his book shut. “What's your problem, Dean? You wanna fight?”

Dean raised his head off the bed, propping up a bit on his elbows. “What, think you can take me?” he laughed as he gestured to himself.

Sam's jaw was locking with that obstinate look. “You think I can't?”

Dean looked him up and down as if really considering it. “Nope,” he said with a glib smile and a charming tilt of his head.

Next thing he knew, Sam was crashing into him, his body feeling much more solid than it looked. Dean rolled them, using Sam's momentum against him. It worked, tossing Sam onto his back, which gained Dean side control. He started to put Sam into a full mount choke hold, straddling his torso, but the younger man was not to be outdone. He thrust his hips upwards and to the side, bridging the hold and slipping out from under Dean. From there, he twined his leg with Dean's and twisted his body, locking him into a half mount, where he attempted to entrap Dean into a submission hold.

“Pretty good,” Dean panted, already busily planning his attack, “Samantha.”

Sam's irritation got the best of him and gave Dean an opening, allowing him to shove his brother's face into the mattress as he straddled his back and put him in a shoulder lock.

“Ow, Dean,” Sam ground out, his free hand fisting in the sheets near his face. From this angle, it was useless. Dean had his other arm held bent against his back, hand forced upwards towards his neck, applying pressure to the shoulder joint in a move called a hammerlock.

“Submit?”

“No,” Sam growled, stubbornly trying to find a counter for the hold. He shifted about, his entire body tight as a bowstring between Dean's thighs.

“Suit yourself,” Dean said offhandedly, torquing the pressure on the captive arm. “I could sit here all day.”

“Ah!” Sam gasped out in pain. Though, without context, it might have sounded like he was vocalizing pleasure instead. Dean never did know when to leave well enough alone. He tweaked Sam's arm again, just to see if Sam's next noise struck him the same way. It did. “Jesus, Dean, let me up already,” he groaned, face falling down onto the mattress. His breath was coming in pants.

Dean leaned down to Sam's ear with a smile. “Submit,” he suggested in a low voice.

Was it just him, or did he feel Sam shudder in response?

“All right,” Sam said weakly, “Just lay off the arm.”

“Your wish is my command,” Dean said with a grin, sliding off of Sam's prone body and helping him up.

Sam rolled his shoulder experimentally, working out the stiffness, his face set in that perpetual pout that Dean was starting to really like seeing on his face. “You're kind of a bastard, you know that?”

“Aw, don't be a sore loser. You did well.” Dean resumed his relaxed position upon his bed, feeling in a much better mood than before. If Sam had been in tip-top shape, he might have really had his work cut out for him. As it was, he relished his win, and the way Sam had sounded begging him for release. “Where'd you learn grappling from?”

Sam kicked Dean's legs aside, making room for himself on the same bed. “My dad and my brother.”

“I thought you hadn't seen them since you were 10? You trying to tell me your muscle memory is that good?”

“No. I kept up with it. Did some wrestling and Judo in middle and highschool. Kept me out of trouble.”

Dean rolled over onto his stomach, next to Sam and looked up at him. “What kind of trouble?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Bullies and stuff,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah, I can see it,” Dean said brightly. “You have hair like this back then? And that sulky look?” he teased, reaching out to tug on a lock of Sam's hair. “Hell, I would have picked on you, too.”

Sam gave him an odd look. “They weren't picking on me because they liked me, Dean. They were picking on me because I was weak.”

“You sure?” Dean said enigmatically as he held that grey-eyed gaze. “Sometimes it's the same thing.” He trailed a finger over a strip of Sam's bare stomach, where his shirt had ridden up. He didn't exactly intend to, his hand just moved to do it without his bidding.

Sam sort of froze and didn't respond for a minute, looking like his mind was going a mile a minute. Still their gazes remained meshed. “Yeah,” Sam said in a clipped tone, “I'm sure.”

Dean moved closer, watching Sam's eyes react to him, and feeling it run through him. “Then maybe you don't know what you're talking about.”

“What are you doing?” Sam said uncertainly as his personal space was violated. His stomach was trembling beneath Dean's hand.

“Proving a point,” Dean said against his lips, eyes sliding closed. He could feel Sam's breath coming rapidly, could taste the tension in the air. He could feel the touch of soft bangs upon his face as he toyed with brushing their lips together and more. Dr. Singer had lied. Even with daily self-gratification, his desire to do this had not lessened. He could feel the familiar, sweet tightening in his gut, and it was only increasing.

Dammit, Sam, push me away!

He trailed his hand over Sam's hip. There was a small hitch in Sam's voice as he grabbed Dean's wrist and said, “That's enough,” in a rough voice.

Dean mentally thanked him from the bottom of his heart. He pulled back with a shrug and an unapologetic smile, trying to pass this off as a joke. He couldn't help but notice his little brother's pupils were blown wide, though his face was set in stern enough lines that he almost missed it.

So, Sam had felt something, too.

But it didn't matter. He couldn't let something happen between them like this. Especially when Sammy didn't know the truth. It wasn't fair to him. “You know what your problem is?” Dean said in sly voice. “You're too uptight.”

“And your problem is you don't know when to quit,” Sam retorted, his voice deeper than normal. He slid off the bed and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Dean let himself fall back onto the bed, burying his face in the sheets. “God, Sammy, what am I supposed to do?” he groaned into them, wanting to beat his head into something good and solid until he passed out. His body was on fire.

He wanted nothing more than to replay the last 10 minutes, but this time, push Sam down into the bed, violating his unsuspecting mouth. His mind happily supplied the feel of a hard body beneath his and the sound of panted breaths and groans - adapted from their impromptu grappling session. Desire spiked fiercely through him and he couldn't deny it.

He was going to have to tell Sam soon. He needed his help. He wasn't strong enough to stop this on his own. His willpower was seriously failing him and he needed Sam's morals and purity to beat his own into place.

---
TBC



A/N: Chapter title from:

Infected Mushroom - “I Wish”

I wish to give, to take, to make, to check, I wanna see it happen
I want to see, to be, the one that plays the game without no fears and regrets
I want to know you, better than I know myself
I want to feel the end, and to enjoy the consequence

I'm playing the game
The one that will take me to my end
I'm waiting for the rain...
To wash who I am
[x2]

I want to move, to loose, to take the grooves, and to give it all back
I want to take the time rewind, and to kick it right from the start
To be unknown and all alone, lose the kind that are behind
To start a new play by myself and to give the best I have

I'm playing the game
The one that will take me to my end
I'm waiting for the rain
To wash up who I am
[x4]