Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Asylum ❯ Psycho ( Chapter 20 )

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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. 20: Psycho

The next morning, it was by unspoken agreement that Sam and Dean sat apart from each other, as they'd been doing.

Sam was already in the cafeteria when Dean arrived, nursing a cup of what had to be coffee. Dean felt a smile tug at his lips just laying eyes on him, not to mention having the option of interacting with him again. His gargantuan bodyguard Bernice was present at his side, eating a massive pile of scrambled eggs and sausage links. Sam's grey eyes flicked up to Dean's as if sensing his presence in the room, and as their gazes met, they telegraphed possibilities back and forth.

Sam looked fresh, earnest and wide awake. He raised his eyebrows slightly in question, seeing if they were to eat together. A bland look slid over his face then, as he subtly indicated his companion, saying he'd be happy to ditch him.

Dean considered it. His posse was absent, at the moment, but he had no doubt they would appear in short order.

Hmn... it was probably a bad idea. As it was, he couldn't quite suppress the foreign feeling of being happy which was bubbling up in his chest. He was in serious danger of grinning like an idiot. He suspected that a large part of that was not only making up with Sam, but consummating his feelings with him.

Funny, he'd never gone all moon-eyed after sleeping with someone before, yet that certainly did seem to be the case now.

He should probably act with the intention of conserving his dignity. Sam's lips had quirked into a crooked smile with a hint of amusement, though he too looked in danger of grinning like an idiot. Yeah, they should keep their distance until this side effect blew over.

Dean winked at him, unable to help it, and Sam stuck out his tongue in response. `Jerk,' his brother mouthed.

`Bitch,' he mouthed back with smug look that translated into `My bitch,'  just to be obnoxious.

`Ass.' Sam rolled his eyes heavenward, though he looked like he was trying not to laugh.

Dean went ahead into the very short line to get food. It was pretty early, yet. Not many people were here. He nearly whistled, he was in such a good mood. He curbed the impulse. If anyone caught him doing such a thing, him, Dean Winchester, they'd really think he was nuts. He didn't exactly have a rep for being the most cheerful, personable guy in the facility. Violent at times? Yes. Happy enough to start bursting with show tunes? Not so much.

The only dampener on his obscenely good mood was the unknown factor that was his father. Dean wanted to know what he was planning, why he was here, and what he'd been saying to Sam. He also wanted to know why his father was maintaining radio silence with him. There had to be a reason. John never did anything without a reason. Problem was, he didn't often feel it necessary to share those reasons.

He sighed. Fixating on it wasn't going to change anything, and pressing Sam on the matter wouldn't help either. He just needed to put it out of his head and wait for Sam to pony up when he felt it was time.

Dean chose grits, sausage links and french toast for his breakfast and brought it back to his usual table. He wasn't exactly surprised when Jared sat down across from him a mere handful of minutes later. Less surprising than that was the rest of the crew assembling over the coming ten minutes or so. Had he called it, or what? Like a flock of vultures. He glanced surreptitiously at Sam and happened to catch his eye. `See?' His brother nodded slightly, passing it off like he was talking to Bernice, but Dean knew it was in response to him.

“Hey, I heard something interesting this morning,” Garth said conversationally, bringing Dean's attention back around to his own table again.

“What's that?” Pokey asked.

“Seems like lately, a bunch of residents have been freaking out.”

“So?” Jared said.

“Well,” Garth continued, “They all seem to be Dr. Singer's. Isn't that odd?”

“Isn't that your doc, Dean?” Jared asked him.

Dean nodded with a frown, continuing to eat his breakfast. That was weird. From the outside, it could look like he was a horrible doctor or that he was fucking with his patient's heads. But he knew Bobby wasn't the type. He could be a bit of a hardass, and had been more than a little crotchety lately, but...

“Isn't that Campbell's doc, too?” Garnet tossed out.

Dean nodded again, too distracted to assess whether he should be answering such questions regarding Sam and what that could imply about the two of them and their involvement. Call him paranoid, but didn't the issues with Bobby's patients crop up in conjunction with odd things like trying to make up with Sam after their fight and their father's arrival? He remembered Sam getting dosed and how he'd wanted to switch back into the same room again so he could look after him, and then Bobby being too busy and stressed to deal with his request. Could those things coinciding be more than mere coincidence?

Call him ultra-paranoid, but was someone trying to set them up? Just to keep them apart or something else? And add this as a cherry on top - was the matter of Bobby's patients wigging out just someone's way of keeping the psychiatrist distracted from other things? Or was somebody actually setting him up to look bad? Who stood to gain anything from discrediting Bobby and making him look like he couldn't do his job?

“Dean, what's up, man?” Jared said, giving him a weird look.

Dean realized that he'd paused with a bite of french toast held halfway to his mouth. “Nothing. Was just thinking that was really weird.” He tried to play off his inner musings. “If I start acting all crazy, put me out of my misery before I embarrass myself, ok?”

“You mean like how you went all nuts over Campbell recently?” Jared asked with a bland tone.

“No, asshole, like dancing-around-in-a-pink-tutu kind of nuts.”

“I don't know,” Garth said. “That would be quite some entertainment, it'd be a shame to end it so hastily.”

Dean flipped him off and went back to eating.

“So, Winchester,” Garnet addressed Dean, oddly enough, by his family name, making him look up. “When did you make up with Sam?”

“Did I?” Dean played stupid and started in on his grits.

Garnet was giving him an unfriendly look. It was obvious he was pissed at getting the runaround. But his relationship with Sam was none of the kid's damn business anyway.

Suddenly the deadpan expression was back on Garnet's face, and then Dean was waiting for the inevitability of his next words to drop. Garnet could be a bitch at times and it looked like now was going to be one of them. “Not that you mentioned,” the black-haired youth said in his flat voice, eyes steadily boring holes into Dean. “But I couldn't help but notice you don't flinch anymore when someone says his name.”

Dean ground his teeth in irritation. God damn that long-haired sonuvabitch for being so freaking observant. He'd done his best to hide that kind of thing from prying eyes. And damn him a second time for bringing it up in front of everyone.

But Garnet wasn't finished. “I, too, heard something interesting this morning. Seems that late last night, Ed was kicked out of his room because his roommate,” Garnet said the word pointedly and, of course, everyone knew that it was Dean, “was up to something involving being in the buff and wanting some alone time.” He paused and looked around the table. “Ed couldn't be sure, but he thought that someone was in bed with him, only he didn't know who.”

“Garnet,” Dean said harshly, “quit blowing smoke.”

“I have a few guesses,” the Native American looking biker said, “but they all start with Sam and end with Campbell.”

Dean resisted the urge to wipe his hand over his face. So much for keeping on the down-low. Why was Garnet being such a pain in the ass this morning? He opened his mouth to try and say something to derail the interrogation, but he didn't get a chance to really start. “I'm not sure why you--”

“Don't even,” Garnet cut him off angrily. “Please. Anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain can see the storm clouds have lifted off the pair of you. And your stress level was off the charts before - now you have the nerve to look like all is right with the world?” Garnet had quite the glare when he exercised it, which wasn't often. “You're going to sit here and tell me you didn't just get laid?”

Dean could see nods of agreement going on around the table.

“I don't see where it's any of your fucking business either way,” Dean said. What the hell was Garnet trying to zero in on?

“Keeping your distance from him, saying jack all to us and acting like nothing happened...” Garnet's eyes narrowed. “You're hiding something.”

Dean stared back willfully, even as `Oh, shit' was ringing in his head. If anyone could figure out his real connection with Sam, it would be Garnet. He was eerily skilled at piecing things together from minuscule scraps of information. What was it he'd said when he was trying to strong-arm Dean into talking things out with Sam?

`The both of you are so fucking stubborn! I'd swear you were related or something. I've never seen anyone else like either of you.'

Related. Yeah, Garnet was already too close to the truth.

And of course with the group of them taking bets on when he and Sam would get physical, and being generally un-bigoted, it wasn't like he'd have to worry too much over losing acceptance for getting involved with another guy, though they'd certainly give him shit for it. Alone, him hooking up with Sam would not be perceived as too big of a deal. Unless there was something else to the affair that he didn't want to let anyone in on, it wouldn't be worth bothering to cover it up. Garnet had honed in on that, deducing that he was skulking around and hiding something. And by the way he'd kicked this whole thing off, the biker had to have been waiting for Dean to say something and was getting steadily bent out of shape when nothing was forthcoming.

Garnet was an odd contradiction of not giving a fuck and being completely anal over some things.

“Did it ever occur to you, any of you,” Dean said in an aggravated voice, “that maybe I was pissed about that stupid bet you had going on behind my back?” He sent a sharp look around the table. “Why the hell should I feed into it, telling you what I do and when?”

“Or who you do?” someone cracked under their breath.

Dean ignored them. In the end, mostly cowed looks met his plausible, though not entirely truthful tirade, proving his acting skills to be not-too-shabby. Garnet wasn't sold on it, but he looked like he was willing to drop it for the moment. He even looked a little like he was sulking when he said, “Still, no reason to leave Campbell stuck with his roommate over there.”

“What, you want me to go over there and stick my tongue down his throat?” Dean said facetiously. “Then you can watch the Behemoth freak out on me and try to rip out my spine.”

“Behemoth, isn't that a metal band?” Garth said to no one in particular.

“Polish,” Garnet replied absently, still frowning over Dean's reaction.

“You think he likes Campbell or something?” Jared asked Dean, cutting through the extraneous chatter.

“Dunno, but the thought occurred,” Dean said, biting viciously into a sausage link. “Seemed prudent to not waltz around with a neon sign saying, `Hey, we fucked', just in case.”

“S-So you did?” Pokey asked twitchily. He looked like he really wanted to know, but was afraid of having his nuts ripped off for asking.

“No comment,” Dean said.

“But D-Dean, you as good as admitted it--” the smaller man persisted in confusion.

“Then why the fuck are you asking me?” he snapped with ill temper. Jesus. His so-called friends had one hell of a way with killing his good mood; they'd cut it off at the knees, hanged it, and then proceeded to light its ass on fire.

“Because--” Pokey started to explain.

“Shut up, Lewis,” Garnet interrupted. “He wasn't really asking you.”

---

The next day, something unusual happened. The time of the occurrence was halfway between lunch and dinner, mid-afternoonish, and it was ushered in by a new face belonging to one Dr. Dimitri. The setting was a large room, filled with chairs and tables that hadn't seen much use in the past several years. The name of the gathering, involving many residents who were later broken into smaller clusters, was one that few liked to so much as utter.

....Group Therapy.

“Excuse me, everyone,” Dr. Dimitri said in his thick Dracula-like accent as he assumed a position at the front of the room. “Can I have your attention, please?” `Please' sounded like `puleeeze', sort of squished out, with the emphasis on `ease'.

The room got marginally quieter which the psychiatrist seemed to think acceptable enough to continue.

Dimitri began a slow pacing as he spoke, “I understand it has been some time since any of you might have participated in therapy within a group setting.” This was met with groans, and some eye rolling, as well as a strange chittering from someone which was sort of disturbing.

“I want PIE!” someone catcalled.

“Shut up, I said,” a man snarled while swatting the air.

The din was resuming and steadily gaining strength. It was hard to say how many people were truly disturbed and how many merely liked to stir up trouble.

To his credit, the doctor didn't so much as bat an eyelash. He did, however, hold his hand up as if politely requesting that they refrain from noise-making just a little while longer. Somehow it seemed to work. “I can appreciate your reluctance, however, it has been determined that this augmentation to your therapy would be beneficial at this time; so please get used to the idea.” Dr. Dimitri ran a hand over his short, immaculate beard. “I will mainly be assisting Dr. Singer, who is the primary doctor for many of you, while he is attending to more critical cases. That way you will not receive any shortage of care in the interim.”

Dean, who was sprawled sloppily into a chair, as was his habit, raised his hand  and said, “I don't need any therapy. Can I go?”

The doctor looked taken aback but recovered quickly. He glanced at his clipboard and back up again. “Mr. Winchester, is it?” `It' sounded like `eet'. It was kind of amusing.

Dean shrugged, being mildly unhelpful.

“Why is it you think that you do not need therapy?”

Dean started to answer, but the doctor held up a hand, politely requesting silence.

“And why is it,” he continued, “that you believe yourself to be different from everyone else here, so special, that you alone may be exempted from a universal program?”

Dean's eyes narrowed. “For one thing, I'm not crazy. For another, what the hell makes you think you're so special that you can sit around telling everyone else what's wrong with them?”

“Aside from a PhD in psychology and over 25 years in the field?” the doctor asked mildly.

Dean frowned. “Doesn't mean you're any good at it.”

Dr. Dimitri smiled and laughed. “True enough. Though I would not be here to assist Dr. Singer if that were the case.”

A hand went up on the other side of the room, catching the psychiatrist's attention. “Yes?”

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” said a familiar, law-student-ish voice, “but doesn't Dr. Singer see as many patients as Dr. Abdolev or anyone else? Why is he the only one having trouble keeping up with his workload?”

Dean wondered if it was a good idea for Sam to ask something like this aloud and in front of an audience. It really did make Bobby look bad. Though, this might be the only arena in which such a question might be answered. There would be pressure from the group of them for a proper answer, instead of just the badgering of one person in a closed session, which could be written off more easily.

“Yeah,” someone else said. “I got friends who don't have to do crap like this. Why's it just us?”

A jumble of murmurs and muttering started up and Dimitri once again looked taken off guard.

“I would like to go ahead and start,” the doctor said then over the rising din, “as I am unable to disclose the particulars of Dr. Singer's work. Anyone with further questions may see me later, by appointment.” It was kind of impressive how fast he recovered and could become professional once more. “As we are a large group, we will be splitting into smaller units and my assistants will help guide you.”

Within two minutes, they were divied up into their groups of 5-7 people and Dr. Dimitri was approaching Dean's group first. He sat in an empty chair and faced the lot of them. “Part of recovery is socialization,” he said amiably, though the effect was ruined somewhat by his thick accent which made it seem that any minute he might let slip an, `I vant to suck your bloood.' Not that he would, of course, but the impression was there; even if it was at odds with his innocuous, greying brown hair and mild-mannered face. The accent was just that Transylvanian.

“Mr. Winchester,” the doctor began. `Meester Veenchester...' Heh. He sounded like The Count from the Muppets. “V'one, two, three, ah ha ha.” It was hard to take him seriously. It was also hard to take orders from someone who sounded like a muppet. “You have exhibited a perfect candidacy for socialization. Therefore, you shall go first.”

“And how have I done that?” Ugh, the last thing he wanted to do is be a part of this caring and sharing circle. It was bullshit. Socialization my ass. He'd done this song and dance before and at the end of the day, he just wanted to keep private shit to himself and not spill his guts in front of a bunch of total strangers.

“You are very standoffish,” the doctor observed patiently. “You also do not like to endure things that you feel have no merit, and you are not open-minded to others' disagreements with your judgment.” He looked again to the group. “To be successful in society, we must be open-minded, even-tempered, and in control of ourselves. We must exercise tolerance, and grow our ability to `tolerate', just as we would exercise a muscle. When this skill atrophies, or diminishes, we find ourselves at the mercy of our most basic instincts which will hinder us in daily life.” He made eye contact with each one of them. “Do you all follow me?”

Several people nodded, one stared off into space, and still one other muttered, “You use big words,” under his breath.

“Mr. Winchester,” Dr. Dimitri focused on him again. “You are very intelligent.” This was not a compliment, but some sort of segue. “This will cause you more problems than most.” He addressed the group once more. “People with higher intelligence will struggle most of all with themselves, though the outside world is always a factor. I'm sure you've all heard the phrase `You are your own worst enemy'?” Nods all the way around. “Intelligent people often over-analyze their surroundings to the point at which it is no longer helpful, but becomes like quicksand they can never escape. They are no longer protecting themselves, but are hurting themselves. Distrust, paranoia, anger. These are your weapons against yourself. We all have them. But what we must do is learn to control them, and to be aware of when our perceptions become distorted and dangerous.”

“And what if the distrust, paranoia, and anger are warranted?” Dean asked flippantly. “Where do you draw the line? The world isn't all cookies and rainbows, and thinking otherwise is just deceiving yourself, leaving you wide open.”

“Part of it is merely your perception,” the doctor ceded. “But you make the world into the image you perceive. You will interpret events accordingly, compounding and compounding it until there is no other way to see it.” Dr. Dimitri crossed one ankle over the other. “If you expect to see darkness, that is what you will find. You attune yourself to its spectrum, and it will be harder to see the light. But that doesn't mean that the light is not there.”

Dean was starting to feel twitchy and aggravated. What was this tree-hugger crap the doc was spouting? Sure, it sounded marginally reasonable on the surface, but so did the best brainwashing. “That's a nice concept, but I don't believe it. The world is what it is. I've looked for those bright spots and they are too few and far between.”

“That is because you are willfully close-minded.”

“Oh really?” Dean snapped, temper getting the better of him. “Then I suppose my parents splitting up was a good thing and somehow I just wasn't seeing it? And losing my brother, that was for the best? I must've been looking at it all wrong, huh? Well then, why don't you enlighten me? Tell me what the fucking bright side of that was.”

The doctor looked at him with a piercing gaze, his russet brown eyes appearing to see all. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Dean stared back, incredulous at receiving such a bullshit, evasive answer. At the same time, deep deep down he was also aware of a lock-box of forced-down emotions and thoughts. It contained both his elation at being near Sam again, and his gratitude that this hellhole had brought them even closer than they had any right to be.

These were things that were never supposed to see the light of day, yet this doctor was dredging them up like it was nothing and he didn't like the guilt that rode in upon their exposure.

“No one said that the road to happiness was an easy one, Dean. Sometimes we get lost on the path, jaded, and even stagnated. But without struggle, pain, or misery, how could we comprehend the lack of such and appreciate it? How could we know happiness without these things to give it meaning?”

---

John Winchester sat in Dr. Singer's office, waiting for Sam to show. They'd been meeting around the same time each day. Sometimes with the doctor in attendance, sometimes not. Singer was out at the moment, but that suited him just fine. He had some questions for his younger son that he would prefer not having an audience for.

He was worried. He couldn't claim that he knew his son like the back of his hand any longer, not with how much time had passed, but he was still pretty sure that Sam wasn't acting normal; his temper was like a live wire, and hostility lurked in his gaze even when he was sounding even-tempered. It was just so unlike his boy. He'd had always been quiet, understanding, and non-aggressive for the most part. He was the counterpart for Dean's rash decisiveness and quick temper. On the other hand, Sam could be obstinate whereas Dean would just follow instructions.

Sam had been book-smart, and Dean had been cunning and quick. But just as his eldest boy seemed to harbor hidden kindness beneath the tough shell he'd built over himself, could Sam have been holding onto enmity and discontent?

John rubbed a hand over his face. It was more than just the accident and being here that had caused a change in him, wasn't it? Something of it had to have been there to begin with. Though, before, he seemed to have been keeping it in check. Mary had never made mention of a problem, and she would have, if it was something like this.

Not only that, Sam was almost acting more like Dean now. Wearing anger on his sleeve, losing self-restraint... the very things he needed to keep in check if he was to live in society.

Was this place doing that? He hadn't seen Dean, so he couldn't gauge how his eldest might have fared at the hands of the system. He'd just heard some background from Dr. Singer that mostly sounded in line with Dean's typical behavior. Though he had been getting increasingly more reckless before finally getting committed, it seemed that his judgment and restraint had certainly worsened afterward. Normally, he never would have done something like attempting to attack a suspected lycanthrope without being positive, and certainly he would have aimed to kill. Besides, the odds of the cutlery in the cafeteria containing any silver at all was pretty low.

Dean had also been involved in a lot of fighting in general.

Perhaps it was the medication?

John tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Remembering his own time in the state hospital was difficult at best. Much of it was just impressions, a blur, and emotions. It was something like being blindfolded and treading water, feeling things move past him, bump him, or sometimes even shock him like a live current. It had been hell trying to keep it together. And it had been a feat to not only figure out that it was his attending physician who was making it all so much worse than it had to be, but to get away from him as well.

He'd been barely lucid much of the time. But he remembered that man's face, and his sickeningly pleasant, carefully modulated voice. He'd even had nightmares about him later, long after he'd been transferred into Dr. Sulli's care. There were night frights about being trapped, confined, pursued by a monster that could enter his room like oily smoke. Then there were the needles. Always the needles. Syringes held up to his face for his inspection, feeding his terror, before being emptied into his veins.

He was pretty certain it was just the medication wearing off that was causing the delusions. After a time, they stopped. Not long after, Dr. Sulli was issuing him a clean bill of health and telling him to go get his life back in order.

John frowned to himself. He regretted the time that he'd had to leave his eldest son, and wished that Mary had at least thought about Dean's well-being a little more and taken him in as well after having her husband committed. But she hadn't, and Dean had made do; it's just that he seemed so much more world-weary than before. His green eyes had aged so much by the next time John had laid eyes upon him. But he'd never complained. Never. And maybe he should have. Maybe then he wouldn't have become more of a battle hardened soldier than even I'd trained him to be. Maybe then he would have had a different life.

John's jaw set in rigid lines as uncertainty and guilt started chewing at the corners of him, trying to compromise his resolve and undermine the decision he'd made all those years ago.

But what choice had there been? Someone needed to do the job they did, even at the expense of their own happiness, and Dean understood that. What could I really have done differently? Should he have raised his boys not knowing how to protect themselves? Would they even have been alive today if he hadn't?

The door to the office opened at last, freeing him from his thoughts.

“Hello, John,” a stranger in a white coat said as he entered the room, closing the door behind him.

John nodded briefly at the man, who was presumably a doctor, wondering who he was and what he might be doing here. His voice was eerily familiar and instantly put him on edge.

“I came to inform you that Sam will not be able to make it,” the man continued in a comfortably languid voice as he malingered, pausing to pick up an item or two from Singer's desk to contemplate, a benign smile on his face. His words had a vaguely menacing tone beneath the pleasantry. “He is currently... indisposed.”

It wasn't until the man's glittering gaze slid his way that it hit him, filling his veins with ice. “Dr. Kimmel.”

The man smiled widely through the large beard his face now bore. “You remembered, John. I'm flattered. But I go by Dr. Walter now.”

“Why are you here?” John asked tightly, conditioned response making him twitchy every time he contemplated the man's pockets and what he probably had within them. The doctor's right hand was remaining comfortably hidden.

“Why, I work here, Mr. Winchester. I should think that much is obvious.”

“Don't play games,” he said sharply. “You know what I'm asking.” Why was he suddenly being faced with the doctor that had made his existence in the state hospital a living hell? He'd suspected it, but the reality still hit him like a two ton anchor. What was he doing here of all places? And why now? Could it be just a coincidence that he was here at the same time as Dean, and now Sam?

It was possible... but he found he didn't have much use for believing in coincidences. From experience, their existence usually just pointed to a larger pattern being in effect.

“I'm just here to make a living. It was merely good fortune that your boy was brought to Oak Grove, affording me entertainment.” His gaze was sly, reptilian. “And it was through no effort of my own that your other son was hand-delivered to me as well, was it, John?” He laughed. “No, I do believe you did that on your own.”

John's rugged features tightened as he clenched his teeth. “You can't keep doing as you please, treating people like this. You'll be found out.”

“By whom, might I ask?” the younger looking physician queried. “Who cares about one more nutcase claiming his doctor is trying to harm him? Residents are disbelieved by default.” He sounded so calm and reasonable, it was sickening. “Even Dean knows this, which is why he's never said a word. Such a smart boy you've raised there, John, you should be proud.”

“I'll report you myself.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Walter said, unconcerned as he turned the solid globe paperweight in his hand this way and that. Light caught on its marble surface and on the gold latitude and longitudinal lines which formed a grid upon its surface. “You could do that.” He set it down again, his smile breaking into a laugh. His eyes glittered merrily as he turned to lean back upon the desk. “But no one will believe you, John. Once a patient, always an ex-patient. Forever after, your credibility is impugned.”

“Wouldn't that be convenient for you if it were true,” John said bitingly. His skin was crawling. This man was surrounded by the smoky entrails of entrapment. His mind seemed ever busy, calculating all the moves to take to achieve his whims. John still remembered the sight of his face when he'd realized his favorite patient had slipped through his fingers. He'd obviously hated to lose and would likely try to gain back lost ground, if only on principle. John knew he had to watch his step. He'd known that before coming here, when he'd only just suspected the doctor's presence... but being face to face with this adversary all of a sudden...

“Oh, but it is. And you know it. There is also no trail to tie you to me, aside from any memories we may share.” He smiled engagingly. “The professional community would be much more likely to believe you've relapsed, don't you think?”

“Are you trying to threaten me?”

“Do you feel threatened?”

“No,” he lied. “But I'm pissed off that bastards like you play with people's heads and feel like it's your god-given right.”

“God? God has nothing to do with it, John. You of all people surprise me with such talk.” He pushed off from the desk and strolled slowly over to his ex-patient as he spoke. “There are merely the weak and the strong.” His hand alighted upon the back of John's chair. “Those who are cunning, and those who are not cunning enough.”

John rose to his feet, not wanting to give the other man any advantage, even one so small as height. He was as on-edge now as he had been on hunts. His hands tremored slightly as memories of powerlessness at this man's hands accosted him, and the feelings of being trapped in the concrete confines of the hospital clawed at him. I can never go back. I won't allow it. Just the thought of it....

“Is that the look of fear I see in your eyes?” Dr. Walter taunted him lightly, looking malicious and intrigued. “With all you've seen, is it actually human beings that terrify you the most?”

“Who's to say that you're human?”

“Oh my, if only I had a recorder on me right now,” the doctor said wistfully. “Then we might easily continue these delightful conversations indefinitely. You practically commit yourself merely by existing.” He paused, smiling wider. “Tell me, John,” he continued engagingly, cruelty sliding between the words, “how hard is it for you to pretend to be normal? How difficult is it for you to tread the line between what is real and what your mind tells you is real?”

“I'm not getting involved with you.” The more he let this guy talk, the worse things would become. He was a master at pulling strings, and he would continue to do so until he found a weakness, a chink in the armor, something he could exploit. He was dangerous. Already, the words the doctor had spoken were festering in his mind.

John strode towards the door, set on retreat before something happened. All too quickly he might find himself regarding one of those needles, and next thing he knew, he could be locked inside these walls, unable to help his boys, or himself.

“You were wrong, you know,” Dr. Walter said pleasantly, halting his feet upon the carpet. “It was Sam you needed to worry about, not Dean. He was a wealth of information.” He tsked. “Such a beautifully troubled mind. Ah, the things I could tell you.”

“Leave him be,” John warned him tersely, barely keeping his hands from clenching into fists. His turned back was ramrod straight with tension.

“It's quite amusing how you put your trust in him, an unknown factor, when the son you raised yourself would have been the better choice. Dean is a harder nut to crack. So loyal. Whereas little Sammy... can you guess where his allegiances lie?”

“Shut up.”

“I could barely encourage him to speak of his brother. But you?” He laughed. “Oh, it was like opening a flood gate. Did you really think he could trust you? He knows, John. He knows what you did, deep down, and he hates you for it.”

“You don't know anything,” he said through clenched teeth. “You're just fishing for a reaction.”

“Years of dissonance between you, years of hearing his mother speak badly of you and call you unstable, and now this.” The younger looking man shook his head and said almost mockingly, “Poor Mary. And poor, frightened little Jessica.”

“No.”

“No?” Dr. Walter's voice sharpened, “It's in his unconscious memory, John: Your Mistake. I've seen it through him, and I saw the guilt smearing your hands.”

“No...” What had happened that night... John's hands rose to his face, trying to cover his eyes from the scene that was still able to rise up in stunningly gory detail. Memories flashed and hit him like a sucker-punch, only worse. A thousand times worse. Mary... The reek of blood had been everywhere. He couldn't have anticipated the events that night.

Blood. Mutilated flesh. The hot red splashes marring his hands and the grass below. He wished things had been different. But given the chance to do everything over, it still would have come to this.

No matter how horrifying it was, he would have made the same decision. But knowing that did not change how much the guilt and sickness ate at him. At times, it was all consuming... the what-if's, the how's the why's, the scenario writing... Though he'd made the right decision, he couldn't escape the torment his mind crafted for him.

As he fought the trap of his own inner hell, he barely noted the doctor's voice say softly in his ear, “Welcome back, Winchester.”

---
TBC

A/N: Chapter title is “Psycho” from Infected Mushroom. (Mostly instrumental). My accompanying selection is “The Other Side” by Pendulum. Both are selected with the latter part of the chapter in mind.

“The Other Side” - by Pendulum

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

There's nothing to fear,
Your saviors are here,
The shift is coming down,
The shift is coming down,
The shift is coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,

You, You look so precious,
A diamond in rough,
And you tried to escape,
But we're holding on,

But i can't sleep until this is done,
They're in my head
They're in my soul

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

We are in your spirit,
We're everywhere you turn,
From the cover undercover,
The cover undercover,
In your lover,
In your brother,
In your brother,
The other's,

You, You look so precious,
But now we're on are way,
And I am falling apart,
I'll get the waves,

But i can't sleep until this is done,
They're in my head
They're in my soul

Through the gates of hell,
We know you,

The shift is coming down,
The shift is coming down,
The shift is coming down,
The shift is coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,
Coming down,

Down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong.

Come on down to the other side,
Come with us through the gates of hell,
Where we'll drag you from where you are
to where you belong