She didn't know how many days she'd been there, exactly. The mental ward was monotonous, and average, with only the few daily breakdowns of resident's to cut into the routine. She'd been there for few years, at least. Of that she was sure. And what she could remember about that day had been something she was never going to be able to forget.
She'd been sitting in her room that day, laptop open as she streamed her favorite television show. She was ogling the gorgeous features of Mark Pellegrino, Jared Padalecki and lusting over how perfect Jensen Ackles mouth was.
It really is unfair how unearthly that man's beauty actually is.
"CJ, it's time for your meds."
The orderly's bright, peppy voice cut through her thoughts, and the young adult blinked slowly out of her doze to see the mocha-skinned nineteen-year-old place a tray on the table beside her door, giving her a gentle smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Like veal." Her muttered response was thick with sarcasm, and she barely flicked her hazel eyes to the door before returning them to the ceiling, "Thanks Lucas."
"Please eat, this time," the orderly requested quietly, shooting her a briefly disapproving look when he caught sight of her thin, bony wrists in her baggy hospital-grade smock, practically swimming in the smallest size they offered.
She'd been brought to the middle of nowhere just shy of 2005, much to her absolute confusion. Waking up in a pile of burnt trees and upturned dirt in a giant hole. She spoke with countless police officers, on why her records were never shown, why her fingerprints were not in the system, and why she seemed to think it was over twelve years past the current date.
She was placed promptly in a mental institution, eighteen years old and over ten years behind the real date, she wasn't able to understand just exactly what had happened.
Except, when she was asleep, she was.
Her dreams, vivid to the point of near tangibility kept her sane. At first, she dismissed them as just that, extraordinarily vivid dreams. Episodes of Supernatural that she would cling to to remind herself that it could be a Hell of a lot worse. Remind herself that as soon as she turned sane by their records, she was free to check out.
And every night she would pray.
At first, in her old world, she had done it with mock seriousness. She had been watching the series almost religiously after homework and getting home from work. She knew about Azazel, Meg, Ruby, Lucifer, Michael (The dick, she would never like him), The mark of Cain, the darkness, all of it. She prayed to Lucifer, to Gabriel, to Balthazar, but she didn't pray to Castiel. That seemed like something she didn't want to do; like it was something she needed to earn, as weird as that was.
And through all of this, every time she would fall asleep, she would relive each and every episode over and over, details and dialogue searing into her brain until she was muttering jokes and references under her breath throughout the day and itching to use her salt shaker to line her single barred window.
Praying became a joke..
It was stupid, and yet..
With each passing day, she grew more and more restless, and even more tired. Sometimes, she would fall asleep directly into her desk, or even in the common room while she was playing a board game with some of the other residents.
And then, she felt it, something dark, and sharp, feeling like it was tearing at her skin and organs, clawing and scraping. She hadn't made a sound, her silent scream caught in her throat as she hit the floor of her bedroom, almost thankful her door had been closed for all but a crack. She lied there, on her side, for what felt like hours, unwilling to have visions, and unable to keep herself from sleeping, and the sudden, excruciating pain had hit thrice fold.
She left the hospital the next day.
She stared blankly down at the freshly-packed earth of the small clearing, a ratty, worn strap of a leather bag clenched tightly between her fingers as she eyed the crude cross stuck in place to mark the grave.
There were dried boot prints. Someone had been there, recently, but there was no sign to see if they were coming back or not.
She knew this place, the headache proved enough. Her three hundred mile hitchhike proved something when she aimlessly wandered.
She had found Dean Winchester's grave.
She felt torn between crying, or screaming. She wanted to pull out her hair, pound her fists to the ground. She want to stomp her feet and curse the skies.
She was twenty-two now, almost twenty three.
Falling to her rear, she leaned back into the grass, closing her eyes as she inhaled slowly, and let all of her irritation seep out.
What was she doing here?
Her body didn't want to move, like it was commanding she watch it. Pay attention to the unmoving, nearly dead grass in front of the grave.
The dates were off, and there was no way she was going to sit there for another three and a half months.
Not without something to do.