Patient Zero
Mr. Winchester. You have to realize what being institutionalized as long as Sam has does to a person. He's not the same as he was when you left him here. He'll require… certain care, medication and therapy. Perhaps for the rest of his life. Are you sure…
I've heard it all before, Doc. Level with me here. Is he, or is he not, well enough to come home?
Dr. Jimmy Novak was uncharacteristically annoyed. He dealt with mentally challenged people on an everyday basis. He could handle anything irrational, spiked, scared or in any other way out of what "ordinary" people considered safe behaviour. It was these "ordinary" people he couldn't handle. The behaviour of those out there wasn't that different from the people in here, but what scared him was that they had no reason for acting the way they did. They didn't have a diagnosis, they weren't considered a threat, and their behaviour couldn't be excused to something outside their own control. All the same, they were irrational, loud, angry, destructive… Completely lost in his own train of thought, he jumped in his chair as the man across the table spoke again.
Doctor? Is he?
Is he what?
The glare he got then could have a floored just about anyone. For the first time, Jimmy looked closer at the figure moving restlessly in the chair in front of him. He was wearing a worn out leather jacket, and despite it being nearly ninety outside, he seemed rather unaffected by the weight of it. There was a dark, stoic veneer over his features. His face was scrunched up on it self now, brow furrowed, a thin veil of self-control keeping him from loosing it. Jimmy saw that he rather did that some place that wasn't his office.
Yes.
He coughed once, twice, reaching for the cup of water beside him, holding up an apologetic hand.
Yes. Yes, Sam is technically speaking more than well enough to come… home. But are you sure you can provide a suitable home environment for someone with his… Issues?
What the hell does that mean?
No offense, Mr. Winchester. It's just that I have looked at all of Sam's files. That includes the one's from Child Protective Services. Do you understand where I'm going with this?
Another unimpressed glare.
No offense, Dr. Novak, but I have been providing for that kid his whole life. If I can't get Sam what he needs, then no one can. Tell me, have you ever gone hungry, so that your family can eat? Have you stayed up all night, keeping the monsters at bay? Do you have kids, Doctor?
No. Well… No, I don't.
Then you don't understand. You do anything for family. I'll do anything for him, okay? He's coming home. Today. We'll check in regularly, or you could send someone, like agreed.
I can't make any promises, okay? It all depends on how the reacts to you. If the reaction is good, you can take him home. For the weekend. Bring him back on Monday, and if it has been a good experience for him, we can talk about a more permanent… Solution. I assume I don't have to remind you about last time?
No. No, he really, really, didn't need to remind him of the last time he took Sam home. It had been nothing short of a disaster, and to shield him, Sam wasn't permitted visitors after that.
Dr. Novak pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, screwed them shut. Then he met the eyes across the table. They were open, in every sense of the word, and when he finally spoke, his voice was trembling.
I understand all that, I do. If all is fine and dandy, I can take him home for a slice of picket fence and apple pie. Back on Monday. Fine, good, great. Now. Can I please, please, see my brother?
It was day like any other. Contrary to popular belief, psychiatric facilities don't have padded rooms and darkened windows and Ms Ratchet–like nurses. At least this one didn't. Psychiatric wards are monotone. They are so bland and sleek and sterile, that if you weren't really insane when you walked in, you sure were when you walked back out. Sam lifted his head from the book he had been reading, and scanned the room, a motion so worked in, so practiced, he didn't really notice doing it anymore. His brain registered the same things, the same elements every time, cataloguing everyone's positions and habits.
There was Ellen Harvelle, the middle aged woman with hair that had once been fiery red. Sitting in the corner, day out and day in, with a patchwork ragdoll in her lap. Every once in a while, she would jump out of the chair with surprising vigour and hurl the doll at the nearest wall.
Joanna Beth Harvelle!
Crooked finger pointing, eyes sparkling. Her southern drawl was smooth and thick like cream on a Sunday morning.
It was the only time she truly looked alive.
You watch your mouth, young lady. I'm still the boss of this house, and don't you forget it, you hear me?!
Then she'd pick the doll back up, smooth over it wrinkles and pat its head.
I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry…
Joanna, the real Joanna, had taken a nosedive off the back of a pickup going ninety on the highway, the night of her graduation dance. Being an only child, and all Ellen had left, it had caused her mother to take a nosedive of her own. Off the railing of a bridge.
Then there was Frank, and Anna, and a tall, lanky guy no one really knew the name of, but who insisted on calling himself The Trickster. Rowena, with a slurring Scottish accent and tendency to cast spells on all who crossed her path. This in turn freaked out Rufus. The old park ranger was at the moment strapped to his bed for attempting to pin said spell caster to the floor and cut her throat with a plastic fork. There were others two, but they didn't matter. No one did. They all passed each other, motionless and silent. They weren't allowed to touch, to raise their voices, to be alone together. They didn't know each other, because they didn't live together. They existed together, rode out their demons and lived out their lives in dusty, crammed quarters.
Sam scanned the room again. Then he stopped. And his eyes followed their own trail back the way they came. And again. And again. He blinked. He knuckled his eyes like a child. And then he screamed. He screamed and set his own lungs on fire from the inside out. Pushing his hands into and over his hears, trying to silence his own raw wailing.
They were over him in a heartbeat, holding him down, pressing his face flat on the ground. His arms were on his back and his heart was beating like a jackhammer in his chest. This isn't real. It can't be. He's not here. It's another cruel trick, another side effect. Cold, sterile words from a million psychology books, a million therapy sessions scatter trough his brain. Paranoid, delusional, abused, manic, violent… Dean isnot here. He can't be. And Sam doesn't see, because he can't. Because his head is turned the other way, he can't see the way Dean stops dead in his tracks, shuffles forwards and then backwards when the animalistic sounds starts forcing their way out of his brother's mouth. He doesn't see the way Dr. Novak pushes past Dean and kneels beside him, but he does feel the needle puncturing the veiny part of his arm.