His back was killing him. He'd spent far too long ducked down in that grave. All he really wanted now was a shower and some whisky.
He drives back to his motel room. A shady looking spot on the outskirts of the town. Most of the lights in the sign are out or flickering, and the pool is green and mossy looking. The parking lots lines are faded and it's hard to tell where one parking spot ends and another begins and the sidewalk is crumbling in places. It's not the ritz, but it works for him.
He cuts the ignition and steps out, hoping there aren't many other people out in the midnight hour to see his disheveled shape. His back is tight from the strain and his jeans are filthy, his boots leaving muddy prints on the pavement as he goes.
He takes a quick shower and sends a text off to Sammy before lamenting in the fact that he's out of whisky.
He remembers a small bar a little bit farther into town, and he swipes his keys off the bedside table, throws his flannel over his shoulders and heads back out to his car.
The bar isn't real busy at 2 am, and in a town this size he's actually surprised it's open at all. He heads in, his favorite ivory gripped gun tucked into his jeans. It's probably not necessary, but he's learned the hard way that he gets boned if he's unprepared.
He takes a seat at the bar and orders a whiskey neat, and damn does it feel good going down his throat. The first one is gone quickly, and he can still feel the burn it left in it's wake when he taps the bar and waves for another. This one he nurses for longer. Long enough for a man that screams ex-military to take a seat next to him.
He can feel the stranger's eyes boring a hole into the side of his skull.
"You got a problem there, man?" He asks the stranger when it's been thirty seconds of staring; twenty nine seconds too long for another guy to be staring at him. A woman he could maybe understand, but this is just unsettling.
"I'm Cole," he says, extending his right hand across the his front. He eyes it warily before taking it in his own.
"Dean." Dean gives him a cursory glance before turning back to his drink.
"Anyone ever tell you you've got pretty lips Dean-o?" Dean shakes his head.
"Don't swing your way dude."
"Pretty cock-sucking lips." Cole goads. Dean refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking at him.
"I'm gonna give you one chance to knock that crap off." He threatens, tossing back the rest of his whiskey. He looks over to emphasize his point, and sees a strange look on Cole's face for someone who was just spouting crude remarks, and the bartender is giving him a weary glance. Dean scoffs, looking back to the bar, wondering how he's the one getting the stink eye when Cole started it. He sees the bartender slide Cole a beer, and he thinks maybe he's decided to back off after all.
He's debating whether or not he wants a third, glancing at his watch when Cole crosses the line.
"Bet you'd look real good with my dick up your-" Dean's fist is colliding with Cole's teeth before he gets to finish his comment, and he blocks a swing coming from the guy's right hand, and he's blindsided by an even faster swing from the left. He hadn't expected Cole to be a lefty, and hadn't had his guard up on that side. He throws up his leg, nailing Cole in the chest and knocking him back over a barstool and into the floor.
Someone wraps their arms around his, and then he's pulled to the ground on his ass and flipped over with his face in the dirty floor.
He's kept pinned to the ground when he hears approaching sirens. He smack his head on the floor, wondering how he'd been dumb enough to get caught up with the law again. Cole is in a corner booth, nursing his wounded face, and he deduces that it's the bartender that's got him down. He wonders if bar scuffs are common in this town. Before he knows it he's dragged up off the ground and slapped in handcuffs.
They pull him out to the cop car and throw him gracelessly in the backseat. One of the cops, a older man with a beard and a ball cap that he's not sure is part of the uniform.
"You got yourself in some trouble haven't ya boy?"
"I didn't start it."
"Hmph." His partner, a skinny black man, is still inside. He can see him talking to the bartender through the window of the bar.
"Should have left after the first drink," Dean mumbles.
"You say somethin' princess?"
"I'm gonna get both of you with sexual harassment," he growls, tired of hearing derogatory comments about his looks. It was bad enough when he was eighteen and hitchiking he doesn't need it now that he's a god-damn adult.
"You watch your tone with me." Dean flops back against the seat. It's a couple more minutes before his partner comes back out and gets in the car, slamming the door hard enough to shake the frame.
The two cops exchange a few words Dean can't quite make out before the older guy turns in his seat to face Dean.
"Well, son. You got lucky. He ain't pressing charges on your sorry ass." Officer ... Singer, he's able to read off his name tag says.
"So I can go?" Dean asks. The passenger snorts.
"You think you're gonna get off scotch free after tearin up my favorite place to drink?"
"Give it a rest Rufus," Singer admonishes. "Look, kid. We're gonna take you to a hospital and get you checked out. We ain't trying to hurt ya."
This is gonna be a long night.
They drive him to the emergency room across town from the bar. By this point, he's exhausted and grumpy. They sign him in at three in the morning, he fills out the ridiculously long paperwork, and with his real information, unlike what he'd given the motel. He puts Sam down as his emergency contact, because he's the only thing he's got left, and if some crack pot doctor kills him up in here, well at least Sammy deserves to know Dean isn't just ignoring his calls. He reads through the extensive questionnaire about medical history and family history, marking almost everything but alcohol and smoking as non issues. Dad was an alcoholic from his mom's death till the day he died, and well, Dean was a stupid teen who thought smoking was cool once, and unfortunately it just kind of stuck.
He sits there for a long time, his shoulders aching from being behind his back in handcuffs.
It's nine before he's actually seen by anyone.
They take his blood pressure and shine this light in his eyes. He's asked to do some odd tasks, which some of them were hard to do handcuffed to the bed, but they made do.
They're brief and professional, and they say he doesn't have a concussion and that he doesn't need stitches for his face. He expects to be discharged and sent home, but they say instead they are going to page someone upstairs to come and talk to him before they feel good about letting him go.
He flops back on the pillows. It's just officer Singer with him now, his partner had left shortly after they'd gotten to the ER, another officer had come and picked him up. He wasn't sure why he was still being watched if there weren't any outstanding charges, but here they were.
He takes a small nap before he's awoken to a food tray at noon. He's got a mouthful of fried chicken when another white coat comes in to see him.
"Hello Mr. Winchester, I'm Dr. Fitzgerald." Dean nods at him and struggles to swallow his food so he can talk. He wipes his hand on his blanket and shakes the doctor's outstretched one. "I hear you had a bit of an incident this morning."
"Not much of an incident. Just some rude fucker at a bar who didn't know how to keep his mouth shut."
"Uh huh. Tell me Mr. Winchester, what did he say to you?"
"Some shit you wouldn't want your mom to hear."
"Do you live in the area Mr. Winchester?"
"Dean."
"Dean, do you live in the area?"
"Just passing through." The doctor nods and then takes a clipboard from officer Singer and flips through it. "Ah. Where were you before you went to the bar, Dean?"
"Takin care of a job."
"And what was that job?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you sir," he says, trying his most charming smile. The doctor looks at him with a concerned look.
"Does this job cause you significant stress?"
"Sometimes it feels like the fate of the world is on my shoulders," he says admonishes.
"What about other stressors in your life? Do you have a permanent residence? What about family?"
"I've got my brother. Dad died when I was eighteen, mom when I was four. I move around, place to place, sometimes on Sammy's couch. Though I hardly mind, he's got a beautiful girl to talk to."
"Where are you staying Dean?" This time it's Singer that asks, taking back his clipboard from the doctor who asks for the police station to fax those papers over to them.
"The motel down on duplex."
"Well, Dean. I've got a bed upstairs I'd like to admit you to. Would you be willing to stay with us tonight?" Dean blinks at him, he thought he had already been medically cleared.
"No thanks, I really need to get back to my brother."
"Maybe we could call your brother?"
"Why?"
"To let him know you're here, and that you're safe."
"Or you could just let me get on out of your way."
"I'm afraid that's not an option."
"Why? You got no reason to keep me here, the nurse already told me there was nothing wrong with me."
"Physically, no. You're in quite good health. If you don't agree to stay willingly I'm going to have to put you on an involuntary hold."
"For what? Kicking some jerk's ass?"
"Mr. Winchester please calm down."
"This is stupid!"
"Alright, five of haldol over here!"
A brunette in purple scrubs comes over with a syringe, and aw hell no this is not happening. There's sulfur radiating off of her. No way is this hell spawn sticking him. He's trying to climb off the bed, slipping out of the handcuff he had subtly picked hours ago.
"Call a code!" He lunges for the arm holding the needle but is grabbed from behind by the officer before he reaches her.
"Exorcismis omnis immundus spiritus-" he feels two sharp pricks and then his vision is blurring and the sound around him feels so far away.
He could hear voices outside his door. He felt groggy. His limbs were heavy and his mind still felt hazy, like there was a fog still hanging over him.
"Mr. Winchester is a 22 year-old-male with no previous documented psychiatric history. He was brought in by police for altered mental status following an altercation in a bar. The man he attacked has decided not to press charges. He came into the ER last night around three am. He was pleasant with the staff until it was mentioned he was going to have to stay here, at which time he became agitated." He scoffed at that.
"He was unable to be verbally de-escalated and when one of our staff responded to our call for haldol he got physically violent and had to be restrained. He was held in a PRT for two and half minutes and given Ativan and Haldol IM. He was then placed in restraints and brought up to the unit."
"Does he have any family history of mental illness?"
"Patient denied. We are trying to get in touch with his brother who he listed as his emergency contact but so far we have been met with voicemail."
"Are his delusions persucatory, grandiose?"
"We aren't sure yet, we haven't been able to really interview him, but he started reciting latin when Masters tried to give his IM, and he seemed to be having AH at the bar when the altercation took place."
It took a few more minutes of chatter before the people outside got their collective singular testicle worked up enough to walk in. He tracked them with his eyes, six men, three in white coats, and two women, one in a white coat.
"Hello Mr. Winchester." It was the same man he had seen in the ER earlier. A lanky man with barely any substance to his frame; hell, he was pretty sure a strong gust of wind would blow the guy away.
"Dean." He corrects. He was pretty sure they'd already been over that.
"Okay Dean. I'm your doctor, Dr. Fitzgerald. The folks with me are a social worker," he points to a stern looking brunette who seems a bit casually dressed, "a therapist," he says pointing to another man flocked behind, "and the rest are students and we are all here to help you. Now, how are we feeling this morning?"
"Been better," he wiggles his fingers as much as he can given his restraints. "Could improve that a little by gettin' rid of these." He pulls on them, letting them jingle on the bed rail for emphasis.
"Do you feel like hurting yourself or anyone else right now, Dean?"
"Not unless you give me a reason to." He quips. "No, look man I just need to get home. Be with my brother. I'll behave, scout's honor." He winks at one of the girls, and then looks back to the doctor.
"You see Dean, I feel like you aren't being entirely honest with me. Do you mind if we give your brother a call?"
"I'd rather you just let me go."
"Well Dean, we have grounds to keep you at least seventy-two hours based on your behavior."
"It was a bar fight, I don't see you locking up every drunk bastard who decides he's tired of being told he's got cock sucker lips."
"That's not how the bartender said it went down when he told the police what happened."
"Look, I have a temper. At most, that gets me overnight in jail, not wherever this is."
"This is a psychiatric hospital Mr. Winchester."
"Dean." Either this guy was forgetful or just bull-headed.
"Do you have any history of mental illness Dean?"
"Nope."
"Do you have any history of medical issues?"
"No."
"Do you have any family history of mental illness?"
"I don't think I even have a present issue of mental illness."
"Do you ever see or hear things that other people don't seem to see or hear?"
"Alright, where do we stand on these," he says, jingling the restraints again. The doctor looks at one of the people towards the back and he turns and leaves.
"Dean, I'd like you to take some medications, would you be willing to take them orally?"
"What kind?"
"I'd like to give you some Ativan and Abilify."
"What are those?"
"It's an anxiety reliever and an anti-psychotic."
"No thanks. I don't have anxiety and I'm not psychotic."
"Alright." The man who had left comes back and hands the doctor a small silver key. "I feel comfortable releasing you from these, but I'm afraid we're going to have to keep you here for now. If after the seventy-two hours are up and I still don't feel comfortable releasing you, and you still disagree with being held, you will have the opportunity to go in front of a judge and explain why you think you should be released, and the judge will decide whether to release you or continue your hold. Do you understand?"
Dean nods, and the doctor comes forward, releasing his right leg first. He looks at Dean for a moment, and then releases the left one.
"While you are here you might find it beneficial to attend group and socialize with your peers. For today you are going to be on unit restriction because I feel like you are a flight risk. If you do well today we can discuss going down to meals and the gym Sunday. Do you understand?"
"Yeah." The doctor releases his left arm.
"Do you still feel calm and like you can be safe?" Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. Like if he were seriously wanting to hurt someone he would admit to it. He might as well just lock himself back in the damn things himself.
"Sure."
"Alright," he releases his right hand. "We'll be in touch Dean."
With that, the team makes their exit. Dean grumbles to himself and then sits up, stretching out his back in a way he hasn't been able to in what feels like days. He wonders what time it is when he hears movement to his left. He glances over and sees dark hair poking out from underneath sheets. His companion is then swallowed up completely when they decide to roll over and pull the blanket all the way over their head.
Dean makes use of his new found freedom and goes to take a leak in their bathroom. It's spotless, not a single indication that someone else uses it. Though, maybe his mysterious roommate doesn't use it. He's in a psychiatric hospital after all. Do crazy people even shower? He realizes his belt is gone and he thumps his head against the wall. His boots have vanished as well.
He wanders out of his room, the moss green and brown tiles on the floor and yellow walls an unpleasant sight. Most of the beds he passes are unmade and empty, names on placards above doors with painted brown frames.
Someone in scrubs is walking down the hall with a clipboard.
"Hi, what's your name sir?" The little blonde girl asks.
"Dean."
"Nice to meet you Dean I'm Jo," she says, extending her dainty hand. He grasps it in his, feeling almost like he's shaking hands with a child the way his hand swallows hers.
"Look, I was strapped down back there," he says, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, "and I'm missing the boots I had in the ER."
"They're in our patient effects closet. We don't allow shoe laces or any garments with strings on our unit for patient safety."
"I don't need to be here though," he exclaims, but she seems completely unfazed.
"Well you'll have to take that up with your doctor DEAN. I don't have any control over whether or not you get to go home. I do have your breakfast tray though. Follow me?" She turns, her ponytail swinging behind her and he decides if he's stuck here anyway he might as well eat. "Given your outburst in the ER you'll be unit restricted until tomorrow morning, so your meals will have to be brought up to you."
He doesn't respond to her, he feels like anything he says here is being disregarded anyway, so he doesn't bother justifying himself.
"This is our common area," she says, gesturing to a sitting room with a TV where about six patients are gathered around. "The opposite side is where we hold group. That is at 9:30, 10:30 and 7, we recommend attendance but it isn't mandatory. We have a special room where you can go for quiet if you are feeling overwhelmed or anxious and that's over here," she says pointing him down a shorter hallway. "And over here in the common area is our snack closet. We have snack at 10, 3:30 and 8."
"And when can I-" he reaches for her shoulder but is cut off by her spinning him around and pinning his arm behind his back. "Ow- is that really necessary?!"
"Was grabbing me necessary, huh?" She counters, releasing her grip. She unlocks the little closet and pulls out a Styrofoam box and hands it to him. "Enjoy," she says, a small smirk on her face before she turns on her heel and heads behind the big desk that divides the two halls. Several stone faced people in scrubs are sitting behind it, typing and clicking away on computers, barely paying any attention to the people in front of them.
He heads back to his room, his socked feet thumping too heavily in his opinion on the floor. He can hear through the walls someone screaming, and he peeks in a room that damn well looks like it could belong to a hoarder with all the garbage that's stacked on the minimalist desk.
Maybe he should call Sam. Maybe he could help him get out of here. He decides that can wait until after he eats. When he enters his roommate is sitting up, cross legged on the bed. He's gazing at Dean's bed with his head tilted to the side.
"Quit looking at that," Dean scolds. His roommate turns away from him, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. "Shit, sorry man." Dean leans over to drop his tray on his blanket before turning back to the man curled in on himself on the bed. "I didn't mean it like that, I - I just don't know what I'm doing here man." He places his hand on the other's shoulder but it's quickly shrugged off. Dean rubs his hand down his face and decides to start over. "I'm Dean."
Blue eyes hesitantly look up at him, then down to his outstretched hand. Tentatively, he shakes it, but makes no move to offer his own name. Dean raises an eyebrow expectantly, but it doesn't do anything on the name front. His roommate lets go of his hand and then uncurls, reaching for something wedged between his bed and the wall.
"Alright then," Dean mumbles, turning away and plopping down on his bed, grabbing his tray and popping it open. It looks about like what you would find at a continental breakfast a couple minutes before they are ready to pack the whole thing up, but he grabs a fork and digs in anyway. He's startled by a firm hand on his right shoulder, and looks up to see bight blue eyes looking at him.
"Can I help you?" He asks, and is met by a small smile in return, but it takes a moment too long for him to remove his hand from Dean's shoulder.
Dean looks down when he sees the dark haired man writing on what looks to be a dry erase board clutched in his hands. The white is smeared with black streaks from the many times whatever has been written on it has been erased, and the single word on it is slightly smeared from the way his too long sleeves had drug through the drying ink while he'd been writing. The darkened edge of the fabric tells him this isn't an uncommon problem.
He turns the board around for Dean to read, and he frowns at it a little. He looks back up at the man who looks like he's barely over eighteen, with dark hair that is way past needing a trim and upturned bowed lips. He's pointing to himself, and Dean looks back at the board, realizing the odd word is actually a name.
"Castiel?"
Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed reading as those motivate me to keep making content.
You can visit me on tumblr at cassiel-of-thursday , I answer questions, post about stories, and take prompts on fandoms I'm in (Magi and Supernatural are the big ones right now).
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Cassie
