Welcome to Crazy Town

Summary:

Serafina Parker is the new resident to Berkshire Asylum and despite her afflictions, she finds understanding and acceptance in the hands of four residents. Can the five overcome their socially disturbing tendencies? When push comes to shove, they learn that while they are broken as individuals; together nothing can stop them.

Characters/psychosis:

Sam Winchester (23): Impulsive Control Disorder (ICD) with pyromanic tendencies

Dean Winchester (27): Bi-Polar Disorder with moments of psychotic episodes

Jimmy 'Castiel' Novak (28): Multiple Personality Disorder/Schizophrenia

Serafina 'Sera' Parker (26): Selective Mutism/Social Anxiety Disorder

Katrina Huntington (25): Insomnia with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) tendencies

These are the five main characters in this story. There will be other minor characters with various other psychotic disorders, but most of the story revolved around the five main characters, how they overcome their differences and their own afflictions This story is obviously a Supernatural AU and I just wanted to kind of play around with the characters. We will see familiar faces like Ellen and Bobby (Doctors/Orderlies) and others in future chapters. I'm not sure how this is going to plan out, but hey, what the heck right? This story is told from Sera's Point of View (Narrative), as she is more introverted and observant.

Chapter One
Berkshire Asylum

They think I'm crazy.

"I just don't know what to do with you anymore Serafina," the voice of her mother breaks the silence in the car.

Serafina's slate-grey eyes stare out the window as she listens to her mother go on about there being something wrong with her. Why is there something wrong with her? Why did everyone think there is something wrong with her? It's not her fault she's like this. Why should she have to explain herself when there's nothing wrong with her? So what if she doesn't feel the need to talk. Why should she? It's not like anyone ever listens anyways.

"This is the third hospital you've been to in the past eight years. Why can't you just talk to me?"

Talk? It's not like her mother ever listens. Her mother didn't listen when she tried many, many years ago. Her mother didn't listen during her middle school years either. No. Serafina Parker was tired of talking to people that didn't listen. No one ever did.

"Here we are," Her mother sighs as the car moves through the gated entrance.

Reluctantly stepping out of the car, Serafina immediately looks up the intimidatingly large building. It looks as if it had once been owned by a wealthy owner, the entire structure made of brick. It doesn't look like any of the other wards she took residency in; no concrete except the walking paths around the beautiful gardens surrounding the building. Hooking the strap to her over-sized messenger bag over her shoulders, Serafina removes both of the medium-sized suitcases from the trunk and slams the compartment shut. Ignoring the irritation in her mother's eyes, the dark-haired woman slowly follows the older woman toward the entrance.

"Hello. I am Doctor Ellen Harvelle," the warm welcoming tone of the brunette greets Serafina and her mother as they enter the front office.

Ignoring the following conversation, Serafina's gaze travels over the entrance area. Behind the office space, she notices the gated door. From the looks of it, a person must be 'buzzed in or out' of the two areas by the receptionist sitting behind bullet-proof plexi-glass windows.

"Serafina?"

The warm voice causes the young woman to blink, her blank grey eyes turning to meet the Doctor's. The empathetic brown eyes causes Sera to shift awkwardly, dropping her gaze as she nods mutely, signaling that she was listening. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with Doctor Harvelle, but Serafina knew that first impressions were often given under false pretenses.

"Welcome to Berkshire. If you would like to say goodbye to your mother before I give you the tour," Doctor Harvelle suggests, motioning toward her mother.

Serafina greets her mother's somber hazel eyes briefly, giving the older woman a stiff wave. Dropping her gaze once again at the sight of her mother visibly swallowing, Serafina turns to Doctor Harvelle and nods curtly, indicating she was ready to follow. A gentle hand on her shoulder causes the young woman to tense, her shoulders tight and a small tremble travels along her spine.

"Please, Serafina. Please, don't be upset with me. I just want you to get better."

A sense of bitterness seeps along Serafina's shoulders and she stiffly reaches up, grabbing the hand, avoiding as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. Removing the hand from her shoulder, Serafina shakes her head stiffly before giving Doctor Harvelle a pointed look. Thankfully, the Doctor isn't pushy. Doctor Harvelle gives a nod to the receptionist and as the gated door buzzes open, Serafina follows after her without looking back. What's the point? Her mother can't deal with Serafina so she drops her off in a strange place with stranger people and expects sympathy.

No. Serafina is done trying to be normal.

What the hell is normal anyway? Who says she isn't normal? Why can't people just accept things for what they are?

"This is the cafeteria. Breakfast is served between the hours of six-thirty and eight in the morning. Lunch is from eleven to one in the afternoon. Dinner is served from six in the evening and goes until eight."

Listening to Doctor Harvelle, Serafina's gaze sweeps over the open room. There isn't much to the room. A series of round tables equally spaced away from the room, each joined with six individual chairs. Listening as the Doctor speaks, Serafina's eyebrow twitches at the sound of the acoustics of the room, knowing that this room will be filled with endless chatter bouncing off the walls.

Isn't that just awesome.

"This is the Recreational Room. This is open from five in the morning until eleven at night. You are welcome to do anything in here, play any of the games available."

This room was just as open and acoustically sound as the cafeteria. Most likely another place she will be avoiding. She has no desire to play games. Not that she's ever played any of the ones available. Two table tennis tables were set up in the back of the room. A bookcase along the side of the room seemed stuffed full of board games. Several round tables, much like the ones in the cafeteria, were spaced around the room.

"Here we have the library. You are welcome to select any of the books from our selection, just make sure they are returned when you are finished. This is open twenty-four seven as we have a few residents that find it difficult to sleep."

Every space along the walls were covered by ceiling-tall bookshelves. Everything was organized and not a speck of dust could be seen. Serafina marveled at the wide selection of books. She enjoyed reading. Instead of round tables like the previous two rooms, soft arm chairs seemed situated around the room with enough space around it to allow the occupant of the chair to have suitable personal space while reading.

"This is the Crafts Room. Your mother mentioned you were quite the artist. This room is open twenty-four seven as well and you are welcome to use any of the items on hand. There is always one or two Orderlies posted in this room for safety purposes."

Of course. People with suicidal tendencies could easily pencil their throats if they aren't watched carefully, Serafina muses inwardly.

This room is just as open as the first two. Various tables decorate the room. Shelves and cabinets lined the walls, obviously holding the supplies. It seemed as though a patient could do anything from bead-work to painting. Inhaling the familiar smell of acrylic paint and oil pastels causes her lips to twitch minutely.

This feels like home.

"Now the Left Wing is where the men are housed, while the Right Wing is where the women are housed. Each room has two beds and an en-suite bathroom for the privacy of both occupants of the room. For both male and female residents, those that need to shave must have an orderly present."

Naturally. Wouldn't want the poor, depressed saps to kill themselves.

"Here is your room."

12-R. Her blank grey eyes watch as Doctor Harvelle knocks on the door three times, pauses for a moment, and knocks three times once more. A moment of silence stretches before the door opens, a ginger-haired young woman standing in the open doorway.

"Hiya, Doc. What can I do for ya?" the woman greets enthusiastically.

Serafina's blank, observant eyes takes in the dark circles around the ginger's dark, emerald eyes. Everything about her is immaculate. Not a strand of curly hair is out of place. Her clothes are ironed and her jeans even show proper crease lines. Her skin is fair and a soft dusting of freckles is brushed over the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. Irish, maybe Scottish, ancestry for sure. Most likely born and raised in the Irish-populated area of South Boston.

"Kat, this is Serafina Parker. Serafina, this is Katrina Huntington. Kat, if you don't mind getting Serafina settled into the routine here." The fiery-haired woman nods, grinning widely before Doctor Harvelle turns on the dark-haired patient, "Serafina, you will have what is left of the weekend to get settled in here. On Monday I will have your therapy sessions scheduled out."

Serafina nods curtly, once again turning her gaze away from the grinning red-head. Stepping into the room, she barely acknowledges the Doctor's fare well. The room seemed to be nothing more than an over-sized bedroom, the bed on the left empty and bare compared to the bed on the right. Her roommate seemed to be heavily organized. Emphasis on heavily.

"So, Sera, may I call you Sera?" The ebony-haired woman stiffly shrugs a shoulder, indicating her indifference, "What are you in for? I suffer from Insomnia and if you can't tell, I have a bit of Obsessive Compulsive tendencies."

A bit? A bit my ass. Although, if I went days without sleep, I'd need to do something to occupy my time with as well.

"We are allowed to wear our own clothing, although necklaces have to be eighteen inches long and no shorter than that. I would appreciate it if you keep your side of the room clean and I often occupy the bathroom for thirty-five minutes twice a day; one at seven in the morning and the second time at ten o'clock at night. Any questions?"

Serafina brings her gaze from looking over the room to the red-head, blinking slowly. This...Katrina woman talks a lot. Her words are quick and smashed together like one extremely long speech pushed out of her mouth in a single breath. Apparently, the deadpanned stare causes the red-head to swallow thickly, much like others who can't meet her gaze.

"Okay," the word drawn out with an awkward undertone, "Well, I'm going to leave you alone, so you can pack. If you need anything, just let me know."

Serafina nods curtly, watching with stoic eyes as the fiery-haired woman leaves the room. As silence surrounds her, she feels her tense shoulders begin to relax. Moving to the bed claimed to be her own, she places the suitcases and messenger bag on top of the mattress. Unlatching the first suitcase, she immediately removes the iPod and the iHome, setting it on the second nightstand next to her bed. Plugging the contraption in, Serafina hits play and her lips twitch as the beginning, delicate lyrics fill breaks the silence.

When the lights go down in the City

And the sun shines on the bay

I want to be there in my City

Ooh, ooh

As Journey's 'Lights' filters through the air with a gentle, melodic tune, Serafina moves back to her suitcase. Removing her folded clothes, she sighs at the idea of not having a closet to place her clothes in as she moves toward the secondary dresser in the room. Jeans, about the only type of pants she wears, of various styles are folded neatly and placed in the last drawer along the bottom of the dresser. The next drawer up from that is filled with t-shirts, all of them bearing slogans or representing various Rock bands. The drawer up from that one is filled with her long-sleeved undershirts, most of them black or stark, bold colors of the neon variety. The top drawer she fills with her socks and intimates, each of them matched perfectly and by color association.

You're as cold as ice

You're willing to sacrifice our love

You never take advice

Someday you'll pay the price

I know

I've seen it before

It happens all the time

You're closing the door

You leave the world behind

You're digging for gold

Yet throwing away

A fortune in feelings

But someday you'll pay

'Cold as Ice' by Foreigner soon takes over as she moves toward her second suitcase. Removing three pairs of shoes, her sturdy combat boots, a pair of classic black-and-white Chuck Taylor's All-Star Converses, and a pair of flat-soled ballet flats, she places them at the end of her bed against the foot board. Taking her toiletries and make-up back, she moves to the bathroom; various colors of bold, dark eye-shadows and eye-liners soon stocked along the right side of the sink.

"Ooh, ooh, ooh, cold as, cold as ice

You're as cold as ice

You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know

You're as cold as ice, yes I know

You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know

You're as cold as ice, oh yes I know

You're as cold as ice, cold as ice, I know

You're as cold as ice, oh yes I know

You're as cold as ice, cold as ice"

The husky, tenor voice ringing through the air causes the hairs along the back of her neck to stand upright. Slowly entering the bedroom, she stares at young sandy-haired man apparently going through her roommate's book collection. Her gaze quickly travels over the strong, sturdy and slightly bow-legged limbs clad in lean-fit jeans, the bottom hem of the pant legs pulled over the tops of sturdy, dark-brown work boots. A dark red and black flannel t-shirt stretches across the muscles along his back. His stature screamed power and confidence and Serafina immediately takes a timid step back.

Sharp green eyes whirl around on her when her foot bangs into the dresser, the hard tension in the man's eyes fading with surprise. She swallows thickly as her eyes ghost over his handsome features; full lips, freckles dusting over the bridge of his nose and slightly feminine cheekbones, strong jawline. The very air around him was masculine, power and seduction. Immediately she drops her gaze from his face, the tension growing along her shoulders.

"Oh...sorry. Kit-Kat said I could steal her copy of Lord of the Flies and...well, Foreigner is one of my favorites," She shifts awkwardly, her attention flicking between his face and the nearby wall at frequent intervals, "I'm Dean, Dean Winchester." The hand extended in an offer of a friendly, cordial handshake causes her to take a step back, "Hey, I'm not gonna hurt ya, or anything. Kit-Kat said you don't talk. You're Sera, right?"

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide,

No escape from reality.

She swallows when his eyes brighten exceptionally, the moss-green color different from the pure, emerald of her roommate's, and she is inwardly surprised when he grins broadly, "I have to say, you have good taste in music. Kit-Kat listens to that Japanese Rock shit and Metal crap. Are you finished packing?"

Serafina shakes her head mutely, her shoulders stiff as she motions toward her messenger bag.

"Oh? Did you want any help?" She shakes her head once again, watching with blank, observant eyes as he shifts his weight and begins rubbing the back of his neck, "Uh...well, I'm supposed to meet Sammy at the Art Room, so...I'll see you around?"

See her around? She watches as he nods awkwardly before backing out of the room, Lord of the Flies clasped in his hand. As the door shuts, she releases the sigh as her tension fades. Opening her messenger bag, she carefully removes the several (completed) sketchbooks and places them in her given bookshelf. Her fingers glide over the leather spines delicately, her eyes softening from their blank appearance. Drawing had been the only thing to help her cope with the pain. She was too much of a coward to try and snuff out her own life. She tried to get people to listen; her mother, her teachers, anyone. She spoke, but they never heard, never listened, and rarely acknowledged.

No one cares about you. See, they didn't believe you. They never will. It's like you aren't even talking.

Blinking, Serafina stands upright, grabbing her brand new sketchbook, she turns off the iHome before exiting the room. Wandering along the hall, she recalls the turns and number of halls she had to take in order to from 12-R to the Art Room. Clutching the sketchbook to her chest, she avoids the sudden attention and bows her head, her thick bangs covering her eyes from view as she weaves around the tables.

"Hey, Sera!" the familiar voice of her roommate causes her to raise her eyes briefly, noticing the red-head waving her over to the table she sits at. "Get your ass over here. Let me introduce you to the guys."

Swallowing back her nerves, Serafina slowly makes her way over to the table. To Katrina's left sat a giant of a younger man. His soft hazel eyes were warm and bright, his floppy brown hair framing his strongly masculine features. He seemed to be at the top of physical prowess, broad shoulders and cross-fit trained body. Everything about him seems calm and comfortable; if it wasn't for the repetitive drumming of his fingers. Dean Winchester sat to the man's left, granting her a broad smile and bright eyes. Sitting to his left, a dark-haired man had lifted his brilliantly blue eyes from his own artistic creation to greet her. His hair is unkempt, windblown even; as if his hands are constantly running through it. He wore cream-colored cotton pants and an off-white, linen shirt, a beige trench coat draped over his shoulders.

"Sera, you've already met Dean," Katrina states, motioning toward the green-eyed man, before gesturing to the tall brown-haired man next to her, "This is his brother, Sam, and this here is...well...he's Castiel at the moment." Serafina nods curtly, shifting on her feet at the piercing blue eyes staring at her with an unblinking gaze, "Don't mind him. He has a staring problem when he Cas. Boys, this is my new roommate, Serafina. Sera doesn't talk much, not sure if she can."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure she knows how to sit her ass down," Dean quips, a playful smile on his lips.

If there was one thing Serafina had grown accustomed to, it was people poking fun at her. Her blank eyes sharpen, growing colder by the passing second. Clenching her sketchbook tightly, she gives a stiff shake of her head and turns on heel, stalking over to the shelf displaying a broad expanse of art tools. Selecting a simple, 2 point pencil, a soft-tipped shading pick, she frowns at the lack of a magnifying lens, but mentally shrugs. She would have to make due for now. Locating an unoccupied table, she calmly drops in the empty chair and flips open the sketchbook. Searching for a model, she finds a curious looking young man sitting off by himself.

As the tip of the pencil drags along the paper, she begins rounding the softness of his face, marking his obvious features; the shape of his eyes, his nose, his lips and ears. Soon, her pencil begins marking the major details of his face; long, almost feminine lashes, the coarse, tight curls of his short hair, and the faint stubble around his mouth and along his jaw. Quickly glancing at her model, she notices the unfocused glaze along his eyes, even as he quickly scratches words into the notebook opened in front of him.

Her pencil pauses in its delicate movements, her shoulders tensing as she feels a presence standing off to the side of her table. Slowly pulling her gaze away from the portrait she created, she bites down on the inside of her cheek as piercing blue eyes meet her blank grey eyes without hesitation. It isn't often someone can meet her gaze without displaying any sense of awkward shifting, and the mere presence in this man causes her gaze to drop instinctively.

"May I sit down?" the deep, gravely voice remains impassive and empty of emotion.

Something about his voice causes her to nod curtly.

"You must forgive Dean and Katrina. Katrina has a tendency of running off at the mouth and Dean is a rather abrasive person," Castiel's monotonous voice states without hesitation, "They mean well, but often forget not everyone understands their sense of humor. You are mute, yes?" Her head nods curtly before she follows it with a pause, then a shake of her head, "Yes, but no? It is selective then?" Another nod is the only response she can give him, "I have heard of Selective Mutism, but have never seen someone who has suffered from it."

Serafina nods slowly, acknowledging his words as she turns her attention back to her sketchbook. Effectively capturing the glazed, off-world gleam in her model's gaze, a sense of gratification flashes through her head briefly. Switching her pencil in favor of the shading pick, she presses the slanted point along the page; marking shadows under eyes, the faintest hollowness of his cheeks, the slope of his neck and curve of his jaw.

"You are remarkably talented as an artist. You seem to perceive more than what people witness," Castiel's voice remarks calmly. "I will leave you to your work. Perhaps, should you be in need of company, you will attempt to join us. I assure you, they are not as bad as they appear to be."

Watching briefly as the trench coat wearing man stands from his chair and returns to his friends, she bites the inside of her cheek in frustration.

That's what they all say.

The subtle creep of the feeling of being closed in begins to edge itself along her nerves. She isn't used to being surrounded by so many people. Doesn't like to be, in fact. Eyes always judging. She doesn't like the way people watch her, as if she is something that doesn't belong. Disgusted sneers. She tries not to acknowledge the visible expressions and unspoken words. Painful verbal jabs.

The pencil she had picked up in order to resume etching in the very fine details of her subject snaps suddenly as the tension mounts. The deafening silence causes her cheeks to flush hotly, her sketchbook immediately snapping shut and her chair pushing away from the table as she stands upright. Feeling the burning stares, she stalks off, her movements stiff and aching. Always burning. Reappearing in her room, she leans against the closed door, her body trembling as her sketchbook is dropped to the floor, hands moving to grasp at her hair. She wants to scream. She wants nothing more than to tell them to mind their business and leave her alone.

Nobody listens. What's the point?

Clutching at the thick, black strands decorating her head, she squeezes her eyes shut.

I know you tried. There's nothing you can do. Don't cry for me, Angel. If they won't listen, they aren't worth the wasted words given. Not from you.

I'm sorry.