Quick disclaimer: Although I have been diagnosed with several mental illnesses, I do not have any of the ones depicted here (besides depressive disorders, experience with suicidal tendencies, self harm, and psychiatric ward environment/care, and secondhand experience with bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and forms of psychogenic aka dissociative amnesia). I have a great interest in psychology, and I wanted to keep things accurate, so I used actual afflictions.
I've done extensive research on the subject and will continue to do so as I move forward in the story to try to keep it as accurate as possible, while still being applicable to the characters. However, I recognize that my portrayals of these disorders can only hold true to the extent of information from my psychology textbooks/articles from medical associations' websites that I've gathered. If you have any of these conditions or experiences with them, please feel free to share if you're comfortable, especially if you feel I'm mischaracterizing any of them, so I can continue to try to keep them as realistic as possible.
I want to make sure I don't cast a false image of any of these disorders and give someone a wrong impression or potentially hurt someone's feelings, because I want to honor the fact that these are real afflictions people suffer from and not some plot device or personality quirk. If you start to get that feeling, please please please let me know so I can correct it, because I don't want to hurt or offend anyone or delegitimize/mischaracterize a mental illness.
Thank you, and enjoy.
A man was in a hospital. He did not know how he got there.
A doctor was asking him questions. Her voice sounded distant and muffled, and his head pounded. His name, she wanted to know his name. He did not remember his name. He did not remember much at all.
Another doctor entered. This one asked about the man's state, if she had found anything out. She said the man was unresponsive.
"Sir?" The new doctor asked. "Do you know where you are?"
The man looked up. He tried to focus on the new doctor's words.
"What do you remember?" He asked.
The man thought about that hard, then a panic rose up inside him and poked at his skin like needles.
"My brother." He said, realization dawning. "My brother, where's my brother?! Where is he? WHERE'S SAMMY?!"
His voice had risen to an angry shout. He stood up, and the doctor called into the hallway. Nurses rushed in and restrained him as he tried to advance toward the doctor. He thrashed about, trying to break free.
"SAM! WHERE'S SAMMY?! WHERE'S MY BROTHER?!"
A sharp pain pierced his thigh. He felt consciousness slip away from him, and his own shouts for his brother sounded far away. They got quieter, quieter, quieter…
When he reawoke his wrists were strapped to the sides of a hospital bed. He felt even blearier than before.
"Oh, good, you're up."
His attention was directed to the same female doctor from earlier.
"Where the hell am I?" He asked.
"You're at St. George's Hospital, in Kansas City. Do you remember arriving here?"
"Where's my brother?" He repeated, trying to avoid the fact that he did not.
The doctor pursed her lips very slightly, but the man noticed.
"What all do you remember?"
"I have a brother. His name is Sammy."
"Do you remember the last time you saw him?"
"We were here. Sammy is sick." The man was confused. That was the last time he remembered seeing him, but they were both children in his memory. The man was very aware that he was not a child. He must just be confused, hit his head too hard or something.
The doctor was silent for a few moments. "We found some records of you. Your name is Dean Winchester. You're from Kansas City. You live in a house by yourself and work at a small mechanics shop. Does this all sound right?"
It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite recall any specific memories. Dean Winchester? Yes, that had to be it, because his brother was Sam Winchester. He must be Dean.
"I don't live by myself. I live with Sam."
"You're suffering from retrospective amnesia. You were in a car crash about a year ago with your adopted father Bobby Singer. Do you remember him?"
The name felt like a small bell being struck in his head, but he had no memory of a car crash. "Yeah, Bobby. He brought us here. Where is he?"
The doctor continued on, purposefully disregarding the last sentence. Dean was annoyed, he just wanted to see his family.
"We think that your brain sustained some small damage from the crash that went unnoticed, but some environmental psychological factor triggered your global-transient amnesia. We ran an fMRI scan and EEG to confirm, and are waiting on results. Until then, you'll be staying in a specialized hospital a few miles from here. While your amnesia is still in effect we can't have you out and about on your own, especially if it turns out to be a form of psychogenic amnesia and not brain trauma."
"I won't be on my own. I'll have Sam and Bobby. And I know 'specialized hospital' is just your nice little way of saying nuthouse, and I ain't crazy, so I'm gunna have to pass up your offer. Sorry."
"Dean…" She said gently. "We were going to wait until you were in a better state to tell you, but Bobby died in that car crash. Sam Winchester hasn't been alive for many years, he died of pneumonia when he was 11. You weren't driven here, a co-worker called you in missing after you hadn't shown up for a week and the police found you wandering a road in the woods on your own, then brought you here. I'm sorry."
Dean tried to process this. She must be mistaken, Sam and Bobby were fine. Bobby was too tough to die in something so stupid, and Sam couldn't die of just sickness. He was weak growing up, sure. Bobby didn't have a lot of money to raise them after their parents died, so sometimes they would go a while without much food, but Sammy was a fighter to his bones. He was strong. The doctor was wrong, Sam was okay. Bobby was okay. He was okay. He shouldn't be here.
"I shouldn't be here." He repeated the last thought out loud.
"I'm sorry, but you're not collected enough and missing too much information to be trying to function by yourself. But you can get help at the hospital, okay? Once we narrow down what exactly it is you're suffering from for certain, we can treat you appropriately and hopefully return you to stability and help you restore your memory."
"And I don't get any kind of choice in the matter?"
"Unfortunately, no. When it comes to the case of more severe mental conditions that impair daily functioning too much, resident psychologists get the final word. With no one outside to monitor you, it's not safe"
Dean sighed. He wanted to argue more, to demand he be taken to his brother, but he was already in restraints and didn't wanted to be muzzled, or whatever the hell it was they did to you when you didn't cooperate. Seething with anger, he remained silent after that as the doctor went on about transportation and dates and psychiatrists.
He spent the night at the hospital while arrangements were made, and the next day was carted over to Two Roads Mental Health Institution. Of course, that just read as "Insane Asylum" to Dean, so he dragged his feet as much as he could, dressing and moving along as slowly as possible to bug the orderlies sent to retrieve him.
He checked in, his belongings (several plaid shirts, a leather jacket, jeans, a pocket knife, car keys, steel-toed boots, a phone) were rifled through and packed away, and he was loaded onto an elevator and rocketed up two floors. It was all so systematic and procedural, it pissed him off. It made him feel like he was being sent to a sterile prison for a crime he didn't commit. He was so angry and confused at everything and anything, he wanted to punch a wall or break a lamp or flip a table, do something with his rage so he wouldn't have to sit there with it bubbling inside him like a pot about to spill over. Normally he'd just drink til the pain washed over, but something told him that wouldn't be an option here.
He was led through a large living room-type area with furniture and a tv where patients were chatting and relaxing, then down a hallway lined with doors on either side fixed with small glass windows that allowed view of the interiors.
"This is going to be your room." The orderly stated as they stopped in front of a door. "Your roommate's already in there. He doesn't leave his room except when he has to and doesn't really talk to anyone. I hear you've already caused some trouble, so you two should get along fine. Try not to start anything."
Dean stepped inside and chuckled as he watched the door swing shut. "All about warm greetings here, huh?" He remarked sarcastically before turning to face his new roommate.
He couldn't help but feel startled by him. He sat meekly on the edge of his bed, hands clasped and head bent, long golden-brown messy hair draped around his face. He looked up at Dean, startled, almost like he'd been jolted suddenly from a nightmare. He looked so small and scared, but as he rose to meet Dean he could see the dude was freaking huge. 6'3, maybe 6'4 at least. He had to be younger than Dean by a few years, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Poor kid looked like he'd been through hell.
"Oh, that's just Davidson. He's like that, don't worry about him." His voice was gravelly and rough but still gentle, and as Dean got a better look at him, he could see how gaunt and thin he really was. Part of him was irritated that he would be locked up with someone out of their mind, but then he felt horrible and immediately regretted even having the thought. It wasn't the guy's fault, and he must be going through some serious shit. In fact, his main urge at the moment was to try and comfort him.
He looked nervous and scared of Dean's presence, so Dean put on the widest and most welcoming smile he could. "I'm Dean, Winchester."
"Sam Wesen."
Dean stared, the smile dropping slowly from his face. Sam was the only part he registered, his brain stopped processing after that. There he was. Right there. All grown up, maybe, but there. He knew they were lying, he knew it. His brother was here. His brother was here.
"Sam…" He said in a half-whisper, lighting up. "Sammy!" He strode forward and embraced his brother tightly. "I knew you were a fighter. Always have been, always will be." He smiled and squeezed the hug tighter joyously. Sam was so frail that Dean was almost worried he'd break him. But that's why he was here, in the hospital. Sammy was sick.
Sam had yet to respond, but he didn't care. He had his brother, and that was all that mattered.