I fiddle nervously with the amulet around my neck, waiting for the doctor to come in. I try to keep my legs from shaking, but I can't. The soft thudding is the only thing that fills the otherwise quiet room. Every so often I can hear a muffled voice, but that's it. Sitting next to me is Sam, I shoot a glance at him. He doesn't say anything, but he puts his hand on my forearm, trying to be reassuring I guess. It doesn't really work, but I appreciate the effort. I give a weak smile (all I can manage at the moment) and then I turn to look at the door for about the thousandth time. I don't like waiting, especially for things like this. Bobby is the one who finally breaks the silence.
"You're gonna be fine boy. This is to help you, not to hurt you."
I just look at him. I'm afraid that if I open my mouth vomit rather than words will come out. I nod my head at him though, not really believing in the action but doing it for his sake. I go back to messing with the amulet and trying not to shake my legs and failing at the latter.
Finally, after what seems like ages, the door opens and in walks a man who looks to be about fifty. He has speckled hair and a pair of glasses perched precariously on his long nose. He carries a plain clipboard tucked under his arm. Probably loaded with the details of my short miserable life.
Bobby stands to meet him and shake his hand, Sam does the same. I do not for fear of falling over if I do try to stand.
"My name is Dr. Mize and I have been assigned to Dean's case." His says by way of introduction.
He shoots a glance at me and smiles slightly. "This must be Dean."
I don't do anything, I'm still a little hung up on how he said "case" like I'm a criminal or something.
He sits down on a small round cushioned stool, sets his clipboard down on the counter, and turns to me.
"I'm gonna ask you a few questions, just so I can learn a little about you and how to help you. Is that okay?"
I still don't know if I'm capable of words, but I swallow and nod my head yes in response anyway.
"Alright." He says, smiling again, putting a hand on my knee. I stiffen when he does that but the doctor doesn't seem to notice.
He flips open the clipboard and takes out a pen from his coat pocket.
"Your name is Dean Winchester, correct?"
I nod my head.
"And how old are you, Dean?"
I swallow again and say, "Seventeen." only it doesn't really come out in my voice. Something rougher and lower, gruff and gravelly.
He marks it down.
"How are you feeling today?"
"I'm fine." I say, which is a lie I tell so often I don't even think before it slips past my lips.
He looks and me and I look him in the eye and I know that he sees right through it in a second, but he marks it down anyway.
"Have you been feeling depressed as of late?"
I think about making some smartass, but the look in the doctor's eyes shows he means business.
"Yes."
He marks it down.
"How long would you say you have been feeling this way?"
"A year, maybe a year and a half. I don't really know."
He marks it down.
"Did anything significant in your life happen that might have triggered how you're feeling?"
"Nothing that I'm willing to talk about."
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, I just shrug. He marks it down.
"Do you ever feel anxious over everyday tasks, like going to the store or going to school or answering the phone? Anything like that?"
"Yes."
He marks it down.
"Have you ever had any suicidal thoughts?"
I have managed not to look at Bobby or Sam during any of this, I know this is hard enough for them, knowing that I'm a screwup, but not knowing the extent. Just knowing that something was wrong with me, but not knowing how bad. I hate that they have to find out this way. I look past the doctor and into Bobby's eyes when I say "Yes.".
Bobby and Sam deserve to know that it's not them, it's me.
The doctor marks it.
"How often do these thoughts occur?"
I turn and look at Sam, he's looking at me with these big puppy eyes and I think how can I protect him if I can't even protect myself from myself. But I know that I need to do this for Sam, so he can see that I tried, I really really tried.
"Every day."
He marks it down.
"Have you ever considering hurting yourself or others?"
"Yes." I answer.
He marks it down.
"How often do you think about it?"
"Every day."
Another mark.
"Do you ever hurt yourself?"
"Yes."
He marks it down.
"How often do you hurt yourself, Dean?"
"Nearly every day."
Another scratch on the clipboard.
"Have you ever tried to commit suicide?"
I'm not really sure why he asks me this questions, that's pretty much the whole reason why I'm here.
"Yes."
My response echos across the room. I can hear the sound of the pen scratching across the clipboard.
"When was the last time you tried to commit suicide?" Even the doctors voice has softened. I don't look up from the ground but I know that he's staring at me, that Bobby and Sam are too.
"Two days ago." My voice just doesn't sound like my voice for some reason.
I see Sam move his leg so it leans against mine, trying to offer some sort of support I guess. I move my leg. I know that it'll hurt his feelings, but I don't deserve any support from anyone, not when we're talking about this.
I hear the doctor shift and I look up at him. He's set the pen down on the counter and he's leaning foreward and looking at me very intensely. I try not to break eye contact, but I can't look at him, so I just look his coat pocket.
"And how did you do that?"
It was quiet in the small room before, but it's absolutely dead silent now. It feels like the walls are slowly caving in on me. The silence is suffocating and it's too hot in the room. Everyone is looking at me. Expecting an answer, but I can't say anything. So I carefully role up the sleeves to my shirt and extend my arms by way of answer. The undersides of both arms are covered by clean white bandages. The doctor can probably guess the meaning.
"Do you still want to kill yourself, Dean?"
My throat is closing up, it too hot in this tiny room. I can feel panic rising in my chest. I'm trying my best to control it all. I just nod my head yes. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to collect myself. I can't have a breakdown here, not like this. I open my eyes, even though I'm not ready. The I can feel Sam and Bobby and Dr. Mize's eyes on me. The weight of their stares suffocates me.
Dr. Mize leans back, taking off his glasses as he does so. He picks up the clipboard and flips through the pages. Then he looks at me.
"From what you've told me and what you told the doctors when you first got to the hospital it sounds like you have severe depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies. I want to prescribe you some medication that will help you, but I can't until you've had a psychiatric evaluation. Your psychiatrist and I will both be working together to figure out the best way to treat you." He stops talking to me and turns to Bobby. "I'm assuming you're his legal guardian?"
Bobby nods his head yes.
"Because he is a minor, it is state law for him to be put in a adolescent psychiatric ward."
"What?" Bobby asks, sounding taken aback.
Dr. Mize looks at him and then explains. "State law mandates that any minor at risk of hurting himself or herself must go to a mental health facility. There they will watch over him and he will receive treatment. He will be released once I and his psychiatrist feel he is no longer a danger to himself. Now, I have a facility that I recommend to everyone, but the choice to which one he goes to is up to you."
I feel like I'm about to pass out. I knew that I was mental, but being put in the loony bin? That's a whole new level.
"And how long will it take for him to no longer be a 'danger' to himself?" Bobby asks, mocking the word "danger".
"It depends on the patient. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months. It varies from person to person."
"And what if I don't want him to go? Is there not any home treatment he could receive?" Bobby barks.
"I'm sorry Mr. Singer, the law mandates it. There is no home treatment. I have, however, been in touch with a top-notch facility and they are ready to take him in if that is the one you decide to go with. If not, I can help you find another. But this one is the best in the area."
I look up at Bobby and he seems conflicted. Then I glance at Sam. His eyes are pleading. I know how much he want wants me to go; he knows that I need help. He is the one who found me, covered in blood, my note clutched in my hand on the cold bathroom floor.
A thought occurs to if I'm beyond repair?
I hesitate.
"And what if I can't be fixed?"
"I wouldn't worry about that." Dr. Mize tells me. "The facility has a very high rate of success."
This doesn't really mean anything to me as I seem to have a high rate of failure.
"And what if I don't want to go?" I ask.
"Dean, please." Sam says, looking at me. "You have to go."
I just look at Sam.
"I don't want Dean going anywhere. I want to be able to watch him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself again." Bobby says, looking at the doctor.
"Mr. Singer. It's of the upmost import that Dean receives treatment as soon as possible. And I have no control over it. State law mandates that he must go." Replies Dr. Mize sounding exasperated.
Bobby still looks like he isn't having any of what the doctor say.s.
"May we speak outside for a moment please, ?"
Bobby just gets up and walks out the door, Dr. Mize follows suit leaving Sam and me alone together in the tiny room.
The silence is awkward and terse. I don't know what to say. I don't think there's anything I can say. So I'm left to mull things over in my mind. Of course I don't want to go, I don't want to leave Sam or Bobby. The idea of being put in an unfamiliar place with people I don't know who are just as crazy if not crazier than I am is absolutely terrifying.
Sam finally says something. "I want you to go Dean. I want you to get better."
"Sammy..." I say, planning on telling him that it's not as easy as you would think. That I can't just 'get better'.
"No!" He says, suddenly angry. "Don't you pull that 'Sammy' bullshit with me. You either want to get better or you don't. And if you want to get better than you need to go. And if you don't want to get better you still need to go. You need to go for me and Booby and Ellen and Jo. We all want you to get better. We would all miss you if you were gone. And don't give me and bullshit about you not being worth it. You are worth it. So you're going if I have to drag your ass down there myself." He finishes. I just stare at him.
"You can go the easy way, or the hard way. But you're going. It's your choice on how though."
I'm about to say something but the door opens and Dr. Mize and Bobby walk back in. Bobby looks slightly irritated but Dr. Mize looks happy and I have a feeling why.
"Dean, after we get done in here you are going to be able to go home and get a few things, clothes and such, and then you will be taken to a facility. It is for the best."
I don't say anything. I don't look at Bobby. I don't look at Sam. I don't look at Dr. Mize. I look at my feet and I try not to scream.
Dr. Mize goes over the details with Bobby but I don't hear a single word he says. All I can hear is a high pitched ringing in my ears and all I can feel is immense anxiety over the thought of leaving.
I keep trying to tell myself that it's for the best and that Sam wants me to go and so does everyone else. But all I can think of is being alone. Utterly alone.
I know that Bobby finishes talking with the doctor and I'm then ushered out of his office and back into the car and we're on our way home but it's like I'm in a dream. Not even that. It's like a nightmare that started as stray seeds of doubt bouncing around in my head that quickly planted themselves with roots that invaded my deepest and most dark memories. The leaves fanning out and shading myself from the sun. And every time I try to cut this damn plant down it just grows back twice as fast and the poison inside gets stronger and stronger. I don't know how much longer I can hold on.