Part Four

Leah Reynolds had been a psychiatric nurse for over 20 years, and she'd seen some pretty tough cases through their illnesses during that time. Ones that broke her heart the most were cases like Sam Wesson. He was young, handsome, super smart, she thought having seen his history notes. To look at him or talk to him you would never know that underneath he was a young man who was in the clutches of serious mental illness. She sighed as she continued to watch screen number 6 from where she sat in the nurses' station.

A cup of coffee appeared on the desk at her elbow, startling her slightly. She looked over her shoulder to find that Angie, one of the other night nurses, had come in to the area – and she hadn't even noticed.

"Thanks," she muttered, and went back to watching.

"All quiet?" Angie asked.

"Pretty much," Leah rubbed her eyes then sipped her coffee. It was a little after 3am, that time of night when fatigue set in if you let it. "Except our newest, Sam, is restless again tonight." She indicated the screen she'd had her attention on.

The man in the bed was tossing and turning, the covers half thrown to the floor. There was no sound but she could see his lips moving as though he was muttering to himself. He appeared to be caught in the throes of a nightmare and she debated going in to check more closely on him. Her mind was made up when she heard him screaming, the sound coming from the direction of his room.

By the time she unlocked the door and made it inside the darkened patient room Sam was awake, sitting up on the bed, sweating and shaking.

"Sam? Are you alright?" she called softly, not wanting to startle the young man.

Confused, sleepy eyes looked up at her, silhouetted in the doorway. "Ruby?"

Leah flipped on the room's nightlight from the switch out in the hallway then closed the door. "No Sam, it's Leah. Everything okay, honey?"

Sam blinked owlishly in the soft light, looking around the room, taking in his surroundings and trying to make sense of what he saw. He frowned as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and bent over almost double, elbows on thighs, hands scrubbing at his face.

"I'm fine," he mumbled.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he answered quickly and abruptly, sitting up then pushing himself to his feet.

"Sometimes it helps to talk about nightmares. Puts them into perspective sometimes."

Sam ran a hand through his disheveled hair as he walked a little unsteadily to the window and stared outside, as if the darkness could answer the thousand questions streaming through his mind at that moment.

"Sam?" Leah prompted, reminding him that she was expecting an answer.

"I don't want to talk about it," he answered, casting a quick glance in the nurse's direction. "I'm fine, really."

Leah was a little disappointed but hadn't really expected any other response given that he was proving to be very reluctant to open up about anything to anyone yet.

"Alright then, how about I get you something to help you go back to sleep?"

Sam spun around with an almost panicked look on his face before carefully trying to school his expression into something more neutral, although his breathing did kick up a notch.

"No. Please. I don't want anything. No drugs. Please. I'm fine. I just… Let me just clear my head and I'll be fine."

Sam didn't want any more Valium. He already felt like a walking zombie, his thought processes mired down in mud. He was never going to make sense of the things that kept coming to him in his dreams if he couldn't think.

"Okay," Leah conceded, "just buzz if you change your mind. And try to get some more sleep, okay?"

As she turned to go, Sam called after her, "Wait. Can you, uh, leave the light on?" He flicked a quick, nervous glance in the direction of the space under his bed.

"Five minutes only, Sam. You need to get some more sleep."

Sam doubted he'd sleep again that night. Part of him wanted to know what else his dreams would show him and part of him was terrified of the horrific images of monsters and demons. But the dream that had woken Sam screaming was about Dean, being torn apart by invisible dogs. Hellhounds. He had no desire to go back to that dream, and even now it left him shaky and near tears.

When the lights went out after the promised five minutes, Sam was still at the window. As the sun rose many hours later he still hadn't slept, even though he'd climbed obediently back into bed when Leah had come in again and scolded him for still being up.

The images coming to him were getting stronger, clearer and definitely more graphic, but still they didn't make a lick of sense. And they scared the shit out of him, especially the last images. Dean being torn to shreds and Sam being held immobile by some unseen force and made to watch, helpless to stop it. Dean's screams echoed in his ears, and tears spilled down his cheeks, the loss feeling so fresh and real.

The sound of the electronic lock clicking into place made Dean flinch. This place is creepy, he thought. He was ushered into a small room and a couple of minutes later a man in a white coat arrived and introduced himself as Doctor Sykes.

"Thank you for agreeing to come by, Mr. Smith."

"Look, doc," Dean started, sighed and ran a hand over his mouth, "I gotta say, I have no idea why I'm here. I hardly know this guy, and I really don't know if me talking to him is gonna help. Hell, it could make things worse."

"I understand how you feel, and believe me if there were anyone else we could call to help Sam, we would. Thing is, the guy's got nobody. Not here in Chicago, nowhere. We can't get him to talk to us about his state of mind, he keeps on insisting he needs to talk to you, and you only."

"Is it safe?" Dean asked, nervously. "I mean, he's not violent or anything is he? 'Cause I haven't ever dealt with this kinda thing before."

Dr. Sykes smiled. "You'll be perfectly safe. Sam isn't violent, and there will be an orderly close by at all times."

Sykes explained to Dean that Sam had been having trouble sleeping and wasn't eating, and that he was experiencing nightmares and delusional episodes. He also told Dean that they had been giving Sam fairly hefty doses of Valium while he was being reassessed, and then they would probably reinstate the medications he'd had prescribed by his previous doctor.

Dean shook his head, a little confused.

"Hold on. Why are you telling me all this? I mean, I appreciate the honesty but isn't this kinda confidential patient stuff?"

"Normally, yes, but Sam has authorized me to share everything with you, in fact he insisted. He wanted you put down on record as his emergency contact, in lieu of any other next of kin."

"Jeez," Dean paused. "Surely there must be someone else?"

"No, I'm afraid there's not. We checked his records from San Francisco. There was an uncle in South Dakota, but we can't locate him. He moved on and no one knows where to find him. Mr. Smith…"

"Dean. Please. Mr. Smith sounds… I dunno, weird."

"Alright. Dean. If you're not comfortable with being listed we can take you off and list him as having no next of kin."

"What happens then?" Dean asked, curious.

"The State will take over his care, make any decisions on his behalf."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. Everyone should have someone to at least call on in an emergency. "Nah, it's okay, doc. Leave me on there. Just as long as I don't have to pay the bills, right?" he joked.

The doctor grimaced more than smiled.

"Before you see Sam there are a couple of things you need to know. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic some months ago, in San Francisco. No matter what he tells you, you cannot play into his delusions. You need to try to keep him grounded in reality. Let him talk, though. We need to know what's going on inside his head and since he won't talk to me or any of the other staff here, we're going to need your help in finding that out. Now, do you have any questions?"

"God, only about a thousand," he huffed a sigh and stood. "Okay, let's get this over with."

Dr. Sykes led Dean down the corridor and into the large day room. He'd given Dean a panic button to clip on his belt with instructions to press it if he felt threatened in any way. He pointed out the orderlies standing on either side of the large room, who were observing everything that was going on. Dean straightened his back and stepped into the room, making his way cautiously over to where Sam sat in the over-stuffed easy chair near the window. He stopped at its side and cleared his throat.

"Uh, Sam?"

Sam was staring blankly out the window, and it seemed to take a minute for him to recognize that he was being spoken to. His head turned slowly and he looked up, eyes somewhat glazed, but the look of sheer relief that graced his face when he saw who had called his name was unmistakable.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, clumsily trying to push himself upright and nearly overbalancing. "Oh God, Dean! You came."

"Whoa, easy there, Tiger." Dean reached out to catch the lanky young man and eased him back into the seat, even as Sam gripped on to his arms.

Sam saw one of the orderlies take a half step forward and let go of Dean, holding his hands up submissively to indicate that he wasn't attacking Dean..

"I'm sorry."

Dean wasn't sure if Sam was apologizing to him, or to the Schwarzenegger-in-training nearby. Sam gestured Dean to the nearest chair, gave the burly orderly one last glance before leaning forward furtively and talking desperately in a near whisper.

"Dean, I'm so glad you're here. I know what I told you the other night sounded nuts, but I've been remembering more. I still can't put all the pieces together but… my dreams, I don't think they're just dreams. I think, I'm sure I'm remembering things. I can't make sense of it all yet, but what I said about you and me having been together – before – I don't know how, but I'm convinced more than ever that it's real. And I think, deep down you know it, too."

"Um, Sam? I, uh, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sam's brows drew down into a frown. "What do you mean? What I said the other night, when we…" he checked quickly around to make sure no one was within hearing distance, and lowered his voice a little more. "When we got rid of Sandover's ghost, and you said you felt it, that it felt right, fighting the spirit together."

Shit, thought Dean, remembering the doctor's words. Delusional. Schizophrenic.

Sam could see the hesitation.

"Dean? Come on, man. You're scaring me."

"Sam, there's no such thing as ghosts," Dean said calmly, firmly.

"Yeah, there is. You saw it. It killed Ian, and the others. We burned the gloves and destroyed it. The job's done, and you were going to think about going on the road together to hunt other evil things. Remember that I said it felt like we were meant to be together, partners, like brothers."

Dean's blank, disbelieving look had him on the verge of panic. Sam suddenly felt sick.

"Sam. There's no ghost. Those people committed suicide. Now, I know it's tragic but there's a rational explanation for it." He paused, trying to come up with words that wouldn't upset the other man too much, but he had to tell him the truth. "And honestly? I'm not sure how to say this, but... I don't know you. We didn't do anything together the other night. We've exchanged a few words in the elevator, and that's it. I'm sorry you're having a hard time. That you're, um, not well. God knows all the recent deaths would be enough to put anyone over the edge. I felt like losing it myself yesterday, and I didn't know any of those people. You worked with two of them, and that made it worse…"

"Wait! What did you say? There was another death?" Sam jumped forward a little and almost made a grab for Dean again, aborting the move when it yet again attracted the unwanted attention of the orderly, who this time made a deliberate move closer.

"Ah, jeez…" Dean swiped a hand over his face, "I probably shouldn't have told you that."

Sam was shaking his head, thinking furiously. "It's not possible. We burned the gloves. That should've worked."

"Gloves? What gloves?"

"P.T. Sandover's gloves. From the display case."

Dean saw Dr. Sykes come into the room and start in their direction. Time to wrap this up, thank God!

"Sam, no one said anything about gloves being burned. You smashed some stuff up, they said, but that's it. Um, look, I have to go now. I'll, um, maybe come and see you again soon. Okay?" He stood and turned to leave.

"No!" Sam yelled suddenly, jumping up after him. "No, Dean, that's not possible." He grabbed Dean's arm to stop him leaving.

The orderly moved in. He put his body in between Sam and Dean, cutting Sam off from the other man, letting him move away while he got a firm grip on Sam. Dr. Sykes said something quickly to a shaken Dean who nodded before making his escape from the room.

"No! Dean, listen to me." Sam struggled against the man holding him back from going after Dean. "Dean! Please! Listen to me," he yelled. "The gloves have to have been destroyed. If they're still there, Sandover's still a threat. He'll keep going after people. Dean, he could go after you! Dean! Come back!"

The doctor pulled a hypodermic from his pocket and nodded to the orderly, who had a good hold on Sam and bent him over the back of the chair that Sam had previously been sitting in. He deftly popped the cover and plunged the needle into Sam's hip. Sam screamed as he felt it hit home.

"Dean! DEAN!"

The drug was fast acting and Sam quickly went limp. Some of the other patients nearby reacted to the commotion, crying out, getting agitated. A couple of nurses hurried in, one with a wheelchair. Dr. Sykes and the other nurse spoke soothingly to the patients to calm them down, telling them everything was all right. Sam was loaded into the wheelchair by the orderlies and taken away to his room.

Dean was pacing wildly near the ward's exit door, pausing to watch a now pliant and limp Sam being wheeled into a room near the nurses' station. A minute later the doctor was striding down the hallway towards him. Dean rounded angrily on him.

"Dammit, I knew this was a mistake." He was angry more at himself than anyone else.

"Are you alright? Can I get you some water?" the doctor asked before pulling a paper cup from the nearby dispenser and filling it from the water cooler.

Dean found himself being led into the small room he'd been in earlier. He gratefully accepted the cup given to him and gulped down a few mouthfuls before sitting down heavily and rubbing a hand over his eyes. A nervous habit, he knew. He recounted the conversation to the doctor, who made some notes and nodded here and there, asking the occasional question for clarification.

"So, what happens now?" Dean asked.

"Now? Hopefully we can get Sam to talk about this a little more, but I think it confirms that we need to get him back on some of the meds he was taking previously. I want to thank you for coming down here today."

It seemed almost anti-climactic. That was it? He was free to go and forget all about this now?

"Look, doc, if there's anything else I can do to help. You know? I feel sorry for the guy. I dunno, there's something about him… I mean it's creepy that he thinks we have this… relationship, connection, whatever, but he seems a good guy at heart. I'd like to help him, you know?"

Dr. Sykes smiled. "You've already been a great help. I'm sorry it turned a bit nasty at the end. I can call you when the evaluation has been completed and we've worked out where to go next."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Dean shook the doctor's hand as they got to the electronic door and it was opened for him.

Sam slept for several hours. He didn't dream, taken so far down into drugged sleep that even his worst nightmares couldn't reach him. As he woke he felt like his head was filled with cotton, his mouth dry and this tongue thick. Christ, he was thirsty. He tried to turn in the bed, his uncoordinated limbs refusing to cooperate. A frustrated groan escaped his lips. His eyes blinked open slowly and he tried to focus on something, anything, without much success. Whatever they'd given him, it wasn't Valium. This was much heavier. Only one thought swirled in the mists of his brain.

Dean.

Dean was in danger.

He had to warn him. He had to save his brother. Sam didn't even question the thought. Dean was his brother. Somehow Sam knew that to be a fact, beyond a shadow of a doubt. It danced on the edge of his memory as he sank back into sleep.

When he next woke long shadows outside his window told him it was late afternoon. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth and his head was a little clearer but it felt like he was wading through molasses. He sat up, waiting for the room to stop spinning before trying to stand then stagger to the washroom where he could quench his thirst and relieve the pressure in his bladder.

His movements attracted attention. He heard his door unlock. Jenny called out to him, asking if he was okay. Sam leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way back to the bed and sat, answering with a quiet, "Yeah", and a nod that made his head feel ten sizes too big.

He swallowed thickly. "What the hell did they give me?"

"A high dose of Valium to start with, then some Haldol a little while ago. Doctor Sykes thought it best to start you back on it."

Shit. Sam hadn't even registered anyone coming in and dosing him up a second time. It would explain why his ass hurt, though. Glutes were a popular sticking place for IM injections.

"Come on," Jenny encouraged. "It's suppertime. If you promise to behave you can eat in the day room."

"Not hungry." Sam's standard response, and truthfully he wasn't. His stomach was churning too much to feel hunger.

"Have to eat, honey. Don't want to end up getting sick. If you prefer you can eat in your room."

No. Better out with the rest of the basket-cases. If he sat near the other big guy – Eric? – he could probably offload some of his meal without anyone really noticing. Eric had a huge appetite and was always asking for seconds.

He followed Jenny back to the day room, took his plate, found Eric and sat at the table. As he stirred the mashed potato on his plate, Sam let his thoughts freewheel. Even though he still felt fuzzy-headed, it seemed like everything was suddenly clearer. He was more convinced than ever that what he'd dreamed was real. But why didn't Dean remember what had happened, what they'd talked about? He had no answer. He also had no answer to why he suddenly had a psychiatric record. If that were true wouldn't he remember at least some small part of it? He couldn't make sense of anything. Maybe he really was delusional. Except he couldn't get that gut feeling to go away, the one that told him Dean needed his help, that Dean was in danger, and none of this was real.