Author's Note: Another chapter completed! I try to get these up as fast as I can, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist and I insist that AT LEAST one other person reads it over before I post. That being said, I was wondering if you guys would prefer shorter but more frequent chapters, or longer ones that might take awhile to update? I have lots of free time at the moment, but when next semester rolls around that won't be the case. Anyways, thank you so much for your feedback! I'd also like to give a shout-out to my unofficial Betas, Mikey and Rachel, who put up with my constant e-mails and pestering. And now, without further ado: Chapter Four.
"Now I'd like you to tell me what happened in art therapy earlier today," Doctor Kirtell intoned soothingly. "Word has it you gave Doctor Wienburg quite a scare."
"Someone said my name." Well not said per se, he had felt the voice calling him deep within his bones. Cas stared resolutely at the ceiling. The bigwig at the institution had deigned to make a bedside visit. This was not a good sign. After the morning's incident, Cas had stumbled back to his room, sweaty and shaking. He felt that he had somewhere important to be, something he was supposed to be doing but he hadn't the foggiest idea what. Instead, he had lain down and refused to move, even when Rachel had asked him very nicely.
"Have you heard voices before, Cas? Have they told you to do anything?"
"I didn't hear anything," he began, but it was too difficult to explain. Cas clammed up and resumed staring at the ceiling, following a spidery crack as it wound its way across the room. Doctor Kirtell nodded as if he understood and pressed the tips of his fingers together, forming a steeple.
"I think perhaps we need to adjust your medications again. These visual hallucinations indicate a worsening of your condition. And I've heard from the nurses that your delusions haven't been improving."
Cas merely glared at him. He was tired of explaining that he honestly didn't know who he was or where he came from and that the only logical explanation was that he was an angel, somehow lost from home. How else could he explain his hunches, how he instinctively knew things about people that even they themselves didn't care to admit, or how he didn't sleep? Meanwhile, Doctor Kirtell was straightening his tie and packing away his clipboard in a snug little briefcase. Cas could tell he was already thinking about what he wanted to have for lunch.
"I'll be in to check on you tomorrow. You can take it easy for now, but I want you back to your regular activities when I return." Cas responded with a grunt and rolled over on his side, waiting impatiently for the door to click shut behind him.
The next morning, after Sam had left for school, Dean put on his required hospital uniform with a resigned sigh. His tousle-haired reflection stared back at him from the dusty motel mirror. Wow, the ladies really won't be able to keep their hands off me in this getup, he thought sarcastically. Dean figured that rumpled, pea-soup green cotton would probably be an exception to the whole "chicks dig guys in uniform" thing . He supposed the hospital wanted to humiliate its volunteers/ press-ganged forces as much as possible. In fact, the whole concept of wearing a uniform bothered him. He was Dean Winchester for Christ's sake, not some mindless drone. Give me a leather jacket and boots any day, not some pansy-assed outfit. He decided to wear the necklace Sam had given him for Christmas forever-ago as an act of defiance. Not that he would ever take it off in the first place, but it made him feel better to know that he was sticking it to the man in doing so. He fingered the charm absentmindedly, thinking back to the fight he and Sam had had the night before. Judging by the way Sam had stomped about the hotel that morning, his brother wasn't exactly ready to forgive and forget.
Dean took one last look around the room: salt lines? Check. Devils traps under the rugs in both the living area and bedroom? Check. Protective charm above the door? Check. Dean felt himself swell with pride just a little. When John Winchester came back, he would find his territory well defended. Dean checked the message machine one last time before he left, just in case, but there was no word from his father. Dean locked everything up securely and left a note on the table from Sam telling him to pick up some more milk and cereal for dinner, trying to brush away the unspoken anxiety that his brother was on to something.
Sam rarely bothered making friends anymore. His "new kid" status was finally starting to wear off, but he knew that in a few weeks' time he'd be uprooted and left to start the whole process again. Sam never understood how the lack of permanence hadn't seemed to bother Dean. His older brother could smile and crack jokes, garner a "bad boy" reputation and possibly a girlfriend within a week before dropping it at a moment's notice without a fuss.
Motel rooms and sticky backseat of the Impala were the only homes Sam had ever experienced. He idly wondered what it would be like to live in a real house, without musty smelling sheets or strange noises filtering in through thin walls. Maybe one day he would. Now that he was finally in high school, the prospect of college didn't seem so horrendously far away. He might even be able to take extra classes over the summer and graduate early! But Sam's stomach dropped when he imagined delivering his news to his father. He could practically see John Winchester's face contorting with anger, yelling about how worthless Sam was, how he didn't understand the meaning of family, how he'd never wanted another son. You're the reason we have to live like this in the first place.
John and Dean had assured his him countless times that his mother's death was in no way his fault, but in his darkest moments Sam couldn't help but entertain the possibility. He felt guilty for not remembering her, as if maybe that would fuel his hunter's nature and let him participate in the bond his father and older brother shared. For the umpteenth time, Sam thought about how maybe he just didn't belong in this type of lifestyle, in this family.
Sam's inner musings were cruelly interrupted by a varsity-jacketed senior elbowing him in the side. The unexpected force send Sam skidding into a bank of lockers, his breath leaving his body with a harsh whoosh.
"Sorry," the older boy smirked. "I didn't see you there."
No one would have dared pull that sort of stunt when Dean was around. Not unless they wanted a broken nose. As much as he disapproved of Dean's flagrant disregard for authority, Sam had always depended on his brother's bravado and strength to protect him.
Sam fought to keep control over his quickly rising temper. He was sick of being small, sick of being young and sick of being ignored. He had an overwhelming urge to make this asshole pay. Sam's eyes quickly scanned him, picking out all his weak points: nose, throat, solar plexus, groin, back of the knees, instep. Sure the other kid had the upper hand when it came to size and muscle mass, but Sam was fast and knew how to make his punches count. Fighting was, unfortunately, a major part of his everyday life. He was a Winchester after all.
The senior was watching him, that smug smirk still lingering on his face. It was clear he'd already sized Sam up and discarded him as a threat. Sam was itching to prove him wrong with every fiber in his being, but he knew a fight would mean detention at the very least, and someone would most definitely want to talk with his father. A sudden fear gripped Sam. They would take us away. I might get separated from Dean. Dad could even get arrested, if they ever found him.
Slowly, he turned away heat rising in his cheeks and crawling up the back of his neck. Sam inhaled slowly, trying to ignore the derisive chuckles behind him, trying to focus on what was really important here. Dean was always telling him to trust his gut, and his gut was saying that something was seriously wrong with Dad. Sam decided he needed to help the best way he knew how. A trip to the library was in order, but not before he smashed his knuckles violently into the nearest wall.