I wake up at about 8:30 when a nurse comes and knocks on my door. She gives me a quick briefing about my schedule for the day. Starting off with a meeting with my new doctor, some Moseley women, then followed by group therapy. After that I'll have creative writing which will take the place of school while I'm here and honestly sounds like a bunch of bullshit. Then lunch, then assembly, then 'free' time, then dinner, then more 'free' time, then bed.
I don't know how I'm going to make it through the day.
I get up and put on a new set of clothes that the nurse dropped of while waking me and make my way down to the hall with all the doctors.
It may be early, but the place is already bustling. Patients are lined up at a nurse station to receive medicine, doctors in white lab coats are making rounds, kids are wondering around aimlessly.
Most of the time I find solace in scenes like this, it's easy to lose myself, people aren't paying close attention to me.
This time it's a little different.
I find a door labeled Dr. Missouri Moseley, unsure of what to do just stand there for a moment.
I'm sure I should knock but I know that I'm not ready to go in yet. I'm sure I'll never be ready.
Before I can dwell on it anymore the door opens and a short, plump black woman is standing in front of me.
"Hi, Dean. I've been expecting you. Come on in." She says, stepping aside and leaving the door open so I can follow.
I take a tentative step over the threshold and I'm instantly surprised at how warm it is in there.
Soft yellows and browns and earth tones cover the walls and her desk rather then the sterile color and feel that the rest of the hospital has.
"Well don't just stand there boy. Take a seat."
I bit taken aback by her forwardness, I do as she says. "And don't even think about putting your feet on that table. It's new." She says, gesturing towards her coffee table with a slight smile on her face.
"So, Dean. Tell a bit about yourself."
I guess she's not one for small talk.
"Well, my name is Dean Winchester. Seventeen years young. I like long walks on the beach and perky blondes." I tell her. I'm feeling a bit better since the incident. A little more like myself. But far from okay. It's like the calm after a storm.
She just smiles at me. "My name is Dr. Missouri Moseley. You can just call me Missouri though. I have a PhD from Yale and I think you're full of shit, Dean Winchester."
I'm a bit taken aback, and won't admit to anyone, even myself. But I do think I'm going to like her.
"Tell me why you're here, Dean." She amends.
"You know why I'm here." I tell her. Because she does.
"I want you to tell me why, though." She tells me.
"I heard the food was great and I just had to come and try it." I tell her back.
"Afraid to talk about your feelings so you hide behind and mask of bravado and bad jokes. I've seen your type before, Winchester." She responds.
"Then why did you bother asking if you already know the answer?" I ask, looking her in the eyes. They're full of sympathy. Part of me longs for it while the other part tells me I don't deserve it.
"Because I want to hear you put it into your own words. So, I'll ask you again. Why are you here?"
I think about this. I come up with another snappy comeback, but decide to maybe tell the truth.
Why am I here?
"I'm here because I'm a fuckup. I'm here because I'm mental. Not right in the head. A nut job." I tell her.
"And you believe that about yourself?" She asks. Her voice quiet.
"Yes." I respond.
"Why do you believe that?" She asks in return.
I'd never really thought about it. After my mother died things started to get bad. And then it happened and then Dad died. I can't really pinpoint when all of this started happening.
"I just do. It's true." I tell her.
She mulls this over for a moment, then pulls a booklet out of her desk. It looks like the ones I used for the SATs when I was younger.
"This is a little test we give to all of the patients. To see where you're at. After you take this and I review it I'll be able to put you on some medication."
She slides the booklet to me along with a pencil.
"It's seventy-five questions. It consists of questions like 'Do you ever feel depressed?' or 'Do you ever feel anxious?' and you'll fill in of the bubble that says 'sometimes, always, or never.' Do you understand."
I nod.
"Good. Take your time let me know if you have any questions." She then turns to her computer and starts typing away.
I flip open the book and look at question one.
1) How often do you feel happy?
I mark the never.
2) Do you ever experience negative thoughts towards yourself.
I mark the always.
3) Do you ever experience low self-esteem when it comes to body image.
I mark the sometimes.
Seventy-two questions later I hand the book back to Missouri and she takes it with a smile.
"Do you have any questions, Dean?"
I shake my head.
"Alright. It's about time for breakfast. After that you'll go to group therapy. Your group will consist of the people on your hall." My mind goes to Castiel. I get a weird feeling in my stomach thinking about him. And not in an entirely bad way.
"We will meet every morning, first thing. But my door is always open. Don't hesitate to come if you need to." She tells me, a smile on her face.
She has such warmth in her eyes is hits me hard. It reminds me of my mom, and how she would look at me.
That familiar ache in my chest is back and I shove it into the box to be dealt with later.
I nod and stand and exit her room.
I walk down the the cafeteria trying not to think about how much I miss my family and not really succeeding.
I'm on autopilot as I walk in and get my food, only to be snapped out of it when I realize that I have to pick somewhere to sit down. The room is still pretty empty but I don't want to plop down just anywhere and the only person I know in this damn place is Castiel.
I just decide to go and sit where I did yesterday and hope things go better than they did yesterday.
Sure enough Castiel shows up with a smile on his face.
"Good morning, Dean." He says, cheerily.
"Mornin'." I call back, taking a bite of my food. Which I'm guessing is oatmeal.
"Sleep well?" He asks. I don't really see how he can make such easy conversation. But I give him an answer anyway.
"No worse than usual. You?"
"I didn't."
"You didn't what?" I ask.
"Didn't sleep." He responds.
"Oh." I is all I can think to say.
He just shrugs and takes a bite of his food.
An awkward silence falls and Castiel ignores it and so do I.
He takes another bite of food. Then another. Then another. I don't know if I should do something to break the silence, or if he wants me to. I've never been good at reading other people. Telling if they wanted to talk or not.
"What's your favorite color?" He asks all the sudden.
"What?" I repeat, even though I heard what he asked. I wonder why he asked, or even why he would want to know.
"Favorite color. What is your favorite color? Mine is green." He tells me.
"Why are you asking?" I question. "Why do you even care?"
He just shrugs. "It's one of those things that say a lot about a person."
I mull it over. I don't actually know what my favorite color is. I just wear a lot of dark stuff because I feel like it makes me less noticeable, less of a target.
"I dunno man, black maybe."
He takes a bite of his food and then swallows.
"Why are you here?" He asks, child-like wonder and innocence in his eyes.
"The fuck, dude?" I feel like I'm getting grilled enough by these doctors, and now him.
"Sorry." He says, not looking at all apologetic.
I glare at him. He's weird and I don't know if it's a weird that I would like.
He doesn't ask anymore questions. We sit in another awkward silence until the end of breakfast.
Not soon enough a bell rings like yesterday and a mass of bodies all stand up and once and go to throw their things away. I follow suit and so does Castiel.
"I can show you to where we have group. If you want." He looks, and sounds a little hurt. I don't know where the change of heart came from, but I'm willing to accept it.
"Uh. Yeah. Sure." I respond, unsure.
He just smiles and gestures for me to follow him and I do.
He leads me back towards the direction of our hall and we reach in and walk all the way down to the end and Castiel opens up a door and enters. I follow.
About eight chairs are set up in a circle and Castiel sits down in one. I don't know if it matters which one, so I tentatively take a seat next to him and we wait for everyone else to arrive. '
Castiel doesn't say anything. He just picks a piece of string hanging off of his shirt and within a few minutes more people begin to fill the room, all kids close to my age, some looking just a few years younger, close to Sam's age. The thought of Sam being in here makes me sick. I promised Dad I would protect him with my life and I'll be damned if I don't.
A few moments after everyone has taken their seats an older man comes in.
"Morning, everyone!" He calls. He sounds British and is wearing the most ridiculous and deep v-neck I have ever seen.
There are a few mumble back at him, but that's it. I still do do not understand how so many people can be so damn cheery in this place, given, it's all the doctors and the nurses and none of the patients. The only patient I've seen who doesn't look like he's completely miserable is Castiel, he's also the only patient I've met now that I think about it. And you can tell that this kid has been through some shit. He is in here for close to the same reason that I am after all. I know that the doctors and nurses aren't here because of the same reasons as the patients, but you would think that after a while all of this stuff would start to affect them. Being surrounded by sadness sure can get to a person. But not these people apparently.
"My name is Balthazar and welcome to group. Now a few ground rules in case any of you forgot. I also see a couple of new faces," He makes eye contact with me and another kid sitting across from me, we look to be the same age. "Welcome to recovery." he tells us. I can hear the other kid snort but Balthazar either doesn't hear it or chooses to ignore it. I don't say anything, I just look down
Castiel leans over to me and whispers "He does this every time."
"Everything said in this room is 100% confidential and not to be shared with other patients. And if word gets out that you've been running your mouth, lets just say that it won't be pretty. Understood?"
I nod along with everyone else.
"Great, so. Who wants to start us off today? Crowley?" He asks, looking over a stocky teen with dark hair.
"Not today, mate." He responds in a surprisingly Scottish accent. I don't understand what's up with all of the Europeans around here, but I don't dwell on it too much.
"Maybe later." He say with a wink.
"How about you, Castiel? How are you feeling today?"
"All things considered, I'm doing good." Castiel responds.
"Anything you would like to share with the group?" Balthazar asks, something about his tone vaguely sarcastic and condescending.
Castiel thinks a moment before he speaks in a quiet voice, "The voices haven't been so bad lately. Every once and a while I can catch a few hours of sleep at night."
Balthazar's face lights up.
"That's great! And soon enough you'll be better enough to get out of here."
Castiel actually snorts. "I doubt it, but thank you."
This merits a small frown from Balthazar, but he doesn't say anything about.
"Has anyone else experienced any progress?"
Nobody says anything.
"No one? Alright. On to today's topic," he says as he sits down in a chair at the head of the circle. "And today's topic is coping. I know a majority of you have been through a great deal in your life and that's why you're sitting in these chairs. But it's important to remember that you've made it this far, and everything can only go up from here."
He rambles on about negative coping mechanisms i.e, drinking, drugs, smoking, self-harm etc. I use or have used nearly every single thing he lists.
I look around and see a lot of guilty faces. I guess I'm not the only one.
He then goes into why we use these ways to cope. "And why, do you kids do what you do? Hurt yourselves in order to not feel the pain."
I had never really though about it like that, but it's true.
I drink and I smoke and I pop pills and I do reckless things and I hurt myself. All so I don't have to deal with that fact that I hurt so bad I can't stand it. It's a whole lot easier to deal with the physical pain than with the emotional.
Balthazar looks around the little circle and his eyes land on me. "Dean?"
It take a moment to realize that he's asking me directly and I panic. It's like in school when the teacher asks me a question I don't know the answer to. Although this is a different topic altogether. This has nothing to do with knowledge and everything to do with personal opinions and I am not the sharing type.
"Oh, come on now." Balthazar prods.
I swallow and look him in the eyes, they look friendly enough, but I still don't trust him.
The entire room has gone dead silent while waiting for me to answer. I feel a panic raising in my chest.
"Uh. Because most of the time physical pain is a hell of a lot easier to deal with then the emotional crap?" I say, not entirely sure.
Even though I know this is one of those questions where any answer goes and there are no wrong answers I'm afraid that I gave him a wrong one.
"And would most of you agree with that?" Balthazar asks everyone else.
They all nod. It's kind of reassuring.
"Does anyone else have anything that they'd like to add?" He asks and some kid, I think his name is Gordon, raises his hand and Balthazar nods at him and he talks about how he does it because he feels like he deserves it. Like if he does something he shouldn't like goes out or asks someone for help he deserves to be punished.
I'd never really thought about it like that but I realize I do the same thing. Like when I get a bad grade (which is all the time) or if I put myself before someone else.
Group goes on like that for a about an hour until Balthazar announces that it's time for us to move on to our next activities.
Castiel stands up. "What do you have next?"
"Uh. Creative writing." I tell him with just a hint of disdain in my voice.
Castiel smiles. "I do too."
"Oh." Is all I can think to say.
We head off together, me trailing a little bit behind Castiel. I still don't know my way around this place.
"So, how long have you been here?" I ask him, grasping at straws for conversation and hoping that the question is not too personal.
"I've been here for about two weeks. But the time before that it was a month, and the time before that a month and a half." He says.
"I'm sorry." I respond because I'm not sure what else to tell him.
"It's okay. They feed me. Give me a place to sleep. They keep me off the streets. Make sure that I get my meds."
This kid just keeps on stumping me. I thought I was bad.
We don't talk anymore on the way to writing. The silence just a little less awkward, so at least that's improving.
He turns down a corridor and I follow and he stops about midway down the hall and opens a door and walks in and I follow.
It looks a lot like a classroom, only instead of desks, computers line the walls.
"You can sit wherever." He tells me and once he takes a seat I take one next to him because I still don't know anyone else in here.
After a few minutes everyone else ambles in and a middled-aged man stands up from behind a computer at a desk.
"My name is Chuck Shurley. You can just call me Chuck. I teach writing. Any questions?" No one says anything.
"Great. Pull up a word document and start writing. It can be anything. Songs, poetry, stories. You can write it like a diary. You just have to write." He tells us. "I'll read it if you want me to, if not, that's just have to write something." Chuck goes back and sits down behind his desk and starts typing away at his keyboard.
Castiel pulls up a document and starts hammering away at his keyboard as well.
I look around the room and I see some kids are typing and others are staring blankly at their screens.
I know I should write something about my feelings, let it all out. But instead I elect to alternate between writing out my favorite songs and typing the word fuck over and over again. As much as I read, I've never been one for that sappy poetry shit. Whether it be reading it or writing it.
I glance over at Castiel's screen and see that he's written close to three pages. I try not to stare but a few words catch my eyes. All about the voices. How they won't leave him alone. How he just wants them to stop. How he just wants to be normal. I feel for this kid, I really do. I thought I was bad.
The bell rings. "Alright. If you want me to read what you've written then just leave your word document up, if not, then just close out of it. I'll see you all tomorrow.
Lunch is a lot like dinner wherein I sit in a semi-awkward silence with Castiel marred by an occasional question from his end (What my favorite book was and my favorite band. The kid never offered any information about himself in response.).
Then we go to assembly which turns out to be a group lecture where everyone in the hospital has to attend and some big fancy doctor gets up and speaks about coping with mental illness (which I wish they didn't call it that, it makes me feel like I'm guano.)
I guess that was the theme for today because they talk about the positive ways to deal with it and the not so positive ways and I end up not paying attention. I just watch as Castiel draws idle doodles with his fingers on the scars on his arms.
When they dismiss us, Castiel and I walk silently back to our hall and he stops outside of his door once we arrive.
He looks at me over his shoulder and then opens his door and walks in. He leaves the door open and I am unsure of what to do, I stand there. I do not know if he wants me to come in or-?
Almost as if though he sensed my hesitation he calls "You don't have to just stand there. You can come in.".
I take a single step over the threshold and take a moment to look around. His room looks identical to mine, just more lived in a guess. I little less sterile. He has a few books on his end table.
"You can take a seat." He tells me, gesturing over to the chair in the corner. I walk over to it while he roots around in a bag, looking for something. I take a seat in in while he finds what he's looking for. A sketchbook by the looks of it. And charcoal. He walks over to his bed and takes a seat, leaning up against the headboard and bringing his legs up to his chest. He rests his book against them, flipping it open.
"You like to draw?" I ask. Of course he likes to draw, Winchester, he has a fucking sketchbook.
"Oh, yeah. Uh, it's all kind of dark for the most part. It helps sometimes." He says, tracing his pencil across the page lazily, adding scribbles here and there.
He stops after a moment and looks up at me. "Who do you live with?"
Those big blue eyes are giving me the look Sammy always gave me whenever he wanted something, it typically doesn't work with anyone else but him, but I can feel myself leaning towards telling him.
"Bobby. He's a family friend. He looks after me and my brother, Sam. What about you?"
"I'm a ward of the state." He says, matter of fact. He looks back at his book and starts drawing again.
I don't know what to say to that. A simple sorry doesn't really seem good enough. But that's what I say anyway.
"It's okay. What happened to your parents?" He asks, not even looking up.
I feel myself stiffen at the question. I don't like talking about it. To anyone. Not even Sam or Bobby. Right after Dad died they both tried to get me to talk about it, but I couldn't. Not after everything that happened.
Castiel looks up after the extended silence. "They uh- they both died. I don't really like to talk about it."
He looks me in the eyes. There's an intensity to him that makes me nervous and feel exhilarated at the same time. He doesn't say anything, just goes back to whatever he's drawing.
We sit in his room for the rest of the time before dinner not saying much. Every once and a while he'll look up and ask me a question about a book or a song or a movie and I can't help but starting to feel like I'm warming up to him. He's just so damn innocent and broken looking that I can't help to.
We go down to dinner together when it's time and we sit together and when it's over we walk back together. Somehow or another we end up back in his room and he draws and I sit there flipping through his books. He has a few that I've read before, but none of my favorites. He has a lot a books on different religions.
"I didn't think that they let us bring in outside items?" I ask, holding up one the books.
"They don't." He responds, looking up at me. "They have a library. I can show you tomorrow."
I start reading this one book he has on pagans and recognize a few of they symbols that he has etched into his skin. I keep on reading the book because it's actually pretty interesting and before I know it a voice over the intercom is announcing lights out in five minutes.
I suggest that I should get back to my room and Castiel agrees. I get up and walk to his doorway and turn around to face him.
"Uh. Night, Cas." I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows at me. "Cas?"
"What, no one ever call you that before? Your name is kind of a mouth full."
He shakes his head.
"Oh." I say. "Are you okay with that?"
"Yeah. It's fine. Just new." He says with the first smile I've seen on his face all day. It really brightens him up and I can feel my stomach do this weird flip thing.
I chuckle in response. "I'll see you later, Cas."
"You too, Dean. Good night. Sleep well."
And with that, I'm out of his room and back into my own.
I shut the door quietly with a click and change into my sleep clothes and lay down, suddenly realizing just how exhausted I am.
I close my eyes and try not to think about what I do every night. I try to keep the negative thoughts of worthless and never good enough away.
I combat them with thoughts of deep-blue eyes and a crinkly smile. I eventually drift off into an uneasy sleep.
My dreams are filled with black wings and the smell of smoke and sulfur. I feel like my chest is caving in. I wake up to the sound of screaming. I jolt awake, heart thudding loudly in my ears. I look around my room widely for a moment before realizing where I am. I lay back down and squeeze my eyes shut and try and silence the sound of my heavy breathing. I listen for the screaming to come back but it doesn't and I realize that it must have been me and I try to go back to sleep. My heart is still beating painfully in my chest and I wish for about the thousandth time that I could just go home. That I could be somewhere familiar and that I could be there with Sam because let's face it, even though that kid has a good head on his shoulders I still worry about him and he needs someone to look out for him and it's my job. It's the only job Dad ever gave to me and I can't protect him when I'm here and I can't even protect myself.
I drift back off after sometime and don't wake up again until another nurse comes and wakes me up to start my day. And just like so many other nights I don't remember what the nightmare was, just that I had one and I wonder when and if this will ever end.