"Alright. Nick, proceed." The man that stands hardly looks the part of a lawyer. He's got scruff on his cheeks, but not in the trimmed and fashioned manner that Crowley does, and his shirt is open a button and lacking a tie, his hands in his pockets, his posture lax and almost jeering.

"Dr. Fitzgerald, you have been in charge of Mr. Winchester's care, correct?"

Dr. Fitzgerald nods. "Yes, I have been following his progress since his admission."

"When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"This morning."

"Mhmm, yes. We spoke briefly. I've also been reading the nursing notes."

"Would you say you have a good grasp on the nature of his illness?"

"I do. I have spent sufficient time with the patient and with the patient's brother who was able to provide some collateral"

"And what would you say that illness is?"

"I believe we are looking at schizoaffective disorder. Mr. Winchester suffers from delusions, paranoia, internal preoccupation as well as depressive symptomology."

Dean's mouth is open. How can he sit there and blatantly lie like that? He's about to say something, to lash out when Crowley taps his foot with his own, side-eyeing him with a fierce 'not now' look. Dean clenches his jaw and resolves to hold his tongue, at least for the time being. After all, the decision isn't made yet. Right?

"Do you believe Mr. Winchester presents a danger to himself?"

"Not currently. I don't see any suicidal intent or plan. His IS doesn't appear to be urging him to injure himself."

"Do you think he presents a danger to others?" Dean's hackles rise.

"Possibly. It's possible that with the nature of his delusion he could target a normal citizen."

"Do you believe that inpatient care is the best care the patient can receive?"

"Yes. Given the acuity and the patient's flighty behavior, I don't think he would adhere to outpatient follow up or a medication regime given he has yet to concede to medication while inpatient."

"No further questions," Nick says, the papers he'd been holding but never looking at tossed to the table top, sliding down into his chair in a way that resembles a god-damn snake.

"Crowley?" The judge asks, rubbing at his baggy eyes beneath his glasses.

"Dr. Fitzgerald, you said you met with Dean's brother, yes?"

"I did."

"Did he indicate in that conversation that Dean had ever behaved violently in the past?"

"Not towards people. He mentioned some ritualistic killings of animals."

"Could those be religious in nature?"

"I don't know. I'm not qualified to speculate."

"Has Dean given anything less than proper behavior since admission?"

"He has refused his medications, but otherwise he's been fine. Calm, cooperative, social."

"Dean has a job in the community, yes?" Crowley holds himself with far more grace than Nick, his aura commanding. Dean is starting to feel like this might be the trainwreck he had thought after the first round of questions.

"He works for a family friend, but yes, he has employment."

"And housing?" Crowley says, his eyebrow raised.

"Yes. Stable housing."

"And at this point, we haven't seen inclination towards harm to other people?"

"No, we have not."

"Dean," Crowley says, turning towards him now. "Do you believe you suffer from a mental illness?"

"No. It was hard when my mother passed, and again when my father did, but I adjusted. I'm fine."

"You feel safe and able to return to your home and job?"

"I do."

"Do you keep in contact with your brother?"

"Not consistent but yes. We talk."

"He would check in with you I presume?"

"I'm sure. Can't keep his nose out of anything."

"No more questions."

"Alright, Dean," Judge Shirley says, peering at Dean, though through the screen, it still feels like his gaze is boring holes into Dean's forehead. "Can you tell me about the incident at the hospital? When you had to be restrained?"

"I had a bad feeling. My mother, who was highly religious, gave me a vial of holy water to keep on me. The Latin I picked up myself. It's supposed to ward off evil."

"Did you intend to harm the nurse."

"I did not. Neither the water nor the charm cause physical harm."

"Mhmm. Well," he says, flicking his eyes beyond Dean before facing him again. Dean turns his head and is pretty confident he had glanced at the officer standing to Dean's right. "I want to go ahead and keep you a few days. I'm going to initiate a TRC committee. Should these individuals advise against this, I authorize your discharge. If they agree, your stay shall not exceed fifteen days. Good luck Mr. Winchester."

He hears footsteps behind him, but he makes no motion to move. Eventually, Dr. Fitzgerald and his bulbous nose and bony shoulders.

"Dean, do you have questions?"

"Why am I here." It's barely above a whisper, and his voice creaks as it slips by his lips.

"We just want to help you, Dean."

He's laying face down on his mattress. Cas had tried to talk to him when he came back, but he'd ignored his roommate. He wasn't in the mood to talk. Not even to Cas.

Eventually, there's a hesitant knock at his door. He doesn't look up, but Jo's soft voice comes through. He grabs his pillow and holds it over his head.

"Dean," her voice cuts through. "They are holding the committee in an hour. Do you want to be present?"

"No."

She doesn't say anything else, but it's a few long moments before he hears her footsteps retreating.

He fell asleep. Or at least he thinks he fell asleep. That, or he just zoned out hard. He's not sure, he's not even sure he cares.

Not long later, Jo and Dr. Fitzgerald show up.

"Dean," Fitzgerald says, his knuckles rapping on the door frame. God, won't they just let him sleep? "Dean."

"What?"

"Do you remember what we talked about at the end of that meeting?" His brain is fuzzy, and he barely remembers the morning at all, so he shakes his head. "We talked about pursuing a TRC. They met... and decided to authorize it. Do you know what that means?" Dean shakes his head. "It means you have to take the medicine. We can give you the pills, but if you refuse, we can give you an injection. It's basically a court order over medicine."

"Give them here," Dean mumbles, sitting up sluggishly, his arms heavy and his legs feeling as if they're made of lead. When he looks up he's first met with Jo's bewildered expression, as well as several large male staff, all of them donned in purple latex gloves.

Jo steps forward, her face morphed into one of quiet apology, and Dean pretends not to notice the way she pockets two syringes. He takes the small cup, one that reminds him of ketchup cups at old diners, of his smiling mother, of happiness, of places other than here. She hands him a small cup of water as well, and he throws back the pills, swallowing dry before flopping back down into bed, the bitter taste crowding the back of his tongue.

"Stick out your tongue for me, Dean," Jo says quietly. He complies, only because he's too tired to be offended or to argue. It didn't get him anywhere before after all. One by one, people leave. A combination, a symphony of loud and quiet footfalls, of brushing fabric and jingling keys. He's almost sure everyone is gone when Jo speaks up again. "I'm here to talk, Dean. Anytime," and then she's gone as well. He takes a cursory peek, noticing Cas curled up under the covers, the blankets rising and falling with his breaths.

At least he won't be alone... Dean thinks as the black in his vision pulls him down.

Note: Still working through this. I have already written most of the end, so we are kind of just getting through the middle right now. There's still a little bit to go, and I hope you are all still enjoying it. It's taking a lot out of me to find time to write right now. My son has been sick and my wedding is in a month 0.0

Still, didn't want to leave people hanging, I've been promising this part of the chapter for like three updates now. :P

Please let me know what you think, good or bad, I love feedback.

Until next time!

Cassie