Hello everyone! So this story is for the Irondad Bingo prompt: brainwashed and is inspired by the episode of Supernatural: Time of Dying. There is a mention of attempted suicide, but nothing graphic. I hope you enjoy!

September 16th, 6:02 pm

When Peter woke up, it didn't feel right. Didn't feel like waking up. It felt like...well, it felt wrong. Wrong in a way he couldn't quite explain. He wasn't sick...didn't feel any pain. And that in itself was strange because he recognized this place. It was the medbay. And he only woke up in the medbay after something bad happened. But he wasn't hurt...at least, he didn't think he was. And he didn't feel that weird floaty fleeting like he was on the good pain meds.

Pain meds. That...that struck a chord. Had he been taking pain meds? No...because he would have been hurt. Right? Helen sometimes gave him little orange bottles with his special pain meds, covered in warning labels so May never accidentally took them. And he was always careful to only take one. Always. Because Helen has warned him a thousand times, and she's warned Tony and she'd warned May.

But he didn't have pain meds. Because he hadn't been hurt. He was strangely sure of that. That had been important for some reason. Right? He hadn't had any pain pills at his house. Any time Cho gave him pain meds, she gave him exactly as many as he'd need. And he took them with food, never less than six hours apart. And they were always kept in his room at home because no one else could take them.

In fact, the last thing he remembered was being at his apartment after school. There had been Decathlon practice and then...then he'd gone straight home. Right? He'd gone home because he was going to surprise May. She'd been working so much lately, so he'd saved some of his allowance and had planned on taking her to her favorite Thai place. He hadn't told anyone...too superstitious that she'd figure it out even if he only told Ned. So he'd gone straight home after practice. And then he'd...gone out as Spider-Man?

Had he?

No...no, Peter didn't remember going out as Spider-Man. He remembered walking into his apartment. He remembered going up the stairs that had been such a pain back when he'd had asthma but now were no big deal. He remembered grabbing a snack from the kitchen and sitting at his desk to work. But he didn't remember dinner. And he didn't remember Spider-Man. Or...or maybe he hadn't gone out. Because May wasn't scheduled to arrive home until 8. But...but why hadn't he gone out after he'd finished his homework? Surely he would have had time. Had he been worried that he wouldn't make it home in time for dinner?

Peter had a routine. On Fridays he went out as Spider-Man and on Saturdays he hung out with May or Ned and on Sundays he went to the tower for Avengers training, despite the fact that he wasn't an Avenger. Despite the fact that he still wasn't sure if he trusted Captain America, who had moved back into the tower. Despite the fact that things were still rocky with the former 'rogue Avengers.' But he was at the tower now, in the medbay, and he didn't know why.

Sitting up on the bed, he threw his legs over the side and stretched, not feeling the usual satisfaction from the motion. Instead his body felt...disconnected. Strange. Far away. Which was weird. Maybe he was on pain meds. He'd never felt like this before...like he wasn't quite...tethered.

There was no one else in his hospital room. No Helen there to reassure him that everything was fine, that he'd be back to normal soon. No Tony to scold him for being reckless then to sneak him ice cream and act like he just so happened to be working in the chair right by Peter's side until he could leave the tower and go home. No May to touch his hair and kiss his cheek and tell him he had to be more careful. And that, too, was strange. He never woke up alone in the medbay.

Instead, there was something like silence. Only the muted humming of machines could be heard, but he didn't look at them. Didn't look back. He didn't want to see them. Didn't want to look at the bed where he'd woken or the machines doing jobs he didn't want to understand. He wanted to find Mr. Stark. Some part of him wanted out of this room. Out of the medbay. So, he decided, he'd leave. He'd find Mr. Stark who was surely nearby and he would ask the man what had happened, and Mr. Stark would put an arm around him and explain that he'd been hurt somehow, or sick, or whatever, and then he'd lead Peter to the sofa or to his room upstairs in the penthouse and they'd watch a movie or something until Peter fell asleep.

Maybe Steve would join them. Or Sam. Or Rhodey if he was in town. Maybe it would be like a movie night, and all of the Avengers would get alone. And Steve and Mr. Stark would get along and there would be no little barbs or spats between them, and maybe they'd even be friends. And Peter wouldn't feel so bad about wanting to get to know the rest of the Avengers...the people who had been his heroes for so long.

Peter placed his feet on the floor and stood carefully, not wanting to fall over. His brain felt as strange as his body; it was floaty and scattered, and he couldn't quite focus. Still. He moved over to the door which was partially ajar, and slipped out of the room, feeling his chest tighten a little as he did so. Some part of him wanted to get back in bed. To lay down. Because it felt like that was where he was supposed to be. Like he wasn't really allowed out of bed. But no one had told him that. In fact, no one was even there to tell him that. And that was weird. So he walked.

The hallway was quiet, and it took him a moment to spot Steve Rogers at the end of the hall, sitting in a chair, his head resting in his hands. He hadn't talked to Steve much, even if they'd trained together more than once. He'd never really had much of a conversation with the man who had betrayed his mentor, and he didn't want to start now. Even if the man was sitting a few doors down from his hospital room. And yeah, he knew that things were more complicated than that. And he understood that things with the Accords had been hard, and even after studying the issue, he still didn't know which side was better. Not really. But Mr. Stark was important to him...had become one of the most important people in his life.

So it was kind of strange to have Steve Rogers staying at the tower. And kind of strange for him to be sitting outside of Peter's hospital room. But still...Peter wanted to find Mr. Stark. It was all he could seem to focus on. So he turned away from Steve and moved quietly in the other direction. Surely Mr. Stark would see him on the cameras. The man had a sixth sense for knowing when Peter was doing something he shouldn't. But Friday never even bothered to tell the man when Peter entered the building anymore since he stopped by fairly regularly and always managed to seek out Mr. Stark on his own.

Peter paused at that thought. It felt important. Friday didn't tell Mr. Stark when he was in the building. He ran the words through his strange, floaty brain and came up with nothing but a little warning ping. Why was that important? Mr. Stark had told him about that change to Friday's programming weeks ago. And he'd also told Peter that he was always welcome. That he could stay over if he needed to sleep off an injury or come by if he needed dinner or to talk. All of this had been said in the lab with a casualness that hadn't fooled Peter. Still, he'd played along like it was no big deal. Like Tony extended this privilege to everyone.

Peter headed toward the elevator, figuring Mr. Stark could shed some light on things. He didn't feel injured...so maybe he'd been sick? That would have been strange, but not unheard of. He'd been sick a handful of times after the spider bite, but never anything more than a cold. Maybe something big had finally come along and taken him out of commission for a while.

How long had he been in the medbay? He looked around at the empty hallways and paused at the elevator, frowning when there was a strange, tugging pain in his chest that had him leaning against the wall. That was new. Straightening, he started to call out to Friday when the elevator doors opened, and Sam Wilson stepped out.

Peter straightened, not wanting to be caught showing any symptoms that could get him sent back to bed, at least not before he could see Mr. Stark. Out of all the rogue Avengers, he liked Sam the best. The guy was funny and snarky and was always nice to Peter. So he figured the man might not force him back to his room. And maybe he'd be able to tell him what was going on.

"Hey, Sam. Where's Mr…..Stark?" Peter asked, the words trailing off as the man walked right past him, never making eye contact. "Sam?" The man kept going, and, mission forgotten, Peter turned to follow him with a frown. As he headed back in the direction of his room, he felt the tugging pain in his chest start to loosen. "Sam!" he called again, practically jogging after the man who didn't so much as glance at him.

He did pause at Peter's room though, turning and looking at the partially open door with a clenched jaw. For a moment, Peter thought he was going to go in. Instead, the man kept walking and headed over to where Steve Rogers still sat. He hadn't moved, head still resting in his hands, and Sam dropped into a chair beside him.

"On your left," he told the other man with a sad smile, and Peter crossed his arms, wondering what he'd done to make Sam ignore him like this.

Steve shook his head. "Don't."

"Don't what? Keep you company?"

"Fuck off, Sam." Steve's voice was rough. Almost tearful. Peter dropped his arms and took another step. That was...strange.

"Come on, man. It's been six days. You can't…"

"If I had just…"

"Steve, you can't…" Sam interrupted again.

"If I had just kept them somewhere else! Or...or locked my door!"

"Steve, you know the kid. That wouldn't have stopped him. Hell, Tony's doing the same thing...trying to figure out what he did wrong. But it wasn't his fault and it wasn't yours either."

"If I'd gone to my room earlier...if I hadn't been having that stupid fight with Tony…"

"None of us saw it coming, okay? Tony spent hours with him every week and even he didn't notice. Hell, his aunt said he was fine! Normal! His friends too! No one knew this would happen."

The two men were silent for a moment, and Peter felt his stomach clench with nerves. Something was wrong. Something big. He was the kid...what had he done? Why did Steve think this was his fault, whatever 'this' was? "Steve?" he asked, moving closer until he was right in front of them. "Sam? What's going on?" When they didn't so much as look at him, he reached out, resting a hand right over Steve's shoulder.

But he couldn't touch him.

That's when his chest started to hurt. Pressing a hand to his heart, Peter felt his voice break, but he kept talking. "Sam? Steve? Please, I don't know what's going on! Please...just...tell me what happened!"

Something was wrong. Something big. Something bad.

That's when the alarm went off. Peter gasped, pressing his hand even harder against his chest as it gave a stab of pain, and Steve jumped to his feet, freezing there as the three of them watched a nurse race into Peter's hospital room.

What was she doing? Where was the alarm coming from? Why wouldn't anyone look at him?

"Steve…he still might…"

"It's been almost a week." Steve's voice was flat. Dead. "You heard what Helen said...we don't even know how long…". The man shook his head and, with a heart pounding so quickly it hurt, Peter turned, walking slowly towards his hospital room.

Why was a nurse in there? What was causing an alarm? Did they know he was out of bed? That had to be it, right?

The door had been thrown open, and a second nurse brushed past him...no…not past him, Peter realized. She hadn't swerved around him.

The two nurses stood by the bed, one with a needle, the other messing with a machine. And then Peter let himself look...he let himself look at the machines, and at the tubes and wires. He let himself look at the breathing tube and the feeding tube. He let himself look at the body in the bed, mostly covered by a blanket.

He let himself look into his own face.

His features were lax, a breathing tube taped to his open mouth, another tube disappearing into his nose. He was pale. Too pale. Needles disappeared into his inner arms and another tube ran under the blanket but all he could see was his face. His slack face, never moving, as the nurses moved around him. And Peter...was he even Peter? He had to be...right? He was Peter! But...but Peter was in the bed! Peter took a step back, then another and another until his back hit the wall, sliding down to the floor, knees coming up to his chest as he gasped for air.

What the hell was going on?

Thanks for reading!