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The Pluta Behavioral Health Center was located in downtown Halvorston, next to the St. Matthew River and a defunct printing warehouse. It was a newer-looking building of red brick and limestone, but even from the outside it looked sterile and oppressive. The Center was large, with at least four, multi-floored wings that converged at a central, single-story main office structure. There was a small courtyard out front. It might have reminded Dean of a college dormitory, if he could have ignored the daunting steel bars across the windows. Given the bars, it more closely resembled a minimum security prison.
Try as he might – and he'd been trying the whole drive – he couldn't imagine what Sam could've done to land himself here.
Dean threw open the front door and approached the front desk. He'd managed to reign in his anger slightly, but the look in his eyes still made it perfectly clear he was not fucking around. "I'm Dean Winchester," he announced to the woman at the desk. "Where's my brother Sam?"
The woman didn't seem surprised or perturbed by his abrupt entrance. She actually took a moment to size him up. He was brash with his annoyingly young hairdo, jeans, and leather jacket. It was hard to imagine he could be responsible for himself, let alone for the young man who'd just come to them that afternoon. "Mr. Winchester," she said evenly. "Dr. Anderson would like to see you first."
Dr. Anderson can go fuck himself.
"I'm not interested in Dr. Anderson. I'm here to get my brother."
The woman was a nurse, dressed all in white. She was older, maybe in her fifties, with short gray hair that she tucked behind her ears. Dean noted the judgmental look in her eyes. "We were expecting you. Dr. Anderson would like to ask you some questions first and explain Sam's case."
"Sam doesn't have a case," Dean argued tensely. What was this, the Twilight Zone? He put both hands on the edge of the counter and leaned forward. "Tell Dr. Anderson I'll deal with him after - and only after - I've seen my brother."
The woman just looked at him for a moment and shook her head slightly, as if she'd dealt with people like Dean before. It only infuriated him more. Nobody "handled" Dean Winchester.
Whose ass am I going to have to kick…Dean wondered menacingly, when a door behind the desk opened, and a man walked out.
He was tall and wide, about the same age as the nurse, with a thick blond mustache but less hair actually on top of his head. He was dressed in suit pants and white shirt with a blue paisley bowtie. He inappropriately reminded Dean of the guy on the side of a Pringles can. He held a portfolio in one hand, and there were two pens in his shirt pocket. When he looked at Dean, Dean immediately felt as if he was being evaluated.
"Mr. Winchester?" the man asked. It was Dr. Anderson, the prick.
"Where's my brother?" Dean demanded again.
"I'll take you to see him, but then we need to talk."
"Fine. Whatever," Dean acquiesced. He didn't have anything to say to Dr. Anderson. Obviously, there had been some kind of mistake. All he wanted to do was go get his brother and get out of this place. Sam could explain this mess in the car.
Dr. Anderson frowned at him for a moment. Then he turned to open the door he'd just come through and motioned for Dean to follow him into an interior hallway.
The hall was off-white with flat fluorescent lamps overhead. The light gray linoleum floor was spotless, and a three-inch tan line ran down the middle and around several corners. It seemed to be leading the way to wherever it was they were headed.
Dr. Anderson led him through a large lounge with several long tables, like those in a school cafeteria. There were round tables, as well, with diner-type chairs around them. A large television stood dark and silent against one wall. In front of it was a small carpet and a sofa with two matching upholstered chairs. Along an adjacent wall, there was a ping-pong table with no ball or paddles. There was also a large rack full of magazines and paperbacks. Dean felt like he'd just walked into a Ken Kesey novel.
He couldn't get over how clean everything looked. In this room, natural light from the late-afternoon sun streamed in through the long windows. There were no curtains to block the view out to the empty courtyard. Another thing Dean noticed was the unnatural quiet, disturbed only by the sound of their shoes against the cold floor. He saw no signs of any patients.
As if reading his mind, Dr. Anderson started to speak. "Right now all our patients are in their rooms for some solitude before dinner. We give them half an hour before meal time every night. We are primarily a residential facility, although we do offer a few outpatient services. We offer the option of single- or double-occupancy rooms. It all depends on what the family can afford and the level of care their loved ones require."
Was this guy for real? "Look, you don't have to give me the schpiel. My brother isn't staying here, so I could care less about the nature of the accommodations."
They entered another long hallway, at the head of which was a large nurses' station. The nurse on duty looked up from her computer when she heard voices and footsteps coming around the corner. She was young and attractive, with her blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. She was wearing the same white uniform as Nurse Ratched at the front desk, but on her it looked much softer. She smiled as they approached.
"Hello, Dr. Anderson," she said, then turned almost shyly to Dean.
Under any other circumstances, he could see himself stopping to have a conversation with this woman. The insecure ones were always easiest to impress.
"Molly, this is Dean Winchester. He's here to see Sam, our new patient."
Dean shot Anderson a cold glare. "He's not a patient. You can't keep him here against his will."
The doctor frowned again, as if he knew something Dean didn't, and Dean resisted the urge to beat the frown right off his condescending face.
"Molly, please take Mr. Winchester to see his brother, and when he's done, bring him back to my office."
The smile had faded slightly from Molly's lips at the mention of their new patient. She nodded shortly and came around to the front of the desk.
"Mr. Winchester, perhaps I should prepare you," Dr. Anderson started as an afterthought, setting his portfolio down on the counter.
Well, that sounded ominous. "Prepare me for what?"
"Your brother was extremely agitated when he came to us. He was delusional and admitted to having frequent hallucinations."
Dean furrowed his brow in disbelief. He looked back and forth from Molly to Anderson, then down the hall. Just where the hell were they keeping Sam, and what was all this crap about delusions and hallucinations?
"I thought it best to immediately begin a full battery of evaluations," Anderson continued clinically. "But after a few exercises, he was asking to make a phone call, and when we refused, he became somewhat violent."
The very fact that Dean was in a psychiatric institution listening to this asshole spin his yarn about Sam coming to them all hopped up and violent…well, it made absolutely no sense. The hum of the fluorescent lighting rang distractingly in Dean's ears as he struggled to process the doctor's words.
"What did you do to him?"
"We're keeping him isolated for his safety. He's been given a sedative, so you'll have to be brief. After you've spoken with him, we can talk about his treatment options."
To Dean, there really was only one option. Sam was leaving with him, and they were getting out of this town. The whole situation was surreal and bizarre. Dean fleetingly wondered if it was possible he was still asleep.
"I'll take you to him," Molly said quietly. Dean had almost forgotten she was there. He was uncharacteristically silent as she led him down the hall.
Apparently, Sam was just behind door number sixty-three. Dean cringed inwardly. The door was wide and obviously thick, with a square window at eye level. Before he had a chance to look in, Molly had unlocked and swung the door open. She stepped aside so Dean could enter.
What he saw made his stomach lurch. The room was completely white, and the whole thing – from the walls, to the floor, even the back of the door – was covered with a smooth foam padding. They had Sam locked up in a fucking padded cell!
And there was his brother, huddled in a far corner of the mid-sized room. Sam had been taller than Dean since he was seventeen and Dean turned twenty-one, but right then, he looked small with his knees drawn up towards his chest. The jeans, t-shirt, and jacket Dean had last seen him wearing were gone, replaced by a pair of Center-issue, soft, gray cotton pants and a matching cotton shirt. His feet were bare, and they'd taken his watch away, in case he might swallow it or bludgeon himself with it, or Dean didn't know what. His head was bent forward and Dean could see that his long hair was an even bigger mess than usual. He rested both elbows on his knees and clutched a handful of chestnut-colored hair in either fist. He didn't look up when the door opened.
"Sam," Molly said gently, as if she was afraid just the sound of her voice might set him off. "You've got a visitor."
At that, Sam slowly lifted his head. It seemed to take a moment for him to focus on the figure standing in the door.
"Thank God," he whispered.
"Leave us alone," Dean said in a low voice, not turning to look at Molly. He was literally shaking, and he didn't want her to see.
"Mr. Winchester –"
"I said, leave me alone with him," Dean repeated.
She hesitated for a moment more before closing the door.
Dean immediately moved to his brother's side and put his hands on Sam's shoulders, inspecting him for damage. There didn't appear to be anything wrong with him, aside from the fact that he was even here in the first place and he could barely keep his eyes open. He managed a small smile, and his relief at Dean's arrival was palpable.
Dean's hands moved down to Sam's biceps and squeezed. He examined his brother's face closely.
"Dude, I dropped you off at the library," he said. The what the hell happened was implied.
Sam looked up at him, his eyelids heavy. "They drugged me," he murmured unnecessarily. "I hadn't really anticipated that."
It wasn't the explanation Dean was looking for, but he didn't know what to say. After a few seconds of silence, Sam leaned his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes and just sat like that for a moment, breathing audibly. Then his features suddenly crumbled, and he brought both hands to his face.
Dean knew it was the drugs mixed with relief and the fact that Sam hadn't really slept in days, but it still broke his heart and sparked rage in him at the same time. What were they doing in this place? "Jesus, Sammy," he breathed, allowing himself a moment of weakness. He ran a hand over Sam's disheveled brown hair, let it rest briefly on the side of his kid brother's face. The moment lasted only a few seconds, thenSam regained his composure, and Dean was all business again.
"Okay," he said urgently. "I know you're tired, but you have to tell me what's going on. How did you get here?"
"I had a dream," Sam said, as if that explained everything.
Dean rolled his eyes in frustration. "I'm gonna need more than that, Dr. King."
Sam drew himself up straighter and wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. He glanced at the door to make sure they were really alone.
"Can they hear us?" he asked warily.
Dean shook his head. "I don't think so."
Sam nodded, then said, "Alvin MacGruder."
Dean bowed his head, closed his eyes, and started counting towards ten. He was at seven when Sam finally continued, "Something bad is going on here, Dean."
Dean met his younger brother's unsteady gaze and held it. "Oh, really, Columbo? You mean besides the fact that we're sitting in a nut house, and you're doped up in a padded room?"
"In my dream," Sam went on, ignoring Dean'sanxious sarcasm, his voice slightly steadier than he felt, "I saw this place. This place And I watched a man…screaming…and a shadow moved over him." He licked his lips. "And I swear, Dean, he died of fright."
"Of fright?" Dean had a feeling Sam's dream had nothing to do with their original reason for coming to Halvorston. "What was he afraid of?"
"Alvin MacGruder," Sam said again. "At the library. I looked up the history of the Pluta Behavioral Health Center. It was renovated back in '95, but before that, it was a prison asylum. It's where the state sent its criminally insane when they were deemed too unstable for a regular correction facility. Alvin MacGruder was an inmate - a patient - for five years before he died of an undetermined cause. After his death, they decided to restructure the place."
"And what? Now this guy's back for something?"
"Yes," Sam nodded. "He's back, and he's killing patients. There have been fifteen sudden deaths here over the past ten years."
Dean bit his bottom lip. Boy, this day just kept getting better and better.
"So what? Why is he killing them?"
"Well, that's what I'm here to find out."
Dean stared at his brother, realization starting to dawn. He was trying to stay calm, but so help him if this was all part of some stupid plan Sam had managed to concoct without even talking to him about it first.
"Do not tell me you faked being crazy and got yourself thrown in here so you could chase after some nut job ghost," he growled, his fingers closing tighter around Sam's biceps.
"I didn't have to fake anything, Dean," Sam hissed, struggling weakly against his older brother's grip. "All I told them was that I have dreams, and they come true, and I hunt things that go bump in the night. I told them I see and kill monsters and things that are already dead." There was a sudden bitterness in his voice that Dean hadn't been expecting. "Think about it, man. Sounds pretty crazy to me."
Once again, Dean found himself at a disturbing loss for something to say. For years they'd hunted and kept their dirty little secrets; the only people who would ever believe them were the people they'd saved.
Even though his brother was sitting right in front of him, and had been beside him for months, something about the look in Sam's eyes lately and the tone of his voice made Dean feel as if Sam were constantly moving farther and farther away. As if Stanford hadn't been far enough. At least at Stanford, there was always the possibility (and eventually the reality) of physically going and getting Sam if he had to.
Wherever it was he was heading now, though, once Sam was gone, Dean wasn't so confident he would be able to get him back. In fact, Dean wasn't just not confident; he was starting to be slightly afraid. And fear, although healthy and sometimes life-saving, was not an emotion that sat well with Dean. This fear that he had, and this despair that seemed to be slowly consuming his brother, was not going to save any lives. In time, if they couldn't move past it, it would destroy them.
They had more immediate issues to deal with now, though. He had to admit, this thing definitely sounded like something they needed to investigate, but it baffled him why Sam never said a word to him about it until now. How long ago had he had this particular dream? And how long had he been planning this out? What had he thought he was going to do if they hadn't let him make a phone call? What had he supposed Dean would think when he went to the library and couldn't find him? Sam was smarter than this. There had to be something he wasn't telling Dean.
"They want to keep me here."
Dean shook his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts. He looked at his brother and frowned. What was done was done. They would have to find this MacGruder guy and figure out how to stop him. But no fucking way was he going to let Sam stay here by himself.
"Sam, I wouldn't leave you here even if there wasn't a dead psychopath running around killing people. Look at yourself! You're barely coherent as it is now. We'll have to find another way. As long as they think you're crazy, they're just going to keep pumping you full of drugs."
"Let me worry about that," Sam insisted. "I'll handle it."
"Right. You'll handle it." Dean rolled his eyes in frustration. "You think they don't have ways of making sure patients ingest their medication? And what am I supposed to do while you're in here battling the forces of evil? Sit around the motel like a fucking pylon?"
"No, I need you to work the staff."
That got Dean's attention. "What do you mean?"
"The staff," Sam slurred. His head dropped forward. He was slowly losing his battle against the sedative.
"Stay with me, Sam." Dean cupped Sam's chin and lifted his head up. He looked his brother hard in the eyes, willing him to stay lucid long enough to explain Dean's part in all this. "What about the staff?"
"Somebody knows something." Sam lowered his voice. "Most of them were here when MacGruder died. I need you to find out as much as you can about what happened."
"I thought you already did the research. What else do you think I'm going to find out?"
"All I know is what I've already told you, Dean. I didn't have time to figure out the rest."
Okay, fine. Great. Dean could do some digging. And he'd just have to trust that Sam could take care of himself. But something still nagged at him.
"Hey, McMurphy, why didn't you just tell me about this genius little plan of yours?"
Sam's eyelids slid shut. "Would you have let me do it?"
"Maybe." No.
Sam smiled grimly. "Well, there you go."
The drug they'd given him finally won out, and Sam slumped forward. Dean moved to sit beside his brother and pulled Sam close so his head rested on Dean's shoulder. He gazed nervously up at the padded walls around them. He didn't like this at all.
