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"Mildly psychotic."
Sam opened one eye. It was all he could manage at the moment. The rest of his body felt like lead, and his left upper-arm was throbbing.
"But don't worry. They wouldn't have put you in here if they thought either of us was a danger to anyone other than ourselves." There was a pause. Then dryly, "That's how you can tell they care."
Sam knew he was in a mental hospital. He remembered vividly the dream that had brought him there. Alvin MacGruder. The Pluta Behavioral Center. A man screaming, enveloped in shadow, frightened to death. He remembered waking up in the car next to Dean, and Ozzy Osborne and that awesome riff from Crazy Train. He remembered the librarian giving him directions. No, it isn't far; yes, all those deaths are very strange; no, you won't find much information up in the stacks, but let me tell you what I've heard.
He remembered considering telling Dean what he'd seen in his sleep, and he remembered deciding against it in part because he just couldn't say it out loud. But he couldn't ignore it; he'd learned that lesson with Jess. Whatever the thing was that was killing cows in the night would just have to wait. Clearly, they were being drawn to Halvorston for another reason. He'd stopped Max from killing Alice and Dean, so surely he could stop this. He had to.
"That guy with you," the voice continued. "The one with the spikey hair? He seemed worried." Another pause. Then genuinely curious, "What are you doing here?"
He should have called Dean before he checked himself in. It had all happened much faster and more harshly than he had anticipated. He'd spouted off the first thing that came to him, which coincidentally happened to be the truth. The look the intake nurse had given him was enough to make him go numb. He didn't know why he'd initially thought she would take some convincing. Turned out she didn't need any convincing at all. Turned out Sam Winchester was honestly, certifiably crazy.
His other eye opened, and he was staring at a white paneled ceiling. The last thing he knew, he'd been in a small room with Dean. He'd done his best to explain what was going on, and he hoped Dean had understood.
Before that, he remembered the nurse telling him to wait just a moment, and she left him sitting alone in a small office. It was a generic desk where they must have interviewed many new patients and/or their families, trying to get a grasp of what kind of assistance they would need. There were several trays stacked on the desk, and they were full of different colored forms. There was a computer and a phone with only three buttons.
He glanced up at the walls and saw pictures of the Center itself. There were two framed blueprints of the building at its inception. There was only one large photo that appeared to have been taken prior to the 1995 renovations. The remaining photos and renderings were all of the new facility. Out the window, he could see clear across the courtyard and into what looked like an activity room. He could barely make out the people inside.
When the door opened again, Sam had expected the nurse to be back. Instead, there were three men, two of whom were close to his size and wearing all white with staff identification badges hanging from the hems of their shirts. The other man was dressed in a suit and bowtie and carried a clipboard in one hand.
Immediately apprehensive, Sam stood. As soon as he did, the two men in white each grabbed one of his arms and held him firmly, as if they had expected him to put up a struggle. Which he did, slightly, until the man with the clipboard spoke.
He introduced himself as Dr. Vincent Anderson, the head psychiatrist. He was glad Sam had the presence of mind to recognize his tenuous mental state, and he was here to help him make a full recovery. A memory of Dr. Ellicott from the Roosevelt Asylum flashed in Sam's mind.
It was then that Sam demanded to make a phone call. Even as he asked, he knew it was too late. His cell phone was in his jacket pocket, but the two orderlies had his arms trapped, and they weren't letting go. Sam explained that he hadn't told his family he was coming here, and he needed to call his brother so he could help make the arrangements for him to stay.
The doctor frowned and seemed to consider what Sam had said. Then he asserted no phone call was necessary. Sam insisted it was, and he pulled hard against the men restraining his arms. It was at that moment that chaos erupted in the room. Sam swore he'd done nothing to warrant being shoved unceremoniously to the floor and stripped of his jacket. The doctor moved in more swiftly than Sam would have imagined him capable of moving. He pushed up Sam's sleeve and inserted a long needle into his shoulder. Whatever he injected burned going in, and Sam grunted at the pain. He should've called Dean before checking himself in.
The men started to haul Sam back to his feet, but Sam was not going to take this treatment without a fight. He knew he had to call Dean. He kicked out with his leg and caught one of his captors hard in the thigh. The man cried out and bent over to clutch at his leg, releasing his hold on Sam's arm. Sam took a swing at the other guy, landing a solid left to the guy's chin. Sam scanned the room for a clear escape route, but the stunned men impeded his route to the door, and there was no making it through the solid plate window behind the desk, even if the drug in his system hadn't been starting to take effect. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him before he could decide what to do. The man he had kicked regained his equilibrium and easily brought Sam down. He held Sam's face roughly, cheek-down against the floor.
"I was afraid of this," the doctor said, shaking his head.
Afraid of what? Sam wondered blearily, but he never had a chance to ask.
Samassumed he'dpassed out, because the next thing he knew, he was slumped on the floor of a medium-sized room. He was lying on the floor, which seemed to be covered in a thick padding. When he pushed himself up to a sitting position in the corner, he discovered the walls were padded, as well.
No sooner had he sat up, then the door opened, and the good doctor walked in. He had a cell phone in his hand, but Sam noticed it wasn't his.
"One phone call," the doctor said, handing him the phone. "Can you dial?"
Sam nodded, the fog in his mind still thick. He struggled to remember the number. Then he heard Dean's voice, and Sam struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone a complete sentence. All he managed to get out at first was his brother's name.
The apprehension in Dean's voice was immediately obvious. Sam needed to explain, but Dr. Anderson was staring down at him.
"They're only allowing me one phone call," Sam managed to say.
The apprehension in Dean's voice gave way to fear, and Sam hoped he was telling his brother something useful, but he could barely hear his own words as they slurred slowly from his lips. Dr. Anderson abruptly held out a hand for the phone, and Sam obeyed, handing it over. He looked up wearily and saw the doctor's lips moving, but couldn't understand anything he said. Then the doctor was shoving the phone into his pocket and then bending down towards Sam. He grabbed Sam's wrist, pulling his arm out, and inserted another needle. This one didn't sting.
The next time he woke up, he was still sitting in the padded room, wedged into a corner, his hands in his hair. He heard a woman's voice telling him he had a visitor, and when he looked up, there was Dean looking royally pissed off.
He's mad at me, was Sam's initial thought. Then, Or maybe he's mad at them. At any rate, a mad Dean was better than no Dean.He was there, and Sam was instantly relieved.
"You know, you're kind of hard to talk to."
Sam's body was starting to thaw. He tested a hand, flexing his fingers. Then he slowly brought his arm up and pinched his nose between his eyes. After a moment, he turned his head to the side, looking at the room for the first time. It was almost creepy, a cross between a hospital room and every motel he and his brother had ever stayed in. The walls were an antiseptic white. There were no pictures, but one window that looked out at the river. The two beds were twins, parallel to each other, with a shelf-like table between them. There were adjustable rails on both beds, but only the rails on Sam's bed had been raised into place. No mirrors, no lamps, three fluorescent lights overhead. There were two dressers, two desks, two chairs, and a door that led to a bathroom with a shower, but no tub. The floor throughout the room was tile. There were two closets, and they were both closed.
Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position, leaning back against his elbows. Finally, he noticed the man sitting in an armchair in the corner between the window and Sam's bed.
"Who-" he started, his voice rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Who are you?"
The man eyed him skeptically, scratching an elbow. He crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back into the cushion. He looked young, around Dean's age or maybe slightly older. He was dressed in the same gray cotton get-up as Sam, but he had socks and slip-on tennis shoes on his feet. His brown hair was combed neatly, and it was slightly wet, as if he'd just showered. Even from a distance, he smelled like soap. He looked normal, not mildly psychotic.
"I'm your roommate," the man said. He lifted his chin up and scratched at his neck, all the while keeping an eye on Sam. "And I'm not stupid."
Sam's face conveyed his confusion. He wasn't sure if it was some kind of after-effect of the drug wearing off, or if this guy really wasn't making sense.
"Who said you were stupid?" he asked. Sam sat all the way up in the bed now, a hand moving to his left shoulder, which was bruised and tender.
"They all think we're stupid, you know." The man pushed himself up from the chair and walked to the window. He pushed back a thin, white curtain and looked out. "They think we don't know what's going on here."
Sam rubbed at his sore shoulder absently, looking with narrowed eyes at his roommate. "What do you mean, what's going on?" Was it possible this guy knew something about MacGruder?
For a long moment, the man didn't shift his gaze from the window. He seemed to be studying something outside near the river. Then he let the curtain slide closed and slowly turned to Sam. "What are you doing here?" he asked again.
Sam hesitated for a moment. He wasn't sure what he was being asked. "I…uh…I checked myself in. I'm here for help," he said lamely.
The man gave him a boy are you full of shit look and frowned. "Look. Nobody checks themselves in here." He moved closer to Sam then, walked over to the bed and lifted Sam's hand from where he'd been massaging his shoulder. "Nobody asks for this shit. And man, it's only going to get worse for you. I saw the way Anderson looked at you. He knows as well as we do that you're not crazy. But now that you're here, and now that they know you know something, he's not going to let you leave."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked cautiously. He couldn't tell if these were the crazy ramblings of some headcase who'd been locked up for too long, or if Sam really had let something slip at some point. The drugs had finally worked themselves through his system, and he knew he was going to have to figure out how to get around having to take any more medication. Dean was right. Of course they had ways of forcing patients to take their drugs. Namely, thugs and needles. When the man didn't answer, another thought asserted itself into Sam's mind. "What do you mean it's only going to get worse? What's going to get worse?"
The man still refused to answer. He dropped Sam's hand and went back to the window. "I know what you're doing here," he said, finally, pushing the curtain back again.
"MacGruder?" Sam said softly, taking a chance.
The man nodded. "MacGruder. I'll give you any help that I can."
"Why would you want to help me?" Years of hunting had made Sam suspicious, if not downright distrustful, when it came to anyone other than his brother or father. And lately, he wasn't even sure if he could trust their dad anymore.
"Because I'm tired of watching him kill them. Because who's to say I won't be next?"
Sam's heart started to pound. "Have you seen MacGruder take them?"
The man turned and looked at Sam like he was an idiot. "Boy, somebody's really got his head up his ass."
Sam shook his head in confusion. What the hell was this guy getting at?
"MacGruder doesn't take them. He doesn't have to. Not when someone gives them to him."
"What? Who?" But as soon as he said it, Sam knew.
The man smiled bleakly.
Sam sighed and wished Dean was there.
