Knock on the Sky

By EB

©2006

Chapter Four

Do the Sweet Pea

It was still dark when he woke up, clawing at the sheets, flailing at something that wasn't there. No fire, no empty dust-filled hallways, just dread thick as glue in his throat and the press of time, no time, gotta hurry, Sammy-boy, time's a'wasting while you get your beauty sleep.

He sat up with a muffled cry and glared around the room. Empty, quiet, dark. Five forty-two by the clock on the table. Early. Late, Jesus, he should be on the road already.

It took seeing the used towels on the floor and looking in the bathroom mirror before he remembered bits of the previous evening. The images, and the pain that had followed, stampeded through his head like horses shod with spiked iron shoes. From nowhere his brain coughed up lyrics, Johnny gets the feeling he's surrounded by horses, horses. Patti Smith, God, Dean hated that song. Horses, coming in in all directions, white shining silver, and Sam scrubbed his face with both hands, pressing hard against his eyes. Dean, then Jess. All he could do. Only one man, after all. A man who still felt a lot like a boy, wishing someone would tell him what to do next, which direction to go. Leave a goddamn trail of breadcrumbs. Something.

He gazed at his reflection, saw rings under his eyes so dark they looked like lampblack, and turned on the tap with a vicious twist of his wrist.

Back in the bedroom, dressed, he called, and Jess picked up after the third ring. "Sam?"

"Hey." He closed his eyes and felt a little of the iron-tight tension leave his shoulders. "You doing okay?"

"Sam, where ARE you? You didn't even call –"

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "Things -- I've been busy. Looking."

Her voice sounded morning-rough, thick with sleep. "Did -- Did you find him? Your brother?"

He paused, gnawing on the inside of his lip, then said, "Not yet. Closer, though. I think maybe I know where he is. Maybe."

"It's just –" He heard noise on the other end, Jess's whispered "fuck," and Sam snapped, "What's going on?" Terror quick and metallic in his throat.

"Nothing. The clock fell off the table." She sounded breathless. "I need some coffee."

"Oh man, it's what, five there?"

"Not even. It's okay, I gotta –" She yawned, and mumbled, "-- need to get up soon anyway. You're the early riser."

He nodded to himself, smiling a little. "Yeah, I know. Listen, I should, you know. Get going."

"Sam? You're coming home?"

"Not yet. I just -- I have a lead, Jess. I gotta follow it."

"Would you call me tonight? Just – call me?"

"Yeah. Of course. What time?"

"Any time, anything's good. I want to know what's going on."

"Yeah," Sam breathed. "So do I."

He felt better after a scalding cup of coffee and a burrito in the motel's tiny café. Better still when he climbed into the Impala and turned it in the direction of the highway. By the map, Santa Elena wasn't far. Two hours, a little time for wandering, and he'd be there. Nine o'clock at the latest.

With Amarillo behind him, he kept one hand on the wheel and punched in Dad's number.

"Think I got a lead on him. There's a hospital in Santa Elena. State hospital. According to the cops, that could be where he wound up." He glanced in the rearview mirror, back to the white lines on the highway. "Dad, where the hell are you? I mean, you asked ME for help, remember? This wasn't my idea, so -- You might call me. Whatever. Later."

He tossed the cell phone on the passenger seat and gripped the wheel harder, hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

It took longer than he'd thought. Plenty of signs, no question he was going the right direction, but traffic was heavy, and he missed the first turnoff, had to go through downtown. Santa Elena was a sleepy-looking town, small city really, smaller than Amarillo but big enough to have a college, a shitload of fast-food joints and dozens of churches. Trees, more than he'd imagined in sere north Texas, and a surprisingly wide, bustling river slicing through. Across the river, he saw a sign pointing ahead, Santa Elena State Hospital, and Sam nodded to himself. All right, then. About time.

The road curved around a large open field, buildings camouflaged by the plentiful cottonwoods clustered ahead. His mouth had gotten very dry, and he was aware that his heart was thudding in his chest. No reason, but no mistaking the cold hands, the taste of metal on his tongue. This sense of – imminence, foreboding.

Then he saw the main building, stately-looking between the many trees, and it took hearing the tires crackling in gravel to make him pay attention to the road, steer in the direction of a long narrow parking lot. Because he knew that building, recognized it. Had dreamed about it more times than he wanted to remember. The trees, and the sturdy brick walls, the heavy iron gates like outstretched fingers pointing imploringly at the sky.

He turned jerkily, and brought the Impala to a shaky standstill just inside the turnoff. Climbed out and staggered, knees buckling, until he grasped the hot metal of the door and clawed his way upright.

He'd dreamed this building. And that was because Dean was HERE. Clarity like a bolt of raw blue lightning: I've had it all along. I've SEEN it all along, even before I knew he was missing. I've SEEN this place.

"Dean," Sam wheezed, clutching the door of Dean's car like a lifeline.

There was a gate with a guard at the parking-lot entrance. The man looked down at him from his booth, face sweaty and impassive. "Can I do for you."

"I'm here to visit a patient," Sam said, squinting upward.

A clipboard appeared in the man's hand. "Sign in."

He signed the paper, and took the card the guard handed him. Visitor's pass. "Park over yonder," the guard told him, pointing at the skinny line of parking lot beyond the gate.

"Thanks."

He left the Impala parked in the scant shade of one dry-looking cottonwood and walked fast up the sidewalk. This wasn't the only building; there were others, smaller and newer-looking, and a string of what looked like pre-fab cottages off to the left, in a neat sterile line. Tables riveted to the ground to his right, chairs, and a handful of people sitting or standing around, smoking or just hanging out. None of them looked insane. A girl laughed, shading her eyes to watch Sam's progress, and he forced an awkward smile.

None of them was Dean. None of them were the people in his dream. The ones ranked behind his brother, standing or sitting but always there, echoing his sad, sweet words.

Sam shivered under the hot yellow sun and hurried to the main entrance.

Inside smelled unlike any hospital he'd ever entered. Nothing particularly medicinal; more like the odors of a grade-school cafeteria, old food and disinfectant and over it all, the sweetish smell of dust and mildew. He stood motionless for a second, getting his bearings, and saw a woman seated at a reception desk ahead.

The woman didn't smile at his approach. "Can I help you?"

Shoving his cold hands in his pockets, Sam nodded. "I'm here to see a patient."

"Visiting hours are this afternoon," she said without inflection. "Three to six. They're posted."

"Yeah, I saw that. Listen, I, ah." He swallowed, and said, "You may – have been waiting for me. Someone like me. Family."

His resolve faltered under her steady unimpressed stare. "I think my brother's here," he lumbered on. "He'd be – a John Doe, probably. Or an alias."

The woman didn't say anything for a moment. Then, grudgingly, she replied, "Hang on a second," and got up to vanish through an unmarked doorway to the rear of the reception area.

"Something I can help you with, sir?"

He looked over and saw a security guard, dark-skinned face wearing the same non-expression as the receptionist's. Wondered if maybe this was the generic all-purpose look for people working at a state mental hospital. Who knew? Sam sure as hell didn't.

He gestured at the empty desk in the kiosk. "She's – helping me."

"All right, then." The guard reached up to take his cap off and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. "Hot already."

Sam nodded jerkily. "Yeah." His hands were still frozen.

The door opened again, emitting the receptionist and a harried-looking woman, absently brushing at wrinkled slacks while she came to the window. "Sir?"

"Yeah. I -- I think my brother's here."

The woman gave a slow nod. "And he's a John Doe, you said?"

"I think. It's all the cops in Amarillo were able to give me."

"Do you have a picture?"

"Yeah." He fumbled in his hip pocket, drew out his wallet and Dean's photograph and held it out. The woman – administrator, she had that look – gazed at it for a brief moment, and her brow drew together in a frown, aging her. Her look was sharp and no longer tired-looking.

"He's your brother?"

"Yeah. Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Just a second."

She took the picture with her, and Sam thought about calling out, hey, that's the only one I got, lady, and another door he hadn't noticed until now opened, next to the reception area. The administrator poked her head out. "Come on back."

He hurried forward, and took the photograph when she held it out.

"I'm Nelda Rios," she said, an awkward smile coming and going on her face. "I'm the chief nurse executive."

"Sam Winchester."

"You have an ID?"

He showed his license, and she nodded. "Come down here."

A long, narrow hallway – dust-free, he noted with dull anxiety – led past several small offices, culminating in a split between four larger ones. Rios took him into the third, and gestured at a chair. "Have a seat. When did your brother get here?"

He sat uneasily, hands clenched on the arms of the chair. "I'm not sure. August, maybe. He was taken into custody on August 13th, in Amarillo. Is he here?"

She didn't immediately reply. Seated in a big leather-covered chair, she picked up a telephone and asked, "Is Robert in his office? Yes, can you have him stop by here? Thanks, Julie." When she hung up, her face was impassive again. "What was he picked up for?"

Sam paused, and said, "Look, is this a yes or a no? I just want to see my brother."

Rios's gaze flicked to a point over his shoulder, and Sam glanced over to see a man at the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Robert, this young man's looking for his brother. Can you show him the picture, Mr. Winchester?"

He hadn't put it away yet. His fingers shook when he held it out, and the man took it, squinting a little at it. Then his eyes widened, and he gave Sam an astounded look. "This is your brother?"

Sam nodded. "He's been missing –"

"Jesus," the man breathed. "It's James."

Sam blinked, and Rios cleared her throat. "It's what we've been calling him," she said in a warmer voice. "Primarily."

"What's his name?" Robert demanded.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Oh. Sorry. Robert Klinefeld." He held out a hand. "I'm the clinical director."

Sam shook his hand, nodding slowly. "Sam Winchester. His name isn't James. It's Dean."

Klinefeld exchanged an unreadable look with Rios, and Sam blurted, "What? Why's that – surprising?"

Gently, Rios said, "He isn't aware of Ja – Dean's clinical situation."

Klinefeld pulled up the room's only other chair and sat down abruptly. "Does your brother have a history of mental illness?"

"No. Nothing. That's -- None of this makes sense. Dean's sane, he's -- No."

"You have to understand." Klinefeld's smile was small but genuine, still startled-looking. "He's been here nearly two months, and we have a lot of names. But none of them is Dean."

Sam leaned forward, heart speeding up again. "What's wrong with him?" he asked hoarsely. "What happened?"

Another exchange of looks, and then Klinefeld nodded. "Ja -- Dean has gotten quite a bit of attention since his arrival," he said slowly. "Partly because of his John-Doe status, partly the, shall we say, nature of his affliction."

"Which is?" Sam demanded. "Tell me!"

"He's dissociative," Rios said calmly. "In his case, a form of psychosis."

Sam glared at her. Had Dean told them about the family business? He'd cut his own tongue out before he'd break Dad's cardinal rule. "Dean's not psychotic. I don't believe that, not –"

"The reason we're surprised to hear his real name," Klinefeld murmured, "is because he has so many. We felt sure one of them was real, but it's been impossible to determine which. No ID, no history, no family -- You can understand our predicament."

"No, I DON'T understand, what –"

"In layman's terms, you'd call it 'multiple personalities.'" Klinefeld cleared his throat. "Incorrect, of course, but never mind. James is his – Dean's – primary persona. Alter, we would call it."

Sam gazed blankly at him. "Alter?"

Klinefeld nodded. "Dean has quite a number of them. Quite distinct."

"And," said Rios quietly, "to our knowledge, none of those alters calls himself Dean."

TBC. EB