So, this chapter really didn't want to end...but i think this is as good of place as any to end it...thanks for reading and for the awesome reviews!! they really do make it all worthwhile!! Please let me know what you think!! bambers;)
Sam sat in the psychiatrist's office, confined in a straightjacket as the little man looked over the youngest Winchester's files. His gaze kept straying to Dean, who had at first been wandering around the room but who was now standing directly behind the doctor. Dean rested his arm against the doctor's shoulder, leaned over and began studying Sam's chart as well. "Thinks you're certifiable, Sammy." Dean chuckled as he glanced up at Sam. He reached over the balding man's shoulder and trailed his finger down the page, but the doctor didn't even seem to notice. "You're so gonna be locked away."
"Shut the hell up, Dean," Sam hissed through clenched teeth.
"Excuse me," the doctor glanced at Sam, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Was talkin' to my brother."
The older man looked around the room and then his steady gaze returned to Sam once more. "There's no one here besides us, Sam."
"What are you freakin' blind?" Sam uttered incredulously. "He's right freakin' behind you."
The doctor glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Sam again and shook his head. "It's just you and me here, Sam."
"Careful, Sammy," Dean warned, a mirthless grin slipping across his features. "Startin' to look full-on crazy here. They'll be fittin' you for a straightjacket soon," he gestured toward Sam, and laughed, "oops . . . too late. They already did."
"So not funny, Dean." Sam wrestled against the confines of the straightjacket, wanting nothing more at the moment than to break free and throttle his brother.
"Tell me about your brother, Mr Whitaker," the doctor said as he picked up a pencil to take notes. "Do you get along?" he scrawled down a few notes before Sam even had a chance to open his mouth to speak.
"Wanna know what he wrote, dude?" Dean leaned over the psychiatrist's shoulder again, and smirked. "Really bad penmanship, but I can clearly make out the word delusional. They're so gonna lock you away forever."
"Right now, Doctor Carter, I'd have to say he's a real a pain in my ass," Sam replied, trying his best to ignore his brother.
"Awww . . . Sammy, that really hurts." Dean came to stand directly behind Sam, and leaned in to whisper, "Whatever happened to you got my back an' I got yours?"
"Not really feelin' like you got my back here at the moment, dude." Sam shifted in his seat to move as far away from Dean as he possibly could without falling out of the chair.
"So not true, dude," Dean jabbed two fingers at the side of Sam's head, "who the hell do think is keepin' all the voices at bay for the moment? Cause it certainly isn't you."
Sam thought about it for a moment and realized Dean was right, the voices had quieted inside his head. He'd been so focused on his brother since Dean had showed up in his hospital room that he hadn't realized it until this very moment. He opened his mouth to ask Dean where they had gone to, when the Doctor cut in.
"I'm trying to be as helpful as I can, Mr. Whitaker," Doctor Carter tried to reassure, apparently thinking the comment was meant for him. "Sometimes it just really helps to talk out your problems, so tell me about your brother."
"This guy's great," Dean chuckled as he gestured toward the doctor, "he really believes he can make a difference with all his psychobabble bullshit." He strode to the desk, leaned against it, and casually crossed his legs and folded his arms. "Go ahead, Sammy, tell him all your deepest, darkest secrets. Tell him about ol' Yellow-Eyes . . . tell him how evil has plans for you. He can help," Dean hitched a thumb over his shoulder toward the plaque on the wall, "he has a degree an' everything."
"How are you keeping the voices away, Dean?" Sam asked, ignoring the doctor and Dean's comments.
"So you think your brother keeps the voices away?" Doctor Carter raised a quizzical brow, and then hastily scribbled something down in his journal. "Why would you think that?"
"Sorta like Friday Night Smackdown, little brother. Kick enough asses an' they crown you king." Dean shrugged, the smirk never leaving his face. "Only problem is, there's always someone who's gonna challenge you for the title."
"What about me?"
"Ha . . . you?" Dean burst out laughing. "You can't even beat Molly. An' if you can't beat her, there's no way you could ever hope to go up against Reeves."
"Molly?" Sam quirked a brow in total confusion.
"Would you like to talk about Molly?" the doctor asked, quickly shuffling through his papers until he found the one he was looking for.
"I don't even know who the hell Molly is," Sam's voice raised an octave in anger and frustration. "So why the hell would I want to talk about her."
"Sure you do, Sammy," Dean chided, "tight little body, sexy as all hell, an' all kinds of crazy."
"Don't know who the hell she is, Dean. So jus' shut the hell up."
"Would you like to know who she is, Mr. Whitaker?" Doctor Carter glanced up from his paperwork to look at Sam, waiting for an answer.
"How do I get rid of her, Dean?" Sam asked, once again completely ignoring the doctor. Leaning forward in his seat, Sam looked his brother directly in the eyes. "Please, just tell me how to get rid of her."
Dean was silent for a moment as he apparently mulled over what Sam said, then gave a curt shake of his head. "Why the hell would I want to help you, Sammy? With each one gone you become a little stronger, an' I can't have that."
Sam stared at Dean for a moment or two longer as his older brother's words sunk in fully. The cold hard glint in his brother's green eyes, made it very clear to Sam that Dean didn't care what happened to him. Dean wanted him to look crazy, wanted him to be locked up in a padded cell. But what Sam didn't understand was why.
"Why won't you help me?"
"I'm really trying to, Mr. Whitaker," the doctor responded, his voice filled with compassion.
"Not talkin' to you, so why don't you just shut the hell up," Sam blurted out before he could manage to stop himself. "Was talkin' to my brother," he quickly amended, and realized his mistake when the doctor scribbled something more down on his notepad. "I'm not crazy, Doc, I'm really not."
"Huh," Dean leaned sideways, glanced at the notepad, then looked back to Sam, "seems as if you are, little brother. Says so, right here," he tapped his finger on what the doctor had just written down.
"Look, Doc," Sam wriggled back and forth in his chair, starting to feel more than just a little uncomfortable with his arms secured tightly to his chest by the straightjacket, "I'm sure you've heard this a ton of times, but I'm really not crazy. Don't know why the hell you can't see him, but my brother is leaning up right against your desk."
"I'm sure you'd like to believe he is there," Doctor Carter looked up from his paperwork, smiled sympathetically at Sam and then returned to writing more notes. "As you said, he makes the voices go away, kind of like a shelter in a storm, so maybe that's why only you can see him."
"Oh, he's good, Sammy," Dean chuckled, "shelter in a storm . . . is that what I am? Always protecting you, taking the brunt of the pain an' guilt for ya?"
"Never asked you to, Dean," Sam argued, "you jus' never would let me . . . I've tried . . . you know what, whatever," Sam would've thrown up is hands in frustration if he could only yank them free of the bindings, so instead he had to settle for angrily tapping the heels of his feet against the tiled floor. "You win, dude. You've got the whole guilt thing all locked up . . . no one else has ever felt as much of it as you have . . . an' no one else has ever suffered as much as you. Is that what you want to hear?"
"Do you feel guilty about something, Sam," the doctor asked, suddenly very interested in what Sam had to say.
"What do you mean?" Sam shrugged, not liking where the conversation was heading. "Felt guilty about a lot of things in my life."
"Sure you have, little brother," Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"Well," Doctor Carter flipped through his pages of notes, "all your alter-egos seem to have similar underlying guilt issues. Maybe they are manifesting themselves as a way of trying to deal with your guilt." Leaning over his desk, the doctor clasped his fingers together, and look intently at Sam. "Perhaps by working through this guilt we can establish a new foundation on which you can build to and eventually return to a normal life."
"Can you tell me one thing, Doc?" Sam asked and waited until the older man nodded to continue, "these voices . . . these personalities, I seem to be having . . . anything at all unusual about them? Anything that just doesn't seem to fit in with the normal craziness of being crazy?"
"Well, there was a few things that were kind of unusual," the doctor reluctantly admitted. "For some reason, all your alter-egos believe it's the year 1963 and they're patients of the Roosevelt Asylum."
"Huh, an' that doesn't strike you as odd?" Sam stated confidently, feeling as if he was finally getting somewhere with the doctor.
"People can manifest all kinds of delusions to cope with their mental problems, Sam, you have to understand this."
"I wasn't even freakin' born in 1963, for Christ's sake." Sam pushed to his feet, and began stalking back and forth, furious that the doctor wouldn't even consider the possibility that he wasn't insane. "Did you even bother to check the records of patients at Roosevelt? Did you ever stop to think that maybe . . . just maybe they might've been real people, an' I'm not nuts?"
"Damn, Sammy, so not a good argument for your sanity," Dean laughed, "I swear, I'm not nuts, I'm just channeling a bunch of dead people," he mocked, trying to imitate Sam's voice. "Why don't you just tell him you were hunting ghosts at Roosevelt an' they all decided to jumped inside your head, I'm sure that'll go over really well."
Now seething with anger, Sam swung back to glare at his brother. "Did it for you, Dean . . . for you! I'm in here now cause of you. Locked up cause of you . . . so you can take all your guilt bullshit, an' get the hell out of here. Cause I'm really freakin' tired of hearing it."
"Sammy . . . ." Dean began twitching convulsively, eyes closing and opening rapidly as he jerked away from the desk. "Don't p-push me back inside . . . . you won't like it . . . Reeves . . . he's . . . ."
"He's what, Dean?" Sam asked, completely forgetting about his anger and that the doctor was in the room with them.
"Murderer," Dean jerked forward again, shaking uncontrollably. "No g-guilt . . . no escape." Blood trickled down from Dean's lips as a purplish bruise appeared on his right cheek. Sam rushed forward and caught his brother before he fell to the floor. Together, they both sank to their knees. "N-need me . . . can fight him," Dean lightly tapped the side of Sam's temple with trembling fingers, "up here . . . can make th-them all go away."
"How, Dean?" Sam asked, fighting against the strange buzzing sound that was now filling his ears. Slowly the nosie changed until Sam heard a low murmuring of voices. "How do I stop them, Dean?" Sam begged for an answer as the voices grew to a fevered pitch.
"Mr. Whitaker?" Doctor Carter peered over the top of the desk, and then rushed around it, and knelt beside Sam. "Sam, you need to let me help you," he gently persuaded as Sam pushed away from him.
"N-not gonna tell ya," Dean managed to choke out, before squeezing his eyes shut, and arching and twisting snakelike in Sam's lap.
"Guhh . . . please . . . ." Sam cried out, and feeling as if there was an explosion of lights and sounds behind his eyes, he squinched them tightly closed. "Beggin' ya, D-Dea . . . ."
Inside Sam's mind he could faintly hear Dean's voice, trying desperately to shout above the din, but it was soon lost as another darker voice emerged once more. A tremor of fear coursed through Sam's body as the voice fought for and gained control, silencing all the other voices. When Sam finally reopened his eyes, he pushed further away from the doctor as a smirk lit across his features.
"Sam?" the doctor asked, furrowing his brows in concern and question. "Mr. Whitaker?"
"Reeves," Sam stated, his tone devoid of any emotion. "An' if I were you, I'd be more than a little damn worried right about now," and saying that, Sam's foot shot out, kicking the smaller man squarely in the stomach.
Doctor Carter flew backward, and landed sprawled out on the ground. Using his elbow as leverage, Sam pushed off from the ground and scrambled to his feet. With a pure demented look of evil in his eyes, he stalked toward the older man. Lifting his foot, he brought it down hard against the man's chest. A sardonic laugh escaped him as he knelt, and ground his knee into the whimpering man's ribcage.
"You know," Sam lowered his head slightly so he was looking the doctor in the eyes, "could kill you right now . . . crush your windpipe, but I'm not gonna." He smiled, then laughed heartily. "Wanna know why?" When the terrified man could do nothing more than give a slight nod of his head, Sam continued, "You and your talk of guilt, makes Dean weaker which in turn makes Sam weaker, an' the way I figure it, soon there'll just be me inside his head."
"Wha . . . what are you t-talking about?" the doctor managed to gasp out, tear-filled eyes narrowing as he tried to understand.
"They all feel guilt . . . all of them. But not me," Sam shook his head, "not me," he reiterated to stress the point he was trying to make. "Think Ellicott said I was incapable of feeling the emotion. But Dean's strong, even in his anger, he anchors little Sammy."
"Ellicott?"
"Doctor Ellicott. 1963. Roosevelt Asylum, ring any bells?" Sam asked, smirking at the man. "There was a riot, people died . . . I died, but for some damn reason I didn't go away. Apparently Hell didn't want me yet. Think I got work left to do."
"An' what would that work be," the doctor asked, and Sam could tell he was mentally taking notes to try and diagnose what sort of mental illness he was dealing with.
"You believe in demons, Satan, an' all that bullshit, Doc?"
"I believe a lot of people believe in that kind of thing," Doctor Carter replied, and breathed a little easier when Sam pushed away from him, and stood to stalk back and forth.
"Right, the Devil made me do it thing, is that what you mean?"
Doctor Carter slowly got to his feet, and holding his stomach, he lumbered back to his desk, and slumped down in his seat. "Sometimes people like to manifested demons in which they can allow to take the blame for their actions. It helps to alleviate the guilt, if the person doesn't feel they have any control over their own actions."
"But what if the Devil really is making me do it?" Sam questioned, quirking a brow as he turned and smiled at the doctor. "What if he has plans for me, an' that's why I'm still around?"
"So what does this devil want you to do?"
"He talks to me, you know," Sam uttered, ignoring the doctor's question, "tell me things . . . things about Sam . . . about Dean."
"What does the devil want you to do?" Doctor asked again, his voice raising slightly, and Sam noted a tremor of fear in the older man's tone.
"Seems as if he's tired of Dean. That damn Winchester is always in his face, almost killed him once, but Daddy Winchester came to the rescue." He chuckled manically, and laughed even harder when the pencil the doctor was holding tightly in his grip snapped in half. "Sold his soul you know, sold it for Dean."
"Winchester, I'm not following?" The doctor grabbed another pencil, and quickly began scrawling down notes. "Who's the Winchesters?"
"Not very quick on the uptake are ya, Doc?" Sam halted in his paces and stared at the doctor. "Sam and Dean Winchester. That's their real names." He stalked to the desk, and took a seat on the edge of it. "An' get this, they're demon hunters." Leaning over, he glanced at what the doctor was writing, and chuckled. "Don't really care if you believe it or not. They're the real thing. Hunt those little creepy things that allow people like yourself to sleep better at night, all safe an' warm in your bed."
"So, they hunted you?" the Doctor asked perceptively.
"No, Ellicott, sonuvabitch was making lab rats out of his patients."
"An' you were one of them?" The doctor appeared very intrigued, but whether he actually believed what Sam was saying or not, Sam couldn't tell.
"There weren't a lot of us who didn't suffer some sort of torture at his hands," Sam said evasively, not about to answer one way or another if he'd actually been operated on. "But as I was sayin', they're hunters. An' now it's my job to hunt him."
"Hunt who?"
Sam stood, and headed for the door, calling back over his shoulder. "Think our time is up for this session."