There's No Such Thing As Monsters

A/N: I don't really have anything to ramble about with this chapter but my posts feel naked without an Authors Note... I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Also, wasn't that a freaking awesome episode last night? *melts at the brilliance* Why is next week so far away?

Chapter Three

"So, do you want to tell me why you don't want to take your medication?"

Sam was in what was apparently his closet of a room. The doctor, a short balding man wearing a white jacket that didn't look like it would be able to button up over his generous stomach, sat on the only chair, forcing Sam to either sit on the bed or stand. Sam stood, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed.

"Not really," he muttered, rubbing distractedly at his aching head. What could he say? 'Because I'm not schizophrenic, because I'm not supposed to be here and I'm just biding my time until I find a way back to my own reality.' Yeah, that would be a compelling argument in the debate over his sanity.

The doctor rested his clipboard on his knees and folded his hands over it, looking at Sam with professional sincerity. "I know the side effects aren't much fun but I think we've finally found the right dosage. If you take it, I really think we'll start to see an improvement."

He looked at Sam expectantly. Sam avoided his gaze.

"You know," the doctor leant closer, peering at Sam over the top of his glasses. The identification badge clipped to his belt loop read Dr Benjamin Harper. "I can't release you from my care unless I believe that you can be trusted to take your medication."

"If I take the pills, will you let me out?" Sam shot back.

Harper frowned. It looked like a complicated process, trying to get his large eyebrows to fall in line. "It's not that simple. You're entrusted into my care. We only want to help you, and I'd like you to trust me when I say that this medication is crucial to managing your condition."

Sam snorted. Did anyone really fall for the whole fake sincerity bit? A person would have to be crazy to... oh yeah. "I don't have a condition," he said finally. "I don't need drugs."

Harper tapped the clipboard with his pen, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. "You are aware that you've signed consent forms that allow me to medicate you against your will." It wasn't a question.

Sam stiffened. "You can't do that! It's..." He struggled to find an out. "It's unethical."

Harper was undaunted. "I'm responsible for your well-being as you've agreed that you're incapable of making decisions regarding it. Sometimes that means that I need to protect you from yourself."

"I am capable!" Sam argued as his brain spun in circles trying to think of some sort of compelling argument. God, if they drugged him he'd never be able to figure this out. "You can't... I don't consent!"

Harper's wayward eyebrows were drawn in what Sam supposed was meant to be concern, but he'd spent far too many years lying for a living to not be able to recognise a man who didn't really care any more than his job required.

Being able to read people was an important part of being a hunter and it was a skill Sam had learnt when he was young, mastering it far before Dean, which had been a highlight of the year. Praise from his father was a rare thing, what with Dean constantly doing better, learning moves faster, shooting more accurately. It wasn't that Sam didn't try, just that he wasn't a natural like Dean, and he certainly didn't enjoy it the way his father and brother had seemed to. This though, this was easy. No one ever hid their true feelings as well as they thought they did.

"I'm going to ask you to take your pills one more time," Harper said. "If you refuse I'm going to have to bring Michael in here to assist you. Now, will you take your medication?"

Shit. What could he do? Take the pills and be too drugged up to work his way out of this mess, or refuse the pills and end up drugged anyway? Harper was between him and the door. Electronic locks were between him and a way out. He didn't know who Michael was but he was sure he didn't want to find out. He needed to think. He couldn't think if he was drugged – it had taken him half the morning to remember something as simple as what he'd been doing yesterday. Dean couldn't help him because Dean was bewitched or brainwashed or not real and -

And apparently he had taken too long to make his decision because Harper stood, tucking the clipboard under his arm as he moved to the door, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Michael." He beckoned into the corridor.

"No, wait," Sam protested weakly as one of the large men in white, the one who had been outside with the smokers earlier, appeared in the doorway. He took a step back and met wall. "Don't."

Harper stepped aside to allow Michael access. Michael was as tall as Sam, stockier, with golden hair that looked too soft, mismatched with his leathery face, tied back in a ponytail.

"Easy, kid," he said as he approached, hands raised as if Sam was some sort of wild, wounded animal. His voice was gravelly and he smelt like an ashtray, the scent permeating the room as he stepped carefully closer.

Sam took in the wedding ring on Michael's hand, the muscles hidden beneath his scrubs. So this was his job then, this was what the men in white did, handling unruly patients, holding them down so they could be drugged. Sam almost wasted time wondering what kind of person would want to do that for a career.

The room was small enough that with three people squashed between it's walls it felt claustrophobic, like there wasn't enough air for all of them to breathe, or maybe Sam was just panicking. Michael was closing in and there wasn't time to be subtle about this.

Michael made a grab for Sam's wrist. Sam let him grip it, just long enough for Michael to start to think that maybe he'd go quietly and relax a little, then pulled down sharply and twisted his arm inwards, throwing the larger man off balance and breaking the hold simultaneously. He shoved Michael hard, working the cramped room to his advantage as Michael's calves hit the edge of the bed, toppling him onto the mattress.

Harper was half in, half out of the room, yelling something as he pressed back against the door frame. Sam dodged past Michael's flailing feet, twisted around the reaching hand and yanked the key card from Harper's belt as he threw himself out the door, batting away the doctor's feeble attempts at stopping him.

Sam barrelled down the hallway, hospital-issue slippers slapping against the soles of his feet as he ran. He skittered past the middle-aged lady he'd seen smoking, wondering fleetingly what she was doing in the males section of the wing as she pressed herself against the wall with a hand to her heart, eyes wide.

By some absolute miracle, the nurses station was unmanned. Surely there would be at least one, probably more, in the recreation room but all he had to do was get to the door by the desk, get it unlocked and open and run. He was pretty certain that the door opened into other wings of the hospital, so there should be plenty of rooms to duck into...

He didn't make it. A mere five steps – five freaking steps – away from the door, something flashed in his peripheral vision, white and large and far too close to have any hope of avoiding it. It crashed into his side and he fell hard against the wall. He spun to fight but his balance was off and there was no manoeuvrability with the wall at his back. He shot out a punch and heard an 'oof!' but another pair of hands were reaching in, latching onto his arms.

Did he hit his head? Pain flared up behind his eyes and his vision bleached out for a moment. When he came back he was halfway down the hall and there was no time to wonder about the strange occurrence.

"No! Damn it, you don't understand. I'm not supposed to be here," he argued, though he knew it was no use. He struggled, more for lack of wanting to give in than any real attempt at getting away. During his apparent black out – why did he black out? - the two men had gained too good of a grip on him. He was back in his room almost as quickly as he'd left and there was no pretence of asking his opinion now.

The men, Michael and another one, shorter with a dark brown crew cut, pushed Sam onto the bed. Michael pulled his arms up to either side of his head while the other fastened soft restraints over his wrists. He tried to kick, let it never be said that Winchesters weren't fighters, but with his arms useless it didn't take long for the men to strap his ankles too.

"Trust me, this is for your own good," Harper said reassuringly (though it wasn't at all reassuring). He was smiling grimly as he appeared over Sam, taking Michael's place.

It definitely didn't make Sam feel any better when the doctor held up a syringe, tapping gently to remove any air bubbles. Where the hell did he pull that from? And what, what...

"No. Don't, please," Sam protested pointlessly, trying to twist away – also pointlessly – as he tracked the needle's progress down to his hip.

Crew cut held him still. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back helpless tears. Damn it, suck it up, Sam, his father's voice demanded. Don't let them see you're afraid.

But Sam was afraid. He didn't understand what was going on and a small part of him was wondering whether it was possible that he was actually...

"There," Harper said soothingly as Sam felt a sharp sting in his skin. "You'll feel much better soon."

Sam doubted it.

XXX

It would have been boring, it should have been boring, strapped to a bed with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling, but whatever they'd shot him full of made it hard to feel anything at all.

'Content' wasn't quite the right word, though it was as close an adjective as Sam could think of. The panic and frustration were still there, nestled close to fear and confusion, but they were pushed down far below the surface, huddled together in some sedatives trap. Sam tried to think, to plan, use logic to figure out the illogical, but everything was spilling out. He could almost feel his brain leaking out into his hair, dampening the pillow... but that was ridiculous. The drugs, it was just the drugs.

He had the feeling that his thoughts were going round in circles but he couldn't keep up with them. They were always just that little bit ahead, on the tip of his tongue but unreachable nonetheless.

Sam waited. Waited and wished that Dean would come through the door in a doctor's get up, ready to pull of one of their great escapes, all careful planning mixed in with a lot of luck, but he'd already seen Dean and Dean said he was crazy.

"We've been tracking a werewolf," Dean said.

"I know," Sam murmured to the white ceiling. "But what does that have to do with me being here?"

"If you're thinking witchcraft, I doubt it," Dean replied.

Sam frowned, "Why? It must be a curse or something, right?"

Dean was silent and the pause was long enough for Sam's brain to catch up to the conversation. He jerked against the restraints, more like a twitch under the sedatives and turned his head to take in the rest of the room. It was empty. No Dean. But he'd just heard him, hadn't he?

"Dean?" he asked the room.

There was no reply and Sam found himself wondering whether that was a good thing. Hearing voices wasn't exactly a compelling argument on the 'not crazy' front and damn but Sam needed more on his side than a lifetime of memories that everyone was telling him weren't real. Maybe the drugs were messing with his head.

Yeah, that must be it. He was imagining things, 'tripping out' as Dean would put it, 'on the good stuff'.

"Think there's any chance that you're just really, really tired?" Dean suggested.

"Maybe," Sam mused, and then jolted again. He didn't hear that. No, nope, definitely not. Dean wasn't there so no way was Sam hearing him. Maybe he was asleep without actually realizing it. That wasn't too far-fetched. It would be hard to tell while under the influence of drugs that seemed to keep him suspended in the twilight between waking and dreaming. He could easily have dozed off and not noticed the difference.

"I'm dreaming," Sam decided aloud.

"That's what I was thinking," Dean agreed.

Damn it. "Shut up," Sam moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "You're not helping."

The darkness behind his eyelids was quiet. Sam let himself sink into it. He'd rest. He'd rest and everything would make more sense when he woke up.

His subconscious had other ideas though, spinning one confusing scene into another; Dean beside him in the Impala as they pulled up outside the hospital, uncomfortable in a suit with the grouchy look to prove it. SAINT MARGARETS written in red capitals above the entrance and that man in the hospital bed saying, "It was huge. It must be the shock but I could have sworn it looked almost human... it was a wolf though, that's what they're saying..." and Sam falling through a hole in someone else's mind.

A game of Connect Four with all the spaces filled in with red checkers and syringes filled with golden liquids staring at him hungrily. Spiderman swooping around the main room of the ward on a web and Sam with a gun but no silver bullets to stop the werewolf from tearing patients apart.

Dean was there but his back was turned and the werewolf was creeping towards him. Sam yelled his name but Dean didn't hear and something, something terrifying and inexplicable was trying to pull Sam away. He didn't know where but he knew he didn't want to go. He couldn't help Dean if he went, and then Rosalie was there, the dark-haired girl who said she knew him. She stood in front of Sam, keeping him from Dean, and held out her drawing, which morphed into a crime scene photo of one of the werewolf's victims, then Dean's face, then Sam's, and when she raised her head her eyes were yellow and she spoke with Dean's voice -

"Sam, wake up! That's an order, bitch!"

Sam snapped back to consciousness, the swirl of images still trapped behind his eyelids. He struggled briefly against the hands that held him, heart racing and breathing hard, before remembering. He was still in his room, still in the psychiatric ward, still tied down, and still alone.

He took a moment to simply calm down, to control his breathing and attempt to clear his head.

Maybe he was crazy. Maybe... could they be right? But he couldn't have made all that up, could he? He couldn't have just imagined his whole life, right?

Licking dry lips, feeling the reality of his restraints, soft but firm over his wrists and ankles, the bed beneath him and the walls that refused to disappear no matter how much he willed them to, Sam tried out the words Dean had thrown at him earlier.

"There's no such thing as monsters."

XXX

"You shouldn't try to run, you know."

Sam halted his progression across the room, looking down to see the top of Rosalie's head. The girl sat, bent over a drawing just like yesterday, at one of the round tables with the skinny girl Sam had seen watching TV.

For wont of anything else to do, Sam sat down in the only free seat.

"They wanted to drug me," he said, as though he had to explain himself. In hindsight, of course running was a bad idea. He'd ended up worse than if he'd just given in in the first place, and when Kelly came round that morning he'd had no choice but to take the pills she offered. Refusing had gotten him no where and worse, he'd lost half a day during which he could have been figuring things out.

Rosalie nodded, scribbling intently. "They shouldn't have done that. You're not crazy. I'm not crazy either but they drug me too."

"I'm not supposed to be here," Sam said. Maybe if he said it enough it would be easier to keep believing it. "My brother... he's going to get me out."

"What brother?" the skinny girl asked, eyebrows raised. Sam could see her collarbones jutting out above the V-neck of her shirt.

"He was here yesterday." Or was he? It might not have been the real Dean.

The girl snorted. "You're crazy. No one visited you yesterday. No one ever visits you."

Sam frowned, unsure of how to reply.

"If you do have family," the girl continued spitefully, "They're probably the ones who put you in here, got you out of the way so they could carry on their lives."

"Does anyone visit you?" Sam asked sceptically, harsher than he meant to but seriously, he was sick of people confusing the hell out of him. He was having enough trouble figuring out what the hell was going on without people being contradictory.

The skinny girl faltered, just for a second before her scowl fell back into place. "I'm sick of this," she announced. "You're nuts. All of you are fucking nuts. I'm the one who's not supposed to be here."

She shoved her chair back and flounced off, all sunken skin and sharp edges. Sam watched her stalk over to the ranch slider and step outside, dropping the cigarette she'd pulled from her pocket on her first attempt to bring it to her mouth.

"Don't worry," Rosalie said calmly, reaching for the yellow pen to add flames to the candles she was drawing. "She's the crazy one. Not us."

To Be Continued...