Shawn started to slowly awaken, the first thing he was aware of was the pain, it's what separated his dream world from his unfortunate reality. The closer he got to consciousness, the greater the pain increased. So he knew where ever he was, he didn't want to be waking up. Other senses started to come to him. The hard surface he was laying on, the cold seeping across his back, the pounding, pulsing pain, the confusion that told him he was unsure as to how he came to be in this much pain and why.

It wasn't until he opened his eyes a crack, that he became aware of where the pain stemmed from. There was an aching throb that radiated up his ankle and shin, ending somewhere just short of his knee. All he knew was that he would be glad to have the offending limb separated from his body if it would spare him the agony. As his eyelids raised further, the next pain to be catalogued, flared tremendously, through his head. The spike of pain started at his temple and wrapped around his head, across his forehead and all the way down his face to his jaw. He closed his eyes, trying to forget why he decided opening them in the first place was a good idea.

Shawn decided the best thing to do was to just lay there and try to collect his thoughts enough to formulate some memories.

'Okay, well, I'm in pain so I must have gotten hurt, check.'

How, he wasn't sure and how much could wait for later.

Next, from the brief flash he had seen when he opened his eyes, he knew that he was inside; a house it seemed, white walls and wooden floors. He slid his fingers tentatively across the ground, yep, wood floors.

'Alright, but how did I get here?'

He couldn't remember and this alarmed Shawn because he knew how flawless his memory was and the fact that he couldn't remember what happened, 5 minutes, 20 minutes? and hour ago? was indeed reason to be concerned.

Damn it, that meant he was going to have to open his eyes again. If this was because of a case, then there was a chance that someone had done this to him and that they were still around to do more damage. This thought was enough for Shawn to grit his teeth and open his eyes again to the too-bright world.

Eyes open, brain screaming, Shawn took stock of his surroundings, trying not to move his head at all. Okay, a brown box to
the left of his head, brown wooden floor, white walls in what seemed to be a hallway, narrow stairs in front of him, a hideous
picture on the wall, a closed door further down the hall, and...wait those brown snowmen in that hideous picture seemed familiar somehow. He couldn't bring the picture into focus no matter how hard he tried and it just made his head pound with the effort. In fact, the pain was getting worse and with the escalating pain, his stomach began protesting in earnest.

Up until now, it hadn't been one of the problems he was focused on, seeing as how the blinding pain was first in line. But now the nausea was rising up, leaving him with flashes of heat, then cold as his head spun. He moved his hand to grip the material at the side of his leg and it bumped something. He squinted his eyes open and closed his hand around the strange object, but his nausea won at that point and Shawn desperately tried to roll over so that he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. The sudden movement jerked his leg and caused him to choke on a wet cry, which in turn, caused a flare of pain to tear across his head. He puked violently, the convulsions of his stomach sending pain ricocheting across his entire body. It spread out from his head and down the side of his face, echoed across his throbbing shoulder and bruised ribs, pulled across his aching hip and stabbed in his right leg. He couldn't even cry out, he could only lay there as his stomach continued contracting and sending vomit all of the floor, his shoulder and down his chin, as tears dripped out of his eyes.

The crescendo of pain and puking was enough to send him back to La-la land.

When Shawn next awoke, he became aware of two things. First, Gus had just thrown up near by if the smell was anything to go by and two, that must have been some wild night in Mexico if the pain was anything to go by. He had what felt like the worst hangover headache ever and it felt like that dancing senorita had cha-cha-cha'ed all over his right leg.

Shawn squinted his eyes open, he was not laying on a sandy beach or in a ditch outside of the Mexican border. If he wasn't mistaken, he was in his dad's house. Guess that ruled out a weekend bender in Mexico.

From the amount of pain he was in, Shawn wouldn't be surprised to see that his dad had finally shot him in the leg like he had been threatening to do since he was 6 and flushed his dad's badge down the toilet. Again.

Shawn moved his hand to bring it up to his throbbing temple, but encountered something lying next to him that was hard and felt like it was made out of plastic and marble. Curious, he brought it up to his face, dismayed to see his hand trembling and his arm feeling weak. He squinted to bring the shiny, golden thing into focus. His brow wrinkled and he blinked his eyes, but the damn thing still remained blurry.

Okay, well, he could figure this out, he just had to use a different approach. He ran his fingers across the square marble base and felt the top of it. It was a little person, with a golf club? Shawn chuckled a little and opened his eyes again. He peered closer and then he was sure he knew what it was.

It was his miniature golf trophy from when he was 11. He beat Gus out by one stroke and that was only because the windmill got stuck when it was Shawn's turn to hit the ball. Gus always complained bitterly and swore that Shawn had cheated, but Shawn still took home his trophy and then spent the next 3 weeks flaunting it in front of Gus every chance he got.

Shawn sighed, if Gus were here now, he could surely explain what had happened and then describe in detail why it was all Shawn's fault.

The trophy wobbled in his grip, his arms feeling weak, and he let the award tumble out of his hand and onto the floor. Shawn brought his hands closer to look at and noticed the red smears across the trembling digits. That sticky redness had come off of the trophy. Shawn laughed a little at the thought of the golf man bleeding, or maybe he was sweating blood. He quickly stopped and groaned as his giggling made the pain in his head increase and caused his stomach to roll sickly.

He wondered what happened to his head and started to bring his hand to it, but stopped and wiped his hand across his shirt, he didn't want to get blood in his hair, yuck. He brought his shaking hand to his temple like he was going to do his psychic signature move. Shawn giggled again at the thought of Psych-Man having blood in his hair and how that would totally clash with his purple suit. His giggles transmuted into moans though as his head moved from the action. He winced as his fingers brushed along the side of his face and head, and when he pulled his fingers back, he was surprised to find them coated with blood.

'Huh', he thought, 'either I've been playing with the corn syrup again or that damn mini-golf man bashed my head in!' Shawn laughed loudly and rasped aloud, "FORE!"

His laughs died down and he circled his arms around his stomach, the nausea rising in his gut. Shawn started to roll onto his side fully when the pain in his leg that had been nicely resting at a steady throb, suddenly spiked into an excruciating molten pulse of agony. His back arched as the nausea raced up his spine, and burst out of his mouth adding to the puddle of previous vomit.

Shawn lay with his torso twisted onto the side, his legs laying straight out in front of him and his arms up trying to cradle his thrumming head. He couldn't even scream, he could only lay there rocking and shivering, and weakly crying out.

"Gus! Dad! Someone help me please!" He whimpered and let the tears track down his face.

"Please, can someone help me? Dad? Dad where are you?"