Wow. I'm feeling so good right now. One giant bear hug and the biggest 'Dresdner Stollen' to everyone reading and enjoying this one! I didn't think this story would be that appreciated. Makes me even more curious to know what you think about the upcoming chapters.

And here's the first warning I promised – there are some nasty memories in this chapter; not too gory, but to those of you with a sensitive stomach: beware.

Enjoy, folks!

Chapter 05

First thing Sam realized when he opened his eyes, that he had made two big mistakes.

Number one, he had gone to bed too late. Number two, he hadn't gone to bed at all. While he blinked against the sunlight streaming through the gaps of the curtain, he felt the first protests of his body due to the awkward sleeping position.

With a groan, he sat up, his bones, his muscles, his skin, everything that was part of him screaming, scolding him for falling asleep on the chair in the first place and spending the whole night on it.

Sam stretched himself, rubbing his cheek where he could feel the imprint of the keypad, and looked around the room. When his gaze fell on Dean's untouched bed, the realization of their current problem hit him full force.

Right. One of those problem that weren't so easy to solve.

His eyes wandered over the table he sat at. The laptop had gone into hibernation, unimpressed by Sam's head lying on the keypad the last hours. Beside it a pile of books about psychology threatened to fall over and bury the sheets of papers scattered all over the table. On the second chair sat an empty salad box, it's former contents being the only food Sam had managed to get down last evening.

He had spent the night with learning and research, although he knew he should have gone to bed early. Having another sit in with doctor Salinger after pulling an all-nighter plus looking like it, too, wasn't the smartest thing. Sam had practically studied psychology in four hours and had done research on Lake Okeechobee Psychiatric Hospital and doctor Salinger himself.

What Sam had found out about the facility was nothing new, the policy and therapy resembled pretty much the methods of other mental hospitals. Lake Okeechobee was one of the few hospitals with an emergency psychiatry. Inmates with the symptoms and conditions of attempted suicide, substance dependence depression, presence of delusions, violence or panic attacks were committed in Okeechobee's crisis stabilization unit, were it was the job of the mental health professionals to identify and treat these symptoms and conditions.

Of course there was nothing in the world wide web elaborating these treatments.

Doctor Stuart Salinger was an expert on the subject of emergency psychiatry, had managed to cure many people. But then, those people might have had a real mental problem. How his treatments would work on people of unimpaired mental faculties was another question.

Yes, Dean had his kinks. And every shrink in the whole wide world would rub his hands if he'd knew Dean as good as Sam did. But then, every person in said world needed a psychiatrist. All people had their oddities.

Sam pulled the biggest book on the table closer with a tired sigh and skimmed through the pages. He had no clue how to approach this. The first try had been a bust – strolling in, taking Dean, thank you for your cooperation. His next try would need some more time, and there was the catch. He just didn't have the time.

He had seen Dean. His brother was a mess already. Dean was a tough guy, but even he could only take so much. And after 365 days with his head wedged under the guillotine, waiting for the blade to drop, after a violent death caused by fangs and claws of greedy hellhounds and four months in the pit Dean really needed a break.

Sam pinched his nose and cursed. There it was again. The probably darkest chapter in their fucked up lives. The giant burden Dean had to carry on his own, with Sam tiptoeing behind, watching his brother like a hawk to find a part of that burden he could help to carry. It was heavy enough for both of them together, there was no need for a third person to poke and prod at the fragile incubus.

But it was exactly what Salinger would do. It was exactly what Sam feared and dreaded. The second he had found out were Dean had been brought, it were those barred memories in his brother's mind that had made him nervous instantly. Of course Dean would keep them barred, locked up in the deepest corner, not only because it was indeed insane to talk about it, especially with those doctors, but rather because it was torture for him to even remember one fucking second.

Question was, if Dean would really be the person deciding this.

Sam knew how those facilities worked. They hadn't believed him when Dean had told them that an orderly was responsible for his rainbow-esque features, not him. His brother had been right, they would twist his words. And sooner or later, with Dean staying as mute as a fish, simply not cooperating, they would change tunes.

Fuck.

Never ever Sam would have thought that he'd prefer to visit Dean in a simple jail.

Reaching the page he had marked last night Sam leaned back, taking the book with him on his lap. There was still a lot to learn until he'd meet Salinger again. He would need to play along, be the long-term psychiatrist of patient 77 and wait for the best chance to haul Dean out. Before the good doc would take drastic measures. Before they'd begin to dig over Dean's mind and soul.

Before they'd destroy his brother forever.

A blood-curdling scream ripped him from his slumber.

Dean bolted upright with a harsh intake of breath, scanning his surroundings, hunter mode switched on immediately.

Geez, which poor wretch had fallen into a meat grinder to let out a scream like that?

Not that he was sorry about the interruption, he hadn't slept well anyway. In fact, he couldn't remember a time he had slept shittier than last night. Expect maybe for the first nights he had spent back up top side. But then, he had rummaged through his duffel, had pulled out a bottle of something predestinated to blow his lights out and shoooo – back to sleep. No memories. No pain. No dreams.

But now there was no duffle and no bottle and nothing predestinated to do anything at all. So there had been memories and damn truckloads of pain. And dreams. Only that he couldn't remember what they had been about.

Dean lay back on his cot, gritty eyes blinking frantically at the ceiling, a confused brain trying to arrange the parameters it was assaulted with. He felt his heart pound in his chest, as if he had just ran a freakin' marathon. He was sure his body was littered with goosebumps and the short, forceful gasps that were his breathing didn't help at all.

Sammy. Sam?

No.

Cell. Nuthouse. Sam wasn't here. It hadn't been his little brother screaming. Sam was far away in his cozy motel bed, hopefully snoring, hopefully oblivious to their mess. His mess.

Where the fuck had that scream come from?

He heard footsteps, someone was running outside. Funny, how could someone in here be in a hurry? Not that insanity could escape through the gaps.

When the steps came closer and stopped right in front of his cell door with a dull bang that signaled that someone had just crashed right into it, Dean jerked his head to the side, flinching when he saw Phillip's face in the window, a bewildered expression plastered to it.

Slide. Beep. Click. What the hell do you want?

The giant male nurse tumbled in and from the agitation the man radiated Dean almost expected him to drop down on his knees and slide the whole way from the door to his cot. Instead, Phillip came to a halt in the middle of the room, keeping a cautious distance.

"Dean? What's going on?"

He sat up, slowly, no abrupt moves, please, and pressed the palms of his hands on his eyes, waiting for the stars to fade. "Why do you ask me?" he rasped and cringed at the sandpaper-like sound that used to be his voice, "Ask the brayer."

"That's what I'm doing."

At that, Dean pulled his head back, his hands still in eye-rubbing position, and frowned at the big guy. "What do you mean?"

Phillip's shoulders sagged the slightest bit and he raised his eyebrows. "You've been the one screaming, Dean", he answered in a soft tone.

He knew he goggled. He knew that the blank, expressionless stare he must be throwing at Phillip right now could only be described as goggling. No freakin' way. How could he wake up from a scream and not noticing it had been him screaming? He was losing his mind. Oh God, he was already losing his freakin' mind.

"Did you dream? What was it about, can you tell me?" The soft line approach again. And the next second an army of orderlies would jump him out of nowhere so Phil could ram another syringe into his throat.

Dean blinked repeatedly when his eyes protested the absence of tear fluid, and dropped his gaze. He had dreamed. But he couldn't remember. Did he dream?

There was only one thing he could have dreamed about that would make him scream like this. And it was absolutely nothing he would mention anywhere near this facility, let alone to his nurse.

He startled when an oversized hand gently touched his upper arm and Dean looked into Phillip's blue eyes which were on the same level as his due to the other man's crouch. "Dean? Do you remember anything?"

And wasn't that one hilarious question. Sure, Phil, what do you wanna know? How it sounds when skin tears apart? The difference between ripping it from flesh and tearing it in two, as if it were some kind of rag? Or how it feels when your flesh sizzles and hisses in unbearable heat? Let's talk about the feeling when your bones jump out of their sockets because they just give up under the constant pull of burning hot chains.

Chains. Had he heard chains?

Dean cleared his throat, "No", he replied, wincing when it came out as a whispered croak and cleared his throat once more, "I don't remember. Maybe I dreamt about a drastic rise in gas prices?" He smirked, but there was no humor in it. He tried to lighten up the mood, but wasn't sure for whom.

Phillip looked at him, scrutinized him, as if he would find something in Dean's eyes, before he nodded. "Okay then. Do you need anything?"

"How about breakfast?" Oh yes. Something had to find it's way into his stomach and he'd feel better immediately.

"Speaking of..." Phillip answered and stood, a smile growing on his face, "Follow me into the dining hall."

Again Dean goggled at Phillip. "What, no food on a tray today? I'm captured in here on my own for three days and now all of a sudden I'm allowed to socialize? What changed?"

"Nothing changed, Dean, it's our policy. New entrants must stay in solitary for the first three days so they can settle properly, find their bearings."

"So what, I found my bearings?"

"Well, you haven't broken any more noses, right?"

Now that was cute. "How about mine? As you're all so sure I slammed my own face against the wall two nights ago how come that you think I found my bearings?"

"You have to differentiate the reason why you're here and the reason why you break an orderly's nose." Phillip looked at Dean with a kind of curiosity and the Winchester couldn't help but start to like the guy. The way he talked and moved he could easily pass as Yoda. Well, disregarding the height and physique.

"I don't know if I understand that freakin' policy of yours", Dean stated and rose from his cot ever so slowly, biting back a grunt when the room tilted slightly, "But I'm starving. Let's go."

Phillip nodded and stepped aside, motioning him to lead the way. When Dean walked through his cell door he noticed the two orderlies waiting outside, watching his every move with attentive eyes.

While they shuffled down the huge long hallway Dean tried to get his head clear, tried to push the nasty dream from his conscience, to remove the spider web of anxiety and dread that lingered on his mind since he had woken up. Funny, how you could be haunted by a dream you couldn't even remember. Or maybe not funny. Not at all.

Dean let his gaze wander over the other cell doors, all closed, their windows staring back at him like black rectangle eyes. He felt a shudder crawl up his spine and he forced his attention away from them, staring ahead at the huge double door they were approaching.

When Phillip spoke up right next to him, he bit down a gasp.

"Breakfast's at 9 o'clock, lunch at 1, afternoon snack at 4, dinner at 7", he explained, seemingly oblivious to Dean's tension. Thank God for that. It was totally unnecessary for Phil or someone else to poke around up there and ask stupid questions.

"You're going to be picked up from your cell", he went on, "When you've finished eating, you can decide what to do next, go outside, spend some time in our recreation room if you want to, unless you have a therapy session or an appointment with the doctors."

"Recreation room?" Okay, his voice was back. But honestly, recreation room?

"Yeah. There's a TV in there, board games, and every day there's the opportunity to do some handcrafts, like silk painting, embroidery or working with soapstone." And didn't Phil sound just like an overexcited kindergarden teacher?

"Uh-huh", Dean replied, his expression without a doubt as blank as an empty sheet of paper, and Phillip let out a hearty laugh.

"I know, I know, those kind of things aren't what you'd normally do..."

"And that's where you're perfectly right, Phil."

"...but maybe you could try? You wouldn't believe how calming such a hobby is."

Dean snorted, "Oh, I don't doubt it, really, but you know what calms me down?" Driving my beautiful car, having a drink with my sasquatch brother, breaking some demon's neck... "A piece of pie. No, screw that, a whole pie. Do they have that in there?" He jerked his chin at the double doors they had just reached and looked expectantly at Phillip.

"I see what I can do, okay?" Phillip laughed and unlocked the doors, this time taking the lead.

The dining room was huge, just as everything seemed to be in this facility. The same high ceiling, the same giant windows, the same cream colored walls. At countless big tables sat countless surprisingly quiet people in blue pants and white shirts, wolfing down whatever they had on their plates. The clinking and clanking accentuated by soft murmurs and mumbles was the perfect soundtrack to the scene.

"Okay Dean", Phillip said, pointing at some kind of buffet at the other side of the room, "You can grab something to eat and drink from there. Then sit down somewhere over there." He waved his hand over to an area where the tables were mostly vacant except for two other patients.

"What, there's a VIP area in here? Fascinating..." Dean chuckled.

"You could say that. It's the area for inmates inhabiting the CS unit." Phillip's expression changed from cheerful to sympathetic, "As you're not allowed to leave your cells on your own and you have to be controlled the whole time you're out it's easier for us to..."

"...keep us together like a herd of cattle, I see", Dean finished for him, a surge of anger and betrayal boiling up in him. He had almost forgotten, he was one of the bad guys. CS unit. Babysitter included.

"Dean..."

"Drop it, Phil", he spat, turned and marched over to the buffet. Somehow he expected to get grabbed by someone, an orderly advising him to mind his tone or something similar, but nothing happened.

For a tiny moment he wished to be grabbed from behind and be pulled away from the sight that greeted him. A feeling of disgust crept up inside of him at the sight of what they called breakfast in here.

The buns, piled up in a big basket, were surely the same that were used for the baseball sessions during lunch break – there was no need to touch or squeeze them to find out that they were hard and dry. And when the baseball session was over it was no problem to do some frisbee training, the slices of bread were the perfect pieces of sports equipment. In between burnt sausages, greasy pancakes and shapeless waffles resided a huge bowl of gruel. Pale, squishy looking pasta and even paler, even more squishy looking vegetables were presented in unappetizing steel dishes.

Dean hoped to choose the lesser evil by taking something that looked suspiciously like salad, brown edges included, and had to laugh at his choice. Man, if Sammy could see him right now, his little brother would run into doc Salinger's office and write 'INSANE' on Dean's patient report in his own handwriting.

Salvation awaited him at the end of the buffet where a plastic tray with acceptable looking Brownies greeted him. Dean grabbed three, pondered a second before he grabbed two more and strolled over to a drip coffee maker, pouring the dark steaming liquid into a styrofoam cup, praying that this coffee would taste better then the whole breakfast looked.

On his way to the 'special' area Dean risked a glance at the other people. Most of them were bound up in their eating process, the arm not occupied handling the plastic cutlery cradling the plates and bowls, heads hanging so low they were almost placed right in the food.

Others were clearly agitated, nervous, twitching and shifting, always prepared to defend themselves and their meals. And yet others sat in front of their full plates, staring right at it, maybe through it, obviously not living in the here and now.

When Dean passed a table, he noticed a guy, maybe the same age as Sam, watching him. The kid had stopped eating and scrutinized him like a pissed off tiger, stabbing him with a hateful stare.

Dean raised an astonished eyebrow, never slowing his steps. "What's up, kiddo?" he asked nonchalantly, passing the boy but keeping him in sight. He had no intentions to wind up in the infirmary with a plastic fork sticking in the back of his head.

But the kid only continued his glare, didn't reply or move, so Dean took a seat at a vacant table farthest away and decided to ignore the boy. He was in a mental institution, for God's sake. There sure as hell were some maniacs around, it didn't help to freak out every time one of them looked at him funny.

Dean picked up his fork and started to rake through the green stuff, his stomach cheering while his appetite backed off. Maybe he should've taken the pasta. Or maybe he should've just stayed on his cot today. Even better, he should've stayed in the motel room four days ago.

Four days. That was far too long for his liking. At least Salinger had been true to his word, had left him alone, hadn't tried his psycho crap on him. Yet. But he knew he couldn't hide, couldn't escape the sessions and therapy and whatever they had planned for him.

Cursing, Dean slammed the fork onto his plate, lettuce leaves scattering around and landing on the table.

"Don't like the salad?" a familiar voice erupted beside him and he looked up to see Phillip standing there, a tray in his hand. "I should have let you know that the salad's not very famous in here."

"Salad's not very famous anywhere", Dean replied, pushing his tray away, "at least not for me."

Phillip chuckled, "Mind if I join you?"

"No, but why spend the lunch break with the nerds?"

"Because I spend my whole life with the nerds, so lunch break doesn't hurt." He slumped down on the chair opposite Dean with a satisfied sigh and began to eat, the pile of slobbery pasta squishing under the impact of fork and knife. Dean fought the urge to shake himself, the idea of consuming that stuff causing his stomach to cramp.

"You should eat something, Dean", Phillip mumbled in between forkfuls, "It isn't as bad as it looks. The cook's more concerned about the taste of his food. The look? Not so much."

"I'm good, Phil, thanks." Dean took a sip from his coffee, almost crying out in joy at it's wonderful taste before he leaned forward, "But you haven't answered my question. I don't see any other nurse or orderly eating in here, I'm sure there's a cozy little cafeteria for the staff, so why sitting here with me?"

"Dean Rodgers, always suspicious." Phillip put his cutlery down and folded his hands, "Okay, how many people do you see in here, Dean?"

"That a gotcha question?"

"No, no, just take a look around and tell me how many inmates you see."

Dean narrowed his eyes and turned hesitantly. He mentally counted the mumbling, smacking, twitching persons.

"About 200?" he concluded, turning back at Phillip.

"Okay, and how many of them are placed in this area?"

"The special area for the special maniacs, you mean?"

"If you want to call it like this, okay. How many?"

Again, Dean turned, although he already knew the answer to that. In one corner a tired and really sad looking man nestled with his napkin, unfolded it, crumpled it up, only to unfold it again. At another table a woman busied herself with a piece of bread, tinkering the innards out and stuffing them into her mouth.

Once again, Dean faced Phillip. "So, Mister Miyagi and his napkin origami over there, Gretel minus Hansel and the breadcrumbs and my humble self are the only dangerous entities?"

Phillip nodded, "That's right. And as that's a manageable count and I'm ambitious of knowing my patients, I spent my lunch time with them from time to time." He took up his cutlery again and continued eating.

Dean watched as a piece of cauliflower disappeared in Phillips mouth.

He had to admit that he was fairly perplexed by the man's way of looking at things. To Dean, everybody working in here was some kind of nurse Ratchet to him. Everybody in here wanted to plow up his synapses, wanted to distinguish themselves by finding the reason for a mental disease that might be there, no matter how the patient felt or what he had to say. Okay, maybe he had watched 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' one too many times. But the experience he had made here at Lake Okeechobee hadn't been the best so far.

So, meeting a nurse who actually cared for his patients, didn't ride roughshod over them, even spent lunch time with them, that was new. And really surprising in a positive way.

But still…

"You know that I don't want to experience something like yesterday ever again, right?" Dean stated slowly in a slightly warning tone, the memories of last night's events still fresh in his mind, "A syringe that close to me one more time and I might be willing to show you my nasty side. And I'm not sure if you want to have lunch with me again afterwards."

Phillips's expression changed – was it bitterness? – and he laid his cutlery down again. "That had been unpleasant, I know that, Dean. But there are things I have to make sure, and procuring that you and the others take their meds is one of those things."

"But I don't want to take some shady pills without knowing what they do to me", Dean almost shouted, but got a grip in time. He darted his eyes to the left and right and leaned forward. "I'm not crazy, Phil", he hissed, a breeze of desperation resonating in his voice, "And I don't want to take anything that might change that."

"Those drugs don't make you crazy", Phillip reasoned calmly, "It's not like we're giving you Ecstasy or something similar decomposing your brain. Those meds only help you with the symptoms, they can't cure whatever's behind it and they don't do anything with your mind."

"That are great news, doc, so why am I…" …waking up screaming my lungs out? Why am I all of a sudden haunted by feelings buried so deep I thought I'd never face them again? Why can a dream I can't remember dreaming scare the crap out of me?

Dean stopped abruptly and bit his tongue. No. No way. Shut your mouth, Dean.

"Why do you what, Dean?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me", Phillip straightened, and damn, there was so much understanding and true concern in his eyes, "Is there something wrong? Aren't you feeling well? Dean?"

"It's nothing, forget it." Dean pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet, "I'm finished. I take it that the watchdogs guide me back to my cell?"

Phillip gaped up at him, not responding, for what Dean was once again more then grateful. He was too far afield right now. He had jumped into the ocean, had swam out too far, and if he wouldn't start his retreat now, wouldn't escape the blustering waves this second, they might swallow him.

"Yeah", Phillip replied quietly and waved at an orderly, motioning him closer, "You've got an appointment with doctor Salinger at 3 pm."

Dean's breathing hitched. "Hooray", he cried out in mocked enthusiasm, "Looking forward to it."

"And Dean?"

Their eyes met.

"Whatever's on your mind – I might be your nurse. Freaking staff as you might call it. But different to the doctors I don't try to fasten the loose screw. I can accept it and leave it loose the way it is."

Dean held the other man's gaze for a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He wanted to trust. He wanted to believe Phillip's words. Yearned for an ally in here.

He couldn't. Not yet. Maybe never.

How could he entrust someone with the things he had seen?

To be continued…