Geez, people, you rock!
That said, I'm curious what you think about my doctors – **rubs hands with an evil grin on her face**
Chapter 06
He needed to knock this off. Now.
Because repeatedly tapping a ball pen on a notepad was a nervous gesture, and a nervous gesture in a room with two experts of human idiosyncrasies was very out of place.
At least when you were supposed to be an expert on said subject as well.
So Sam forced his hands to stop fidgeting, willed them to relax instead of gripping ball pen and notepad so tight it almost hurt. A glance at the big old longcase clock, the tick tock of it's pendulum being the only noise in the room beside the scratching of doctor Salinger's fountain pen on paper, told him that it was almost time.
And he had still no proper plan.
The next hour was going to be like improvisational theatre. He didn't know if Dean had thought about something, had figured something out, had found a loophole he could squirm his way out through. If so, he had to let Dean take the wheel and had to listen carefully for any hint, any clue what said plan looked like. Same went for him. How could he signal his brother that he hadn't found a solution yet? At least none that would let their problem at hand vanish into thin air.
He had tried to get a hold of Castiel. Nothing. He had talked to Bobby who was as clueless as him, but had promised to make a few calls that might lead to something. Anything.
The way he saw it there was only the 'Great Escape' option left. And man, Dean would love it.
Sam looked over at the two other men. Doctor Salinger wrote something down in a notebook he balanced on the upper one of his crossed legs, pushing his glasses up again from time to time when they threatened to slide down his nose completely.
The other man – what was his name again? Rosebush? Rosenbaum? – skimmed through what looked like a patient file, most probably Dean's. He was definitely a few years older than Salinger, like, decades older. No wonder doctor Rosen-whatever had adopted a reserved stance towards him when Sam and he had been introduced to each other earlier. The disapproving, almost scornful look on the old man's face when he had learned that Sam was a psychiatrist as well had been far too obvious.
Speaking of generation gap.
Sam had no clue what to expect during the next hour. He had gotten a call from Salinger's secretary, inviting him to a session with Dean, the first in days since the doctor had decided to let 'his patient get settled'. Somehow Sam had the feeling 'the patient' wasn't happier now then he had been days ago.
The peaceful albeit uncomfortable quiet was shattered by a commotion in the hallway. Sam jerked his head towards the door and frowned at it as if he could will it to turn into a glass door so he could see what it was about outside. He had that funny feeling that he already knew who was out there, stirring up the premise.
The voices got closer and the moment doctor Salinger rose slowly from his chair the door was pushed open.
Sometimes Sam hated to be right.
An orderly, as tall as Sam and three times his width, a white bandage gracing his nose, held the door open with one arm and pushed his brother into the room with one forceful shove. Dean stumbled in, his eyes and his whole stance screaming 'royally pissed!', but the trademark smirk masking the impending volcanic eruption perfectly.
He found his balance and came to a halt, rolling his eyes before he turned around to the giant at the door.
"Thanks for the ride, Griffin", he chirped, and Sam could see that the orderly was even closer to an eruption than Dean. He almost expected a blow out of steam from the man's ears and caught himself checking the space above Griffin's head for lightnings, skulls and a written 'grrrrrrrrr'.
Sam stood up from his chair as well and it was the moment Dean noticed him. Once again, the moment of recognition was clearly visible on his brother's face, his features softening slightly. Sam tried his most encouraging smile, hoping to keep his sibling grounded for the talking that was about to come.
"Griffin, thank you", doctor Salinger spoke up, nodding at the orderly who still shot daggers at Dean, "Please wait outside in case we might need some help." He reached out a hand and pointed at the only vacant chair. "Dean? Please, have a seat."
Dean's gaze followed Salinger's outstretched arm before he eyed the scene in front of him. "Circle time?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, I'm sure this is way more comfortable than us behind a huge desk and you in front of it like an accused."
"Funny, I thought I am accused?"
"If so you'd be in prison, Dean. As you're still here, you're a patient." Salinger waved his hand, "Now, take a seat."
Dean looked at Sam before he took a few steps backwards and sat down.
The younger Winchester sighed mentally after he had gotten a good look at his brother. Yeah, Dean looked ragged, the stubble on his face already being more then just stubble, the color of his skin more pasty than tanned, the shadows under his eyes attesting the way he must feel. But the bruises courtesy of Griffin's first attack had faded, had changed into an unhealthy yellow and light green. And from what Sam could see there were no new ones. The only thing still disturbing Sam was the bandaged wrist, this special and vulnerable area of the human body being wrapped up giving him an uneasy feeling, especially in this surroundings.
Getting a grip, Sam cleared his throat. "Doctor Salinger, is it common for the staff to handle patients like this?" he asked politely but firmly, emphasizing his tone by straightening further and towering over the two older men.
Time to play hard ball.
He met doctor Salinger's surprised gaze and felt the other doctor's and Dean's eyes on him, too. He knew it was risky to play the asshole, but he needed to compel respect for his views to be taken serious by those ancient guys. And he somehow had the feeling he owed Dean.
"If the patient refuses to cooperate, Doctor Larsson", Salinger replied calmly, "the orderlies are instructed to take appropriate measures. And as we all know Dean is prone to violence I'm sure Mister Griffin had every reason to handle him a bit rough."
"Yeah, right", Sam heard Dean mutter and watched him lean back and cross his arms in defiance.
"But we can use that episode to get started, shall we? Doctor Larsson, please have a seat." Again the waving motion to use the chair, and Sam pondered whether he should indeed sit down or mirror Dean's defiance by staying on his feet. But maybe he should lead by example and keep his jets cool. One hotspur in the room was one enough.
"What happened out there, Dean?" Sam asked, the question fitting for both his roles, the psychiatrist character and his true-self. Doctor Larsson wanting to know if he was right with his conjectures, Sam Winchester wanting to know if someone had dared to mistreat his brother.
However, the signals Dean sent out to him were unambiguous. Leave it, Sammy, you can't help with this. Griffin's my problem.
"It's nothing, doc", Dean answered, waving a dismissive hand, "just a slight variance, that's all. And there was no need to show some of my famous violence." He almost spat the last part in Salinger's direction, causing the older man to smile.
"You call him 'doc'?" It was the first sentence doctor Rosen-something said, hell, it was the first sound Sam heard from him since he had entered the office half an hour ago only to find Salinger and the unfamiliar man read reports and notes, studying his brother as if he was some kind of rat. The man's appearance and his lacking decency towards him had set Sam's alarm off already. That question in combination with that special tone let his alarm bells ring even louder.
"Oh, Dean, I forgot to introduce doctor Charles Rosenberg", Salinger stated excitedly, "he's a mastermind on the subject of predatory behavior and aggression, a pre-eminent in his field, I might say."
Sam didn't know whether to laugh at the 'predatory' thing or drop his jaw at the celebrity aboard. He scribbled the name on his notepad, making a mental note to do some research on the guy. Two things he knew for sure already: he didn't like Rosenberg and he didn't like Rosenberg anywhere near Dean.
His brother however, didn't seem to be too impressed by the man's attitude. "I call him doc because I call every doctor doc, doc", he returned wryly, tilting his head down as if looking over an imaginary pair of glasses.
Rosenberg smiled a cold smile, "I noticed that you two must be close, so I reckoned you'd call him by his first name, that's all."
Sam was sure the impact of his stomach plummeting all the way down into the cellar of the building was deafening. Judging from the slightly stunned expression on Dean's face his brother hadn't expected this, either. How did he know? What did he know?
"What makes you think we're close?" Sam heard himself say, his voice surprisingly emotionless.
"I'm an acute observer, doctor Larsson", Rosenberg answered, "It's the reason I'm good in my job."
Mental notes, one: keep a straight face. Two: special attention to eyes and voice. Three: think about everything you're going to say three times. Four: pray that Dean got the memo, too!
Sam returned the cold smile, "I dare say you're right", he countered. And he hoped that his facade worked, that the mighty doctor Rosenberg didn't notice the huge rifts that had formed in it by his nice observations.
"Gentlemen", Salinger spoke up, "I'm glad you are here. Dean, I promised to leave you alone for a few days and I kept my word. So, how about we start from scratch today, what do you say?"
"If you think I'd be more chatty today I'm sorry to disappoint you, doc." Dean's posture said 'Bite me!'. His tone said 'Leave me alone.' But his eyes failed to lead astray. They didn't manage to hide the insecurity that ate him up, slowly, but steady.
Sam could see it. He only hoped Rosenberg couldn't.
"I didn't expect you to switch into a model patient, Dean, so I'm grateful for everything I get." There was it again, that strange smirk that should go down in history as the famous Salinger visage. Every time Sam saw it on the man's face, he had to suppress a shudder.
"Do you have problems with authority?" Rosenberg took the floor. And why did that question from that mouth in that tone make Sam queasy?
He watched as Dean scrutinized the old man before his brother answered, "What gives you the idea?" And man, did Sam yearn for a pompom right now so he could cheer for his brother.
Rosenberg didn't amplify, just lowered his gaze and began to write something down into a big black book on his knee before he looked up at Dean again.
"Who's the dominant part of your parents, Dean?"
It was back, the feeling of his stomach taking the fast way down. Sam hadn't been relaxed since he had parked the Impala on the facility's parking lot and he wouldn't have believed that it was even possible for the tension holding him in a vice-like grip to rise even further.
No family issues. Please, no.
"Is that really necessary?" Sam asked, trying to turn the wheel, but obviously going unheard. His eyes darted from Rosenberg to Dean, who just stared back at the old man and Sam couldn't tell if his brother was as uncomfortable with the question as he thought he would.
"Was", his sibling replied calmly, his eyes narrowing at Rosenberg, who frowned.
"Excuse me?"
"The question should be, who was the dominant part. My parents are both dead."
Like greedy reporters both docs scribbled something into their note books and pads, and Sam felt the urge to yank the notes from their bony claws and give them some thick ears with it. Yeah, okay, there you have your patient profile, the root of all evil. Dead parents are always a nice little wound to rub salt into.
"My sympathies", Rosenberg said, "may I ask how they died?"
"You may ask but you won't get an answer", Dean spat, "No offense, doc, but this is none of your business."
Rosenberg huffed out a laugh, "Oh, I'm afraid it is." He pulled his glasses from his nose and put them behind him on the desk. Then, he resumed his relaxed sitting posture and looked at Dean – no, he didn't look at him, he stared at him. Pierced him, as if he tried to cause his brother's eyeballs to explode by sheer concentration alone.
"Listen, Dean", he hissed, not too sharply but definitely warning, "There are a lot of procedures we can use to get to know you better. This..." he made a whirling motion with his index finger, "...is the pleasant one. Hypnosis would be the next step, and trust me, under hypnosis there's no chance for you to keep something from us. You may think about giving us at least a few crumbs here or I promise you there'll be no way for you to control what you tell us and what not."
The only thing cutting through the heavy silence was the steady tick-tock of the longcase clock. And if Sam had to entitle Dean's darkest glare of all times, it would be the one he was currently sending towards old doctor Rosenberg.
He was surprised. He hadn't thought that the doctors would bare their claws that soon. He had hoped that they would have more patience with Dean, that there would be more time. For them to be prepared. For them to make up a proper life story.
Hypnosis. No way. Not happening.
"Dean", Sam spoke up, trying to get a hold of his brother, addressing him with a second, more vigorous "Dean!" when he didn't react. The muscle in Dean's jaw jumped wildly, but he finally looked over, his eyes and expression void of any betraying questions in case Rosenberg was still in observation mood. Sam pushed his feelings down, too, and added: "Crumbs, Dean."
He watched his brother blink, watched as he silently agreed to Sam's plan. "Fine", Dean growled, causing Salinger to shift awkwardly on his chair. He slid icy greens over to Rosenberg. "My mom died when I was four. So I'm sorry to disappoint, I don't remember who's been the dominant one."
Salinger eagerly scribbled again while Rosenberg went on, "When did your father die?"
"About two years ago."
"What happened to your parents, Dean?"
"My mom died in a house fire, my father in a car accident."
While Sam watched his brother, knew how hard those question were for him, felt every single one of it, too, hitting home like a hailstone impacting on a fragile tin roof, he could only marvel at Dean's ability to wear a poker face in a way only his brother could.
Had he been there when his mother had gotten killed? Bang. Had he any memories of that event? Bang. Could he describe those memories? BangBang.
Their family tragedy was the truth. It was the only truth those doctors would get. And Sam wished Rosenberg and Salinger would choke on those crumbs.
All those questions about their mom, followed by similar questions about their dad, about the relationship Dean and dad had, about happy times and less happy times...and Sam waited for the moment Dean would break into fragments. Because he would either do that, or he would explode, turn into a hurricane tearing everything down with him.
But no hurricane came. No explosion shook the room. No one broke down.
And it was what worried Sam the most.
Rosenberg was still reeling down his questionnaire when Sam clapped his hands together forcefully, causing Salinger to jump from his chair and eye him with a piqued expression.
"Okay Gentlemen", Sam spoke up, rising from his chair, "I think that's enough for now." He tried to make eye contact with Dean, and when their gazes finally met, Sam almost flinched at the raw pain he found shimmering in the green depths before the shutters were let down again, the poker face replacing the signs of hurt and sorrow instantly.
"Yes", Salinger replied, writing something on his note pad again before he, too, stood up, "Well, thank you Dean, that was a very productive session. Was it so hard?"
Dean slid dangerously flashing eyes from Sam to Salinger and Rosenberg, having a long close look at the two doctors before he wordlessly stood and headed for the door. Whatever was going on in his mind and heart right now, Sam already knew it was something only he could fix.
"I'd like to accompany Dean to his cell, if you don't mind?" he asked, following his brother, tossing a questioning look to Salinger. There was no way he would let his brother go like this. There was some emo talk in the pipeline, or at least some comforting words.
"Sure, we can meet again later on to discuss this last hour", Salinger replied, waving at Sam. And it was that cheery mood the doctor was in since wrapping up this session that let Sam's temper rise. The man acted like a cowboy, pride as a peacock over finally breaking a wild horse.
Sam had no time to dwell on his anger. Dean was already out of the room, flanked by Griffin who had a tight grip on his upper arm, so the younger Winchester grabbed his bag and hurried after them.
"What, no cheeky line? Did they pull your teeth, tiger?" Sam heard Griffin scoff when he caught up with his brother and he needed everything to keep himself from slamming his fist onto the man's bandaged nose.
"Hey", he spat instead, "Shut up, or I might be tempted to talk to your superior about your techniques."
Griffin acknowledged him with a scornful glare. "Uh-huh. And what kind of techniques would that be?" he asked dryly.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Griffin. And I tell you what, this ends, now, or I'm going to make sure that you get what you deserve, are we clear?"
"I'm curious about it", Griffin countered, his expression a mixture of suspicion and gleefulness, and Sam would have continued this all day long when he heard Dean mutter a bugged 'Oh, come on' and watched him quickening his pace.
Okay, so there was someone in a really crappy mood.
The rest of the unpleasant walk was silent and the trio finally reached cell number 77. Griffin opened the door and leaned against it, watching first Dean, then Sam enter, not without presenting the younger Winchester a humorless grin.
"Don't take too long", he piped mockingly, "Visiting hours are almost over." With that, he closed the door behind the brothers with a loud bang, leaving them alone.
Sam shook his head. "Wow, what an ass." He let his gaze wander through the room. There was a small tabletop, coming out of the wall like a shelf. Two stools, screwed to the ground, so the patient couldn't use them as weapons. The room was illuminated by a big, quadratic ceiling lamp, that looked almost like a skylight if it weren't for the pale blueish, cool color that gave the room an icy atmosphere.
Sam's eyes fell on Dean who had laid himself down on the cot, one arm over his eyes, the other one draped over his stomach.
"Dean? You okay?"
A sigh. A tired wave with the left before it flopped back on his belly again.
Sam let out a sigh of his own and slumped down on one of the stools, for a second feeling as if he had taken a seat in a doll's kitchen, and pinched his nose. "Dean. Come on, man, talk to me."
"I'm done with talking, Sam", came the hoarse reply.
"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't want to coax you to spill your guts in there. But the way I see it it's our only chance. Feed them some crumbs, buy some time."
"And what next?" Dean pulled his arm from his eyes and sat up wearily, almost defeated, big tired greens looking back at Sam. "Huh? You have no plan how to get me out of this. Neither do I. So what's the use in buying time? Because I tell you something, buying time means not only revealing more things I'd rather keep to myself, it also means that I have to stay in here longer then I want to." There was something in the way he said it that let Sam instantly knew there was more behind Dean's words then just 'This sucks, I want out!'.
Sam could hear the 'I won't hold on for that long!', could feel the begged 'Please, Sammy!' loud and clear.
"I know, I know. I'm working on it, Dean. Bobby's working on it, too."
Dean just nodded, eyes to the ground.
„Will you be okay?" Sam asked softly, his brother's dread rubbing off on him, the fact that Dean didn't even try to hide it unnerving him to no end.
"Do I have a choice?" Dean answered, a weak smile on his face.
"I'm afraid you don't, no. But if it helps, I'll be there. I'm attending every session, you're not alone in this." Sam paused before he added, "Hey, I might even get to know you better, what do you think?" The younger Winchester tried his best shit-eating grin and slapped his brother's upper arm playfully, hoping to keep him from sinking further into the swamp of anxiety and unease. He knew he had succeeded when he noticed the tiniest sparkle in Dean's eyes.
"Not funny, Sam", his sibling growled, but the tension was already waning.
A sudden knock on the window startled the brothers and seconds later Griffin's head popped up at the small pane. "Time's over", he announced, his voice muffled through the thick glass, and the mechanism of the door opener sang it's song. Slide. Beep. Click.
The heavy door opened and the sturdy man nodded his chin down the hallway. "Time for dinner, Rodgers." His eyes met Sam's, "The doctors Salinger and Rosenberg are waiting for you."
"Of course they do", Sam grunted and rose from his stool, every fiber of his body striving against returning into the lion's den. He'd rather stay one hour in this tiny cell on a tiny spine-killing stool than one minute on a comfortable leather chair in Salinger's office, discussing his brother's – and his – family history.
And he didn't want to leave Dean right now.
For one, he enjoyed his presence. Dean wasn't quite the Dean he normally was, given the circumstances, yet it felt good to have him around. There were times Sam wished for a few hours or days on his own, but now, after four days in the motel, researching and studying psychology, eating alone, watching TV alone, he was so done.
Secondly, he had the feeling that his sibling was a tad too fragile after the involuntary soul striptease, the obviously unexpected train of well-hidden emotions rolling in from behind having caught Dean in surprise. He was still laying on the tracks, stunned and confused, needing some time to get himself together again.
How could Sam be Dean's shield if they were separated again?
"Where's Phillip?" Dean asked suddenly, passing first Sam, then Griffin and coming to a halt in the hallway, once again gripped by the orderly.
"Not here", Griffin answered briskly, "half day off. Guess you have to make do with me."
Sam had to bite back a snort at the sight of Dean's broad grin and the mock-delighted 'Hmmmmm' that came humming from his brother's lips, a sarcastic answer that was so Dean, it was hard to believe that this was the same man Sam had just needed to give moral uplift to.
Nonetheless, the rough shove Griffin passed along to his brother let Sam's suspicion of a smile die away immediately.
"Easy", he hissed, shooting daggers at the orderly who just raised a provocative eyebrow at him. What the hell was wrong with that guy?
The trio began to walk down the hallway they had come from half an hour ago, past closed cell doors with black windows. As the dining area lay on the way to Salinger's office, Sam was glad he could accompany his brother for a while longer, his urge to stand between Griffin and Dean stronger now that he had become somewhat acquainted with the big ass of an orderly. Not that Dean needed his little brother's protection, he was very capable of defending himself. But in here the rules were different, Dean knew it and Sam knew it, too.
"Who's Phillip?" Sam asked curiously, trying to distract himself from the disturbing fact of Griffin's meaty paw gripping Dean's arm, the grip highly likely too tight for an absolutely cooperating patient.
"My nurse", Dean replied and added a tired smirk that lacked it's usual jauntily beaming, causing Sam to wince inwardly once more.
"Is he the good cop?" And would someone please take a picture of that deathly glare he's just getting from Griffin?
"Yeah, he's okay, I like the guy. And guess what, he..."
Dean stopped dead in his tracks so suddenly Sam was sure his brother had just collided with an invisible wall.
From the expression on his face it must have been more a ghost rather than a wall.
Pure horror was etched on Dean's face. Huge, saucer-like eyes stared right past Sam, unblinking, shock and fear radiating from glassy greens. His lips were slightly parted in silent denial and disbelief, his posture resembling a pillar of salt.
"Dean?" Sam halted his own steps and darted worried eyes from Dean into the direction his brother was staring. There was nothing. A cell door. With a window. As dark as every other window in every other cell door they had passed and would pass.
"Dean?" Sam tried again, approaching him slowly, carefully as not to startle him, a featherweight hand on Dean's shoulder serving as the only instrument to ground him. "Hey? What's wrong? What is it?" Once more Sam tried to make out at what Dean was looking at, seeing nothing extraordinary. He glanced briefly at Griffin who seemed to be as stunned over the abrupt stop.
Dean still wasn't moving, not even twitching, was still staring at something only he seemed to be aware of. And while Sam pondered over the best and most cautious way to pull his brother from the unexpected shocked stupor, it was Griffin's famous delicacy of feeling that took the wheel.
"Hey, Rodgers!" he hollered, shaking Dean roughly, "Snap out of it!"
Sam's imminent outburst of rage and violence towards the orderly was choked off in an instant when Dean flinched and blinked, the empty stare switching into a confused look, but finally focusing on his concerned gaze. This time Sam didn't care about featherweight hands and gripped both his brother's shoulders.
"Hey. You okay? Dean?"
The walls were down again. Sam could see it immediately. They were crumbled. In ruins. Like a strip mining after a blasting operation. And whatever had tore them down, it had made a good job of it. Sam couldn't think of a moment he had seen such a frightened look on his brother's face.
"Uh...I...", Dean stammered, his eyes jumping from Sam, past Sam, to Griffin and back at Sam again, and the younger Winchester wanted nothing more then to grab Dean's head and put an end to that jumbling and jumping and darting of nervous eyeballs.
"What's going on there, huh?" Sam heard Griffin ask from behind him, felt the big man invade his personal space and he yanked his arm up without turning around, stopping the orderly from coming closer.
"Griffin", he growled, "Leave it. Don't you have some chains to polish?" Sam heard the man huff, but saw him step back from the corner of his eye. Satisfied, he laid his hand back on Dean's shoulder. "Dean? You alright?"
Dean licked his lips and thank God, his eyes came finally to a standstill, meeting Sam's. He nodded jerkily and ran a hand over his face. An unnervingly trembling hand, Sam noted.
"Yeah...I...sorry...just...", he chuckled nervously, "Guess I've just zoned out, huh?"
No kidding.
Sam nodded slowly, never stopping to drill holes into his brother by scrutinizing him closely. "What did just happen, Dean?"
"Nothing, really. I...just thought I've seen someone, that's all."
"Where? In one of the cells?"
"Yes. I mean, no. Must have been a shadow or something. Those cells are empty, right, Griffin?"
"Empty like the proverbial pocket the devil dances in", came the rumbled, surprisingly poetic reply from behind Sam.
And did Dean just flinch at the word 'devil'?
"S...see. There you go. Guess I'm seeing things now." That nervous chuckle again. Man, sometimes his brother was the baddest liar.
"Dean", Sam hissed, leaning in closer, their noses almost touching, "What did you just see? Or who? And stop giving me the run-around here, I'm not one of those doctors who have just met you, remember? Now spill." Sam knew there was an unaccustomed sharpness in his tone, but what he had just witnessed had cut him to the core, too, and the hell would he let Dean get along with bullshitting around.
Sam noticed his mistake too late, a mistake he made every damn time when his concern for Dean drowned his sensitivity and he got angry over his brother's inability to just tell him what the fuck was wrong. And yes, he wasn't one of those doctors who didn't know his brother, in fact, he knew his brother better then anyone, so from all people he was the one that should know best that forcing Dean into a corner was the falsest way to go.
So when Dean's features darkened slightly, the huge bright eyes narrowed, the agitated expression turned into something similar to annoyance Sam knew he had made his favorite mistake again.
"That's ridiculous, Sam", Dean hissed back, "There is nothing to spill. There was a shadow or a reflection, whatever, it's nothing. Now take your hands off me if you don't mind."
Sam hadn't noticed that he still had a good grip on his sibling's shoulders and for a second he wanted to use that grip to shove Dean against the wall for reacting like this, for brushing off his attempt to be there for him so ill-mannered.
Instead Sam pulled his hands away, held them up in a surrendering gesture. "Fine", he spat, "have it your way."
"Thank you." With that Dean turned and walked on, heading towards the big double doors at the end of the hallway as if nothing had happened, followed by a mischievously grinning Griffin.
Sam didn't move, just watched them march off, fury and incomprehension piling up in him like a mushroom cloud.
Reflection my ass. Something had scared the crap out of his brother and Sam couldn't think of a shadow or a reflection that could do something like this. There wasn't much in the world that left Dean speechless. Or frozen. Or catatonic. Even if it had lasted only seconds.
"Stupid ass", he muttered and glanced over to the cell door Dean had stared at, approached it and looked through the window, cupping his hands so he could make out anything in the dark. But Griffin and Dean had been right, there was no one in there.
Just an unoccupied cell. Nothing more.
To be continued...