It's christmas, ladies and gentlemen! And therefore I have a chapter for you today! So, if you're in the mood for something lacking the usual jingle bells and gingerbread smells – this is what I have to offer.

In case I don't reply to your reviews: it's because of the holidays. Which means I'm going to reply the very second I'll find the time!

That said, I wish all of you merry christmas! Presents you enjoy. People around you you love. Time to find some peace for yourselves. Happy holidays!

Chapter 07

In all his years on this crappy little planet with all the crappy little things that had happened to him Dean realized for the first time during an insane moment while he dazedly elbowed his way through the people in the dining hall that he hadn't drowned yet.

He had been shot, stabbed, choked, had listened to his own heart stumbling, had felt his intestines being squashed, had been torn up by hell hounds, but the feeling of drowning was missing on his list.

Okay, he had almost drowned in some malodorous port in Duluth, but that had been only temporary and he had been able to use the last of his strength to reach firm ground again.

Right now, he could imagine how it felt to drown.

The way from the hallway to this table including the detour to the coffee machine to get an alibi whatever had felt like the struggle from the bottom of the sea to the relieving water surface, all the way the body forcing him to inhale, let it all in.

When Dean finally reached his table in the VIP area, the lonely coffee cup on his tray was enjoying a foot bath and the cup itself was half empty. The clumsy way he almost dropped the tray on the table top threatened to spill the puny rest of the hot liquid as well. Dean slumped down onto the chair, willing his hands to stop trembling, his heart to stop racing, his whole self to calm the fuck down.

Air. He needed air. Breathe. Come on, Winchester, you're surrounded by it, go ahead and pick from an embarrassment of riches. Get a freakin' grip!

He knew he looked like a lunatic right now. Staring at a single cup of coffee, contents mostly outside then inside, his hands laying – or rather vibrating – on the table left and right from the tray. Yeah, okay. Maybe he fitted perfectly in here after all.

A shadow. Right.

Funny shadow. Staring at him from a cell. With a pallor that wasn't natural, with an expression so full of incomprehension, sadness, pain. Why? Why did I have to suffer? Why through your hands?

Dean gasped and his hands flew up to his face, the heels pressing down onto his eyes as if pushing them deep into his skull could change what he had just seen. Could erase it from his mind.

At first he had thought it was an inmate. Some other guy locked up because he was as crazy as him, maybe a tad crazier, maybe not, you never know what you get in here, right?

And then he had recognized him.

Standing in front of a grill, George Foreman style, a standard for every suburban white picked fence family, 'Mike can do it best' written in bold letters on the red apron, a big smile plastered on his face, two teenage kids playing behind him, his wife pouring lemonade into glasses...

"Stop it", Dean whispered and ripped his hands from his face, looking around to check if someone had noticed, was watching him.

Last time the apron was gone. So was the smile. But the expression was still there. Every time they met. It was reserved exclusively for him.

"This isn't possible. He can't be here." Dean's vision blurred and he ran an angry hand over his face. "Get a damn grip."

Forcing his breathing to calm down he focussed on the other people in the hall, everybody occupied with their own form of derangement. Eating, drinking, talking, laughing, singing, crying, moaning, yelling.

"I'm hallucinating", Dean muttered, his restlessly wandering gaze stopping abruptly as it met the a familiar face.

The same kid that had scrutinized him earlier that day, the pissed off tiger, sat at his table, same chair, same position. He held a plastic spoon in his hand, poised to disappear in his mouth. Once again he stared at Dean with so much hate, with such an amount of disgust, under normal circumstances the Winchester would have scrolled through his mental list of one-night-stands to search for a girl looking like that kid and would apologize to him for breaking his sister's heart.

Right now it was the last thing Dean needed. He had enough of those looks for today.

He straightened his own features and turned around, gripping the coffee cup so hard he almost scrunched it up and emptied it in one gulp, wincing at the luke warm temperature. He glanced over to the door where Griffin was talking to another orderly.

The asshat had bought his story, had accepted the shadow-or-reflection-or-what-the-fuck-ever explanation. No further questions, the crazy guy sees things, duh, so why make a hubbub.

With his brother it was a whole other thing.

Damn the Sam-Winchester-scrutinizing-X-ray-vision. He had seen right through Dean's facade, had noticed the panic, had recognized his reaction for what it had been and still was: speechless terror. To shake Sam off like this didn't suit him in the slightest, but to discuss his weird vision with him was out of question, especially in front of an orderly who only waited for a proof of Dean's yet to be confirmed bedlamism.

But the honest concern in Sam's eyes, his little brother's own surge of panic – for the tiniest second Dean had wanted to jump into Sam's arms and beg him to keep him safe, like a scared kitten afraid of the world.

"Rodgers!"

An electroshock would have had the same effect on Dean.

He jumped a few inches up from his chair, swallowed down the yelp and for a second was really glad that the crumpled cup in his hands was empty.

"Geez, Griffin", he choked out, "Don't they equip you guys with bells around your necks?"

"Nah, would spoil the fun", the orderly answered and nodded at Dean's tray. "Have you been eating something?"

"Not hungry."

"Afraid of losing your gay appearance by gaining too much weight?"

Oh yeah, that was another point on Dean's list of things he didn't need right now. Griffin's ever open cake hole and all the crap that came tumbling from it.

"Apparently you're the best evidence that too much weight doesn't get in the way with a gay appearance", Dean answered nonchalantly, presenting a humorless smile at Griffin.

The bulky man came closer and leaned down, his face inches away from Dean's. "I'm just saying", he growled, dangerously calm and quiet, "an empty stomach doesn't go well with the medication. You might get clumsy. Ham-fisted. Slow. I'm not sure if you wanna take that risk."

Before Dean was able to reply he was yanked to his feet, Griffin gripping a fist-full of the back of his shirt. He was roughly pushed forward towards the doors, would soon pass evil-eye-kiddo on his way out. Oh, Dean was done. He had enough of paternalism, didn't want more visions of old acquaintances in shabby windows, had it up to here with way too fat, overconfident orderlies pushing him around, didn't want to talk to some white-coats about his family, was fed up with some mad guys giving him the evil stare from the second he entered a room until he left it again.

He wanted to smash all the windows and mirrors, wanted to break Griffin's neck, wanted to poop on the fine doctors' desks, wanted to beat the hell out of the creepy kid. But he couldn't. If he'd do one of those things, it would be over. No way for Sam or anyone else to get him out of here, out of this.

Dean jerked himself out of Griffin's grip, "I can walk alone, thank you very much", he hissed over his shoulder and stomped along. When he was on a level with the staring boy he slowed down and mirrored the kid's grim expression.

"What's the matter with you, huh?" he spat, "Sorry to destroy your illusions but 'If looks could kill' is indeed just an idiom, so unless you're a Jedi knight I won't keel over dead when you look at me like that, so skip it."

Dean felt Griffin's hand on his back again, was only seconds away from whirling around and start a fight, no matter where it would lead him, when he heard the kid's venom-dripping answer.

"It's a good thing that you are here", he said, his hate-filled eyes narrowing, "now all the people in hell can rest."

Dean was thunderstruck. The rage, the frustration, everything that had him boiling suddenly turned into a giant ice cube in his stomach, numbed his senses, let his heart skip a beat.

"W...what?" he stammered, his legs on the brink of giving out.

"The people in hell can rest and we up here can take vengeance for them. You'll see. You'll see."

He was dreaming. He must have fallen asleep somewhere during the session with Rosenberg and Salinger. Or maybe he was still in his cell and Sammy was right beside him, keeping guard next to his cot, protecting him from Griffin or anyone else. Yeah. That's it. There was no other explanation for this brat to say something like this.

He didn't know. Couldn't know. Impossible. Get a grip. .

"Okay, sorry to interrupt your nutball reunion but it's time to go beddy-byes", a deep voice rumbled from behind Dean, causing him to flinch Griffin, it's Griffin, relax, or maybe don't, but it's Griffin, you're here, you're back, ignore the kid, it's Griffin.

They looked at each other like predator and prey. The kid with his cold eyes, his right hand kneading the plastic cutlery he still held in his hand, ready to jump at Dean in a blink of an eye.

"Rodgers! Now", came Griffin's order, ripping Dean from his paralysis. He blinked, clenched his jaw and with one last glance at the boy he turned and stumbled off, confusion and irritation leaving his mind reeling and his limbs uncooperative.

Thank god Griffin kept his trap shut on their way to cell no. 77, the silence an urgently required good given the things that had happened during the last hour.

Dean's gaze was glued to the floor, the pattern of the granite becoming a blur, the sound of the various steps and voices echoing and reechoing in the huge hallway while the inmates left the dinning hall to get back into their cells and rooms a numb murmur in his ears.

Once again they passed the cell allegedly inhabiting a face of Dean's past and his mind screamed to keep his head down, to but curiosity and hunter instinct were stronger. But when he slowly raised his head, ready and not ready to see incomprehension, sadness, pain, there was nothing there. No face. No expression. Nothing. A black window.

Just an unoccupied cell. Nothing more.

A timid wave of relief washed over him. Problem one, squibbed. Problem two, let's think about that one later.

"Still scared of your little window of horror, Rodgers?" Griffin teased from beside him, and why had Dean somehow known that he had to expect a remark from the orderly when they'd pass this door?

Dean puffed out his breath and decided not to comment the remark. He was tired. All he wanted was to get in his cell, get some shut-eye, maybe a dreamless night for a change.

Wishful thinking.

When they reached Dean's cell, Griffin opened the door and the Winchester shuffled in, slumping down onto his cot, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heard Griffin click his tongue and looked up, grimacing when the orderly pointed at the table where someone had placed the usual tray with the usual cup of water and the usual pills earlier.

Dean pondered over the idea to offer resistance, to refuse taking that crap. Ever again. But he knew there was a syringe waiting for him as an alternative and it hadn't been a pleasure getting it from Phillip. To get it from Griffin was an experience he really wasn't keen on.

And maybe taking the freakin' pills was the best thing he could do tonight. Maybe those drugs could provide him with the peaceful slumber he yearned for, the kind of sleep he surely wouldn't get tonight, after all the crazy shit that had happened today.

You haven't had one single night of peaceful slumber since you're in here, so why do you expect to have one tonight?

"You prefer the prickling version?" Griffin asked impatiently, and Dean could swear the son of a bitch was beaming inwardly at the idea of ramming a needle into his favorite patient's throat. So Dean took the pills and downed them with a venomous smile, putting the emptied cup back on the tray with a mocking gesture.

"Awwww, aren't you a little angel."

"Always happy to make your day, Griff", Dean replied and laid back, pushing his shoes off, his smile widening at the sound of the cell door slamming shut.

When Griffin's steps retreated and the noise from outside quietened down, Dean's mind began to wander, the boy's hate-filled face popping up in front of his inner eye.

'It's a good thing that you are here.'

'Now all the people in hell can rest.'

There was no way the kid could know...about him. About hell. About what he had done down there. Sam was the only one who knew. And even his little brother had waited months before Dean had finally opened up to him, had finally revealed what kind of monster he was. And still Sam didn't know the whole truth, the fine details, the complete range of masks Dean had worn in the pit.

If he would, he would see his big brother with different eyes. There ways would part. Dean was sure about that.

Maybe that was the kid's kink? Maybe everyone in here heard those words, maybe everyone had to endure that evil-stare. And it was only him freaking out about it because he had a past where those allegations hit home.

No. That was a bit too much of a coincidence.

Which lead to one conclusion. Demon. The kid effectively knew because he had been either down there, had seen him, maybe was one of Alistair's henchmen, looking for him, like a scout. So, soon the place would be swarming with demons, hunting him, scratching each other's eyes out to get him first.

Dean shuddered, the idea of deep sleep very inconvenient all of a sudden. He ripped his eyes open, blinked against the fatigue that threatened to pull his eyelids closed again, concentrated on something, anything to keep himself from falling into the abyss.

'It's a good thing that you are here.'

'Now all the people in hell can rest.'

He struggled into a sitting position, searched his brain for a song he could sing, some lyrics he could think off, concentrate on, keep himself busy and awake because sleep was no issue anymore, it was suicide, yep, who sleeps when he's locked up in a cell with demons around, attempting one's life, salt? I need salt. Dining hall, tomorrow, or maybe Phillip can get me some, have to come up with a reason that doesn't sound too crazy but hey, they know I am so why the worries...

It was the unnatural pallor he noticed first. The bright spot that shone even brighter from the corner of his eyes. And even before Dean looked at it, he knew what it was.

Looking through the window into his cell. With an expression so full of incomprehension, sadness, pain. Why? Why did I have to suffer? Why through your hands?

And suddenly Dean's eyes were wide open.

Sam closed the door behind him and fell back against it with a sigh, the briefcase with all the documents dealing with his brother's supposed mental disorder being dropped onto the carpet.

Of course Rosenberg and Salinger were like bloodhounds after learning about their parents, small, enthusiastic astronomers who just found out that there is indeed life on the moon. They had analyzed, investigated, compared, had more then once regretted that Sam refused to give out Dean's records, which of course only existed in Sam's mind 'because it would have saved a lot of time and would avoid detours that might be unpleasant for the patient'.

For them, the fact that Dean had lost his mother at an early age, had travelled around with a grieving father, had changed schools like other people socks was the key to the drawer they wanted him in. As if someone with such a dramatical childhood could only become a cold-blooded killer with a propensity towards supernatural monsters like werewolves.

They had no idea.

With one final frustrated bang of his head against the door Sam pushed himself off and trudged through the motel room, shedding himself from his jacket and loosening his tie. He came to a halt in front of the bathroom mirror, wincing at the haggard, tired face that greeted him.

A proper splash of cool water to said face later he watched the drops crawl down his cheeks and chin, his hope oozing away in the same speed the water vanished from his skin.

"You're no step closer in getting Dean out of there", he muttered to himself, "And to crown it all your brother lies straight to your face." Sam slammed his fist against the mirror with an outcry of rage, a spiderweb of broken glass appearing underneath his hand instantly.

He was powerful. He was able to send demons back to hell. Soon he would be able to kill them for real, not only pushing them back into fiery depths of hell only to cross their paths again weeks or months or years later. He would eliminate them. Exterminate them.

Despite all that it was his pig-headed ass of a brother he couldn't handle, his obstinacy in combination with the unpleasant situation he had brought himself into.

Marching back into the room, he pulled his cell from his jacket and scrolled through the numbers. He pondered over calling Ruby or Bobby, but dismissed the idea of calling either of them. Bobby would have called if he had found a solution. Calling him, rushing him would only set him on edge, would only put the man's worry-o-meter further up then it already was in the given situation.

And Ruby? What could she probably do? Nothing for Dean, that much was clear. And Sam wasn't in the mood for some blissful carefree moments right now, neither sexual nor thirst-quenching ones.

He slumped down onto the chair that surely had an imprint of his ass on it's seating surface already and fired up his laptop, grinding his teeth while he stared at the monitor and waited for the thing to boot.

That son of a bitch could deny any visions or sightings all he wanted, and if that Griffin guy was stupid enough to fall for Dean's lame subterfuges, fine, but Sam wasn't that easy to fool. Whatever had been there, it had scared the crap out of Dean. And if his brother wouldn't talk to him, he would find out on his own. Not enough problems at hand already, Sam had to go on a hunt for something Dean had seen and didn't want to talk about.

Opening the pages he had already ploughed through a hundred times this week Sam once again skimmed through the historical sites of the hospital, wrote down notes, researched through newspaper reports, blogs and forum postings, looking for any suicides, murders, strange events. Somewhere in between he chastised himself for not thinking about getting coffee and something to eat. But soon he was too engrossed in his research to notice his fatigue and hunger.

If it was a ghost Dean had seen, Sam would find it. If it was something else it might take longer.

But Sam would find it.

To be continued...