Hmmm, Sunday again. I'm curious what you think about this one...enjoy!

Chapter 12

"Seriously?"

Slumping down onto the mattress with the same agility a sack of potatoes would offer Sam tightened the grip on his phone.

"I'm sorry, kid. I tried the best impersonation of a bigwig I could come up with. The guy didn't budge a damn single inch."

"But what did he say? I mean, even Salinger has to have a superior of some kind, I don't know, someone who has more to say then he has."

"He owns that facility, Sam."

"So what? Does this make him God or something? Doctor Almighty?"

"Listen…"

"No, I'm done listening, Bobby!" Biting his tongue Sam ran a hand through his hair. Damnit, there he sat, bitching at the only help he got in this mess.

Bobby was silent.

"Sorry…I'm sorry", Sam apologized, trying to steer his voice into a friendlier direction, "It's just…I don't have another plan. I don't know how to get him out of there. Those doctors? They're tearing Dean's life to pieces…and mine with it. I'm so done listening to their insights on what might be the best way to approach Dean because I know that every damn clue they come up with is crap."

"It's okay, Sam", the other man replied, "What about your brother? How does he handle those sessions?"

"He doesn't. Actually I'm having my hands full stalling those meetings because I know they won't go well. The first one was an almost disaster and I don't know how he's going to behave in a second one."

"That's thin ice you're strolling on. How long do you think this will gonna work? Sooner or later they're going to get suspicious if you keep warding off those conversations. And once they find out who you are or rather who you're not it's going to get real hairy, for both of you."

"I know that, Bobby."

Sam sighed. If Bobby only knew how close he already was to the boarder of trust and suspicion. For the last week Sam had done everything to avoid another session. Had lied about Dean's condition, had told Salinger and Rosenbaum that his patient wasn't up to another meeting yet. He had made up dozens of reasons to postpone those therapeutical conversations due to incomplete research and reports. So yes, he knew how thin that ice was, he heard it crack already.

But he knew what talking about his family, talking about his past did to Dean. And he knew that the aggressive reaction in their first meeting was just the tip of the iceberg. What lay beneath the surface was enough to get Dean kicked into solitary for the rest of his life, straightjacket included.

And Sam knew that there was no other way then to reveal bits and pieces of Dean's – their – real life. You couldn't fake a life career, talk about it nonchalantly while sitting under a magnifying glass of a shrink. That was just impossible.

But to tell the truth was even more ridiculous.

"Sam? You still there?"

The Winchester blinked and inhaled forcefully. He had almost forgotten that Bobby was still on the line.

"Yeah…I'm still here."

"How's Dean doing anyway?"

"I'm not sure", Sam shrugged, "We haven't been talking since yesterday afternoon."

"What, they don't let you talk to him? You're his…psychiatrist." Sam could almost hear Bobby wince at his own words.

"No, it's not like that…we had an argument. I don't think he wants to see me right now, and to be honest, I'm not sure if I want to, either."

"What the hell are you talking about? Are you out of your damn minds, you two?"

"Bobby…"

"Oh, I understand." And if the change in Bobby's tone wasn't an audible alarm – so nice, friendly and soothing all of a sudden? Never a good sign. "Dean might be a bit strung up at the moment, a bit touchy and let me guess, he snapped at you. I'm sure you feel the same, strung up, touchy, all that stuff, and I bet you snapped at him in return. But you know what, you're supposed to stick together, to support each other, you stubborn jerks. Right now, Dean needs you, you're the only one he has while he's stuck in that nuthouse. So how about you two pull yourselves together and live in harmony, at least until this mess is cleaned up?"

Sam clenched his jaw. He wanted to yell at Bobby, tell him that he did support Dean, up to the point of exhaustion, he wanted to rant about his brother's stupid order of priorities, about Dean's crazy kink to save everybody else but himself, felt the urge to holler his frustration out to the man who wasn't here, hadn't seen how willing he was to be there for his sibling.

"I'm going to look for other options", he stated instead, calmly, almost icy, the small sulky boy in him striving against continuing the conversation.

"I'm not done with Salinger, not yet, Sam", Bobby reassured in a slightly softened voice, "You boys are not alone in this."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Sam hung up and stared at his cell for a while longer before he dropped it next to him.

He had an appointment with Salinger and Rosenbaum tomorrow. And he knew after that there was no way to avoid the second session, not anymore.

He needed to talk to Dean, prepare him, construct a plan of action. Maybe it would be a good thing to restore peace between them before they would go back into the lion's den.

Modeling clay.

Seriously.

How old was he, three?

Dean shook his head and regretted it immediately when a jolt of pain flashed trough it, his skull's impact with the wall behind him last night apparently having been harder then he had thought. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, instantly annoyed by the sweetish smell and the sticky feeling greeting him. He yanked them away and rubbed them together, trying to get rid of the greasy film and the colorful remains under his fingernails.

They got to be kidding him.

There was no way he would ever set a foot in that room again, and the moment anyone came up to him suggesting he should create something out of modeling clay he swore he would knead a noose and strangle that person with it.

"Gah", he exclaimed in disgust, giving up the hopeless task of cleaning his hands without the proper facilities. He shifted on his cot and closed his burning eyes, tried to block out the brass band in his head.

He wasn't sure what had been worse. The fact that he was forced to sit there and actually play with that crap or the people around him and how they 'played' with it. There had been a tiny guy with tiny glasses and tiny fingers and he sure as hell had something going with the green mass he had been kneading and stroking and mumbling to during the whole time Dean had spent beside him.

Another guy had taken the idea of modeling clay being perfect for stress management literally and had thrown his lump through the room before stomping on it and calling it names even a sailor would have felt awkward hearing.

The elderly woman opposite Dean must have had spent the whole day in the recreation room forming flowers and blades of grass because she had sat in a sea of modeling clay vegetation, smiling dreamily. It had been an almost beautiful sight.

Dean had refused to even touch anything, had settled for brooding and watching the others. He had searched for his friend the demon but there had been no sign of him. It was odd, he hadn't seen the kid for days now. Maybe he was gone? Maybe the demon had possessed another poor son of a bitch and the kid was lying in a cell somewhere?

That would it make hard for Dean to find out who the new meatsuit was. Could be anyone. Crap.

The therapist, always smiling, always beaming, always the patience itself had approached Dean a while after he had been sitting there with crossed arms, had tried to prompt him to create something nice, maybe an elephant or a bird.

After Dean had told her where she could stick her rainbow-colored clay the ever-present smile and beaming and patience hadn't vanished, but had turned so ice cold it had been creepy.

So nurse Ratchet wasn't fiction at all.

Still, when the orderlies had threatened him and even the happy therapist had announced drastic measures Dean had decided to humor them and had snatched the only piece of black modeling clay, kneading a small version of the Impala. He had no interest in meeting Salinger and his bloodhound, was in no mood for another session, even if he knew it would be inevitable. He knew that he had to thank Sam for stalling the meetings and conversations.

Sam. What was the guy doing anyway? Was he still working on a plan to get him out or had he decided to spend some undisturbed time with his demon chick?

The unfamiliar sound of a trolley or something else with wheels outside in the hallway caught Dean's attention. The sound stopped in front of his cell.

Slide. Beep. Click.

What was about to happen now, for Christ's sake?

Dean looked up, expecting the cleaning lady. He watched in mild surprise when Phillip slipped in, the routine pill tray in hand, looking as if someone was after him.

Dean opened his mouth to say something when the nurse beat him to it.

"What I'm going to do now will cost me my job when anybody gets wind of it", he stated, looking at Dean intently, "but I need to do this because I am a wuss and there's no other way." He put the tray on the small table, spilling half of the water in the process and raked his hair with shaky hands.

"Phil? What..."

"And I trust you. I hope I don't make a mistake here, but I have the feeling I can trust you."

Phillip was shaking like a leaf, the nervous fumbling with his hands and his gaze jumping through the room almost driving Dean bananas.

"Did you find something out concerning your stiff?" Dean asked slowly, trying to make his own voice sound calm and composed.

"Yeah, I know who he is and I know where he's buried and I have gasoline in my shed."

Dean was stunned. "Okay. Awesome. Why's the gasoline in your shed and not on the corpse by now?"

"Because I won't do this."

Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Phil, we went through this already..."

"You will."

That caught the Winchester by surprise and he stared at the other man in confusion before he huffed out a laugh. "Funny. Give me the lighter and show me where the gunpowder track is. I hope it's intact from here to the grave?"

"Dean, I'm serious." Phillip turned and checked the hallway through the cell window. He then walked up to Dean and sat down beside him. "Okay, so this is the plan. I have a laundry cart outside. It's big enough for you to hide in it..."

"Woah, wait a sec...this is..." Dean wasn't sure if maybe the work with the nutcases had rubbed off on Phillip, "Whatever you're suggesting, have you thought about it? I mean it's not only your job at hazard, you go to prison when someone finds out what you're doing here."

"Then we should make sure that no one finds out, right?" And suddenly there was the old Phillip shining through, a determined albeit uncertain smile on his lips.

Realization slammed into Dean with so much force he had to keep himself from barking out a triumphant laughter. This was it. His way out. His chance to get his brain as far away from Salinger and all his minions before they could lay their knotted claws further on him.

Hiding his enthusiasm Dean returned Phillip's smile with a soft shake of his head, "You're crazy. And you're right, you're a wuss."

"Shut up. Here...", the nurse pointed at the tray, "You won't take the sleeping pills tonight..."

"I figured as much..."

"...but I read in your chart that you had some Aspirin this morning, because of a headache? You still need something?"

For a second Dean hesitated. Looks as if he was about to hunt tonight and he had still no clue what they were dealing with, how aggressive their Ghost might be, if he would disturb them at all or let them burn his body without ruffle and excitement. Normally he wouldn't take anything while on a job but right now his head was killing him.

"Yeah", he answered, looking suspiciously at pills on the tray he had never seen before. "Those aren't Aspirin, are they?"

"No, they're stronger. They contain caffeine, they're boosting you a bit. Sometimes I need them when I'm in for double shifts."

Dean grabbed the two cream colored pills and turned them in between his fingers before he popped them into his mouth, followed by a sip from the water cup. Phillip took the redundant sleeping pills and dispersed them.

"The laundry cart has an opening at the side, when I open the cell door you can slip in without getting noticed. But we have to wait for the camera in the hallway to turn, just in case. And pile up your bedding, it has to look as if you are sleeping on the cot."

"You have salt in your shed, too?"

Phillip snorted. "You're joking, right? Now that I know what lives in my house I have salt practically everywhere. Even my underwear's scratching..."

"Phil", Dean yanked his hands up, "Too much information."

A voice over the loudspeakers announced the imminent procedure of the cell lights shutting off. Phillip took a deep breath and looked at Dean, obviously trying to stifle his jumpiness.

"Let's do this", he breathed and grabbed the emptied tray.

Dean watched the other man shake himself and walk out of the cell, placing the tray on top of the cart. He wasn't sure whether he should raise his non-existing hat to Phillip's wacky plan or knock him out to put the guy off doing this.

Yeah, it was possible, the whole 'Green Mile' idea. Phil was a highly esteemed nurse in this facility, so much Dean had got. No one would ever think he'd be capable of pulling a stunt like this. If someone could walk out of here with a laundry cart or a bunch of silver spoons under his shirt without being looked askant at, it was definitely him.

And with Dean handling and hopefully finishing this job Phillip wouldn't be endangered.

But it was also a venturous risk, smuggling a patient out of the building. And even if they'd make it out, would they make it in again without problems?

A twitch of conscience passed through Dean.

Would he go back, just like that?

The sound of a flat hand slapping metal ripped Dean from his musings – Phillip patting the top of the cart.

Showtime.

Dean closed the distance from his cot to the awaiting cart lightning-fast and gracefully, finding the opening in the fabric body easily and sneaking in like a shadow. He found himself face to face with a pile of light-blue bedlinen.

"Aw, come on", he cringed and bit back a few expletives, carefully pushing the dirty laundry as far away with his legs as he could.

"Sleep tight!" he heard Phillip say, "See you tomorrow morning, Dean!"

A grin lit up his face. Sly kid.

He heard the cell door snap shut the moment the cart began to move.

To be continued…