Lovely Sunday to all of you out there! Yeah, I know. It's still Saturday (at least here in Germany) but I'm in the mood to post. Hope you'll like...this one's quite the nail-biter, I think...Enjoy!

Chapter 20

Glassy eyes followed the swing of the shiny pendulum. Left. Right. Left. Right. Accentuated by the soft tic, tac of the clock it was something worth to focus on. Calming. Enough to divert and pool his thoughts to something entirely else instead of the thousands of questions and worries that were crawling around in his head like an army of busy bees on a honey comb.

Where was Sam? Why wasn't he here? Why didn't Sam tell him that there was an appointment with Salinger? Who wasn't here also. Damnit. Why was he sitting in here alone, without Sam?

Oh please, no session. Not today.

Dean reached up to his temple, rubbing it frantically with his free hand. Phillip hadn't given him his meds today. Last night he hadn't gotten the obligatory sleeping pills, either. Not that Dean wasn't happy with it. He had no intentions to call for that crap. But it wasn't helping lying awake the whole night, freaking Mike sitting beside him, talking and talking and just not shutting up, the words so vivid he had cried and sobbed and at some point had thrown up, a painful, unnecessary endeavor as there hadn't been anything to throw up besides of bile.

He shifted on the chair that hardly left him room to move. Both his ankles were bound, left ankle to the left chair leg, right ankle to the right with those uncomfortable leather belts he had learned to hate. His left hand was equally shackled, the wrist bound to the armrest. His injured right wrist was free, probably because of the dressings. Or maybe he could at least scratch his nose. Who designed such a thing?

God, he was so tired. And done. He felt like a zombie. A damn headache splitting his head every time he accidently moved it. This was a nightmare and he had no clue how to wake up.

Why wouldn't he wake up? Why did no one wake him? Sam? Sammy? Where are you, man? Don't leave me alone in this!

He heard the steps first before the door opened. He turned as far as he could, his stomach plummeting into the basement when he recognized exact those two men enter the room he had dreaded to meet the most.

"Dean", Salinger greeted him with a curt nod and a stern face. Rosenberg didn't do or say anything. Just regarded him with those small, vicious eyes.

The doctors walked around him and sat down on two chairs opposite of Dean, Rosenberg still watching him like a hawk, Salinger fumbling with some sheets of paper.

"Where's..." My brother? Sammy? Where are you? "...doctor Larsson, shouldn't he be here, too?" His voice had that awkward quality again. Too soft. Too raspy. Sounded like he felt.

"Doctor Larsson isn't here right now and we think it's actually a good thing, Dean."

Dean's breathing hitched. You think? Stop thinking. "I don't care if it's a good or bad thing, I'd really appreciate to have him around..."

"I don't think that you're in the position to demand anything, Mr. Rodgers." Rosenberg interrupted calmly. The man was pissed. Dean knew the doctor hadn't been a fan of him anyway but now Rosenberg clearly hated him.

And Dean couldn't even blame him. He had screwed up. Big time. He himself didn't want to look in the mirror right now.

"How are you, Dean?" Salinger asked, a genuine smile on his face. He pointed at the leather belts keeping Dean to the chair, "I have to apologize for this, but as we don't want any security staff in here during a session this is the only way. We just can't trust you at the moment, I hope you understand."

Sam? Help me out...

"When was the last time you ate?" Salinger asked on, looking honestly concerned.

Dean shook his head slowly. "I'm not hungry."

"This wasn't my question, Dean. See, it's not the question if you're hungry or not, you have to eat, son. It's important that..."

"Maybe you can tell us what happened back in the recreation room from your point of view. Can you give us that much?" Rosenberg leaned forward, unfazed by Salinger's irritated look.

"You know what happened", Dean replied. Careful now.

"Yes, we know, but humor us nonetheless."

Dean paused, took a breath. "Let's say I had a temper tantrum." It had been supposed to come out as a cheeky remark, completely with scornful tone and raised eyebrow. It didn't. He almost didn't hear himself say anything at all.

Oh yeah, and we all know how those go!

Dean flinched. He knew that last part had been inaudible to the doctors. And to the rest of the world.

Mike. Get lost.

"A temper tantrum?" Rosenberg exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in disbelief, "Then I don't want to be anywhere near you when you get really mad, son."

I hear you, granny, I hear you.

"Listen", Dean started, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing his temple, "I know what I did was wrong, I overreacted and I'm terribly sorry. If it's possible I'd like to see the kid, talk to him..."

Maybe break a few more bones...

"Damnit, shut up!"

"Dean? What was that?"

Dean jerked his head up, wide eyes darting from Salinger to Rosenberg. Had he said that loud?

He needed to get out of here. This room was suffocating him.

"Nothing...just...listen, could we skip this for now, I don't feel so good..."

"No, Dean, we won't skip this. I'm glad to hear that you're sorry and that you like to apologize but right now it's not possible, I'm afraid."

Maybe you killed him after all? Maybe Sam lied to you? Maybe he didn't want to spook you further and that tiny, fragile brain of yours?

"I really need to speak to doctor Larsson. Please. I'd prefer to have him here for this."

There was a pause during which Salinger noted something on a notepad and Rosenberg scratched his head with a tired sigh.

"Doctor Larsson decided to hand this case over to us", Rosenberg then stated dryly, "You're no longer his patient."

Dean felt his heart stop. What? They were messing with him, right? They were lying?

He gaped at Rosenberg, searched the wrinkled face for any evidence whether the man was telling the truth or joking. He met Dean's distraught gaze deadly serious.

"Charles..." Dean thought he heard Salinger mumble, thought he saw the 'good doctor' shake his head ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry, doctor Larsson wanted to tell you by himself, but we suggested it'd be better if he'd just leave that to us."

No way. Never ever would Sam leave him here, not like this, not ever. Period. They were toying with him. Checking how far they could get, check out when he would snap.

Dean shook his head, tried to muster up some bravery. It was terribly appalling how hard that little task was.

"No", he stated, swallowing hard in order to slug down that tremor in his voice, "You're lying, he wouldn't do that."

"Then why, Mr. Rodgers, isn't he here? Why would he let you have this session on your own? Do you have a proper explanation for that?"

The reasonable part of Dean's brain that still held the fort was screaming again. And it was screaming loud. It was hollering every rational explanation it could come up with at him. They just didn't inform Sam about this session, that's why he isn't here. They want to break you. They can only do that when you're alone. This is a set-up, look at Salinger, he's insecure. Don't listen to their crap.

Why, Dean, are you so fond of yourself, huh? Your brother doesn't have to stick with you for the rest of his life, it's not that you're such a special person, you know.

Mike appeared behind the two doctors who stared at Dean as if he were some interesting specimen. A smug smile was gracing his pale features. His arms in the torn sleeves of the shredded suit crossed in front of his chest.

Dean closed his eyes, lowered his head, pressed the heel of his free hand onto his temple.

"Mr. Rodgers?"

To see you like this is like christmas, you know that? You're a wreck. And Sam noticed that, too. You're a burden now. He's better off alone. He has his demon lady. He's powerful. He doesn't need you anymore. Never needed you.

"Dean? Are you still with us?"

See it like a baby hatch. Instead of throwing you into a dumpster or abandon you at some motel he drops you here. So he knows you won't starve or freeze to death. And maybe those two here can really help you.

"Fine", Dean growled, maybe a tad too emphatically, "what about...what's his name? Julian? Can you tell me at least how he is?" He would deal with Sam later. Get him here somehow later. Sort this out with him. Later.

He noticed a tear rolling down his cheek and wiped it away angrily.

Salinger opened his mouth to speak when Rosenberg held his hand up and leaned forward. "What would it change? What would you tell him?" The doctor's voice was almost a hiss.

Dean met his gaze or at least tried to, his blurring sight making it hard for him to see his opponent's eyes.

You're such a sentimentalist, Dean-o. Never would've thought that.

"I'd..." Dean interrupted Mike's voice and took a hitching breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob before he tried again through gritted teeth, "I already said that I want to apologize. I'd like to talk to him and sort things out."

"With words or with fists, Mr. Rodgers?"

"Damnit, I'm..." Dean stopped himself and ran a shaky hand over his hair and face. It was getting harder and harder to stay calm, he felt like a table tennis ball bouncing from the rage paddle over to the deep sadness paddle, back and forth, back and forth and he couldn't stop.

Rosenberg sat back in his chair and just looked at him. Dean felt the urge to squirm under the man's eyes, the glare in combination with the deafening silence causing his skin to crawl.

"Julian died this morning, Dean. I think you understand why we can't confirm to your wishes."

Like dropping from a cliff into icy water. That was exactly the way it felt. This weird feeling of falling, where the stomach jumps. Then hitting an unnaturally hard water surface, the impact rattling the bones and teeth, the cold liquid clawing at the face, ripping the eyelids up, entering and burning the eyes. Sinking. Deeper. And deeper. Too much time to think. Too little time to react.

Dean stared at Rosenberg, paralyzed by shock and disbelief. The only thing moving was his trembling chin. And right now he condemned the fact that he wasn't in any icy water. Wasn't sinking deeper and deeper. Couldn't wait for his conscious to fade.

Speechless, kiddo? Always said, your right hook's just too dangerous. You should have a firearm certificate for it.

"Dean? Did you hear what I said?"

What had he done? How could this have happened? He had killed an innocent man. A kid. Because of a mistaken identity.

Mike appeared right in front of him, bared his teeth at Dean and held his clawed hands up. He made a growling sound.

The tiger's free now. Instincts, hooray!

"No", Dean whispered, shaking his head in denial, "no, I...oh god, I didn't mean to..." This time he didn't bother to wipe the tears away streaming down his face.

"I don't think this was necessary, Charles", he heard Salinger mumble before the doctor addressed him, "Dean, what doctor Rosenberg meant to say..."

"My highly regarded colleague, on a word, please", Rosenberg interrupted and stood, walking out of Dean's line of sight.

Dean didn't look up, kept staring into thin air, the world a blur. He noticed that Salinger didn't follow right away, seemed to hesitate, but he just didn't care right now.

Nothing mattered anymore, right? So he was a monster, a killer, he was capable of beating a young, harmless, innocent man to death. Sam had noticed it soon enough and had decided to turn his back on him.

Fair enough. The best decision his kid brother had ever made, actually.

Dean tried to bury his face in his hands, but when his left one was pulled back by the leather strap an angry sob elicited from his throat and he yanked viciously at his restraints.

Cas shouldn't have brought him back. He should have let him rot in hell, should have dragged him far deeper into the pit, somewhere into the darkest, most sinister corner hell has to offer.

He shouldn't be here. He didn't deserve to be here. To be alive.

Look at the doctors over there. They're talking about you. Considering what to do with you. What are they supposed to do with an animal out of control, huh?

Dean looked up sluggishly, spotted the two silhouettes at the other side of the room through the veil of tears blocking his view. They were talking. Arguing over something. He could hear them whisper and hiss, saw them flourish their hands.

"At least have the decency to talk out loud if you're talking about me", he half-growled, half-sobbed, yanking at his restrained hand again, whimpering when the forceful move hurt the tender skin of his wrist.

The two men stopped talking and seemed to look over at him. One of the blurry figures approached him and Dean found himself shrinking back.

"Dean, I think we should skip this session for now." Salinger. Calm and friendly. Almost soothing. "How about you return to your cell, what do you say?"

Dean almost cried in relief. "Yes. Yes, thank you."

"And I'd like to give you something to calm you down a bit, you're a tad too agitated..." Salinger skimmed through a pile of files. "Let's see...you got your TCAs this morning at eight so we can't give you the..."

"No, please...I don't want to take something..." There was a shimmer of his old self, a flicker of the Winchester defiance flaring up. He cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes to meet Salinger's gaze. "I'm glad I didn't get anything today and I want to keep it that way."

The doctor looked at him, narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, you didn't get anything today? You didn't get your medication today?"

Mike jumped up and down on his heels, chuckling. Uh-huhuhuhuhu...I think something's going on here, I can smell it!

Dean shook his head slowly. "No. And I don't want anything." The feeling of suffocation clawed at him again. Please, why couldn't they just leave him alone now. He needed to be alone. He needed to curl himself up and just cry himself to sleep. Or die.

He tilted forwards, the heel of his free hand pressed against his temple. Salinger was mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like a rant, answered by Rosenberg who sat down on his chair again. Dean couldn't understand, they were talking too fast, too slurry, there were too many voices, merging into each other, too loud, too much, please, too much.

"...don't know what to say..."

You deserve to be on that rack again...

"...that explains a lot when I look at him..."

What's on your mind, torture master?

"...back..."

Dean...please...don't you do this...I never did anything wrong...I'm pleading for mercy! Please, no!

"...get him into my office..."

Are you bored? Didn't find a cockroach to tear it's legs off?

"...explanation..."

You deserve to suffer, to burn, to die over and over again, to wake up only to know that it won't stop as long as the world keeps on turning, you masochistic son of a bitch!

The scream that tore from his throat was so intense Dean almost felt his vocal chords go up in flames. He leaped forward, panic, despair and the terrible urge to get out of here shutting down his mind completely. With his ankles still restrained he fell forward, pulling the whole chair with him.

The impact with the floor was hard, but the pain was welcome. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, relished the waves of agony running through his body, the protests of his barely healed face. The metallic taste in his mouth, the smell of blood in his nose was like an old friend. Always there. Never gone. Never leaving.

There were still voices, narrowed down to two, agitated, commanding. There were hands, frantic but gentle, touching his back, fumbling with something at his ankles. Dean kept his eyes shut, he didn't want to see. Everything was muffled, which he was grateful for, he didn't want to hear. He didn't move, just lay there, as if asleep.

A third voice, the owner obviously a recipient of orders, suddenly close to him. A new set of hands gripping him, not anywhere near gentle. Dean felt himself being moved, being pulled up to his feet and down again into sitting position.

He felt a sting at his neck and it was the moment he decided to break out of his catatonic state, because no, no way, he didn't want that crap inside of him anymore, don't you dare put anything inside of me, you bastard, let me go, leave me alone.

"Shall I get a straitjacket, doctor?"

Now that he wanted to move, needed to move, his body betrayed him. Dean fought, he yelled, he flailed. But those actions never left his head.

"I don't think this will be necessary, Griffin, thank you. This is going to knock him out long enough. Just get him into his cell, take care of his nose and lip."

Sam? Sammy? Why did you leave? Why didn't you get me out?

"And no one is allowed to see him, do I make myself clear? No one."

"Yessir. Clear."

To be continued...