Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only and not for profit.

Warning: This chapter contains dub non con.


Chapter 5 – damned if you do

"Well now, James. Can I call you James? Or Jimmy?" Dr. Michaelson's glasses slid even further down his nose as he consulted his notes.

The straightjacket James Novak wore didn't seem to bother him. He sat relaxed in the chair, shrugged his shoulders almost carelessly. "James or Jimmy. I'm okay with either one."

Michaelson scribbled in his notes: Patient appears calm and reasonable prior to administration of prescribed meds.

"You do understand why you've been committed here to Sweetbriar, don't you?"

"My wife, Amelia. She…she doesn't understand." It was the only time Jimmy's face frowned up slightly, the only time he seemed bothered. Michaelson wrote that down.

"Doesn't understand about what, James?"

"About my faith." The orderly by the door, a tall redheaded man named Crawford, snorted and shook his head in disbelief. Michaelson ignored him.

"It's been determined that you're a danger to yourself and to others. Why would you try to stick your arm into a pot of boiling water, James?"

"I didn't try to do it," Jimmy said carefully, as if he was explaining something terribly complicated to a child. "I did it. He asked me to do it."

"He who?"

"Castiel," Jimmy said simply.

"Castiel," Michaelson repeated doubtfully. "And Castiel is…"

"An angel of the Lord."

Crawford snorted, louder than before. Michaelson turned around and shot him a dirty look. "Now then," the doctor said as he turned back around. "Why would this angel ask you to disfigure yourself like that?"

"To prove my faith. I wasn't harmed."

"James, do you hear voices all the time?"

"No. Just Castiel."

"And does Castiel tell you to harm yourself all the time?"

"No." Jimmy smiled serenely. "That was the first and only time."

"So he does talk to you?" Michaelson raised one eyebrow as he tapped his legal pad with his pen. "All the time?"

Another nod. "God chose me for a higher purpose."

Michaelson hastily wrote down this session note: Patient admits to constantly hearing the voice of Castiel, an angel of the Lord. The core of his delusion is that he is God's Chosen One. Recommended length of stay - six months minimum. Recommended treatment – electroshock, drugs, talk therapy.

"Chosen to do what?"

"Chosen to do the Lord's work. I've prayed for this all these years. My prayers have finally been answered."

"I see," Michaelson sighed heavily as he removed his glasses. "Well, you'll be with us for a period of at least ninety days. During that time you will be evaluated by either myself, Dr. Weddington or another doctor on the staff. I want you to understand something, James. Whether this is hard or easy depends entirely on you. If you refuse to take your meds, we will make sure you take them, and any other treatment that we deem necessary for you to get better."

Jimmy nodded. "I understand. I have work to do here."

Michaelson pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Well, so do we." He watched as Crawford came over, undid the chair restraints and helped him up. Jimmy got to his feet with a lot more grace than most of the patients who'd ever sat in that chair.

Damn shame, Michaelson thought as Crawford escorted Jimmy out. Seemed nice enough otherwise. Except for all that crazy talk about angels, of course.


The one in the lead with the ax jigged left. John Winchester tracked him with the crossbow and fired. Head shot, right in the middle of his forehead. The light in his eyes went out almost immediately, and the ax man went down in an awkward, suddenly boneless tangle of arms and legs.

John calmly pulled another arrow from his quiver and re-loaded.

The other five cultists leaped forward, whooping and growling. They were a blur of naked skin, blue and red paint. Some of them wore the scalps of their victims, others had belts and necklaces of human hair, bones and ears. None of them had guns, but they all had machetes and clubs. Their faces lit up with wolfish glee when they saw John standing there.

One man. With a crossbow.

Stupid bastard.

They hit the center of the clearing at a dead run, and the ground collapsed underneath them. There was a sickeningly wet punching sound as the sharpened stakes punctured the soles of their feet and their legs. They still howled and shrieked as they thrashed around, but they were in agony now. The pit was wide, but it wasn't that deep. That was the whole point. None of this would work if he didn't leave at least one or two alive.

At least for the moment.

John walked forward with the crossbow resting against his shoulder. "Could have saved yourself a lot of damn trouble if you'd just answered my questions when I asked you nice," he growled roughly. He tensed up slightly as he stared at the ones wearing the scalps, then relaxed, just a little. Straight red hair, curly black hair. Not dark or sandy blond.

Not…Dean.

John pulled the photo out of his jacket pocket as he knelt down.

"…fucker…you fucker…" the one nearest him spat out.

John looked bored. He lowered the crossbow, pulled the trigger, and the arrow hit the mouthy one right between the eyes.

That got their attention, all right. Instead of screaming, the rest of them whimpered instead.

"Now. I'm looking for this man." Dean was relaxed in the picture; he stared directly into the camera with that slightly crooked smirk of his. "Anybody seen him? I won't ask again."

"..pr-pretty boy…pret-ty…" one gasped. "I…I s-seen h-him. We g-got h-him…"

"Yeah?"

"..p-pl-please...m-mister…"

"Where?"

"…u-up at the h-house….b-basement…you g-gotta h-help m-me…please…"

John smiled tightly. "Sure will."

Two hours later John pulled his truck onto the highway and headed north again. The smoke from the house fire and from the clearing was visible over the treetops. This far out in the sticks it was highly unlikely that any of the neighbors were going to call the local fire department.

John doubted that any of the neighbors were still alive, anyway.

The house was a graveyard. Bodies in each room, some pinned to the walls like trophies, with railroad spikes. Human skins were spreadeagled on the walls, and John had a really bad moment when he imagined that one of the skins was freckled.

It wasn't.

The worst part was the basement, the anticipation he'd felt at seeing Dean emaciated, reduced to skin and bones, still alive, staring at his father, the accusation flaring in his eyes.

"Why the fuck didn't you come for me sooner, Dad? Why?"

There was a young man chained to the wall down there. He was blond and he was pretty, but he wasn't alive.

And he wasn't Dean.

John spread salt and kerosene throughout the house. He could feel the heat at his back as he walked back to his truck parked by the clearing. It was quiet there now, except for the snap and crackle of the flames.

There was a Wal-mart nearby in this area. He'd have to stock up on more salt after this.

Credit cards were still good, so that was no problem.


Sam Winchester sat in the corner booth at Murphy's Stop N Go just outside Rockford, Illinois, right off the I-9. He caught a glimpse of battered brown leather, heard a whiskey smooth rumble of a voice.

The days of him fooling himself about Dean were long gone. Sam had his mind under control now, didn't see wide green eyes, a cocky smirk or a gunfighter's strut everywhere like he did before. Sam turned in that direction and allowed himself to take a good, long look.

The source of the noise was a dude sitting at the lunch counter. He was way older than Dean, and bald-headed.

Sam gave a mental shrug and went back to looking at the menu. Pig in a poke, then. The waitress (her nametag proclaimed her to be Charlene) came over, took his order and left.

It was hard in the beginning, after Dad ditched him. There was no one else to focus on. At the library Sam fooled himself into thinking that Dean was just around the corner, prowling the stacks, or at one of the large long wooden tables just out of eyesight, sitting in the middle of a pile of books.

Charlene showed up with coffee and Sam's meal twenty minutes later. Halfway through Sam's cell went off. He flipped it open, checked the ID first.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Sam. What's the matter, your fingers broken or something? Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Been busy."

Bobby huffed. "I'll bet. Not gonna ask if you're okay, because I know you're not. Where the hell are you?"

"Rockford, Illinois."

"That thing with Edith Craine. How'd that go?"

"Didn't pan out." Sometimes Sam could still smell the lavender she wore. Lately that scent was mixed with the smell of lighter fluid, and the sound the salt made as he sprinkled it over her body.

"Uh huh." There was the sizzle of grease, cooking sounds, and Rumsfeld's excited yelp over the phone. "You coming this way?"

"I might. Got a few more leads I gotta follow."

"Jesus, Sam," Bobby said quietly. "Dean wouldn't want this for you. You know that, right?"

Sam sat there quietly, stared at the light smear of grease on his plate.

"You can hang up on me if you want to, boy. Gonna have my say, whether you want me to or not. You're not alone in this. You never were. Don't be a damn fool like your Daddy. And don't be a stranger, y'hear me?"

"Okay, Bobby."

Sam sat there quietly for a moment as he slipped the cell back into his pocket. He could see Dean walking towards the booth, juggling plates piled high with food in one hand, a handmade ice cream sundae in the other, those green eyes of his sparkling mischievously like he'd just won the friggin' jackpot.

Sam took a deep breath, and Dean vanished.

It was time to hit the road. He was burning daylight.


Dean watched the flames flicker across his skin, across his arms and chest. They were small bright pinpoints of light, and as the spray from the shower hit his skin steam and thick droplets of water rose up into the air.

He was wet. He was burning, and he was wet.

Mom was here. She stood in the water next to him and the flames ran down his body and pooled around his feet. She was here and she wasn't burning…

"…please…Mom…please.."

She stroked his brow, and he leaned into her touch. "You can tell me, Dean," she whispered. "You can."

"…nuh…no…" Something wasn't right. She wore white but it was different…

"Tell me about your life, Dean."

She was different. Maybe it was because he blinked when he looked at her. Dean tried not to blink when he looked at her, but he couldn't help it. His jaws hurt, and his head hurt.

"…saw you on the ceiling that night…"

"I know you did. I know. I'm back now. It's all right."

"…do what we do…and shut the hell up about it…" He stood with his palms flat against the wall as the water ran down his back and shoulders. "Dad said…he said…don't tell…don't…"

"You've been sick, sweetie. I want you to get better."

"Mom…no…please..."

"Tell me, Dean. Tell me."

Dean shook his head. "I can't…can't…remember…'m not right in the head…I don't know what's going on…Mom, please…tell me what's wrong with me….tell me…"

Mom stepped back. Dean knew that look. He couldn't remember exactly where else he'd seen it, but he knew.

You're a freak, that look said. Nothing but a freak.

People don't like freaks. People leave freaks.

Mom turned on her heel and walked away.

A hand slid down Dean's broad back. Fingers brushed against his freckled bare left cheek, and then stayed there, cupping the water-slick, well muscled flesh. Dean flinched.

"What the hell…kinda…father are you…touchin' me like that…"

Dad wasn't burning. Dad wasn't wet. "You want this, Dean. You know you do."

Dean felt himself stiffen. His belly flared with heat down there. None of this was right. His skin was so hungry for any kind of touch, his body reacted on its own. What he wanted didn't matter, and it hadn't mattered for a long time.

He remembered other touches, other places. Waking up with his face pressed into the floor padding or the wall as he was pushed into hard from behind. Teeth sunk into the hair at the back of his neck. Being stripped out of that straightjacket, or sometimes being fucked while he still had it on, strapped down, face up or face down, it didn't matter. It never did.

good boy…

Dad smudged his thumb hard across Dean's lower lip. You're mine, that gesture said. I own you. All of you.

Dean jerked back, wide-eyed. It wasn't the touch that startled him. It was his voice. His own voice. Rising up inside of him, getting louder with each touch.

Be a good boy…

Strong arms around his waist that pulled him closer.

"No…Dad, please…"

Lips that brushed against his left nipple, and then suckled the flesh there, made his back arch in spite of himself.

"...no..."

Teeth nipped against the soft thin skin underneath his jawline…

Dean drifted away now, pulled back underneath his skin.

He was safe deep inside now.

He dreamed of playing baseball in the back yard with Daddy. He was little, and his legs were still short and wobbly, but he giggled as he ran to get the ball. He was happy.

He was happy 'cause Momma told him he was going to have a little baby brother so very soon.

Dean was gonna be the best big brother ever...


"Be a good boy…" Gabriel whispered softly. "I'll be a good boy…"

Beck pulled back. He brushed long wet strands away from that perfect face, stared into those wide green eyes, and he grinned when he saw dark green.

"Missed you," Gabriel breathed softly.

"I know you did, baby, I know." Beck cupped his face with both hands as he captured that sweet, full mouth.


Next post Friday.