A/N: If I did not respond to the bashing by Zat's group, I would bet that the general consensus would be, "Well, it must be true. silver ruffian didn't defend herself." Now I'm not mentioning this every chapter, but when I am attacked by her people, I will defend myself, and I'm not going to stop posting this story. I have never called for a boycott against her fics, and I have never harassed anyone who supported her. As a matter of fact, I have always said that people should read both stories. On the other hand, her group attempted to boycott this fic and they have unsuccessfully harassed reviewers in the past. Actions speak louder than words.


Chapter 7- strange days and greener pastures

"Gotta run, kiddo," Anthony murmured inside Cal's head.

Cal knew what that meant. He obediently opened his mouth wide and Anthony came pouring out, just as orderly Franklin Withers opened the door slot to Cal's cell to take a look inside.

Anthony moved through the air like a huge black snake uncoiling. Withers had the habit of chewing gum all the time and his mouth was already half open. Anthony pushed his way between the man's lips and down he went.

Nobody noticed the way Withers eyes turned pitch black and then normal brown again. Anthony made Withers wink at him. "Be a good little boy, Cal. I'll be back."

Cal stood there blinking in front of the cell door as the slot banged shut. The meds he was on wasn't enough to quiet that jittery feeling he had inside him. He was empty now, and he hated that. Cal had abandonment issues; at least that was what the docs told him.

There was nothing else to do but wait. Cal sat on the floor and he ran his fingers over the words and numbers written in black.

1911Exorcizamus 666 te, omnis 1967 immundus spiritus

Anthony was going to see the educated man.

Cal just hoped Anthony wouldn't like him better, and decide to fill him up instead.


"Sam hung up on me," John muttered. He snapped the cell phone shut and slipped it into his pocket.

John fidgeted on the yellow and green flowered couch. He pulled his knees in so that he wouldn't bang them against the oval wooden coffee table. He always felt awkward, too large, too clumsy and rough whenever he visited this place.

Missouri sighed as she sat back in the easy chair. "I knew he would."

John looked at her sharply and she shrugged. "Doesn't take a psychic to predict that, John. After all these years? Sam thinks you've deserted them both."

"I haven't. You know I haven't."

"I know. You would have sold yourself in a heartbeat at that crossroads if I hadn't called you first." She shook her head. "Dean wouldn't have wanted you to do that. You know he wouldn't."

John leaned forward, put both elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands in front of him. He was steeling himself for whatever she said next. "Tell me about his dreams."

"They're awful," she said simply. "Dean's lost in his own head. He's surrounded by darkness. Not a demon, though. A lost soul. The other one didn't cross over. He didn't want to. I can't guarantee a happy ending, but all I do know is that you and Sam have to come together as a family for this. Because this other one has family too."

John stared intently at her face.

"Dean's lived with them all these years. He's lived as they do. They're hunters, John."

John blinked.

"They hunt humans. For sport. And for food. Dean's not in control of his body most days."

John sighed. That curiously blank look on his face was pure John Winchester. "Does Dean know what's going on?"

"Sometimes. He never stopped fighting, John. He's confused. He knows something is wrong, but he doesn't know what. I've seen his body do things. Terrible things." Missouri shook her head slowly, and John got it. Don't ask me for details, that gesture said. Just don't.

She sat up straighter in the chair. "There will come a time, very very soon when the others find out where Dean is, and they'll come for him. Then Dean will be lost to you and Sam forever."

"And you can't tell me exactly where he is now?"

"No. I don't know exactly where he is."

John grunted. He hated puzzles. Always had. Dealing with psychics was never easy, and Missouri was the only one he ever trusted.

"Sam will be at Bobby Singer's place in two weeks time. You have to be there when Sam comes. I'm not going to lie and say it's going to be easy, because it's not going to be. You follow your heart with this, John. You have to."

"Why?"

"Why? That's all part of the great mystery," She leaned forward and put her right hand gently, lightly, on John's arm. "You'll see your boy again, but I have to tell you that it will be hard and dangerous, for you, for Sam, and especially for Dean. Sometimes the Lord does work in mysterious ways. He'll make a way. He'll give you a sign."

John scowled darkly. "A sign?"

"Yes." A small, sad smile crossed Missouri's features. "A sign to let you know where Dean is."


Howdy, sport.

Huh? He was in the hallway. Withers nodded at some of the other orderlies as he walked by. He couldn't stop himself from walking.

Just wanna ask you about the writing in Cal's cell, the voice inside his head whispered. Who wrote those words on the floor?

Who the hell are you?

Call me an interested observer. Sooner you tell me, the sooner I'll leave you alone.

Withers saw the staff office for the ward at the other end of the hallway. He wanted to walk in there, but his body wasn't listening. It turned instead for the courtyard, and suddenly he was through the double doors and outside.

Withers' body turned towards one of the wrought iron benches near the walkway. He sat down on the bench with a thump.

Oh yeah. That's better. Hell of a day, huh?

This was side effects from those wild blues he'd taken. Bad drugs. Yeah, that was it. He hadn't known the chick he bought the pills from the night before. Shoulda asked Beck for some. Beck always did have the good stuff. Rumor was the dude had his own lab at home.

That made Withers think of Beck's pet green eyed freak. The kid had developed a real taste for Beck's special blend, devil's sunrise: Sit up, roll over, spread, that's a good boy.

The voice inside Withers head got quiet. So quiet Withers thought he was alone in there. Then: Well, well, well. Dean.

"That's one of his names," Withers said out loud. "We call him John. John Doe 317. Came in about six months ago."

One of the nurses, a tall black woman by the name of Beverly, was walking by on her way in to work. She frowned and looked over. "Frank? You okay?"

Thank God. Withers felt his mouth open up, heard himself say, "I'm fine, thanks. Keep walking, you nosy bitch, and fuck you."

Beverly huffed indignantly and walked even faster.

John boy. Where is he?

"Ward A. The...the pit."

Okay then. Gonna do you a favor, Frankie boy, and then I'm gonna leave you alone. Withers saw his right hand pull out his key ring, and without meaning to he thought about what keys unlocked which door.

The voice sounded happy. All righty. Let's go.


Gabriel lay on his side in his cell. His skin was still damp from the shower, and the white scrub pants and top they gave him to wear stuck to his skin in places. The side of his neck and the underside of his jaw was red from Beck's teethmarks. Gabe ached all over, but it was in a pleasant, well used way, even though his hipbones were sore with bruises in the shape of Beck's fingerprints and nails.

Gabe hugged his knees up to his chest and stared blankly into space. He wasn't wearing a straightjacket. That was something, wasn't it?

Beck would forgive him. If he hadn't, he would. At least, Gabriel hoped he would.

Dean wasn't gone, not entirely, but he wasn't really around, either. Something had changed, and Gabriel didn't know what.

The regular meds made him feel weak and filled his head with cotton. It was like his anger was in another room. He could see it but he couldn't touch it. He thought about Lee, thought about Jerry, and he'd gotten so fucking angry his throat seemed to close up. Felt like he was strangling. He never felt that way on red pill days. He was worthless and shabby now.

Gabe thought of Missy, and Abraham. They hadn't come for him. After all this time, they hadn't. Maybe they were all in it together. Maybe this was one last joke they wanted to play on him.

He didn't move, not even when he heard the door open behind him.

"That was good for a start," Beck drawled.

Gabriel didn't move, not even when Beck knelt behind him. "Welcome back, kiddo." Beck ran his hand up and down Gabe's arm, from shoulder to elbow. "Missed you, John. You know that."

Beck's broad fingers carded Gabriel's shoulder length hair, pulled the strands back from his face, over his neck.

"I can't control Dean," Gabriel muttered. "I can't."

"I know, baby. You need some help, that's all." Beck took the brown plastic pill bottle out of his pocket, held it up where Gabe could see it and shook the bottle. Gabriel went to attention like a eager hound dog straining at the end of a leash.

Gabriel closed his eyes. "You're…you're still mad at me." Please…please don't tease me like this. No way he would ever say that out loud.

"No. No, I'm not. Maybe I shouldn't have cut you off like that."

Something in Gabe's throat clicked and he swallowed hard as the bottle went out of his sight. There was a slight popping sound, plastic against plastic.

"Please," Gabriel whispered, "please…"

"It's all right," Beck said, and his voice was soft and warm. "Get up. On your knees. Turn around."

He was still stiff and sore, but he got to his knees, slowly. Gabe looked up at Beck and then down at the pill in the palm of Beck's hand.

Devil's sunrise.

Gabriel bowed his head. The floor seemed to slid out from underneath his knees. He didn't move. He stared at Beck's work boots instead. Every muscle in his body wanted to reach for the pill, but he didn't dare. He wouldn't move, couldn't move, until, unless he was told to.

"It's yours, John." Beck lowered his hand until it was level with Gabriel's mouth. "Take it."

Gabe leaned forward. His lips very delicately brushed against the rough, chapped skin of Beck's palm as he sucked the pill up between his mouth. His throat worked as he swallowed the pill, and then Gabriel very lovingly kissed Beck's palm.

Beck offered an open water bottle just then, and Gabriel drank, because Beck wanted him to drink.

Beck ran his fingers through Gabriel's hair, and he leaned into the touch. "That's my good boy."


"What…what the fuck are you doing?"

Gonna do you a favor, Frankie boy, the voice purred. The coil of rope was heavy on his shoulders. Withers saw himself unlocking the door to the bell tower.

There were cautious footsteps on the stairwell below.

"Hey, Frank? Withers?"

"What the hell's wrong with you, man?"

He'd been followed by some of the other orderlies and staff. Apparently Beverly the bitch had told everyone what he'd said, and the sight of him walking through the ward twitching and talking to himself had been enough to let folks know something wasn't right.

"No, wait. You said you'd leave me alone if I told you what you wanted---"

Yeah. Yeah, I did. He leaned down and picked up this long two by four and jammed it up against the door. You hate this job, don't you?

"What? I don't ---"

You hate your life. I know. Life on earth is a bitch, isn't it? You're looking for better. You can do better. Withers watched his hands grip the edge of the huge iron bell and pull it towards him effortlessly. One end of the rope was securely tied around the bell clapper.

You're looking for greener pastures.

Withers' hands picked up the rope and went to work. In about a minute he was staring at a hangman's noose.

I can help you, buddy. Gonna do you a solid.

He actually yelped when the noose went around his neck, snuggled up tight against the underside of his jaw.

"No. Please, you can't…"

Can't? Why not? His stolen hands made sure the knot was directly behind his left ear. You'll thank me for this later.

Withers walked over to the ledge and stepped off.

There was a moment when he actually thought to himself that it wasn't that bad. He hung suspended in midair, and then he began to drop.

Murder victims always go to heaven. The voice chirruped. Isn't that nice?

There was a hard, sharp pain. Everything went red, and then black.


Perdition, Jimmy Novak thought to himself. This is surely Perdition.

He took his meds, and he did as the staff requested. They seemed to be waiting for him to do something, to be disobedient, but he never was.

It wasn't time. Not yet.

He took his treatments, the electroshock therapy, two sessions so far. He was in a different ward now. He had more freedom. "If you keep this up, James," Dr. Michaelson had told him, "you can go home soon."

As much as he loved his family, Jimmy doubted that.

Jimmy closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. He sat on one of the benches in the courtyard below, and he didn't move, not even when he heard the bell in the bell tower sound off, quick and jerky, not the melodious full sound he'd heard on normal occasions.

Jimmy didn't move, didn't open his eyes, not even when the shrieks and screams of both staff and patients ripped through the air.

All is well, he thought to himself. The Lord works in mysterious ways.


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