11

Code Red

"So, explain why we need to talk to the families again?" Rigsby asked, arms folded over his chest. Dean shook his head. Skeptics.

"Because we might've been asking the wrong questions," Sam explained. "Before we were looking for isolated incidents. But there might be more in common with the cases than we think."

"Like?" Lisbon urged.

"Like there might be the same problem with all of 'em," Dean said. "There's gotta be something connecting all of them."

"Alright," she said, glancing at her watch. "Little before six. Rigsby, Van Pelt, come with me. Sam, Dean, see what else you can figure out and if you can get a hold of, uh…"

"Bobby?" Dean offered.

"Yeah, him," she said. "Cho, keep an eye on them. Castiel, uh," The drowsy angel looked up. "Just, stay there. Jane, go home and get some rest."

"Lisbon, I'm-"

"That's an order," she said firmly. "Cho, make sure he gets home, too." Cho nodded, looking at Patrick, who sighed and grabbed his jacket.

"Alright, alright," he said. "I'm leaving."

She didn't see his hand shake as he pushed the button for the elevator. She didn't hear his heart pounding in anticipation. He didn't want to be alone with them. He was scared, so very, very scared.

But he went. He didn't have anywhere else to go.

He kept his eyes away from them when he got into his apartment. He shut and locked his door, hands still shaking. He went directly into his bathroom, shutting the door behind him and wondering if they would follow him in there. To his relief, they didn't.

He rested his hands on either side of the sink, letting his head hang. He was so tired, exhausted to the point of breaking. He felt as if he were on the brink of madness. This couldn't be real.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked up, into the mirror in front of him.

Lisbon was right, he looked like hell. He was pale. His eyes were dulled, dark circles underneath them. He looked haggard and weary, just as he felt. His bleeding heart didn't show on his face, and he was at least thankful for that.

He turned on the shower, undressing and stepping inside. He turned his face up into the warm water, letting the heat work out some of the kinks in his neck and shoulders. He ran his hand over his face, trying to think. He could solve this, as soon as he understood what playing field he was on. But he had an unfair advantage for once. Sleep deprivation and emotional torment wasn't a fair game.

He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath.

He swayed a little, his eyes opening once more. He was more tired than he thought. There was no way he would sleep tonight. Absolutely none. No, no they wouldn't let him. He bowed his head, hot tears mingling with the drops of water sliding down his cheeks.

He ran his hand through his sopping curls, stretched to his limit. Stressed more than he had been in a very, very long time. Seven years long time.

He shut off the water when it turned cold. He dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist before hesitantly reaching for the door.

They were there when he opened it, across that room, smiling, but in a different way. There was no love in their gaze. Their expression and grins were that of malice. Their eyes were hollowed black holes, teeth gnarled.

His eyes grew and he grew even paler. He backed toward his room, his eyes never leaving them. He fumbled for the doorknob, shaking a little.

His fingers finally gained purchase and he slammed the door behind him. Right, as if that would keep them out.

He dressed as quickly as he could, looking over his shoulder every few seconds, looking for them.

He was about to pull a light blue, cotton t-shirt over his head when an icy hand touched his back. He spun around, gasping and breathing hard.

His wife stood before him, looking murderously angry.

"It's your fault," she hissed. "It's all your fault." She moved closer to him. He backed into his dresser, shaking again.

"Wh-what?" He breathed.

"You killed me, Patrick. You let him kill us."

"No, no I swear I didn't know, I-"

"LIAR!" She screamed. Without warning or her laying a hand on him, he flew across the room, slamming into the opposite wall. He cried out, greatly startled, landing hard on his side.

She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. "I'M DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!" She screamed.

"I'm sorry…" he sobbed. "Please, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…" He looked away from her, crying.

"You killed me too, Daddy."

He cried harder, his hand on his chest at the sound of that little voice. "Where were you when he was cutting me up? Where were you when I was crying for you to help me?"

"Or when he slit her throat?" She caressed his cheek, but it wasn't comforting, it was mocking. "What about me, Patrick? Did you hear me when I screamed for you? He was carving away at my insides and you were nowhere. It's all your fault. You might as well have done it yourself, right?"

He didn't answer. She suddenly slashed her nails across his cheek, making him bleed. He cried out, jumping back, trying to get deeper into the wall. "SAY IT!" She barked.

"It's my fault…" he choked.

"Say you killed us, Daddy."

"I-I killed you."

"All your fault…"

"I was so scared…"

"If you would've just kept your mouth shut…"

As they spoke Patrick buried his face in his knees, crying and trembling. He felt so horrible. What had he done?

That smiley face was there whenever he blinked, and now it was so much worse.

"I'm so sorry," he said it over and over again. "I'm so sorry, please. God, please…"

"God won't show you any mercy!"

"Not when you killed your little girl…"

His wife threw him across the room several times, and he felt as if he deserved every second of it. Every bruise.

After almost two hours of this unbearable torment they stopped, disappearing. He pushed his aching body off of the floor. He climbed into his bed, curling into a ball, covering his face and crying. He couldn't do it anymore. He wasn't strong enough to take this. Who cares if Lisbon thought he was crazy? He had to tell her. She was his best friend. And he couldn't do this all alone anymore.

"So what did you find out?" Sam asked.

Castiel was up and around now, looking at random photos on the wall curiously.

"All of the families said the same thing," Rigsby said. "The person who died was tired for almost ten days before they died. They said the person claimed to be seeing a dead loved one and that the dreams felt real. Well, of course no one believed them, but then they end up dead."

"Was their any other connection between the people who died and their dead family members?" Dean asked.

"All of them seemed to've died accidentally," Van Pelt said. The two brothers looked at each other.

"Did these people blame themselves for their family member's death?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Rigsby said. "The families said all of 'em were pretty messed up about it." Dean looked at Lisbon.

"You might wanna call blondie, sweetheart," he said ominously. "He's gonna need to hear this."

She nodded and left the bullpen, taking out her phone and heading for the elevator.

But Patrick was already there.

He had just staggered off of the elevator, his eyes red and puffy. He'd changed back into the slacks he had on earlier and the blue button up shirt but, to say the least, his appearance was disheveled. She could see a bruise on his neck and the still-bleeding scratches on his cheek. His lips were shaking in time with his hands. He looked scared and broken, and that scared the crap out of her.

"Patrick?" She said quietly, walking toward him slowly. Without warning, he collapsed to his knees.

She went to him quickly, bending down and holding his face in her hands. "Patrick, what's wrong?" She exclaimed. He looked up at her, tears in his wounded eyes.

"Lisbon…help me."