Dreamweaver

by mayalaen

Henriksen ends up catching Sam and Dean at the end of Nightshifter, but because of the nature of their crimes, and after a quick psych eval, Dean's sent to a criminal psychiatric hospital.

2. Friday - Week 2

FRIDAY – WEEK 2

"Hey, Dean," I hear Robert say. His right hand starts rubbing my still shirtless back.

"No," I groan, still not quite aware of my surroundings. As I remember where I am, I also realize that I'm lying on my stomach on the floor, my arms being used as a pillow, and I've drooled so much that my arm is soaked. I think the worst part is that I just can't be bothered to do anything about it.

Thankfully Robert uses the little blanket to wipe my arm, tosses it to the side. "Can you sit up for me?" he asks.

"He wasn't even able to talk to me last night," Greg says.

Robert lets out a sigh. "Richards just has this idea in his head that this guy is just going to go postal on us. I saw the dosage on that med," Robert says, sounding ticked. "If Richards were to spend more than five fucking seconds with him...," Robert trails off.

"I know. If it were up to us, it would be different, but it's just not our choice," Greg says.

"I want him back in his room," Robert says after a few moments of silence.

"Robert-"

"No, Greg, he shouldn't just be passed out like this on the floor. This isn't right. I want him back in his room, and I'm getting him an appointment with both Richards and Jim today," Robert says.

Greg sighs. "I'll go get a wheelchair and a change of clothes for him," he says, then walks away.

Robert runs his fingers through my hair. "I need you to wake up, Dean," he tells me. "I need you to talk to me. We're going to take you back to your room, but if you won't talk to me, I'm taking you to the infirmary," he threatens gently.

"No!" I say as loud as I can manage.

"There we go," Robert says, sounding a little relieved. "Can you say anything other than no?" he asks, smile evident in the tone of his voice.

"Tired," I tell him like he doesn't know.

His fingers are still in my hair. It feels good. "I know you are, and I'm sorry," he says, sounding sad. "I'm trying to help you out, buddy, but I'm going up against some pretty tough forces," he informs me.

"Fuck 'em," I grumble. Robert starts laughing at that. He sounds relieved again, and I'm suddenly glad I made the effort to say it.

"I wish it were that easy, man. I truly do," he says.

I hear Greg's shoes again on the floor, and then the two of them are dressing me. They get me into the wheelchair, and soon we're out in the corridor.

"You sure you don't want the doc to take a look at him?" Greg asks from my right side.

Robert has got his left hand on my neck, holding my head up, his right hand on the handle of the wheelchair. "I really don't think he needs anything done. I think he just needs to sleep it off. Besides that, the guy stresses so bad about the doc touching him that I think it might do more harm than good," Robert tells Greg.

I think I fall asleep again on the ride, because suddenly the men are putting me into bed, drawing the blanket over me, pulling the railing up so I don't fall out of bed.

"Okay, you go ahead and get out of here," Robert says to Greg. "You're already late."

Greg snorts. "Like you never stay late," Greg says sarcastically.

"Go home," Robert says again as the two men leave my room.

"Yeah, yeah," Greg says in the hallway.

The bed feels awesome. I can't believe I wasn't sleeping on it all this time. Drooling on the floor is no fun. I shove my face into the pillow, sniff at the clean smell. My stomach hurts, but I'm too tired to care. There's a buzzing in my head that's drawing me toward it. It's dark in there.

I awaken at the sound of my railing being lowered again. The buzzing has backed off to a reasonable level, and I don't feel like some kind of a boneless being anymore.

"Anybody get the license plate?" I grumble, and it actually sounds to me like what came out of my mouth was what I meant to say.

"That wasn't a truck that hit you last night," Robert says with a laugh.

I manage to sit up against the wall my bed is up against. I groan, rub my face with both hands. "Not that last night wasn't a load of fun, but they aren't seriously going to make me take that shit again, are they?" I ask as I prop myself up by my hands on either side of me, hoping I don't fall back down to the bed.

"I talked to Richards," Robert says.

I look up at him hopefully. "Yeah?" I ask, eyebrow raised.

"Between Jason, Greg, and I, we convinced Richards to give you a sleep aid instead of a tranquilizer at night," Robert tells me with a smile.

I smile at him. "Dude, you do realize that, if I could stand on my own, I would kiss you right about now, right?"

Robert chuckles. "Yeah, well, before you get too affectionate, I'm going to tell you your schedule for the day," he tells me with a smile as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"It's that bad?" I ask with a wince.

"It's noon right now, and I want you to get into the cafeteria for some lunch before I give you your pills. Then I'm going to help you to the showers. After that, you've got an appointment with Jim," he lists for me.

"Aw, man, why the appointment with Jim?" I whine. I never thought I would be the type to whine. Apparently putting enough drugs into your system leads to behavior that is different from the norm.

"You missed your appointment yesterday because of the whole razor incident," Robert informs me.

"Oh, I thought I had gotten away with that," I saw with a scowl.

"You'd choose to be on suicide watch over talking to Jim?" Robert asks with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

"Anytime," I tell him seriously with a yawn.

Robert just chuckles. "Think you can stand up yet?" Robert asks.

"I guess so," I mumble.

"Lean on me as much as you have to," Robert says as he holds out his hands.

I slide off the bed and manage to stand on my own, Robert's hands hovering just in case. "I'm good," I reassure the man, then walk over and step into my slippers.

Robert hovers all the way to the cafeteria, comes back when I'm done eating to hover all the way to the showers, where he hovers as I take a shower. He walks me to Jim's door after he gives me my medication.

"Can't you just tell him I was too tired to come to the appointment?" I whisper as we stand at Jim's door.

"Be nice," Robert says softly. "He didn't have any open appointments today, so he's actually seeing you at his lunch hour. That's why I'm bringing you here at ten to one. He said to bring you whenever you were ready," Robert tells me.

"Fuck!" I grumble. "Now I have to talk to him, you jerk!" I say quietly.

Robert just chuckles and knocks on Jim's door. "Be nice," Robert says again, then turns and walks away.

"Hi, Dean," Jim says with a big smile on his face. "Come on in," he says as he gestures with his left arm to the second room.

"Hey, Jim," I say with a smile as I walk in and sit down on the couch I normally take. I cringe inwardly as I realize I actually have a normal place to sit now.

Jim sits down, smile still firmly in place. I don't see my file anywhere. "Well, Robert not only sent you here because you missed your appointment yesterday, but he also thought it would be a good idea for us to talk about your medications. It's up to you, though. We can talk about anything you want, and nobody can do a thing about it," Jim tells me with a sly grin.

I chuckle. I can't help it. I'm starting to like this guy. I've always heard negative things about shrinks, things that scared me as well as pissed me off about them. Now that I've actually been experiencing one, I'm wondering whether Jim is special or if I've been getting some bad info. "I don't mind if we talk about drugs," I say easily.

"A lot of people have a really hard time adjusting to medications," Jim says sympathetically. "In here it can be even worse because of the amount they start you off with. I've seen your regimen, and I don't blame you one bit for being upset with the way the medications are being handled."

I let out a grunt. "Everything makes me tired, makes my stomach hurt, makes me dizzy, makes my brain run slower than normal," I complain.

"Do you know why they've got you on so many medications?" Jim asks me.

I wince at that, look down at my hands. I believe the last psych doc said something like "very troubled." It was a nice way of saying sicko. I could see it in the man's eyes. He was scared of me. The guards they had watching over me didn't seem to calm the man down one bit. "They're scared of me," I finally mumble.

"They're trying to help you the best way they know how," Jim says softly.

I shake my head. "They're trying to keep me from losing it, taking everybody out," I tell him.

"You've done a lot, Dean," Jim replies. "But in spite of Richards' personality, the man really does care about his patients. He's doing what he believes is right, what he does best."

I look up at Jim. "And leaving me drooling on the floor of a cell is helping me?" I ask through clenched teeth, suddenly amazingly pissed off.

"It only seems harsh when you take it out of context," Jim says, taking it in stride.

I snort. "And what context is that?"

"Well firstly the man thought you were going to be in your bed last night. He didn't hear about you being put on suicide watch until this morning," Jim informs me.

"And?" I push.

"And you've actually been handling the doses of the medications you've been given quite well, so he assumed you would be able to handle the higher dose of tranquilizer that he gave you," Jim says.

"I've been handling the other medications well?" I ask, incredulous, my voice maybe getting a little bit louder.

"I'm sure Robert's told you that other people would be drooling on the meds you've been put on, hasn't he?" I nod. "Something you may not be aware of is that, when people are first brought in, they are put on quite high doses of medications. If they do well, start acting appropriately, they are very slowly tapered down on some of the medications. You only got here a week ago. Not only that, but you have fought treatment. The more you fight, refuse to do as you're told, the more medication they're going to put you on."

I know what he's saying is true, but I still don't want to accept it. This is sick. They can't treat people like this. This isn't treatment. It's torture.

"Your choices in life have brought you to this point. Now you have to accept the consequences of those actions," Jim says softly, probably knowing I won't take it well.

Oh, Hell, no! I've dedicated my life to saving people, hunting the things that go bump in the night, and this is my reward? I think I'm breathing heavier. I can't believe how upset I am.

Jim must be able to tell. "You don't think-"

"I-I was...," I interrupt him, then stop myself. I can't tell him. What'll they do to me if they really know what I was doing? I can feel my skin start to flush, my breathing get heavier.

"What were you-"

"I was... I was..." I cut him off again, then cut myself off yet again. I run my hands over my face. I'm shaking. I can't tell him. I can't.

"C'mon, Dean," Jim softly encourages. He knows I'm close to just telling him everything. "Tell me what you were doing."

"Fuck!" I yell as I stand up. "I can't fucking do this!" I yell as I head for the door.

"Dean," I hear Jim call for me as the man stands up to come after me.

I slam the door shut behind me, walk a few feet down the hallway, then let myself slide down the wall, pull my legs up against my chest, rest my arms on my knees, my head on my arms. I hear Jim's door open. "Leave me the fuck alone!" I yell at him.

I hear Richards' door open. "I've got it," Jim tells Richards, and the door closes again.

"Leave me the fuck alone," I tell Jim again not nearly as loudly, but not lifting my head up.

Jim sits down beside me, leaving just enough room between us that I can feel his heat, but we're not actually touching.

"Please. I can't..."

"Can't what, Dean?" Jim asks. "What are you afraid of?"

I let out a bitter bark of laughter. "I'm scared they're going to put me on more drugs. I'm scared they're going to give me ECT. I'm scared I'll be put in a padded room. I'm scared they're going to kill me. I'm scared they're going to kill my brother," I blurt out at him.

"Those are all very valid fears, but tell me something, Dean," Jim says.

"What?" I growl, still not lifting my head up.

"Are you planning on killing anyone right now?" he asks me, his voice sounding conversational, belying the nature of the question.

"No," I groan.

"Do you know of any plans that your brother has to kill someone?" he asks, same tone to his voice.

"No," I growl. I want my brother left out of this. I want him left out of everything to do with this shithole.

Jim leans into me. "Then who and what am I going to tell?" he whispers, then leans back into his own space.

I'm confused. He's the doctor. He has to tell on me. "Huh?" I ask stupidly as I raise my head from my arms and look at him.

"What my patients tell me is confidential. Unless I know a crime is about to be committed, I do not tell anyone else what is said to me in confidence," Jim tells me.

"Yeah, right," I scoff.

"It's true. Not only is it something that's important to me, but I could get fired and get my license taken from me for breaking patient confidence," Jim says, sounding sincere.

"So I tell you something totally whacked, and you're telling me that you won't have me sent to a padded room or hooked up to the ECT machine?" I ask, totally disbelieving.

"I merely give Richards suggestions for treatment, and I personally have never made the suggestion that someone get ECT. I happen to think it does more harm than good," Jim says.

"So you're saying I should just tell you everything, not worry about anything? How can you expect that out of me?" I ask him.

"I really wish you would trust me, Dean," Jim says as he stands up. "It would do you a world of good to just be able to talk freely to me," he says as he walks to his door. He stops with his hand on the doorknob. "You think about it. Let me know how you feel about it on Tuesday," he says, then goes into his office, closes the door.

SATURDAY – WEEK 2

"Hey, Dean," a man's voice calls from the bedside.

I squint up to see a bald man in his mid thirties in scrubs. "Hey," I reply.

"Robert's off today, so you get me instead. He asked that I come in and make sure you woke up okay after your new medication," the man explains.

I rub my hands over my face. "Um, yeah, I don't feel that horribly drugged. I think I can make it," I say with a bit of a smile as I sit up.

"My name is Kieran, but everybody just calls me Key," the man tells me.

"Nice to meet you, Key," I say as I hold out my hand.

He shakes my hand. "Hey, would you mind waking Joey up? He's kind of down because they put him on a new medication that's making him sleep harder. And I know he likes you better than the rest of us nurses, anyway," Key says with a shrug of his shoulders.

"No problem," I say as I slide off the bed.

"Thanks," he says with a smile. "I'll see you in a few minutes for your morning meds," he says as he walks out of the room.

I make my way to Joey's room, two doors down from mine. I wonder along the way why they changed the kid's meds on him, wonder if it has something to do with Jerry.

Joey's got his back to me, and he's all scrunched up into a little ball. "Hey, kid," I say as I walk up to Joey's bed. "Time to get up," I say as I rub his right arm.

I hear a groan come from the boy. "What are you doing down this way?" he mumbles, sounding pretty groggy as he stretches out, rolls onto his back, and looks up at me.

"I wanted to see if you felt like escorting me to the cafeteria for some breakfast," I say as I hold a hand out to him.

He takes the hand, and we manage to get him to the edge of his bed. "I'm not hungry, but I'll come with," he offers.

"Cool," I say as he slides off the bed.

"It sounds like you're sleeping better at night," Joey comments as we get out into the hallway.

"What do you mean? How did you know I wasn't sleeping well at night?" I ask, puzzled.

"Are you kidding, man? I think everybody on this floor knows by now just how much you don't like shots with all that screaming," Joey says with a grin.

I blush, let out a nervous chuckle. "It's that bad?" I ask with a wince.

Joey just laughs. "So are they knocking you out?" he asks, still smiling.

"They did the first night, then they changed the med to a regular old sleeping pill, and I slept fine last night without being too out of it to get up this morning," I tell him, quite pleased myself about the results. I take the pill cup from Key, down my morning pills.

"They weren't too mean to you when you were on suicide watch, were they?" Joey asks.

"No, in fact I didn't even stay there for the full twenty-four hours. I was so drugged with the tranquilizer, they brought me back to my room to drool on my own pillow instead of the floor," I tell him with a smile.

"I guess they don't have to worry about you offing yourself when you can barely breathe," Joey says with a chuckle.

"I guess not," I say as we get to the cafeteria. I walk over, get a tray, then follow Joey to a table in the back.

"What do you miss most about being on the outside?" Joey asks as we settle down at the table.

"Oh, I miss driving my baby," I say with a groan, then stab a piece of fruit with my spork.

Joey gets a bit smile on his face. "And what kind of car is your baby?" he asks, seeming very interested.

"She's not just a car," I tell him with a grin as I chew on some sausage. "She's a black 1967 Chevy Impala," I say with pride.

"Sweet," Joey says. "So what kind of job did you have that paid for such a nice car?"

"Pops gave it to me," I say with a grin.

Joey chuckles. "Ah, that's even better than having to slave away for years to get it for yourself."

"Dad kept it in great condition, too," I tell him. "So what do you miss most?" I ask him.

"I miss laying on my bedroom floor with a speaker on each side of my head, music blaring until I swear my ears bled," he says with a big smile.

"I miss music, too," I groan. "What kind?" I ask as I smash my eggs a bit.

"Death metal," he says. "The employees around here don't like the word death so much, so I tell them I like metal. Well, everybody except Jim. Jim gets that I'm not going to kill just because I've listened to a song," Joey says with a roll of his eyes.

I chuckle at that. "My brother likes that emo rock. You know, that whiney shit? He loves it," I tell him with a shiver.

"Oh, man, I am truly sorry for you," Joey says with a wince.

"And do you know what the worst part is?" I ask.

"What?"

"I miss him so much, I'd even listen to it again. But don't tell him that," I say, whispering the last part.

Joey chuckles. "I'm sorry you miss him so much. Sometimes I wished I had a brother, but then I figured I'd probably fight with him so much I'd hate him," Joey tells me.

I nod. "We do fight. We get into it bad sometimes. But I never regret that my parents had him, and I'd do anything for him," I tell Joey.

"That's cool. I guess I'm just too selfish to have a sibling," he says with a bark of laughter.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I think I need to take a shower," I tell Joey. "See you at group later?"

"Man, don't you ever look at that schedule next to your door?" Joey asks with his eyebrow raised.

"Why would I do that when everybody around here tells me what I'm supposed to be doing twenty-four hours a day?" I ask, shrug my shoulders.

Joey giggles. "Group is only on the weekdays. Jim's off on the weekends," he informs me.

"You've just brightened my day a little bit, you know that?" I ask with a big grin.

"What, Jim was going to fuck up your plans for the day or something?" Joey asks.

"Or something," I say with a smile as I walk away.

MONDAY – WEEK 2

I actually wake up by myself. I roll around in bed for a while, enjoying just getting a chance to be alone, do what I want.

Saturday and Sunday went by slowly but without incident between reading and talking with Joey. The kid is really great company. He's easy to talk to, and he's actually pretty smart. He's like a good mix of Sam and I. He's smart, but still has enough charm to pull off talking with people.

Robert has a smile on his face as I pick up my morning medication. "Hey, Robert. Nice weekend?" I ask with a smile of my own.

Robert chuckles. "Actually it sucked, but it's great to see you out of bed before noon without someone having to drag you out of it," he says with a smile.

"I'm sorry your weekend sucked," I say sympathetically.

Robert shrugs. "Well, when you live alone and don't have a hobby, work becomes your life. When your boss forces you to go home, it begins to suck, therefore the weekend sucked," he tells me.

"Ooh, know the feeling, and it sucks big time," I say with a wince. "But I think your weekend actually sucked because you missed me so badly," I say with a toothy grin.

Robert laughs at that as he pushes my pill cup toward me. "Yes, that's it exactly. You know, you might want to have that ego checked out," Robert says with a big smile.

"Why? It's working perfectly fine," I say, then down the pills.

"Go eat breakfast before your head's too big to fit through the cafeteria door," Robert says as I walk away laughing.

I sit alone to eat. Joey must still be sleeping. The cafeteria is pretty full, so I decide to shower while everyone else is eating. I hurry to finish eating while everyone else takes their time.

I stop by my room to pick up a new set of scrubs, then make my way to the shower room. I set my scrubs on the counter as I take a look around to make sure I'm alone. For some reason that's quite important as of late. That's when I see the legs of someone sitting on the floor in one of the stalls.

"Shit," I grumble as I make my way over there, figuring somebody passed out because of the ridiculous amount of drugs they give you here. "Oh, fuck!" I yell as get a full view of Danny sitting semiconscious on the floor to the left of the toilet.

There's blood everywhere. There's so much that I can't even tell where it's coming from at first. Then I see that Danny's arms are cut lengthwise most of the way up each arm, blood streaming from the cuts fast enough to make my stomach lurch.

Years of training kick in, and the shock gets out of my system pretty quickly. I rush out to the hallway. "Robert! Somebody help!" I scream down the hallway.

I then grab an armful of towels from the wall, scramble over to Danny once again. I fall down onto my knees into the blood that's pooled on the floor, start to wrap a towel around each arm. I can't hold onto both arms, so I just apply pressure to one. It's not enough, but hopefully somebody will be here soon to help.

"Fuck off, you prick," Danny says, slurring badly, eyes barely open.

I don't want the guy to try and fight me off, but I don't want him to give up and drift off, either. He closes his eyes, and I feel my pulse quicken. "Make me, dumbass," I growl.

His eyes pop back open again. He gets a bit of a scowl on his face. "Get off me, motherfucker," he slurs again, this time with a bit more force behind his voice.

I hear Robert coming, and it sounds like there is someone with him. Before I can say anything else to Danny, Robert grabs me by the arm and whips me back outside of the stall while Marcus goes in, drops to the floor in front of Danny.

Robert points over to the urinals. "Stand over there," he nearly yells in an authoritative voice that almost makes me stand at attention. "Do not move!"

"Yes, sir," I say as I stumble backwards to where I was ordered to stand.

"I need a stretcher in the shower room now!" Marcus yells into his radio as Robert joins him in the small space as both men try to stop the blood.

It seems like only seconds later that the stretcher gets pushed in by four medical personnel, but it was probably longer. I don't know what's wrong, but my head feels funny. My heart is pounding, and there's a rushing in my ears like I've been running for a couple of miles, but not quite.

I hear the men talking, but I don't understand what they're saying. I watch as they load Danny onto the stretcher. He's completely passed out, head lolling. There's blood everywhere.

All six men leave with Danny, the stretcher being rolled by four of them. I look over at the blood on the floor. I can't help it, but I just stare at it. It's not like I've never seen blood before. That's not something new. What's new is how I'm feeling. I don't like it, but I don't know how to stop it.

Before I realize that my eyes are closed, someone touches my shoulder gently. My eyes fly open as I gasp.

"It's okay, Dean," Robert says softly.

"Is he okay?" I whisper as if saying it is too loud. Some part of my brain recognizes the fact that Robert's scrubs have no blood on them.

"Dan's got him now. They'll take good care of him," Robert assures me. He reaches up, wipes some dampness off of my left cheek. "Let's take care of you now."

Oh, fuck, I was crying. I reach up to wipe at my face, but Robert grabs a hold of my left hand with his own gloved hand. It's then that I look at my hand and arm to see blood covering my skin. My eyes widen.

"It's okay," Robert repeats as he pulls me by the arm toward the showers. We stand in front of one of the faucets, and he starts to pull my shirt off. "Let's get these off first."

I numbly let him undress me, ogling the amount of blood on my clothes the entire time. I can't believe how much there is. It's making my stomach clench.

Robert turns the water on, grabs a bar of soap, hands it to me. "Can you wash yourself?" he asks me.

"Huh?" I ask stupidly. I really don't know what my problem is, but his voice even sounds funny. I don't like this. I feel so weird.

Robert points at the soap in my hands. "Wash the blood off of your hands and arms first," he instructs me.

Oh, that's what he wanted. I start to do as he told me. I'm still a bit amazed at the amount of blood on my hands, but I'm able to wash it off without any help.

"Can you wash the rest of you, too?" Robert asks, and I'm thankful that he's not making me feel as stupid as I know I'll feel later.

"Y-yeah," I say, somewhat hesitant, as if I'm not sure I can do what he's telling me to do.

I think I'm moving slowly, but I not only manage to soap myself up, but I step under the spray and get the soap off of me, too. Robert turns the water off with ungloved hands, starts toweling me dry. I don't know when he took off the gloves.

It's then that I notice that I'm shaking, and it's not because I'm cold. He pulls me over to the cubbyholes, starts to dress me.

"Let's go to your room now," Robert says as he starts pulling me by my upper arm out into the hallway. My legs don't feel right. "Take off your slippers, and get into bed."

I do as he tells me. It's much easier when it's an order. I climb into bed, lie down on my back so I can look up at Robert.

Robert sits down on the edge of my bed. "Try to breathe a little deeper for me. Let me feel your stomach move," he says as he puts his hand on my stomach.

I try to obey him. I really do, but it appears that my body has a different idea of what it wants to do.

"Slow it down a little bit," Robert says in a soothing voice, hand still on my upper abdomen.

Oh, fuck! Now my bottom lip is trembling. My breathing speeds up even more. I don't want to cry. I hate this!

Robert shushes me softly. "It's okay to feel this way, Dean. Don't fight your body so hard," he tells me.

I open my mouth to tell him just how much I don't want to do this, but the only thing that comes out is a whimper. Why am I reacting like this? Not only have I been around shit like this all my fucking life, I was trained how to avoid feeling and reacting like I am.

"I know you're Mr. Tough Guy, but you're feeling some things you've never felt before," Robert explains as I feel warm tears running into my hair. The thumb of his right hand rubs my belly a bit. "It's okay to be vulnerable every once in a while," he says with a soft smile.

"Don't want to," I say through clenched teeth as a few more tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

"Nobody's going to see but me. Nobody's going to laugh at you or make fun of you," Robert tells me as my breathing gets even faster, my jaw so tight it feels like it might break. "You're going to make yourself pass out," Robert warns me.

"It hurts!" I tell him desperately. Everything hurts. My chest is burning, my stomach is clenching, my eyes are prickling, my jaw is breaking, and I can't seem to keep my feet and legs still. I grab onto Robert's shirt with my right hand, fisting it at his chest.

"It only hurts because you're fighting it," Robert says like it's the easiest thing in the world to just let go.

I let out a growl. "I don't even fucking like the jerk!" I say quite loudly.

"It doesn't matter, though, does it?" he asks gently, and I growl at him. "It's hard to watch somebody slipping away when you know that what they're going through hurts them so badly that the only way they can cope is to end their life," Robert says with a sad look on his face, a look of experience.

"I hate this!" I yell, then let out a big sob.

Once that's out, it seems I just can't stop myself. I leave my right hand fisted in Robert's shirt, but bring my left arm up to lay across my eyes. Somehow it makes it easier, and I start sobbing.

"I d-don't want to d-do this," I let out in between heaving sobs. "I d-don't do this!"

Robert's hand never stops moving on my stomach, just a gentle touch that lets me know he's there. That and the warmth I'm getting from his right hip next to mine. "You're on medications that mess with your hormones and your brain chemistry. I wasn't lying before when I said you were feeling things you've never felt before. I know it's scary, and I know you don't like it, but try to keep calm, talk to me about it," Robert reassures me.

My whole body feels like it's tearing apart. "Make it stop!" I yell at Robert, still hiding under my arm, still sobbing like a baby.

"You're doing good, Dean. I know it's hard, but you're doing good," he says, then just lets me cry.

After a while, I get to the point where I'm just making horribly embarrassing snorting noises and hiccups. I hear a plastic bag open, then Robert pulls my left arm away from my face.

"Close your eyes," he tells me, then uses a wet wipe to catch all the tears and snot.

"You're always s-so prepared," I grumble with a bit of a smile, eyes feeling raw.

"What would you have done with all that snot on your face otherwise?" Robert says with a grin.

"That's what my shirt is for," I say, smile growing.

Robert chuckles. "My mistake," he says.

We stay in silence for a bit, my hiccupping and snorting backing off little by little. "I'm sorry," I say as I look up at Robert.

"I told you last time not to apologize," Robert says with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, but this time I kind of outdid myself," I say with a grimace. It's then that I realize I still have his shirt in my hand. I let go as if burned by it. "Sorry," I say again.

Robert shakes his head. "You've been here a little over a week, and already you've had more happen to you than people who have been here for years, and yet you've made it this far. You're hanging on. You're still willing to talk to me," Robert compliments me.

I look down at Robert's rumpled shirt. I don't feel like I'm hanging on. I certainly don't feel like I can take any more. I concentrate on the wrinkles until I feel Robert's fingers tapping my stomach.

"Hey," he says.

I slowly look back up at him. "Yeah?" I whisper.

"I know you don't belong here, but hang on just a little while longer," Robert says softly.

My eyes widen. My stomach clenches yet again as realization hits me. He knows. I don't know how, but the man knows. I open my mouth to ask all the questions that are going through my head, but he shakes his head no, gives me a look that clearly says "let it go" even though I've never seen this look on his face before.

"Why don't you take a nap? I'll wake you up in time to get some lunch," Robert says as he gives my stomach one last rub, stands up.

"Yes, sir," I say, still dazed, wanting to ask questions.

Robert chuckles at my reaction, leaves me alone. I can't help it. I turn over and start imagining all the possibilities. By the time I fall asleep, I have a plan of Sam and Bobby dressed as orderlies together with Robert getting me out of here under the cover of night. I remember that Robert is on day shift just before I fall asleep, totally ruining my little plan.

By the time Robert gets me for lunch, there's only a half hour left to eat. I don't see Joey, but figure he got his lunch as soon as the cafeteria opened. I try not to worry about him, but with a new medication on board, there's no telling what the kid is going through right now. I decide to go see him after I have my appointment with Richards.

Nobody sits with me. Nobody talks to me. Nobody even looks at me. It feels good in a way, but then another part of me wants company. I don't know whether it's because I miss Sam or what, but I don't feel as much like being alone as I used to. I guess I never really was alone that much to begin with. Getting alone time when you live out of a motel room is hard to do. Sam talks to me constantly, even if it's just about what we're doing the next day. I think I'm going into withdrawal.

I walk out of the cafeteria to see Joey sitting on the far end of the couch. He's looking out the big windows that nearly take up the entire length of the wall. When I get back from my appointment with Richards, he's still in the same position. I let out a sigh.

I flop down on the couch next to the kid, sprawling out like I normally do, whack his leg with my left hand. "Tell me what's so interesting out there," I say with a smile as I close my eyes, lay my head on the back of the couch.

"It's raining," he mumbles, his chin resting on his left hand.

I have no idea if this is a loaded question or not, but decide to go for it. "You like the rain?" I ask, then inwardly cringe as I await the blowout.

"Yeah, I like the sound it makes hitting the leaves on the trees, the smell of it on cement, all those cliché things," he comments, sounding pretty sad about it.

We can't hear or smell the rain in here. It sucks. "I bet you were one of those kids who would run out into the rain to feel it on their tongue without caring about getting your clothes wet," I say with a grin, not lifting my head up to see his reaction.

A soft chuckle comes out of the boy. "How'd you know?" he asks, sounding like he almost has a smile on his face now.

I shrug my shoulders, then turn to look at him. Those beautiful blue eyes are staring down at me like I can save him, and it hurts, mostly because I know that I can't. "I think it's your horrendously scary taste in music," I say with a big smile.

He elbows me hard enough in the left side that I grunt. "It's metal, just a little bit heavier," he says in a teasing tone. "At least that's what I tell the guys around here," he whispers.

"Smart guy, you are," I say with a chuckle. I really do like this kid. Knowing my luck, he'll probably end up possessed or something.

We sit in silence, probably both wishing we could hear the rain for at least a little while. I'm glad that we know each other well enough to be able to have comfortable silences.

"You have lunch?" I ask, suddenly wondering.

I see him shake his head no. Then he turns to me with a panic stricken look on his face. "Don't tell Robert?" It comes out as a question.

I stare into those pleading eyes for a moment before answering. "This time," I say.

The kid relaxes again. "Robert and I have this deal that I don't have to eat breakfast, but I have to eat lunch and dinner every day, but I just didn't feel like eating," he says sadly as he turns to look out at the rain again.

"Does your stomach hurt?" I ask.

"No," he says, doesn't give me any more.

I'm so bad at this. I have no idea what to say. I don't want to scare the boy or upset him, make him mad at me, but I want to help. I've never been good at this kind of thing, and it just makes me miss Sam even more because we fit together so well, him being better at talking with people.

"They gave me a new med," Joey finally says. "I think they want me to stop saying yes to everybody that wants something from me, but then they put me on a pill that makes me even more passive," he grumbles.

So it was because of Jerry that his medications were changed. Ouch. "Makes you sleep more, too, doesn't it?" I ask, probably not helping. Joey just nods, keeps looking out the window. I feel like I'm making some excellent progress, getting absolutely nowhere.

"You had your appointment with Richards today, right?" he asks, turning back to look down at me. I nod. "He change anything on you?"

"No, he said he wanted to see how the new sleeping pill worked for a while before he did any more changes. It sounds like he wants to change things, but he's just not quite ready yet," I say with a frown.

"Yeah, sometimes he seems a little pill happy," Joey says with a frown of his own.

After a little while longer of comfortable silence, I get an idea. "Hey," I say as I turn to him again.

"Yeah?" he asks, turning to look at me.

"I feel like playing cards. Want to?" I ask, giving him a hopeful look.

Joey chuckles, stands up, and gives me a hand up. I let Joey have the seat that faces the windows, and I sit facing the nurse's station. Robert looks up, gives me a smile.

Joey teaches me a card game that we play for a while, him laughing every time I fuck up or get frustrated because I'm not getting it.

"Okay, now you're doing it on purpose," Joey accuses.

I shrug. "I win that way," I say with a grin.

Joey laughs so hard he drops his head down on the table. When he gets his breath back, he sits up and tries to give me a stern look, which fails miserably. "Play right!" he tells me.

I chuckle. "Yes, sir," I tell him with a smile. I win the next hand fair and square.

"So where's your brother?" he asks as he plays a card.

"I don't know," I tell him with a wince.

"No calling, writing, visiting?" he asks me.

"We kind of did some stuff before I got put in here," I start awkwardly.

"You know you don't have to tell me why you're in here, don't you?" he asks with a lopsided grin.

"Well, suffice it to say he's hiding out," I say, thankful that he didn't push it.

"I'm sorry you don't get to see him. I know you were really close," Joey says sadly.

I shrug. "I'll see him again," I say with confidence.

Joey smiles at that. "Speaking of which, what's going to be the first thing you eat when you get out of here?" he asks me as he plays a card.

I chuckle. "The biggest, juiciest, most heart attack-inducing burger I can find," I say with a grin, nearly drooling at just the thought.

"I thought you might be that type. I'm not big on the artery clogging, but I would like a huge Sunday with all the toppings I can fit in the bowl," Joey says with a big smile.

"Awesome," I reply. "I think I'll have that for dessert," I say with a grin.

"Is your brother into grease traps, too?" he asks.

I shake my head. "That's the strange part. He complains about the grease constantly, but eats whatever I put in front of him. I don't know what the deal is," I grumble.

Joey shrugs. "Maybe he just feels the need to make a token protest on principle," he suggests.

"I guess so," I say as I shuffle the cards. I can't believe I'm playing cards. I can't believe I'm actually enjoying it. Sam would definitely choke me if he saw me doing this considering all the times he's asked me.

Robert walks up to the table. "Sorry to bust up your little party, boys, but you've got group," he says, looking upset to have disturbed us.

"You're not going to even let us skip out on one day of that, are you?" I ask with a scowl.

"Nope, now get going so you're not late," he says as he fluffs Joey's hair, then leaves.

"We'd better get going," I grumble as I stand up, and we walk to group in silence.

"Hey, guys," Jim says with a smile on his face.

I cringe at seeing Jim, remembering not only our last encounter, but what he expects of me tomorrow. I still don't know what I'm going to do. I must look totally shocked, but he just smiles before looking up at Joey.

"Hey, Jim," Joey says as he slips between two chairs.

"Okay, guys. Now that everybody's here, I'd like to start us off today with the subject of self-esteem," he says with a smile, ignores the moans from two or three of the men. "I want you to describe the last time you did something for yourself. We've got enough time, so I'm going to want an answer from each of you," Jim warns us.

Is he serious? I start to get a little nervous. The last time I did something for myself? No, really, is he serious? I've got to think of something. And he's not going to let me sleep through this one. He said so.

I come out of my own head long enough to listen to the answer of the guy directly in front of me. "I took a shit this morning," he says with a chuckle.

The whole group, excluding Jim and I, laugh at him. Jim doesn't look mad-he's smiling, but I don't think he appreciated the comment.

"Okay, okay, now tell me the last thing you really did for yourself," Jim says.

"Sorry, doc," the guy says, only half apologetic. Jim smiles at him. "Okay, yesterday I took an extra long shower with the water really hot like I used to before I came here," the man says.

"That's good," Jim says, sounding much more appreciative of this answer. The man smiles at the praise.

I zone out again for the next few men. I still haven't thought of anything. There's nothing to do around here for yourself. This is a stupid question. I hate group. This serves no purpose. Seriously.

"I built my daughter a tree house," the man to my left says. "I know that doesn't sound like something for myself, but it sure felt like it when I saw the look on her face when it was done," the man says, pride evident in his tone of voice.

"Just because we're doing something for another person, it doesn't mean that we're not getting something out of it as well," Jim comments. Then everyone looks at me.

I cringe and let out a nervous chuckle. It really shouldn't be this hard. The other men have all answered. It's just Joey and I left now. "I let myself relax and have a good time with a friend," I finally answer.

Jim gives me an encouraging smile. "That's excellent," he says.

I try hard not to blush, but I've got Jim complimenting me, and I can see Joey beaming at me out of the corner of my eye. I chuckle and look down at my hands, glad when everyone turns to Joey.

"I sat on the couch and watched the rain," Joey says.

"I know they're your favorite kind of days, and we don't get many of them around here, so it's great that you were able to enjoy it," Jim says. "All right, then. That's it for today. See you all tomorrow," he says as he stands up. He heads toward the wall to my right with the table against it, picks up his files, heads out the door with them in hand.

All the other patients make their way out the door, Joey and I being the last. "Meet you in the cafeteria at five?" I ask as we walk down the hallway.

"Checking up on me?" Joey asks with a grin.

"You don't want to have dinner with me?" I ask with a pout.

Joey chuckles at that. "Okay, I'll see you at five," he says over his shoulder as he walks into his room.

Later that night I wake to a wicked nightmare. It must have been bad to get me to wake up despite the sleeping pill. I know I'm acting like an idiot, but I just have to get out of bed. I start pacing the room without my slippers on. The cool of the floor feels good on my overheated, sweaty skin.

Every time I walk toward the door, I look out the window for the orderly. I haven't seen him yet, so I think I'll be okay.

I shake my hands and arms out. They still feel funny. I feel fidgety. I still feel horrible. I hate this. And what if Richards finds out I had this nightmare on the sleeping pill? I can't go back on that tranquilizer.

The floor feels so cool, I want to lie down naked on it. I sit down against the far wall so that I have a good view of the door. I bring my knees up to my chest, rest my forearms on my knees. I close my eyes, lay my head against the wall. I can feel the coolness seeping into me, and it feels wonderful.

"Dean," Greg says as he shakes my arm.

My eyes fly open, widen. "Oh, shit! Oh, shit!" I say as I start to breathe heavily, try to back away from him. I'm obviously not going anywhere, though. It's then that I realize the orderly is standing in the middle of the room, waiting to help Greg.

"Did you have another nightmare?" Greg asks me.

My mouth opens to say yes, but then I remember the tranquilizer. My mouth snaps shut, and a whimper comes out of me. I shake my head no jerkily.

"It's not a good idea to lie to me, Dean," Greg says, voice deep. He doesn't sound happy.

I moan. "Don't tell Richards," I whisper as if somebody else is going to hear.

Greg shakes his head no. "I'm not going to tell Richards unless it becomes a regular problem," he tells me.

"Okay, then yeah," I say, fairly confident this won't have to be a regular problem. Greg stands up, holds a hand out to me, pulls me up. I watch as he pulls a syringe out of his pocket. "No!" I whine as I back up to the bed.

"C'mon, Dean," Greg says as he gets closer. "Stay calm and turn around."

"No, I don't need it! I'll get back into bed!" I say as I put my hands up in front of me, the edge of the bed touching the backs of my legs. "Greg, please!"

"Last time I'm going to say it," Greg warns. "Turn around," he says, enunciating each word.

"Greg I-" Greg cuts me off by waving the orderly over. "No! No shot!" I yell as the orderly grabs at me, gets me turned around. He quickly has me pinned to the bed. "No! Stop!" I yell into the bedding, my voice getting muffled. I let out a yelp as Greg sticks me with the needle. I'll never get used to that.

"You need to talk to us, Dean. Tell us if you're having trouble. Don't lie to us. We can't help you if you lie to us," Greg says as he and the orderly get me into bed, get the railing up.

TUESDAY – WEEK 2

I squint up at Robert as he lowers my railing. "Not yet," I mumble, turn over, pull the pillow over my head.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Robert says with what sounds like a smile on his lips. The pillow is taken from me, and I give an appropriate gesture. I hear Robert laugh. "C'mon, I've got something to tell you," he says, pulling at my arm.

"That's never a good thing," I groan as I wrap my arms around my head, curl up into a ball, and otherwise generally act like a two-year-old.

"I'm not leaving until you sit up and listen to me," Robert threatens in his non-threatening tone.

I let out a growl. "Fine," I say as I sit up against the wall, my feet dangling off the side of the bed that Robert is on.

"We got the tests back, and Danny's clean," he says with a smile.

"Clean?" I ask, not quite connecting the dots.

"Well, we won't get the official HIV test back for two weeks, but the rapid test was negative, and everything else came back negative," Robert tells me.

"Oh," I say, surprised look on my face. "I hadn't even really thought about it," I tell him, having a hard time believing that it hadn't even crossed my mind. I was covered in the guy's blood, and it hadn't crossed my mind.

Robert shrugs. "You had other things on your mind," he says.

"How is he?" I ask with a wince.

"Physically he's doing great for what happened. If all goes well, he should be out in a week," Robert says.

"Mentally?" I ask.

"That's not going so well. He's refusing to eat, and he hasn't said a word since he woke up. He won't look anybody in the eye, either," Robert explains.

"Oh," I say, looking down at my hands.

"He's in a good place. He's somewhere a lot of people are looking out for him, even if he doesn't like them all that much," Robert says as he grabs my knee and shakes it a bit.

"I guess so," I say.

"Hey, Joey isn't up yet. Would you mind getting him for me?" Robert asks.

"Sure," I say, a bit of a smile on my face. Just the thought of the kid is making me smile now, it appears.

"Maybe you can take him to breakfast, convince him to eat with you," Robert suggests.

I cringe, not wanting to tell Robert that the boy isn't in the mood to eat lately. "Yes, sir," I say with a smile as I slide off the bed.

Robert leaves, so I figure I've gotten away with it for the time being. I've just got to convince Joey to start eating. I don't want to get in trouble with Robert.

I walk into Joey's room, glance over at the desk. There are about five or six books strewn about on it, a small stack of paper underneath them. I don't know what he needs with that many books.

"Hey, dude," I say as I walk up to Joey's bed.

Joey's eyes blink open, and he looks up at me, smiles. "The big tough guy who's scared of shots has come to awaken me this morning," Joey teases as he stretches.

"Oh, aren't we funny today," I growl with fake annoyance.

"You just don't look like the type to scream like a girl over shots, you know?" Joey comments as he sits up in bed.

"First of all, I do not scream like a girl," I say as I whack Joey in the arm.

"Sure sounded like a girl, Deanna," Joey says with a lopsided grin.

I chuckle at that. "Second, it's not only the pain, which I admit is not as bad as I make it out to be, but it's also the fact that they're giving me drugs. I don't like the shit they put in me, and then they want to put more in on top of it. I don't like it. Thus the large amount of noise that wakes up and amuses everyone in the middle of the night," I explain.

"I doubt it amuses everyone," Joey says as he slides out of bed, heads for his slippers. We leave his room. "In fact, I'm probably the only one lying in bed laughing their ass off over it," he says as he knocks into me while we're walking down the hallway.

I snort. "I can feel the love," I say with a grin.

"Good morning, boys," Robert says as he hands each of us a pill cup.

"Hey," we say together, and Robert waves as we leave the nurse's station.

I grab two trays from the cart, head over to the table Joey is already sitting at. I put a tray down in front of him, then sit in front of my own.

"I take it this is your polite way of saying that I'd better eat something, huh?" Joey asks with a frown.

"I know you don't feel like it, but I really don't want to lie to Robert, and I really don't want you to get a fucking tube shoved up your nose," I say quietly.

"It was bad?" Joey asks with a wince.

"It's horrible!" I say with a shiver. "I wouldn't wish it on anybody, and I never want to go through it myself ever again," I tell him.

Joey picks up a sausage link, nibbles on the end. "What's it feel like?" he asks.

"Your nose burns, your eyes water, and then you feel like you're choking to death. And it doesn't all stop when the tube comes out, either," I complain as I mash up my eggs.

Joey's eyes widen at my description. "I didn't think it would be that bad," he says, then finishes the link quickly.

"I'd rather you didn't have to find out first hand," I say as I stab a piece of fruit.

"Yeah, I guess not," Joey says, obviously realizing for the first time just how bad it could be. We sit in silence for a while as we eat before Joey gets a smile on his face again. "So what do you think about life in outer space?" he asks.

I chuckle at that, glad that the kid comes up with this stuff. "Well, to tell you the truth, I've always had a hard enough time dealing with the shit that goes on down here to be worried about the shit that could happen out there," I tell him.

Joey nods, shoves some egg into his mouth. "I like to believe that there's something out there more important than us. I can't imagine that we're the only things in such a huge amount of space. So I don't know what there is, but I'd like to think there is something," he tells me.

"That sounds cool," I say with a nod.

"If there were aliens, what do you think they would be like?" he asks me.

"I would think they would be smarter than us if they find a way to get to us before we find a way to get to them," I say with a mouthful of watermelon.

"Well, I hope they're either a lot smarter than us or a lot dumber than us," Joey comments.

I get a puzzled look on my face. "Why do you say that?"

"If they're a lot smarter, they won't want to kill us. If they're a lot dumber, they won't know how to kill us," Joey says with a grin.

I chuckle. "Sounds good to me," I agree.

We finish our meals, put the trays on the cart, and I try to hide a smile as I see that Joey ate almost all of his breakfast. We flop down on the couch facing each other, Joey toward the nurse's station.

"So I'm betting you were the type of kid that got into tons of fights when you were in school. Am I right?" Joey asks.

I smile at that, think of a few of the fights I got into. "I've always been pretty athletic, and Dad taught me how to fight when I was pretty young, so yeah, I got into quite a few fights," I admit.

"Ever get into one over Sam?" he asks.

I wince. "The worst one I ever got into was over Sam," I tell him.

"What happened?" he asks me, the interest plain to see on his face.

"We moved around a lot when we were kids. I was fifteen, Sam eleven, and we had just moved into this dinky little apartment in the bad part of town. We went to school as not only the new kids, but the poor kids as well. Sam was in hand-me-downs. I was in clothes that didn't quite fit right anymore," I start.

"Not in the popular group, then," Joey comments.

"No. It was a small town, only one school, cliques, and all that. I came around the corner the first day of school just in time to see Sam getting pushed to the ground by a boy that was my age," I say, still getting a little upset even all these years later.

"What a jerk!" he says, looking ticked off about it.

"Before I could do anything, the kid kicks Sam in the stomach hard enough that my brother rolled, had the air knocked out of him. Now my brother was taught to fight, too, but he was down with the kick, and I was already seeing red. So I went after the guy, beat him up pretty badly," I say with a wince.

"Was he okay? The jerk?" he asks me.

"I didn't stop until some teachers pulled me off of him. By then he didn't get up. He just lay on the ground crying," I say guiltily.

"What did the school do?" Joey asks, eyes wide.

"I almost got expelled, but they decided to knock it down to an extended suspension. I kind of felt bad for my dad, because he wasn't sure whether to congratulate me or punish me," I say with a chuckle.

"What did he decide on?"

"First he punished me, and then he hugged me, told me he probably would have done the same thing, and he was glad that I was looking out for Sam, but asked that maybe I didn't go quite so far next time," I say with a smile. Dad was awesome.

"That was cool of him. My mom wouldn't have taken it that well," Joey says with a frown. "But I never got into fights."

I look down at my hands for a moment. "I've never told anybody this, but at the moment, I wanted to kill the kid," I say with a wince as I look up at Joey.

"I'm sure you're not the first to feel that way over the mistreatment of a baby brother," Joey says with a snort.

I smile at that, relieved that he said it, relieved that I said it. "I suppose not," I say.

"So I'm guessing you didn't have too many friends growing up," Joey says.

I shake my head. "We moved too much to really get close to anybody. It made the three of us a lot closer, especially my brother and I."

We fall into silence again, and my eyes travel over to the shelving unit with the games, cards, and other somewhat entertaining things on them.

"Want to try a puzzle?" I ask as I start to stand up.

"Okay," Joey says easily.

We spent the rest of the morning putting together a puzzle with two missing pieces, but it still looked like a bunch of puppies in a basket. Someone probably thought it was cute.

"Dean," Robert calls from over at the nurse's station.

"Yeah?" I yell back.

"Jim," Robert simply says.

My stomach clenches. It's eleven o'clock. It's time to see Jim. "I've got to go," I grumble at Joey.

"I'll just be hanging around out here when you get done if you want to have lunch together," Joey offers.

I smile at him, glad that he's got his appetite back. "Okay," I say, then take off in the direction of Jim's office.

Is it bad that I still haven't decided what I'm going to tell this guy? I don't want to think about any of this. I shouldn't be made to do this. I'm a sick individual. I should be allowed to rest, relax, get lots of sleep.

I stand in front of Jim's door, not wanting to knock. Even though it's not much, I could still lose quite a bit if this goes down badly. Jim will certainly never look at me the same way again.

Richards would have a field day with this. He'd have me in the IV room around the clock, never mind thinking of getting out.

The door opens, and I let out a gasp. "What the fuck, are you psychic or something?" I growl angrily. I don't normally get startled so easily, so I'm a bit ticked.

Jim just smiles. "I saw your shadow under the door, figured you needed a little encouragement to come in today," he says with a shrug as he steps aside.

I walk in, go straight to the couch I always sit in. I feel shaky, jittery. I feel myself breathing a little heavier than normal.

"I want to start off by apologizing," Jim says as he sits down on the couch across from me.

"Huh?" I ask intelligently, puzzled look on my face.

"I promised I would make this a place where you felt comfortable to talk to me, and I pushed last time. I thought you were about to tell me something that was very deep and important to you, and so I pushed, and I'm sorry," Jim says, looking truly apologetic.

"You're serious?" I ask.

"I'm not perfect, and I certainly will admit when I'm wrong," Jim says.

I'm kind of blown away by this. I was not expecting it at all. I was expecting him to start right in on me again, try to get me to talk.

"So please tell me if you feel like I'm pushing anything, because this is supposed to be for you, not me," Jim tells me.

I nod. "Okay," I say. This sounds cool. I never thought a shrink would apologize to me. This is cool.

"My offer still stands that I made to you out in the hall, but we can talk about whatever you feel like talking about," Jim says.

I'm so scared. I just don't know about this. If I could look into the future, I would. I look down at my hands, try to run through all the reasons this is a bad idea yet again.

"It's okay if you don't trust me, Dean," Jim says after my prolonged silence.

I look up at him, wince. "I still am worried about all the things I told you I was worried about the other day. I just can't," I tell him with a shrug of my shoulders.

"It's okay," Jim says with a nod. "Trust has to be earned, and I certainly did a bang-up job of that last time you were here, huh?" he asks.

I let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, you were right," I start.

"About what?" he asks as he cocks his head to the side.

"I was about to tell you everything," I say as I look back down at my hands. "I was so upset that you said... I was so upset that I almost just told you enough to get me stuck in the little padded room for the rest of my life."

"The way we deal with mental illness has changed so much in even just the last thirty years. Things that would have gotten people locked in cellars are now getting people much needed therapy," Jim explains.

I nod, still looking at my hands. "I keep telling myself that," I say with another nervous chuckle. "But I can't come up with one good reason to tell you everything," I say as I look up at him.

Jim gives me a soft smile. "I can't tell you what to do, but whatever you're hiding, it's the reason you're here. It's the reason for how you act and react. It's the reason why you have nightmares. It's the reason why you're on medications. It's the reason why you can't see your brother. And I have a feeling it's why your father is no longer with you," he says carefully.

My eyes widen at that, but I quickly calm myself down, look back down at my hands. I don't want him to see how much this is affecting me. I certainly didn't want him to see that last part was true.

"The longer you keep all this hidden and a secret, the more it eats at you, hurts you, makes you miserable, keeps others away from you," Jim explains. "I don't wish for you to go through life broken and alone. And I don't think that's what you want, is it?"

I shake my head no. Why is he making all of this sound so logical? This is totally fucking me up. I had all these reasons to say no, and he's giving me way too many to say yes.

"Let's get something out of the way straight off the bat," Jim says, and I look up at him. "The murders. Were they yours?" he asks, sounding nonchalant about it.

I shake my head no again. "No, they're not mine. I never-"

"Then that's out of the way," Jim cuts me off. "We can move on and talk about what did happen, things that are important to you."

"How do you know it wasn't the murders that I didn't want to tell you everything about?" I ask, puzzled.

"Well, for one thing, everybody knows about those, and this is something that you think nobody knows," Jim says.

"Oh, duh," I say with a roll of my eyes. I should've figured that one out myself.

"And second, plain old murders won't get you put in a padded room for the rest of your life, will they?"

"Okay," I say, giving him a little smile.

"So it's your choice, Dean," Jim says with a shrug.

I feel myself start to shake harder, my palms get sweaty. I rub my hands on my pants, but it doesn't help. I can't believe I'm going to do this.

I look at the clock on my way out of Jim's office. I had been in there for two and a half hours. Jim let me talk to him through his lunch hour and then some.

I walk down the hallway feeling ridiculously strange. I'm lightheaded, my chest feels sore, my whole body is tingling, and my stomach is growling, so I know I missed lunch. I walk by the nurse's station to see Joey sitting on the couch reading. He looks up at me.

"Hey, man, you missed lunch," he says with a smile.

I walk over and flop down onto the couch, use the armrest as a headrest. "My brain hurts," I moan as I put my right arm over my eyes to block out the light from the big windows.

I hear him toss the book down on the coffee table in front of us. "You were in with Jim that whole time?" he asks, sounding amazed.

"Yeah," I reply as I scratch my stomach.

"He started doing that weird thing again where he makes you talk even though he's not making you talk about something, didn't he?" Joey nearly growls.

"No, it was okay. He gave some good reasons for talking to him, but he didn't force anything," I tell him.

"He's not human, I tell you," Joey says, a grin evident in his tone of voice.

I chuckle at that, then chuckle harder as I consider what I've just spent the last few hours talking about. My stomach growls again.

"You're not, like, starving or anything, are you?" Joey asks, sounding concerned.

"Dude, my mind is too badly fucked right now to care about my stomach," I tell him with a grin.

"So is it time for a subject change?" Joey asks me.

"Definitely," I say, totally relieved.

"Tell me the first funny memory that pops into your head," Joey requests.

I have no idea why this is the first thing that hits me, but it does. I let out a bark of laughter as it hits me. "Sam and I have always been big with pranks. When Sam was about twelve, and I was sixteen, so I was old enough to know better, I played a prank on him," I start.

"Was your dad around the house?" Joey asks.

"Yeah, so it was even stupider for me to have done it. Anyway, I made hamburgers for dinner, but I dumped hot chili powder on Sam's," I tell him.

"You didn't!" Joey says, then actually giggles.

"We're sitting around the dinner table when Sam bites into his burger. I sit there looking as innocent as a sixteen-year-old can when Sam's eyes get big, he spits out the burger, and he starts choking," I say with a laugh.

"And your Dad was right there at the table?" he asks.

"Yeah, Dad was the one that stood up to help Sam. And just when I think Sam's got it under control, he starts throwing up all over the table," I say, chuckling even harder.

"Gross!" Joey says, then laughs.

"When Sam finally calmed down, my dad looked over at me, saw the panic-stricken expression on my face, and barked my name so loud I nearly pissed myself. I scrambled up out of my seat, slipped in some of the puke, and fell down right onto my ass on the linoleum floor," I say, laughing hard enough to make it difficult to speak.

Joey's laughing so hard that I take my arm away from my face to look at him. His face is pink, the blue in his eyes standing out even more because of it. He really looks happy.

"Oh, man, did I get in trouble for that one. And I had to clean up the mess while Dad was in the bathroom taking care of Sam and his poor throat," I say, still smiling. "I got grounded for almost the entire summer. Dad wouldn't even let me touch the keys to the car, and dating was just plain out of the question."

Our laughter dies down, and Joey sighs. "I never got to play pranks on anybody," he complains.

"Sam and I have gotten in so much trouble over the years for pranks, but we still prank each other even now. Just last month Sam put ketchup packets on my seat in a fast food restaurant," I tell him, feeling an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with everything I told Jim.

"That is so cool!" Joey says with a grin. "What did you do to get him back?"

"Well, it was a simple one, so I used a simple one to retaliate. I spilled beer on the crotch of his pants, made it look like he pissed himself," I tell him.

Joey just starts laughing all over again. "The worst I did was buy a box of those little plastic ants, and then I put them on the kitchen counter. Mom didn't even give me a good reaction to them. She just threw them out," Joey complains.

"That sucks, man," I say, still grinning like an idiot.

We're both quiet, lost in our own thoughts for a while when Joey turns to look at me again. "Don't laugh at me, but I've got this book here. Do you want me to read to you until group?" he asks, looking quite unsure about himself.

"I'm not laughing, and yes, I'd like that," I tell him with a smile.

Joey's face lights up again, and he picks up his book, settles back into the couch again. He turns to the first page.

"You're not going to be offended if I fall asleep while you're reading, are you?" I ask with a wince.

Joey snorts. "With the amount of drugs we're on, I might fall asleep reading before you fall asleep listening," Joey says.

"Cool," I say.

I rest my right arm over my eyes again, partially listen to the boy read. Jim actually surprised me. When I started off by saying that he wouldn't believe me, he told me that he may not believe what I say, but he would believe that I believed it was true. I guess that's as close as I'll get to being believed by someone who's never seen what I have.

The man never flinched, never looked surprised or scared. I started off telling him about the fire when I was four, ended with me here in the hospital. Of course I didn't tell him every single case we've ever been on, but I gave him the gist of a few of them. I mostly told the story of my family, the yellow-eyed demon, what's happened to us over the years.

He mostly kept his mouth shut, let me talk all I wanted. It felt kind of good to tell somebody all that shit. It felt even better telling someone who didn't freak out over it. Now all I have to do is wait around, see if I get thrown in the padded room for telling him everything.

"Hey, guys, time for group," I hear Robert say from above me.

Joey and I both groan. It looks like we did both fall asleep. The book is down on the floor, Joey's head propped on his left arm.

"I'm up," I say as I sit up, slide off the couch. "C'mon, kiddo," I say as I hold a hand out to Joey.

"Coming," Joey mumbles as he takes my hand.

We perk up a little on the way there. By the time we enter the room, I'm already nervous about how Jim is going to act around me now. Jim just gives each of us a little welcoming smile.

"Now that everybody's here, I want to give you guys a bit of a challenge. I want you to think of a time when you've intentionally hurt someone. It can be physically, mentally, emotionally, etc. I don't want to hear what you did. I want to hear what you learned from the experience," Jim asks of us, then turns to Angel, the first one on his right.

"I learned that not everybody is who they say they are," Angel says bitterly.

"Okay, good," Jim says without emotion on his face. "That's exactly what I was looking for, Angel."

While the next two guys say what they've learned I work on what I'm going to say. The first thing that popped into my head was when I hit Sam.

"Dean?" Jim prods.

"I've learned that you shouldn't let your anger get between you and your family," I say with a small smile.

"Excellent," he says, again with the poker face. "Joey?"

"I've learned that, no matter how much you think you hate another person, you still miss them when they're gone," Joey says as he looks at his hands.

"Thank you, Joey," Jim says softly.

I hate having stronger emotions. The backs of my eyes are prickling a bit when I know normally they wouldn't. I turn to give Joey a smile, and he smiles back. I feel like I should do something. I feel like I should hug him or something. I'm such a girl.

The rest of the answers kind of go over my head as I start to imagine what Joey went through with his mom. I wonder how upset he must have gotten. I wonder what he was thinking at the time, how awful it must have been to think that killing his mom was the only way out.

That just reminds me of Danny. I feel a chill go through me as I think of him in the hospital bed refusing to talk, to eat, to even make eye contact with other humans. He must be hurting so badly inside that he can barely breathe. I almost wish I knew what got him in here in the first place and what all he's going through. I don't know how I could help him, but I still want to.

"Okay, I'll see you all back here tomorrow," Jim says as he stands up.

Joey and I file out with the rest of the crew.

THURSDAY

I stretch, let out a loud groan, sit up, stretch some more. It's great not being so drugged in the morning that somebody has to drag you out of bed. Speaking of which, I need to go check on Joey. I woke him up yesterday, too. He's just not getting used to this new med as easily as he hoped.

"Hey, kid, wake up," I say as I go into his room.

There's a groan from the general area of the bed underneath a bunch of covers and a pillow. I look over at the books on his desk again.

"Why do you have so many books in here?" I ask him.

"I can never read just one at a time," he mumbles as I walk over to the desk, start reading the names of the books to myself. I hear him sit up behind me. "Stop!"

It's already too late. I see the disposable razor on the desk that was underneath one of the books. "Joey!" I whine as I pick it up, turn around, show it to him like he's never seen it before.

He looks adorable. His hair is up in all different directions, his shirt is rumpled, his face has pillow creases. "I wasn't going to do anything with it," Joey says with a wince.

"So what's it doing in your room?" I ask, still holding it up.

"I was just...," he trails off, his face falling.

"You were just what?" I ask, trying to keep my voice down.

"Contemplating things... about stuff," he says as he looks down at his hands twisting together.

"This is going back," I say as I head toward the door.

I hear Joey let out a big sigh behind me, but I don't let it stop me. I take off on my way to the shower room, catch a glimpse of Robert out of the corner of my eye. I inwardly groan, but try to walk as normally as possible so I don't catch his attention.

"Dean," Robert says in a warning tone as he gets closer to me.

"I'm just going to the shower room," I say as I turn to look at him, the razor in my left palm, Robert on my right side.

"In a bit of a hurry?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

He obviously knows something is up. I've got to get out of this quickly. "Robert, please. Just let me go to the shower room, please," I say, hoping that the begging will get to him.

"Dean?" I hear Joey say from his bedroom doorway.

"Stay there, Joey," Robert says. He then turns back to me, leans in, whispers to me. "My job is to look for odd behavior in my patients. When one begins behaving oddly, I start to ask questions. Do you have anything to tell me?"

I shake my head no as I look into his eyes. I can see instantly that he doesn't believe me. Either my lying capabilities are greatly hindered by these drugs or Robert is extremely good at picking out lies from truth.

"You don't want to tell me why you're suddenly in a hurry to get to the shower room after visiting Joey? Why you're holding your left hand away from me?"

Fuck, but I wish I was holding a condom. That would be awesome. "Please. Just let me go," I whisper back.

"One," he starts in a menacing tone.

My eyes widen. "Robert, no!" I say barely above a whisper. "I was just-"

"Two," he interrupts.

I let out a whimper as I slowly bring my left hand up between us. "It's mine," I say dejectedly as I show him my palm.

Robert takes the razor as if expecting to find it, pockets it. He puts both his hands on my shoulders, turns us so that my head is obscuring Joey's view of his face. "Just like last time, I know this wasn't yours," Robert says.

"But-"

Robert shakes his head. "Don't lie to me," he says with that raised eyebrow again.

I let out a sigh. "Robert, that kid doesn't need a night naked and alone on a floor," I grumble.

"You lie about this, and he might miss out on more help. It's up to you, and it's up to him when I question him," Robert tells me.

"Don't question him. It's mine. Just-"

"You saw firsthand how much damage the little blades in these razors can do. Do you really want to see anything happen to Joey?" Robert asks me.

I wince at that. He's right. It sucked that he had to use it like that, but he's right, and I don't want to see anything happen to Joey.

"Up against the wall, please," Robert says as he points to the closest wall.

Now I'm a bit confused. "But I-"

Robert shakes his head no. "You got an automatic trip to suicide watch just by having it in your hand outside of the shower room. I'm sorry, but that's just how it goes," he informs me with a shrug of his shoulders.

I let out a growl, but then obediently go stand with my palms against the wall he indicated, spread my legs. I can hear the two whispering behind me, but can't make out what they're saying.

"What are they going to do to me?" I hear Joey say, sounding like he's almost in tears.

"Come over here and stand the same way Dean is," Robert says as I hear their footsteps getting closer. "What they're going to do is put you in a little cell that has nothing in it you can hurt yourself with for twenty-four hours so they can watch you," Robert explains softly to Joey. "They're going to take you to a different level in the hospital, and then they're going to take your scrubs."

Joey suddenly spins back around to face Robert. "No!" he nearly screams. He's instantly panting and shaking. "They can't take my scrubs! Don't let them take my scrubs! They can't-"

Robert shushes Joey, puts a gentle hand on his right shoulder. "Nobody's going to see you but the orderlies and Dean because he'll be in the next cell," Robert explains.

Joey starts to cry. "Please! No!" he says through his sobs, full out panic attack.

"Calm down, Joey," Robert says as he starts rubbing the kid's back. "What's so bad about you getting naked if Dean's going to be getting naked, too?" he asks gently.

Joey looks back and forth between Robert and me. His bottom lip trembles and he lets out a whimper. "I'm a c-cutter. I took the r-razor to cut. And I have s-scars on my l-legs, and they're gross, and I d-don't like a-anybody seeing them," he manages to get out.

"I'm not going to make fun of you, Joey," I say to him, still keeping position.

"I know you won't, but-"

"What, you think I'm going to be all grossed out over it and not want to be your friend anymore?" I ask, making it sound like it's a silly notion.

He doesn't answer me other than to stand there, his lip trembling. With his hair still tousled, the sleepy look still not gone from his eyes, he looks totally miserable.

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter to me, kid. I wish you wouldn't hurt yourself, but I don't care if you have battle scars. You're going to see mine soon," I say with a smile.

"You don't cut," Joey says with the beginnings of a grin.

"No, but I've been in some fights and other dangerous situations that have given me quite a few scars, so chill out, okay?" I ask.

Joey finally smiles at me. "Okay," he says rather sheepishly.

Robert wipes the tears from Joey's face with his thumbs. "Okay, go ahead and stand like Dean so I can search you," Robert says with a smile of his own. "Do you have anything sharp on you that's going to cut me?"

"No, but why are you searching me?" Joey asks as he puts his palms on the wall. Then he proceeds to yelp as Robert starts to search his crotch and ass. I try hard not to laugh.

"Stay where you are while I search Dean," Robert says with a grin. I can tell he's trying not to laugh as well. He gets done searching me, stands behind us both. "Okay, go ahead and turn your backs to the wall. Wait right there for Jason and Clark to come and get you. Don't move," he says with a stern look on his face, then steps into the shower room to use the intercom system. He comes back out to watch over us as we all wait for the orderlies.

Soon the men come, take us in separate elevators to the cells. As I walk by Clark and Joey, I hear the boy sniffling as he takes his scrubs off. I wish I could reassure him, hug him, do something. I hand Jason my scrubs, then go into my cell. They put me in the same cell I was in last time, and they're putting Joey in the cell Danny was in.

I turn to see Joey step into the cell with his arms wrapped around himself. He looks so upset. He walks to the back wall of the cell, turns, and sits down with his back against it, his legs up by his chest, but not before I see the scars he was so worried about.

The kid has been here long enough that even the newest one is just a dusky line on his left leg. The rest are all simple silver lines that cross both of his thighs. None of them are jagged, and they are almost uniform in length. The kid never did these in anger or violently. These were methodical. I wish I knew more about this kind of thing. I don't know how I could help him, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to.

I take my spot on the floor with the tiny blanket under me just as Joey rests his forehead on his knees, wraps his arms around his legs. He didn't even bother to put the blanket beneath him. I knew he was thin, but without the scrubs and in the harsh light, he looks almost sickly.

By the time they take us out for the first piss break, I'm nearly crying my ass hurts so badly. I move around a lot, but sitting on a thin blanket doesn't do much. Joey just grins when Jason lets me use the stall instead of the urinal. I've told Joey I can only piss when I'm alone, and Jason knows from last time. For some reason Joey found it just about as funny as everybody else seems to find it.

When Greg comes in with our ten p.m. pills, I almost wish for the tranquilizer I was on the last time I was in here. At least then my ass didn't hurt. Well, maybe it did, but I didn't seem to notice it with all the drooling and unconsciousness.

The pill makes me tired, but it's still difficult to find a comfortable spot on the floor. Joey passes out pretty quickly after he takes his own pill. I'm glad he's not as uncomfortable as I am. Other than his panic attack over the clothes situation, he has been calm about this.

Not too long after I fall asleep, I wake up from a nightmare. These things are just plain pissing me off. I've never gotten them before, and I don't know why I'm getting them in here. It's sick. Drugs should fix this.

Remembering the camera focused on me, I stay lying down. This one wasn't so bad. I'm not even sweating. My heart's just beating a little fast. To pass the time and try to fall asleep, I categorize the Impala's trunk, figure out what we would need to bust out of here with the maximum amount of casualties. Then I feel bad for thinking that way, but fall asleep too fast to come up with a different scenario.

FRIDAY

Joey wakes after me, smiles and waves at me. We eat breakfast in our cells, Joey actually finishing his again. We get released at ten a.m.

"I wasn't going to kill myself," Joey says when we're eating lunch together later in the day.

I smile at him. "I know, kid," I say with a mouthful of fruit.

"I just wanted you to know," he says as he pokes at his food.

"I wasn't going to kill myself, either," I whisper loudly to him.

"Dork," Joey calls me, then giggles.

"Hey, I just wanted you to know," I say with a grin.

Joey's grin disappears. "Thanks for what you were trying to do, and I'm sorry you got caught trying to do it," he says to me.

"Anytime," I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

Joey shakes his head no. "I mean it, Dean," he says, gravely serious look on his face.

I look him in the eye to show I'm not joking around. "I do, too, Joey," I tell him, then smile.

The kid's smile lights up his face, and he starts to eat again. After a few more bites, he looks up at me. "Tell me another prank you pulled on your brother," he requests.

I think for a moment as I chew on my food. "One I had to pay for myself was when I filled the bottoms of Sam's shoes with peanut butter," I say with a wince.

Joey laughs. "Why did you have to pay for it?"

"Well, peanut butter doesn't really come out of shoes, and we really didn't have much money, so Dad made me do work for the neighbors to pay for a new pair of shoes for Sam," I explain.

"So what did Sam do to get you back?" Joey asks me, eyes wide.

I chuckle before answering. "Sam figured that I got enough punishment from Dad, so he decided to do something small. He hid my alarm clock in the middle of the night," I tell him.

Joey gets a puzzled look on his face. "So you were late for school or something?"

"No, I was late for the next door neighbor's chores," I say.

"Ah, I see," he says with a widening smile.

"Yeah, you think it's funny now. Try waking up to my father yelling at you about losing out on money because you wouldn't get out of bed in the morning," I say with a wince. Dad could be scary when he wanted to be, that's for sure.

Joey chuckles. "How did he find out Sam did it?" he asks.

"As I was trying to explain myself, I reached for my alarm clock. I think both my dad and I got what happened at the same time. Sam was hiding under the covers," I say with a laugh.

"You slept in the same room?" Joey asks.

"Yeah, Dad couldn't usually afford a big place, so most of the time we were roommates," I say.

"I don't think I would have liked that. I like my privacy," Joey says with his nose scrunched up.

"It wasn't that bad. In fact the few times that we did have separate bedrooms, Sam would come in either to sleep on the floor next to my bed or right in bed with me," I tell him with a smile.

"You didn't kick him out?" Joey asks with a chuckle.

"He's always been prone to nightmares, having troubles with getting to sleep, stuff like that," I explain. "He always slept better if we were in the same room."

"Aw, how sweet," Joey teases.

"Yeah, I'm a dork. You had it right earlier," I say with a smile.

"Hey, guys," Robert says as he walks up to our table.

"Hey," we say as we look up at him.

"You've each got an appointment with Jim this afternoon because you missed yesterday's appointments. Joey, your appointment is at one, and Dean, yours is at two," Robert tells us. Joey and I both groan at the news. Robert just chuckles at us. "Done with your trays?" he asks as he points at them.

"Yeah," both of us say, then thank Robert as he picks up the trays and walks away.

"Want me to read to you until we have to see this jerk?" Joey asks.

I smile. "Yep, that sounds great, actually," I say as I stand up, let him go first out of cafeteria doors. We both flop down on the couch. "Jim knows you're a cutter, right?" I suddenly ask, having no idea why that popped into my head.

Joey smiles at me. "Yes, and you can tell him about what I did if you want," he offers.

"He's probably going to ask both of us, so it doesn't really matter because I'm second, anyway," I say.

Joey sticks his tongue out at me. "I get to go first, and I get to tell him how evil you were for taking away my toy," he says, then chuckles.

I smile at him. "I'll get you another one if you want," I offer, then lean back and enjoy the boy laughing, then reading his book.

Jim smiles at me from across the coffee table in his office. "You're not in a padded room yet, are you?" Jim asks me

I give him a grin. "No, I'm not," I answer.

"Nobody else knows unless you told them," he says.

"And that's not going to happen," I say, grin even bigger.

Jim smiles, then opens my file, reads for a moment. He sighs. "I'd be a pretty shitty doctor if I didn't ask what I'm about to ask, but I want you to know that you don't have to answer if you don't want to," Jim says seriously.

My stomach clenches. "Okay," I say uncertainly.

"You've been to suicide watch twice now since you've been here. I should have asked about it the first time it happened, but I went with my gut when it told me that I shouldn't push. Now that you've been there a second time, I have to ask you about it just because I would feel like I was failing you as a doctor if I didn't," Jim explains.

I relax at that. I don't know what I thought he was going to ask me, but this isn't bad. I can handle this no problem. "I'm not suicidal," I tell him simply.

"Okay, I've heard things, but can you tell me why you were put on suicide watch?" Jim asks as he closes the file, puts it on the couch beside himself.

"The first time it was actually in Danny's hand. He walked into me, it fell between us, and Marcus was there, but he couldn't tell who it had come from," I explain.

"Danny did this on purpose," Jim says. It's not a question.

I nod. "The second time it was actually in Joey's room. He told you this, right?" I ask just to make sure.

He smiles. "He already came clean, so you don't have to worry about getting him in trouble with your answers," Jim says.

"Okay, then it was in Joey's room. I was taking it back to the shower room when Robert caught me," I say with a frown. "I've either lost my ability to lie and be sneaky being on these medications or Robert is just really good at his job," I say, bordering on a pout now.

Jim nods. "I would think it's a little of both. Robert is extremely good at what he does. He was actually requested to transfer here. Did you know that?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Nope," I answer.

"Have you ever had thoughts about harming yourself before?" Jim asks me.

I let out a sigh. This sucks. I don't want to have to think about the hard stuff. "When my dad first died I didn't want to be here anymore, if that's what you're asking about," I reply.

"Okay, have you ever had a plan?" he asks.

"A plan on how to off myself, you mean?" I ask with a raised eyebrow, and Jim just nods. "Well, I've thought of ways, but never actually planned to act them out," I admit. I don't know why I'm telling him this, but after what I've told him so far, I feel like I can tell the man anything.

"Can you tell me one of the ways?"

I chuckle at that. It sounds like such a strange thing to ask another person, but this is therapy. "Alcohol poisoning always sounded like a good way to go to me, but I've got a high tolerance, so I'd need quite a lot," I tell him with a grin.

"Do you drink often?" he asks me, poker face firmly intact.

I chuckle again. "That probably came out wrong, didn't it? I wouldn't say I get plastered all that often, but when I do, it takes a lot of alcohol to get me there," I rephrase.

"Do you go out to drink?"

"Yeah, I go to bars. I play pool, win a lot, get in fights sometimes, win more pool," I say with a smile.

"How do you get back to the motel room?" he asks.

"I usually walk to the bar. It leaves my baby safe from me, leaves her available for Sam if he needs her," I tell him.

"And you usually make it there in one piece?"

"Sometimes Sam comes and drags me back if he's worried, but yeah, I make it okay," I reply, and Jim nods. "It really sounds worse than it is. Most of the time I only have a few drinks so that I can still stand up straight when I play," I say with a chuckle.

"What does Sam think of all this?" he asks me.

I wince. "Sam doesn't really appreciate the fact that I drink as often or as much as I do, and he doesn't like the way I get the money because of the risky nature of it, but all in all I think he handles it fine," I say.

"Have you ever had to fight your way out of the bar?" he asks.

"Yeah, more than once," I admit.

"Do you and Sam ever get into fights over how you make the money for the two of you?" Jim asks me.

I nod. "We both talk about getting real jobs sometimes, but it's just not practical."

"If you were to get out of here right now, do you think you would get a real job? Settle down?" he asks me.

I look down at my hands, hope this isn't one of those questions that changes what he suggests be done with me. "I don't think I could yet," I say honestly as I look up at him.

"Do you think you'll ever be ready?"

I nod. "I guess I would be one day, just not yet."

"Do you think Sam would ever settle down?" he asks me.

I chuckle at that. "Sam would love to settle down somewhere," I tell him.

"Why do you think he doesn't?"

I shrug. "I'm not all that certain myself. We've always been pretty close, so that alone could play a part. But he seems so concerned about me and the way I've acted since Dad died that I wonder if he isn't just hanging around to keep me sane, safe."

"Do you think you've changed since your father died?" Jim asks.

"I know I've been short with him," I answer guiltily.

"He tries to get you to talk?"

"...and I just blow him off," I mumble, looking down at my hands again.

"You're all he has in this world. It must be scary for him to see you hurting so badly, but not talking to him about it," Jim comments.

"I guess so," I say, knowing that it's completely true.

"Why do you think you're purposely pushing him away," he asks me.

I look up at him, probably a little bit of surprise written on my face. Am I that obvious when it comes to Sam? I look away. "I don't really know," I say as I focus on my name on the side of my file on the couch.

"Do you think maybe part of it's because you think you might lose him, too?" Jim asks softly.

I scan the books on the shelving unit to my right, but I can't read the actual names on them from where I'm sitting. There are so many books here that I just know Sam would probably drool over them, all different sizes and colors.

"Do you think that, if he sees that maybe you're not the perfect big brother he grew up thinking you were, he's going to leave you?"

This is making my chest hurt. And the bastard probably knows it, too. I miss Sam so much, and all this talking about him doesn't help at all.

"Do you think he's missing his college life enough that he's going to leave you to go back to school?"

My stomach clenches. Maybe Sam already is settling down somewhere. Maybe he's been waiting for me to be taken care of for a while now so that he can go off and do his own thing. Where better to get rid of your big brother than in a loony bin? Fuck! Now the backs of my eyes are prickling. This stupid fucker is going to make me cry. Again.

"You said before that you know he wants to settle down, but you know that you're not ready yet. Are you pushing him because you want what's best for him, or could you be pushing because you're scared?" Jim asks gently.

"I'm not scared. He can do what he wants with his life," I say, voice not as strong as I was hoping it would be as I say it. There's a plant on the coffee table between us. Was the plant there last time? The soil is dry. I try not to blink.

"Do you think he's close to leaving already? One more good push, and he might finally leave?"

"I guess," I mumble, still staring at the stupid plant. I have no clue what kind it is, but I can't cry. I can't let him see me cry.

"Are you scared that he's already left you?" Jim asks.

I shake my head no, feel a traitorous tear trickle down my right cheek. I wipe it away quickly, but not fast enough to avoid his gaze. "Sam wouldn't do that," I almost whisper. There's a stain on the wooden coffee table.

"So would you say that's your worst fear regarding Sam?"

My bottom lip quivers a bit. I bite it to keep it under control, but a few more tears make their way down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my hand. "Sam wouldn't do that," I tell him again, a little stronger this time.

Jim seems to let that all sink in for a moment. "Tell me what's going to happen if you talk to him," he requests.

I look up at him finally. "What do you mean?" I ask, glad that he hasn't pointed out my wet face.

"What would happen if you were to actually talk to him, tell him what he wants to hear?" Jim rephrases. I shrug, wipe at my face once more. "How do you think he would react if you sat him down, told him that you're scared he's going to leave you?"

I shrug again, this time look to the left where there are more shelves, more books. I can read a few of the names on some of the books over there.

"Are you scared he'll leave you even sooner than if you didn't talk to him?" Jim asks me.

I focus on one book in particular. The binding is kind of pretty. It's a bit of a psychedelic swirl of red, orange, and yellow. I can't really read the binding because the print is too small and my fucking eyes are still a little watery.

"Tell me something that he normally asks of you," Jim requests, changes tactics.

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice still softer than usual, my eyes still focused on the pretty book.

"When he wants you to talk to him, what is something that he asks of you?"

I look at the next shelf down. There's a book with a bright red cover, the words on this one a blur, too. "I don't know," I lie.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Dean," Jim says again, this time making it clear that he wants my attention without turning my name into a bark.

I turn and look him in the eye, bite my tongue a little bit to get the prickling in my eyes to go away some. "Yeah?"

"What does he ask of you?" Jim asks again.

I let out a bit of a nervous chuckle that turns into more of a choking noise because my throat's so fucking tight. I wrap my arms around my stomach. "He usually wants to talk about Dad," I admit softly.

"What about your dad?"

He's not going to let this one go, is he? This fucking sucks. "He thinks I'm not grieving properly. Wants me to cry or some shit," I tell him with a bit of a snarl.

"You didn't cry over your dad?" Jim asks without making it sound like a bad thing. I shake my head no. "Why not?"

I shrug. "I just didn't," I reply.

"You didn't want to or you didn't let yourself?" he asks me. I shrug again. "Okay, so Sam wants you to cry and shit. Did he?"

I nod. "Yeah, he's the poster boy for normal, so of course he did."

"What happened to him when he did that?" Jim asks. I give him a puzzled look. "Did anything bad happen when he let himself cry?"

"I guess not," I say, not quite getting where he's going with this.

"What's going to happen if you let yourself cry?" he asks.

Oh, that's where he was going. What is it with therapists and wanting people to cry? He's got a bit of a scruffy thing going on with his beard. He looks good that way.

"Are you scared Sam's going to see you cry?"

"No," I say with a shake of my head.

"You're not scared he's going to think a little less of you for crying?" Jim asks.

I shake my head again. "I don't think Sam would feel that way."

"I didn't ask how Sam would feel about it," he says.

I let out a sigh. I don't want to keep talking about this. He's dragging everything out. My skin feels a little prickly. I feel like strangling him. I wonder if anybody around here ever has. Before I can help it, the picture comes into my head, and I actually grin. I look down at my hands, get the grin to go away, hope he hasn't seen it.

"You want to tell me what that was for?" Jim asks, smile evident in his tone of voice.

I shake my head no, and the grin actually comes back along with a snort. I really used to be better at hiding stuff than this. I don't know what my problem is.

Jim chuckles. "You can tell me anything, Dean," he says.

"Okay, I was just wondering if anybody has ever choked you during therapy," I finally say.

Jim laughs at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "No, I can't say as anyone has actually done that before. I have had a patient throw something at me, though," he says, still chuckling.

"Ouch," I say with a wince.

He sits up, puts my file on the coffee table. "Well, if someone is having thoughts of choking their therapist, I do believe that's a good time to call it a day," he says, stands up.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," Jim interrupts me. "This is for you, remember?"

"But I didn't mean I really want to choke you," I say.

Jim chuckles again, holds out his hand to help me up. "Dean, it's okay," he says again. "You don't have to explain yourself to everyone all the time." I stand up, letting him help me. "Just do me a favor and think a little bit about what we talked about today, okay?"

I nod. "Yes, sir," I say politely.

He opens the door for me. "Walk with me to group?" he asks.

"I still have to go there?" I whine.

Jim claps a hand on my back, directs me out the door, turns to close and lock it. "I'm sorry, but yes," he says.

"So what's with going to group every fucking day of the week," I grumble on the way.

Jim chuckles. "I know it seems a bit much, but there are a lot of things it accomplishes, the biggest being socialization. Many patients wouldn't even look at each other if it wasn't for group therapy," Jim explains.

"Okay, I can see that," I say, knowing I'd be one of the ones he's talking about.

"Then there's what the patients learn from each other by talking about their problems, solutions, and mistakes out loud with a counselor there to guide things along. People like to know they're not alone. Group therapy lets them see that they're not the only ones going through what they're going through."

"Kind of like when you did that thing where everybody had to say when they last hurt somebody and what they learned from it?" I ask as we get close to the room.

"That's it exactly. And then the last one, the one that's particularly important for our setting, is that patients learn to interact with other patients in group therapy. The patients are here because, for one reason or another, they have been found unfit to live amongst society. Group is a perfect opportunity to learn basic skills they may not otherwise have."

We stop at the doorway. "Can I still complain about it even now that I know all those good reasons to have it?" I ask with my charmingly cute look firmly in place.

Jim laughs at that. "Yes, now go find a seat," he says, still chuckling. "Hey, everybody," Jim says with a big smile on his face.

Some of the men say something back, some wave, and Joey grins at the both of us. I take the seat across from Joey.

"Okay, guys, we've had a good week this week. Let's end it on a good note. I know some of you are reading books. I thought it would be nice if a couple of you gave a quick overview of what you've read so far. Dean?" Jim says as he turns to me.

"Oh, man, how did I know you were going to call on me?" I groan. Everybody chuckles. "I keep falling asleep as Joey reads it to me, but I think it's about a bunch of people in a forest. I think there might be some monkeys involved," I say with a wince. More of the men laugh, but Joey's the loudest.

Once he calms down enough to speak, he tells everyone, "It's an old Michael Crichton book called Congo. It's one of my favorites, and I've been reading it to him." He gives me a cute smile. "And there are monkeys in it," he says, chuckling.

"Simon?" Jim says as he turns to the man sitting next to Joey.

"Well, I've actually been hoping for a new Stephen King book for a while now, and they finally got one in here, but it's The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon," Simon says with obvious disappointment. "I'm reading it again as it's not horrible, but it's just not as exciting as his other books," he complains.

"So what's it about?" Joey asks.

Simon turns to Joey. "It's about a nine-year-old girl who gets lost on a trail between Maine and New Hampshire. It's about her surviving, and of course there's something watching her just to make it clear it's a Stephen King book," Simon explains.

"Stephen King sucks," Angel says with a sneer. "Those movies are so corny!"

Simon chuckles. "Have you ever actually read one of his books?" he asks Angel.

"No," he replies.

"Well, you're missing out. The movies, while they're not horrible, are nothing like the books. You should read one. Come and tell me what you think of him then," Simon tells him.

"Jeff?" Jim says, turning to the guy next to me when it seems like Angel might start in with something that could potentially lead to a fight.

Jeff blushes. "You're going to laugh at me, but there was nothing else left that I hadn't read yet," he says, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"Go for it, Jeff," Joey says with a grin. "At least we'll be entertained for a while."

"It's a Streisand book," he says, then covers his face with his hands while all the men chuckle. "There wasn't anything else!" he says with a smile.

"You think that's bad," another man says from my left. "I'm reading a book on speed reading," he says, and everybody chuckles at that.

"Okay, guys, that's excellent," Jim praises as he looks around at us. "I'll see you all on Monday." He stands up and makes his way out the door.

MONDAY

At three a.m. I awaken crying from an extremely vivid dream. I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe. I get on my hands and knees in bed, my head hanging over my pillow. I'm gasping in between sobs. All I can remember is Sam dying. I was right there. I could have helped, but I couldn't move. The yellow-eyed demon killed my brother, and I couldn't do a thing to stop it.

I really can't figure out why I'm crying so hard. It's not real, and I keep telling myself that. I even say it out loud a couple of times just to make sure I know it. I finally get my breathing to slow down a bit so I can begin to lessen the crying.

When I finally get the sobbing to stop, I sit sideways on my bed, my back against the wall. I bring my legs up to my chest, drop my head back against the wall. Then come the hiccupping and snorting. I hate this. There's not even any tissue in my room. I'm all sweaty, too.

I'm so tired that I keep falling asleep sitting up, but I don't sleep very well. Every time I close my eyes, I see the bastard killing Sam. Every time I wake up when my head falls to my chest, I start to cry a little.

"Dean," I hear Greg say.

My whole body tenses, and I gasp as my eyes fly open. "I'm in bed! I'm in bed!" I say rather loudly.

Greg shushes me. "You're not in trouble. I just wanted to check on you because Dale said that you were sleeping sitting up," he tells me, concern in his tone.

"Sorry," I say as I slide down, lay my head on the pillow.

Greg sits on the edge of my bed. He wipes at my left cheek with a thumb. "Were you crying?"

"No."

"Was it another nightmare?" he asks me.

I close my eyes. "No," I lie again, this time hoping that he won't be able to tell with my eyes closed. I feel like shit.

Greg lets out a sigh. I can tell he knows I'm lying. "Well, it doesn't matter. If you're having trouble sleeping, you're having trouble sleeping," he says.

"No! Don't tell Richards!" I say as I look up at Greg. "Greg, please! I can't go back on that shit! I just can't! Please!" I beg him.

"Calm down," Greg says as he takes my wrist in his hand. He checks my pulse. "Your heart's beating a little fast. Are you going to be able to go back to sleep or do you need a shot?" he asks me.

I pull my hand away from him. "No! No shot!" I say, then bury my face in my pillow, wait for his decision.

Greg sighs again, stands up. "I'll check on you in a half an hour. If you're still awake, I'll give you the shot," he tells me.

I don't bother replying to him, just leave my face in my pillow as I hear the door close. I don't want the shot. I want them to leave me alone. I want to stop having nightmares that make me cry my lungs out of my fucking chest.

I grumpily sit on the couch in the common area later that day. So far I've been rude to Robert when I got my pills, ignored Joey when he tried to talk to me, and actually thrown a book across the room. It sucks, too, because it was actually getting a little interesting, and there's no way I'm going to go pick it up.

The nightmares have got me on edge. I don't remember the last time I've been this unnerved about something. That's on top of the feeling that the drugs give me, being overtired, feeling lonely, missing Sam, being fucking emotional, sick to my stomach, sick of life, and generally just fed up with it all.

I lay my head back on the couch with a groan as I remember that I've got an appointment with Richards in ten minutes. That just makes this day even better. In this mood, I'll get myself sent to the Pit.

My eyes fall on Joey, across the room on a couch as he reads his book. I realize he's reading the Michael Crichton without me. My chest hurts a little, but then I remember that I'm pissed. As if I had forgotten. I look out the window, wallow in my thoughts.

Simon sits down on the couch next to mine. He's got his Stephen King book in hand. "You know, sometimes in a place like this, a best friend is all you have," he says without looking at me. It almost seems like he's commenting to the room, but loud enough for only me to hear.

I get up without saying a word, walk to Richards' door. I knock louder than is really necessary.

"Come in," Richards says loud enough for me to hear. "Have a seat, Dean," he says without looking up from my folder.

"And how has the nighttime medicine helped you this week?" he asks as he finally looks up at me.

"It's making it easier to sleep," I say blandly.

"Are you still having nighttime awakenings?" Richards asks. I shake my head no. "Any trouble with nightmares?" he asks me.

"No, sir," I lie, although I don't think this guy can tell.

"Okay, then we'll leave the dosages where they are for the time being," he says as he makes a notation in my file. "Do you have any questions or comments regarding the medications?"

"No, sir," I say again.

Richards gives me a tight-lipped smile. "All right, then you may leave," he says.

I try not to slam the door. I have no idea what that would get me, but I'd rather not find out. I go back out to the couch, fling myself down into the same spot I occupied before going to Richards' office.

I then proceed to eat lunch alone, shower alone, take a piss alone, and then sit on the couch alone as I look out the windows. I watch the clock every once in a while so Robert and Joey don't have to come over to me to tell me it's time for group.

If there was a day I wanted to get out of group, this would be it. I don't want to listen to other people's problems. I don't want to talk about my own. I don't want to hear little encouraging words from Jim. I don't want to hear the men laugh. I don't even want to hear other people speak. I think I don't even want to be around myself today.

I walk to group slowly, almost dragging my feet as I go. By the time I get there, only one seat is open. I sit in it, look down at my hands.

"I hope everyone had a nice weekend," Jim starts off by saying.

I zone out. Why is he always so fucking happy? Maybe it's because he has the option of leaving this hellhole whenever he wants to while the rest of us rot where we're not even allowed to have pens because we might kill someone with it. Oh, but we're allowed crayons if we want to draw a pretty picture.

I hear the guy to my right talking, but I don't even listen. My stomach hurts. What's new? I'm sick of being polite and nice, honest. It hasn't gotten me anywhere. Actually it's gotten me on more medication as I was truthful in telling that I was having difficulty sleeping. I ended up getting knocked out cold on the floor of a cell for my troubles.

"Dean, would you like-"

"No," I grumble, interrupting him. I don't even know what he was going to ask of me.

"Okay, then what about you, Joey?" Jim asks, focusing his attention immediately on someone else.

Jim didn't even make it sound like it was a big deal that I didn't want to talk. He just moved on. I guess I can't be that ticked with him. That was nice of him. I hear Joey's voice, but am too focused on my misery to listen. These nightmares have got to stop. I'm going to end up back on the tranquilizer if I'm not careful. I thought I would stay out of trouble by staying in my bed. I should have known better than to think I was safe in a place like this.

"Okay, I'll see you all tomorrow," Jim says finally.

I'm the first one out the door. I go in and take a long, hot shower. I don't bother looking around to see if I'm alone. I think that, given my mood, I would feel bad for anybody who dared to touch me.

Once I'm changed, I go out to the common area, watch the stupid black and white that they have playing. I pretend to watch the movie, but actually end up sleeping more than anything else.

I eat dinner alone, read until ten when I pick up my pill from Greg. I don't even say anything to the man when he says something to me. I just down the pill and put the cup back up on the counter, walk to my room, go to bed.

I wake up twice from nightmares, not even able to dry out from the first one before I'm gasping from the second one. I don't dare sit up or get out of bed. I just curl in myself, kick the blanket off of the bed, and cry into my pillow. This is getting worse.

TUESDAY

I get out of bed at ten to nine, just before they come around to get you out. I miss breakfast, but pick up my pills anyway. Robert isn't at the nurse's station, but I think I would ignore him again anyway.

There's nothing to do here. I can't even exercise in any way. I'm turning into a vegetable here, and nobody gives a shit. Soon I'll be as pale as Joey.

Everybody is leaving me alone. Sam wouldn't leave me alone in this mood if he were here. He never gives up. He doesn't even care if I yell at him. He refuses to leave me in a bad mood. He's extremely persistent. He's evil. If he catches me at just the right time, he wrestles me down to the floor, tickles me until I'm laughing so hard I'm crying. I'd never admit that to anyone, but it happens. It can easily backfire on him if I'm seriously not in the mood, but for the most part it works. I miss him.

My appointment with Jim is at eleven, and I sit on the couch in the common area cringing. I don't want to go. He's going to make me talk. He's going to talk to me. He's going to be all happy and annoying. I doubt that he'll make me cry today, though. Maybe I'll be the next patient to throw something at him. I wonder if I should aim for the head.

As I walk down the hallway, Simon passes me, totally ignores me. He must have just come from Jim's. I knock on Jim's door at one minute to eleven, and of course he greets me with a smile.

I brush past Jim, sit down on the couch, wrap my arms around my stomach. This is going to be absolute torture, although for which one of us, I don't know. Jim sits down across from me, puts my folder down on the cushion next to him.

"Has Joey read to you any more since last week?" he asks me with a small smile, obviously getting a feel for what I'll be like today, as if my attitude on the way in didn't give him all the information he needs. He's not stupid, and he's fucking observant.

I shake my head no, look down at my knees, because obviously they're more interesting than everything else in the room.

"Have you read any more of your own book?" he asks, still polite and unobtrusive in his wording and tone.

I nod this time, but I'm finding it hard not to say something to him. I don't know why I'm being a bitch, but I am, and it appears that Jim has a way of making a person less bitchy just by being him. Fucker.

Jim leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. "Dean, if you ever want to tell me anything or you have something you'd like to discuss, please know that I'm here for you and open to anything," he tells me sincerely.

I'm so fucking tired. I thought I was tired before, but that was nothing in comparison to being on these drugs and not sleeping well at night.

Jim gives me a little time, then tries again. "I'm not a mind reader, though. I need you to talk to me so I can help. If there's something wrong...," Jim trails off.

"I can't fucking sleep," I growl, still not looking up at him. Then I get a chill that goes up my spine when I realize I've actually told him what's wrong. Now I'm definitely going back on the tranquilizers. I'm such a baby. What's happening to me?

"Are you still having problems with nightmares?" Jim asks.

I let out a sigh, let my head fall onto the back of the couch, squeeze my eyes closed. "Are you going to tell Richards?" I ask, voice flat.

"I don't tell Richards specifics. I make recommendations, but he won't hear it from me, no," Jim assures me.

"Greg's probably going to tell him, anyway," I mumble.

"Can you remember the nightmares?" Jim asks me.

"At first I couldn't, but now I can't get them out of my head," I say as I sit up and look at him.

"Do you want to tell me what-"

"They're about Sam," I interrupt him. "The yellow-eyed demon kills Sam, and I'm there, but I can't do anything about it," I say as I rub my hands over my eyes tiredly.

"Can you tell me what's holding you back?" he asks as he leans back, gets comfortable again now that I'm talking to him.

I shake my head no. "I can't see that anything's got me. I just can't move," I explain as I wipe my palms on my pants.

"Do you want to tell me what you see?" he asks carefully.

I feel like an idiot. This is so stupid. I wrap my arms around my stomach again while silently wondering if this is a huge mistake. "It's dark, but around us there's light so we can see each other clearly. It looks like forest out beyond us, but I can't really tell. I see everything at an angle from just behind myself. I'm not looking through my own eyes. I can't move, but I can speak. Sam is standing far enough away from me that, even if I could move, I wouldn't be able to touch him, but he's turned toward me, looking at me. He's about to say something when all of a sudden the yellow-eyed demon is behind him. Before I can warn Sam, the bastard punches a hole straight through Sam's chest. I start screaming as loud as I can while rays of white light come spilling out of the hole, Sam screaming the whole time. Then he falls to the ground. The light slowly dims, and it's gone by the time he's dead. The dream ends with me still screaming," I explain to Jim.

"That's quite a dream," Jim comments with a raised eyebrow.

"I guess," I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

"You've never had problems with nightmares before, have you?" he asks me.

"Not that I know of, and I think Dad would have told me if I had them when I was little."

"What happens when you finally wake up?" Jim asks.

I'd rather not say, but I guess he needs to know. "I'm crying so hard I can't breathe," I admit with a wince.

"You've told me before that Sam has nightmares that are actually visions. Do you believe this is what you're experiencing as well?"

I shake my head no. "I don't think so. I mean it could happen, but it doesn't feel like it's something from the future," I tell him. "But I don't understand why I'm not in the dream myself. Why am I just looking at the back of my own head?"

Jim crosses his legs. "It's a way of distancing yourself from what's happening, detaching yourself to keep yourself safe from the situation," he informs me.

I let out a chuckle. "I'm keeping my dream self safe?"

Jim nods. "The whole scenario is something that you believe possible. You're terrified of it happening. Why wouldn't your brain try to keep you safe from that?"

"What about the light coming out of Sam?" I ask.

"Dream interpretation isn't an exact science, but light, particularly white light, is said to be a source of purity, insight, and understanding. Applying that to your dream, I would say that, with all that's gone on in your life, you still believe that your brother is good down deep inside, maybe even that he's your guide," Jim tells me.

"Okay, then why can't I move?" I ask him.

"In some way you feel that you're inadequate or unworthy when it comes to your brother," Jim says.

"This is all totally whacked," I say with a snort.

"You don't have to believe it," Jim says with a smile.

"No, no, it sounds good. I mean it's a dream, you know? It's just...," I trail off.

"...that it all kind of hits home to exactly how you're feeling and what we've been talking about?" Jim asks with a lopsided grin.

"You suck," I grumble as I look down at the plant. The soil is wet today. He must have watered it. "So that's it? I don't have nightmares anymore now?" I ask as I look back up at him.

Jim shrugs. "Sometimes merely talking about your nightmares can make them go away. Sometimes working them out for yourself or writing about them can make them go away. Other times they don't, and we just don't know why," Jim tells me.

"So I told you all this shit, and I'm just going to have another one again tonight?" I ask with a frown.

Jim nods. "It could happen that way," he admits.

"You still suck," I grumble again.

"Talking still helps," Jim counters with a grin.

"You've already made me talk too much, you jerk," I complain with a smile.

Jim leans forward, rests his arms on his knees. "Would you like to tell me why you consider yourself such a failure when it comes to your brother?" he asks me.

The plant is suddenly interesting again. "It just seems like no matter what I do, he's going to turn, and there's not going to be anything that I can do about it," I say, then look up at Jim.

"If there's nothing you can do about it, then how is it your fault?" he asks.

"If I was just...," I trail off, eyes going to the shelving unit on my right.

"If you were just perfect, then your brother wouldn't slip through your fingers?" he asks me. "You expect an awful lot out of yourself, Dean, and I think its holding you back in other aspects of your life, possibly even holding you back in regards to your brother," Jim tells me.

"How can I be holding myself back when it comes to Sam if that's what I'm all obsessing over?" I ask as I look at him, puzzled look on my face.

"You don't talk to him about how you feel even when he asks you to. You refuse to show him your weaknesses, and I think it's hurting your relationship. He pushes, you push back, and the two of you come out of it hurting," Jim explains.

"So I need to constantly gush and-"

"That's not what I said," he interrupts me as he shakes his head no. "He comes to you, asks you how you're handling your father's death, and what do you say?"

"I'm fine," I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

"Lying to him is not the way to improve on your relationship," Jim says.

"Great, so I turn around, tell him I feel like I'm dying inside. Then what?" I ask, getting annoyed.

"What do you mean? He asked. You told," Jim says.

"Well, he's definitely not going to leave it at that," I say.

"Is there anything wrong with saying that you feel that way, but you'd rather not get into it right at the moment?"

I chuckle. "You've never met Sam."

"Don't let him push you. He's looking to get attention from you, and even if it means negative attention, it still means attention. If he won't leave it at that, just walk away," Jim says.

"You make it sound so easy," I grumble.

"Not everything in life has to be hard and dramatic," Jim says with a smile. "But talk to him eventually. Let him know how you're feeling. You say you feel like you're dying inside, he'd like to know about it whether it's good or bad," Jim tells me.

"So don't lie to Sam?" I ask with a wince.

Jim shakes his head no. "That is the worst thing you can do to your relationship whether he believes you or not," Jim says.

"Not even just a little bit?" I whine.

"No, now go eat your lunch," Jim says as he stands up, heads for the door.

"Do you eat alone?" I ask as I get up from the couch.

"Sometimes, but most of the time I eat in the faculty lounge with the other staff members," he tells me.

"Just wondered," I say with a shrug.

"See you at three for your favorite part of the day," he comments as I walk out the door.

I hear the door close behind me before I can give him any backtalk. I walk out to the common area and spot Joey. Man, I feel like a jerk. But I don't want to apologize, and I really don't feel all that pleasant and nice, even after talking to Jim. I'm still pissed and tired.

Instead of heading to the cafeteria, I take a shower. I make it last long enough so that there's only fifteen minutes left to get lunch. When I get there, there's only one other person eating. It's Simon. I know he won't bother me. Joey must still be reading on the couch.

I grumpily shove the food into my face, not even bothering to notice the flavor of anything, and just try not to choke. After lunch, I go out to the common area, pass out on the couch. I manage to not have any nightmares while I sleep.

I wake up about ten minutes before group, lazily make my way there. I'm the second one to the room. Angel is already there, and he looks just about as happy to be there as I am.

"Hey," he grunts when he sees me.

"Hey," I reply in much the same tone, take a seat. I watch as the others slowly filter in. At least participation isn't mandatory here. I think I might just have to go ahead and choke Jim if it were. I know it's not his fault, but see if I care when it comes to asking me a question.

"Okay, it's been a while since I've asked, but has anybody had any contact with their family members this week?" Jim asks, looks around at the men.

"I got to talk to my little brother again," Angel says with a smile that lights up his face. The guy actually has a nice smile.

"That's great. What did the two of you talk about?" Jim asks him.

"He told me about school," Angel replies, smile leaving his face.

"Oh, how's it going?" Jim asks.

Angel winces. "He's flunking one of his subjects, and he's not doing so good in all the others," he admits.

Jim frowns. "I'm sorry to hear that, Angel. Did he have anything else to say?"

Angel shakes his head no. "No, he just told me he's probably going to repeat this year over again," Angel says.

"I'm sorry, Angel," Jim tells him. "Avery, did you talk to your family this weekend?" Jim asks as he turns to the guy who told about building a tree house for his daughter. I guess I never bothered to get his name. Funny that there's aren't that many guys here, and I still don't know all their names.

"My daughter, Christina, talked to me, but she said Gina was busy. My wife seems to be busy a lot lately when it comes to talking to me," Avery says, sounding pretty down about it.

I zone out again. At least these drugs are good for one thing. If I want to zone out, I can do it quite easily as I'm constantly fucking tired. I'm the first one out the door again, but this time I stay up and read until dinner. I eat dinner alone, then go out to watch the movie.

I'm hoping that staying up as late as they let me, not falling asleep, maybe I'll be too tired and worn out to have a nightmare. I know it's a long shot, but I'm scared they're going to put me on those fucking tranquilizers. I can't do that again.

I take my pill at ten, wishing I was able to take two of them. I stay up reading until Greg announces that it's time for lockdown. I lie down, do some deep breathing that I once heard somewhere would help, then fall asleep quickly.

WEDNESDAY – WEEK 2

I awaken with a gasp, shivering. This time it's a cold sweat. I feel like my skin is crawling. I force myself to stay down, not get up. I can't let Greg know. I can't. My legs won't stop moving, and I rub my arms with my palms, hoping to get the feeling back to normal.

It was a different dream this time, and I wonder to myself if I'll tell Jim on Thursday what it was about. I suppose I'll have another one before I go to see him anyway. I might even have another one tonight.

It takes forever to get back to sleep. When I finally wake, it's past time for breakfast, so I take my time showering and changing. I head out to the couch, sit at the far end, watch the clouds that I can see from such a bad vantage point. After a while I feel someone sit down on the other end of the couch, assume it's Joey.

"Okay, I don't want to push or anything, because I know, when I feel like shit, I don't want people to bother me, but I just have to know if I said something to you to make you ignore me or if it's just that you feel like shit," Joey says in what seems like one breath.

I can't help it. The kid makes me smile. I sit up from my slouched position, turn my head to see that the boy is turned toward me, his left leg bent and up on the couch. He looks anxious. "It's not you, man," I say with a stupid smile on my face.

Joey's face brightens instantly, his shoulders drop in relief. "Oh, fuck, you had me scared, you asshole," Joey complains.

"Sorry," I say with a wince.

"So what's up?" he asks me, looking concerned.

"I'm just having trouble sleeping," I grumble.

"Do you get wicked nightmares on the shit they give you, too?" he asks me.

I let out a bit of a chuckle. "Kind of," I give.

"Kind of?" Joey asks with a raised eyebrow.

"All right, fine, wicked nightmares it is, then," I admit.

"You're not alone. Everybody around here has vivid dreams to some extent. It's worse for some than others, though. I'm guessing that yours are enough to fuck with your sleep," Joey says with a wince.

"You guessed correctly," I say as I rub my hands over my face, through my hair. "Know anything that helps?" I ask.

Joey chuckles bitterly. "Tranquilizers," he says flatly.

I let out a groan. "I'm so not doing that again," I tell him.

"So do you want to have lunch with me, or are you still going to be a bitch?" Joey asks with a grin.

"Is it time already?" I ask, looking for the clock.

"Five past," he says as he stands up, holds a hand out to me.

I let him help me up. "I'm glad you said something. I probably would have daydreamed my way through not only lunch but also my appointment with Richards," I tell him.

"Richards gets all mean and ornery when somebody's late for an appointment," Joey informs me.

We each grab a tray, head to a table in the back. The place is full, and I'm glad we found a table with no one else at it already.

"Okay, so you can tell me to go to Hell if you want, but I want to know about these nightmares if they're enough to get you being all Mr. Bitch and not sleeping well," Joey says as he unwraps his sandwich.

I chuckle, then bite into an apple. "My baby brother keeps getting killed," I tell him with a mouthful.

"That does suck," Joey says with a frown.

"Yeah, but I don't think it's as bad as I've been making it out to be. It's not like it's really happening," I say with a shrug.

"If it's vivid and pretty real to you, then who's to say you're making a big deal out of it?" Joey asks reasonably.

"Yeah, well, if I keep it up, Richards is going to put me on tranquilizers permanently," I whisper.

"Ouch!" Joey says with a sour look on his face. "Didn't he see how badly you reacted to them last time?"

"Apparently sleep is more important to him than those other little things like breathing," I growl.

"So we're not telling Robert or Greg, then?" he asks me.

I shake my head no. "Definitely not," I tell him. We both eat in silence for a little while. "Do they tell you the names of any of this shit they force down your throat?"

Joey smiles at that. "I think they feel special when they can prescribe things for us idiots and not tell us anything about them. Robert and Greg won't even tell me what they're giving me. I've asked what's in those shots about a hundred times," he complains.

"Yeah, I just get told that they're sedatives or pills that will make me feel better. If I wouldn't have been nearly passed out, I think I would have when Robert said I was on a tranquilizer," I say with a chuckle.

"Richards won't tell me the name of that new one he put me on that makes me sleep too much," Joey says. "I wish I knew the names so that, if I ever do get out of here, I'll know what I like and what I don't. There are some that I know I like, ones that make me feel better, but I don't know them from the others that make me feel like shit," he grumbles.

"I can't say as I've liked anything these pills have done," I say as I crumble up my plastic wrap from my sandwich.

"One of them seriously makes the urges to cut back off," Joey says.

"That would be a good effect, then," I say with a smile.

Joey chuckles. "I would think so." Joey finishes his sandwich, starts in on his apple. "I miss bathtubs," he comments.

I laugh at that. "Nice subject change," I say with a smile.

Joey smiles at that. "The bathtub is where I used to do most of my cutting," he explains.

"Ah, okay, I see the transition now," I say with a grin.

"I used to love filling the tub with hot water, putting my headphones on, and getting a fresh razor out of the plastic. It felt really good," he says almost dreamily.

"Why the bathtub?" I ask him.

"It's easier for cleanup for one thing. But mostly it just feels great being in water and... Well you probably don't want to hear about that," Joey finishes quickly, looking embarrassed.

"No, go ahead," I encourage with a smile.

"Really?" Joey asks, seeming surprised.

"I dare you to gross me out," I challenge.

Joey smiles. "Okay, then I like when the blood runs down your skin and swirls into the bathwater, makes all kinds of patterns. I like letting drops of water fall onto the wound, letting it take some blood, and then letting it roll down my leg in a little bead of red," Joey says with an unsure look on his face.

"See, not grossing out," I reassure him, and he smiles. "But I am sorry that you lost something that obviously means so much to you," I tell him.

Joey shrugs. "With the drug that helps it, I don't really miss it all that much," he tells me.

"That's cool," I say with a smile.

"Do you like to cook?" Joey asks me.

"Not so much. I used to cook for the three of us all the time, and so I grew up not really liking it because it was more like a chore for me," I tell him.

"I like to cook," Joey says with a smile.

"What's your favorite thing to make?" I ask him.

Joey thinks for a moment. "I don't know if I have a favorite, but I like making cheesecake. I also like making stir fry because it's different every time you make it," he says excitedly.

"Pie?" I ask with a grin.

He nods. "I've made peach a few times because peach is my favorite, but I've also made cherry and blueberry," he tells me proudly. "My mom didn't like to cook, so I ended up making most of the meals."

"You didn't mind?" I ask.

"She would get me pretty much anything I asked for, so no, I didn't mind," he says.

"That's cool," I say with a smile.

"Hey, can you raise one eyebrow and not the other?" he asks me.

I chuckle at that. "Yeah," I say as I demonstrate.

"My mom couldn't do it," he says with a giggle.

"I don't think I've ever known someone who couldn't do that," I say.

"Me either. Just her," he says as he rips a small piece off of his plastic wrap. "Ever been to college?" he asks as he rips off another piece.

"Nope," I tell him.

"Ever thought about it?"

"Sure, I've thought about it, but other things were more important," I reply.

"I've thought about it, too, but I never thought about doing anything in particular. I think it was just the idea of college life that interested me," Joey says with a shrug. He continues tearing little pieces of plastic off. "What kind of clothes did you wear before you came here?" he asks me.

"Mostly black," I say with a smile. "I always had on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, some kind of overshirt, and my leather jacket. I miss my clothes," I say with a wince.

"I do, too," Joey says with a frown. "I used to wear jeans and T-shirts pretty much all the time. I usually wore dark colors. I used to look pale, but now I just look pathetic and ghost-like," he grumbles.

"Yeah, I think I'm losing my tan in here," I say as I hold out my left arm.

"No, you've got freckles. You don't tan. You burn," Joey says with a grin.

I laugh at that. "I do not have freckles," I argue.

"I can see them from here, Dean," he tells me.

"Nope, I don't have freckles," I say as I get up, take my tray over to the cart.

"Not going for it," Joey says from behind me. I totally ignore him, head for the hallway instead. "Don't try to tell Richards you don't have freckles. He'll put you on another drug because you have freckles," he says, still following me.

I stick my tongue out at him as we part ways. He giggles again before turning away. My grin disappears and I cringe as I get closer to Richards' door, wondering what he'll decide to give me today. If he's heard anything from Greg, I'll get a brand new tranquilizer.

"Come in, Dean," I hear the man call when I knock on his door. "Have a seat," he says, pointing to the chair as if I've forgotten how this works. He looks over my file carefully for what seems like a really long time. "How do you feel the drugs are working, Dean?"

"They're okay," I say, hoping it doesn't make him mad. I'm being ridiculous, I know, but at least he's not threatening to put me on a new medication yet.

"The stomach pains?"

"Much better," I assure him.

"Are you still sleeping well at night?" he asks again this time.

"Yes, sir," I lie. It's easier to lie when you don't get caught.

"Any problems, comments, or questions about the medications?" he asks me.

"No, sir," I reply.

"Then what I'm going to do is change our schedule. You seem to be stabilizing well on your current medication regimen, so I think it would be okay if you were to see me once instead of twice a week," he tells me.

"Okay," I say with a bit of a smile. One less time a week seeing this nut job is fine with me.

"I'll see you on Wednesdays, then," he says with a smile.

"Okay," I say again.

"You may leave, Dean," he tells me.

I walk out of his office feeling pretty good. This is definitely a good thing. This means he's not thinking of making any serious changes in the near future. I hope.

THURSDAY – WEEK 2

The first thing I do when we come out of lockdown at six is take a shower to get rid of the horribly sticky feeling of having sweated for part of the night. I'm not the only one showering, so I don't take as much time as I have been.

"Are you feeling any better than you were on Tuesday?" Jim asks me as I sit down on the couch for my eleven o'clock appointment.

"Does faking it better mean that I'm feeling better?" I ask.

Jim smiles, shakes his head no. "Tell me how you're really feeling."

"I feel awful," I groan as I slide down into the couch a little. "I'm fucking tired, man," I tell him.

"You haven't said anything to Richards about this," Jim says, and it's not a question.

"No, he'll put me back on the tranquilizer," I say with a raised voice.

"Has he been asking you about your sleep patterns?" Jim asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, and I've been lying straight to his face, because there's no way in Hell he's putting me back on that fucking tranquilizer," I growl.

"Have you considered talking to him about upping the dosage on the pill that he's giving you for sleep currently?"

"I don't want to risk it," I say as I shake my head no.

"Have you tried any relaxation techniques?" Jim asks me as if he just thought of it.

"I've tried some deep breathing just before going to sleep, if that's what you mean," I tell him.

"Yes, that's one, but there are others. You can close your eyes and repeat words or phrases in your head to relax, get your muscles to relax. You can use imagery as well. Picture yourself in a peaceful place, control your breathing, concentrate on slowing your heart rate. You can also focus on each particular body part one at a time and tell it to relax. Start with your toes, work your way up," Jim suggests.

I chuckle at that. "Sounds kind of corny," I say with a grin.

"Yes, it may sound corny, but quite a few patients of mine over the years have gotten good use out of the last one I mentioned. It's called progressive muscle relaxation. You tense each muscle group for five seconds, then rest it before you move on to the next muscle group," Jim explains.

"Still sounds corny," I tell him.

Jim shrugs. "It's worth a try," he says.

"I guess," I say noncommittally.

"Well, what you're doing now obviously isn't working, so try something different," Jim says. I shrug. "Okay, so what about the dreams themselves? Are you experiencing the same one you told me about the other day?"

"Last night it was, but the night before it was a new one," I say.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks casually enough that it doesn't sound at all like a command.

"Well, you remember that hallucination I had once during group therapy?" I ask.

Jim nods. "Yes, I was just going over that again the other day, tying it in to what you told me about your family and your father last week," he tells me.

"Oh, okay, then it's kind of along the same lines. I'm an observer this time, too. I'm in a steel box that's maybe nine feet squared. There's enough light coming from somewhat up above me that I can see everything but the corners pretty well. I try to find a way out of the box, but as I'm searching, a jagged line is drawn in red on the wall in front of me. Flames burst out of the line, then both the line and the fire disappear. This keeps happening over and over again only in different spots around the box. Sometimes it burns me, and I swear I can feel it. Then I can hear Dad's voice. He's telling me that this is how he killed Sam, and now he's going to kill me."

"At what point did you wake up?" Jim asks me.

"I kept trying to get out of the way of the fire, out of the box, but I kept getting burned. One of the times the fire just seemed to engulf my whole body, and that's when I woke up," I explain. "So are you going to interpret this dream for me, too?" I ask with a smile.

Jim chuckles. "I told you the other day that dream interpretation isn't an exact science, but being trapped somewhere is a very common theme in nightmares. You probably feel not only trapped here, but the situation your father left you in with regard to Sam probably feels suffocating as well," he tells me.

"So you think the fire could just be that I believe it could happen just like I believed that Sam could be killed by the yellow-eyed demon in my other dream?" I ask him.

"You've got it," Jim says with a smile. "Are you having any other nightmares?" he asks me.

"Yeah, but I can't remember them by the time I wake up," I tell him.

Jim takes a deep breath, sits forward with his arms on his knees like he's getting ready to say something delicate. "I know you don't like to talk about your dad, and that you haven't said very much about him at all since being here, but now you've not only had a hallucination involving him, but you've also had a nightmare about him," Jim says carefully.

I wrap my arms around my stomach. I knew this would come up eventually, but I was hoping it wouldn't be this soon. "I don't-"

"I know you don't want to talk about him," Jim interrupts me, "but he played a very large role in your life, and he was obviously very close to you. I really believe that talking about him with someone, even if it isn't me, would help you a great deal."

I look down at my knees. I don't want to talk about Dad. This is making my stomach hurt worse. It's kind of making my head feel funny, too.

"I'm not going to force you to talk about him, but I think it would be in your best interest," Jim says, then leans back into the couch. He lets me think on it for a little while before speaking. "Can you tell me why you don't want to talk about him?" he asks softly.

I shrug my shoulders, still not looking up at him. My throat is hurting, burning almost. My chest hurts, too.

"Are you afraid you're going to cry?" he asks, not making it sound like a taunt at all. I shrug my shoulders again. "Are you afraid it's going to hurt?" he asks me.

I don't answer him in any way. I think he knows I'm afraid of both of those things, so I don't need or want to answer him.

"What if we do something a little bit different? What if you just think back, and tell me the first memory you have of your dad?" Jim asks.

I don't have to think about this one. A bit of a smile plays on my lips as I remember it. "I'm sitting on Dad's lap, and he's reading me a story," I say, then instantly feel an ache deeper in my chest than I've felt all along. The smile disappears from my face. I squeeze my eyes shut, arms still wrapped around my stomach.

Jim gives me a few moments. "Do you remember how old you were?" he asks softly.

I shake my head no because I can't trust my voice right now. I don't want to cry, and I'm not there yet, but I know, if he keeps this up, I'm going to be.

"Was it before Sam was born?" he asks, and I nod. "Do you remember the book itself?" he asks me, and I shake my head no.

I don't know why I'm reacting this strongly. It's not even a particularly happy or sad memory. Sure, I look back on it now and smile, but it's not anything to get this dramatic over.

"Did your dad read to you a lot when you were little?" Jim asks.

I nod again. I think he knows I'm not going to answer anything but yes or no questions right now. Smart man.

"That's a really nice memory to have of him, Dean," Jim says, and it sounds like he has a smile on his face. He gives me a moment. "Did he stop reading to you when Sam came along?" he asks.

I shake my head no. Then I get a flash of Sam and me both sitting on Dad's lap, one on each thigh, and he's reading to us. Again I don't remember the book, but I remember his voice, the feeling of security from being in Dad's arms. As I remember his voice, the backs of my eyes start burning, throat raw.

"Do you know why this is hurting so much, Dean?" Jim asks me.

"Why?" I growl as if it's the only thing I can get out without crying, which it is.

"It's because you've never let yourself grieve properly," Jim tells me.

Thankfully that statement pisses me off enough that the strong need to cry backs off just a bit. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" I growl again, eyes still closed.

"Everyone grieves in their own way, but there are stages of grief. If you skip one or more of those stages, you don't grieve properly. It's like you get stuck and can't get out," Jim explains.

"Bullshit," I mumble as I rub my hands over my face, getting rid of the wetness from my eyes prickling. I'm not crying.

"I believe that you went into the first stage, and that you got stuck somewhere between the first and second stages, didn't go any further than that," Jim tells me.

I look up at him finally. "Bullshit," I say as I shake my head no. "He's dead. You move on. There's nothing else to do. You can't live in the past," I tell him.

"You're right about living in the past. But this is not bullshit. People can spend the rest of their lives grieving because they refuse to go through a normal grieving process," Jim says.

I let out a growl, drop my head to the back of the couch. "Okay, then I'll bite. What are the fucking stages?" I snarl, then look at Jim again.

Jim doesn't appear fazed by my attitude. "The first stage is one of emotional numbness which is actually needed to get you through what needs to be done. After numbness comes a period of time when you want the person back so badly that you might think you see them in crowds. During this time it's normal to feel agitated, angry, have difficulty concentrating, relaxing, and sleeping. It's also a time where most people feel guilty about arguments or things left unsaid. Very strong emotions are felt during this time, and it's not unusual to withdraw from family and friends. You may cry a lot, and have difficulty with memories and reminders. When that passes, you start to see your life in a positive light again. The final phase of grieving is to let go, get on with your life even though it's not ever going to be the same again. That's when your patterns of eating, sleeping, and other things go back to normal."

"So I'm in limbo somewhere between one and two, huh?" I ask, skeptic tone to my voice, and pretty much feeling like I won't cry anytime soon.

"You've withdrawn from Sam, you're having trouble sleeping, your emotions are volatile, and as soon as anything is said about your father, you jump back to numbness to keep yourself safe," Jim says bluntly.

"Okay, so I'll admit that, when you say it like that, it doesn't sound quite so fucked, but that doesn't mean I'm just going to go with it. This is still all bullshit. It's death. How can there be a set course?" I ask him.

"It's how people have been dealing with death for as long as we've been around," Jim tells me with a small smile. "Just because it's been written in the journals of psychology doesn't mean it's a joke. If you don't want to believe it, it's up to you, of course," Jim says with a shrug.

I look down at my knees again as I think about it all. It sounds logical when he says it, but I'm just having a hard time believing that I can't just move on. Am I going to be like this forever?

"My father never grieved properly for his mother," Jim says when I'm silent for a little while. "He got to the same stage as you, and then he just got stuck there. He pushed the rest of us away, got angry easily, threw himself into his work, and ended up dying without having ever truly grieved for her," Jim says, sounding sad about it.

Well, I guess he would be able to recognize it in me if his father did the same thing. I just don't know what to believe. Coming from a person who believes in the things I do, this sounds kind of pathetic.

"Why don't you think about it over the weekend, and tell me on Tuesday what decision you've come to? I'm willing to work with you no matter what you decide is the truth, no matter what you decide to do," Jim says as he stands up.

I finally look up at him as he offers me a hand up out of the couch. I let him pull me up, then head toward the door.

"In the meantime, work on those relaxation techniques, see if they don't help your nightmares," Jim reminds me.

"Yes, sir," I say as I leave.

I hear the door close behind me. I feel numb right now. I feel tired. My brain even feels like it hurts.

"Read to me, man," I say as I flop down on the opposite end of the couch Joey is sitting on.

"Mindfucked?" he asks with a sympathetic tone to his voice.

"Mindfucked," I confirm.