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SPN Fic: Dreamwalker (1/3)
TITLE: Dreamwalker
FANDOM: Supernatural
RATING: Adult (rating is for violence)
GENRE: Gen, AU, Horror
PAIRING: Gen, but does feature Sam/Jess -
see notes in Part 0.
WARNINGS and NOTES: See Part 0.
SUMMARY: Doctor Samuel Grey is a powerful psychic and therapist at the Woodward Institute, a hospital for the criminally insane. He has a wife, a home and a promising career, and he's almost forgotten that he used to be Sammy Winchester. He believes his father and brother abandoned him when they found out he was a psychic. But when Dean is suspected of his father's murder, Sam discovers blood is thicker than water after all. (The plot is based on Gothika, though the ending is very different.)
DREAMWALKER
Prologue: From the journal of Dr Samuel Grey
4 May 2011
We buried Rachel today.
Only five years old, her tiny coffin drowned in flowers. It was a closed casket, because I couldn't bear for everyone to see how broken she was when they pulled her from the river. Peter read from the Bible: the story of Jesus healing the daughter of Jarius, and when he said, "The child has not died, but is asleep" I couldn't keep the tears from my eyes.
Jess still won't talk about it. I'm worried about her, but she ate a full meal today. I think that's progress.
Why? Why Rachel? Why this way? The questions are endless and there are no answers, none that make sense.
Yet I can't help wondering, might it be better this way? At least this way we had a body to bury and there's a grave to visit.
For the first time, I think I understand something of what my Dad went through when they took me away from him. I was twelve when they discovered my gift (my curse, my power - call it what you will). I remember he was so angry it frightened me. I remember screaming for Dean, but they wouldn't let me see him. I remember Dad told me he would fight the ruling and get me back. But I never saw Dean or Dad again.
I couldn't bear to lose Rachel like that, knowing what she would go through in The Project. I know we would have lost her in a few years. My daughter had my tainted blood; even at five she showed signs of having inherited more from me than just my eyes and smile.
A few more years to love our darling girl...but surely this is better than never knowing her fate, never knowing if she passed the tests or failed, as so many do, and died.
This way, I know. I have that.
I wonder what became of Dean and my Dad. Strange, I haven't thought of them for years. I hope Dad found some peace. I hope Dean is happy. I'll never know. I'm not one of them any more. They told me at the Centre that my Dad was a Hunter and I know what hunters think of my kind; he'd probably shoot me on sight if we met now. I suppose Dean is the same, if he's still alive.
Morbid thoughts, tonight.
I love you, Rachel.
Part One
August 2015
In her dreams, Chloe was beautiful. She danced through the room, her long, black hair bouncing around her pixie-like face. The room had yellow sunflowers on the wallpaper. She heard music, like pretty, tinkling bells. She laughed out loud.
Sam hated this happy place Chloe created for herself, because he knew what was going to happen. It was the same every time.
In life Chloe was twenty six years old but her dream-self was a child. She hugged a teddy-bear as she danced to the window and pressed her nose against the glass. Outside, the sky was blue with cotton-candy clouds and spring flowers everywhere.
Chloe screamed.
Sam was expecting it, but even so the sound made him flinch, almost losing his place in her dream. He saw her fall to the ground, struggling against some assailant that neither he, nor Chloe could see. This was the moment. Sam shut out the sight of Chloe's struggles and the sound of her childish screams. He painstakingly built up the image of the man he knew had attacked her. Only when the image was living in his mind did he open himself up to the girl's terror. He gave the image to her - gently, an offering, not an imposition - praying that this time she would acknowledge it.
Chloe rejected the image again. She screamed, her hands scratching at invisible arms. She begged and she cried.
Sam withdrew from the dream. He had tried to help her before; it never worked. Every attempt he'd made to save her from her ghostly attacker only made things worse. So now he no longer interfered in her nightmare. He simply offered her the truth she feared to face, every night. She wouldn't accept it.
Sam returned to himself and found tears in his eyes. Chloe was his most challenging patient. It was hard to enter her self-created hell night after night. She had been so young when her father started abusing her, it was impossible for Sam to be unaffected by it. Most of his patients, he helped because that was his job. Chloe he wanted to help, but she wouldn't let him.
Sam reached for the water on his nightstand and drank. Chloe's terror clung to him like some thick, sticky liquid. Slowly, he shook off the last remnants of the dream. He looked at the clock beside his bed: it was a few minutes short of 7.00am. Sam took a deep breath and touched the intercom on the nightstand.
"Security."
"It's Doctor Grey. Is my wife in yet?"
There was the familiar short silence. Most of the security guards didn't like talking to Sam. Hell, most of the staff were wary of him. He was used to it.
Finally, the guard answered, "She signed in ten minutes ago, Doctor. Shall I connect you?"
"Thanks, but no. I'll go down myself."
"Very good, Doctor."
Sam cut the intercom. Then he showered, shaved and headed down to the office block.
Jessica was behind her desk, munching on an apple while she checked the overnight reports on her computer. Sam paused in the doorway, just watching her for a moment. He never ceased to be amazed that someone so lovely, so intelligent, had chosen him as a husband. Her blonde curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing her lovely face. She wore a smart business suit in the shade of blue that made her eyes shine.
Jessica looked up. "Are you coming in? Or are you stuck there?"
"I'm not stuck. Just admiring the view." Sam moved into the room and let the door swing closed behind him. He walked around her desk to claim a kiss. She tasted of apples.
"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" Jess frowned. When Sam didn't answer at once she stroked his cheek. "Oh. You dreamed with Chloe again, didn't you?"
Sam nodded. Jess might have checked his schedule, but he knew she hadn't. Jess just knew him that well. He kissed her again.
Jess leaned back in her leather chair. She gestured to another chair. Sam took the hint and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair wearily. He was dying for a coffee, but that would be a bad idea. What he needed now wasn't a stimulant, it was sleep. Peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Jess looked worried. "Sam, I admire that you refuse to give up on Chloe, but...I think it's time to consider that she might be beyond help."
"She might be," Sam admitted. "I can't give up, Jess." He sighed. "Some of the people in this place deserve the hells they create for themselves. Chloe was horribly abused and she killed her father so he wouldn't put her little sister through the same thing. And he still rapes her every night in her dreams. I'm going to keep trying until she can sleep without fear."
"And if she never can?"
"I keep trying until she stops breathing." What Sam couldn't tell Jess was how much Chloe's dream-self resembled their long-dead daughter. Perhaps that was why he couldn't give up on the hope of healing her. It was certainly why it hurt him so much to keep trying. Chloe was hurting. She lived in terror of shadows and night, and no matter how hard Sam tried, he couldn't help her. Sam pioneered the dream therapy program and he had helped hundreds of patients over the years. Chloe's trauma was precisely the kind of problem best suited to Sam's talent; she'd responded to none of the more conventional attempts to reach her. But Sam couldn't reach her, either. At first he had thought they were making progress: she'd begun to talk, to interact with others. But the progress stopped there. All Sam's years of study, all of his experience was useless with her.
"Jess," he said suddenly, "is it possible her case history is wrong?"
"Wrong, how?" Jess touched the screen of her computer, calling up Chloe's case notes. "She was fourteen when she killed her father. According to her own statement he'd been abusing her for several years."
"Since she was five or six," Sam said. "But she sees a ghost, or the Devil. She consistently rejects the reality."
"Never underestimate the human capacity for denial, Sam."
"Yes, I know. I know. But this is different, somehow. I'm just wondering...what if it wasn't her father? I mean, is that possible?"
Jess shook her head. "Anything is possible but in this case, no, Sam. I don't think so." She pushed away from her desk and came toward him. "I'll set up a session with her in a few days time. You can sit in, and we'll see if she's willing to explore it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Now, I think you should head home. You look tired, Sam."
He caught her hand in his and pulled her into his lap. "Promise you're not working late tonight."
She laughed. "I'll do my best."
Distant thunder rumbled across the landscape as Sam finished typing his night report. He saved the file and turned off the computer. That was his last duty; he could go home now. He glanced out of his office window and saw the storm clouds gathering.
He called at Jess's office again to let her know he was leaving, then headed out. There was always some crisis to keep her late at the hospital but he hoped today she'd keep her word and be home on time. He was looking forward to a relaxing evening, just the two of them. He had to work nights; it was the nature of his peculiar gift, but it was hell on their sex life. He treasured the nights he got to sleep with his wife beside him.
As he crossed the parking lot to his car, the rain began. Just a few drops at first, but before he reached his Mustang the rain was heavy enough to soak through his supposedly waterproof coat. He had no umbrella so he ran the last distance to the car.
The rain pounding on the car roof was loud enough to be hail. He started the car, glancing up at the sky. It looked like the storm was just getting started.
Highway To Hell blasted out of the in-car stereo, loud enough for the beat to vibrate the wheel and shiver across Dean's skin. His fingers tapped the wheel in time to the music. It had to be loud or he'd never hear it over all this damned rain.
The visibility was down to just a few feet by the time he turned onto the road to Willow Creek. He slowed the Impala; navigating these country roads in this weather was going to be tough. It was just as well he slowed down, because a few minutes down the road Dean ran into a police roadblock.
He swore under his breath, turned off the music and rolled down the window, putting on his best I'm-harmless smile. "Is there a problem, officer?" he shouted over the driving rain.
The cop wore a yellow raincoat which was keeping off the worst of the weather, but his glasses were steamed up and he peered over them at Dean, shining a torch into his face for a second. "You headed to Willow Creek?" he yelled.
Where the hell else does this road lead? "Yes, sir," Dean answered. Rain was coming in through the Impala's window. A lot of rain.
"You're gonna have to take a different route. There's a sinkhole up ahead; the whole road is blocked."
"Shit," Dean muttered. He was already late. "Which way can I go?"
The cop straightened and pointed. "About a mile further down there's a side road that'll take you over the bridge. You'll come into Willow Creek from the west."
Dean nodded. He knew the road and had driven that way to find the place where Ellie died, but the bridge was damned narrow. He hadn't wanted to take the Impala that way. No choice, though. "Okay. Thanks, officer." He rolled the window back up and started to turn the car around. As he drove away from the roadblock, he pulled out his cell phone.
"Dad, it's me. I'm on my way home but I just got detoured by the cops, so I'm gonna be a while longer."
There was an uncharacteristic silence before John answered. "Hurry, Dean. I need you here."
Dean frowned. "Dad, what's wrong?"
"Just some new information.
"Did you figure out what Ellie was huntin'?"
"I'm not sure yet. I'll fill you in when you get here, son. What's your ETA?"
"Um...in this rain I'm not sure. An hour, maybe. Holy crap!" Dean swerved to avoid the figure that suddenly appeared in the road. He slammed on the brakes, dropping his phone. The tyres screeched on the wet road and the Impala spun out of control for a moment. Dean wrenched the wheel around, fighting for control of the car. She came to a stop in the ditch at the side of the road.
Dean leapt out of the car and scrambled back up to the road. Was that a kid? Did he hit someone? Shielding his eyes against the rain he saw the figure of a little girl still standing in the middle of the road. She wore a long white nightgown and was soaked to the skin, huddled against the cold, the thin fabric clinging to her thin frame. She was not moving.
Dean breathed a little easier: he hadn't hit her, at least but she obviously needed help. Cautiously, he moved toward her. "Hey. Are you okay?"
The girl didn't answer. She didn't even look his way. She looked about five. As he reached her, Dean saw that her face and her bare shoulders were cut and bruised. Something horrible had happened to her.
He slipped off his leather coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, kneeling in the road beside her. "It's okay. You're okay," he said soothingly. "I'm going to get you to a hospital, alright?" he tried to lead her away, but she resisted.
Dean didn't push it; the kid was obviously traumatised. "What's your name, honey?" he tried.
She reached up with both hands and his coat fell from her back. She touched his face, her tiny hands cupping his cheeks.
Her hands burst into flames.
Dean jerked back, more in surprise than in pain. The little girl wailed and fire flared around her, lighting up the road for a few seconds. Shit! A ghost. She grabbed him again and the cold fire seemed to spread, creeping along his arm, his shoulder, his chest. It engulfed him completely and Dean knew no more.
A hot spray of blood in his face, blinding him for a moment.
The weight of a weapon in his hand, solid and familiar.
A girl in flames, screaming. Fire!
Dean woke with adrenaline flooding his veins. His body jerked upward into a sitting position, out of his control. Automatically, he reached for the knife beneath his pillow but it wasn't there. There wasn't even a pillow. His hand encountered a wall that felt like a thick layer of paint over bare brick. This wasn't his bedroom. The place was completely unfamiliar.
Every muscle in his body ached. He felt like he'd gone twenty rounds in the ring, and come off worst in every round. Dean ran his hands over his face, and his arms. He found no injuries, just this bone-deep ache.
His breathing sounded harsh in the dark silence, but there didn't seem to be any immediate threat. Dean waited for the adrenaline rush to fade, taking stock of where he was. He was lying on something too hard to be a bed, but too soft to be the floor. He slid his hand over the surface at his side. It felt like cotton over some sort of padding. There was a wall behind him and on his right. He cautiously swung his legs around to his left, feeling for the ground. He found it: smooth and cool linoleum beneath his bare toes.
Dean glimpsed a light a distance away. He rose to his feet, feeling a little shaky. He grabbed onto the wall for support and trailed his hand along the painted surface as he moved, slowly, forward.
His eyes should be adjusting to the light more quickly than this. He blinked a few times, and that seemed to help. He took another step forward and ouch! stubbed his toe on something hard and solid. Automatically, he bent to see what it was and banged his forehead, too.
Dean felt ahead of him with one hand. Solid, smooth...fuck, it was glass. But not a window: the glass went all the way to the ground.
Then he understood.
This was a cell. He was in a prison cell.
What the hell?
Dean did a lot of things that could get a man arrested, but wouldn't he remember something like that?
He remembered driving in the rainstorm... There was nothing after that. Just the memory of Highway To Hell competing with the thunder of rain on the Impala's roof.
How did he get here?
The light he could see was a small square pane in a door some distance away. So there was probably someone around.
Dean took a deep breath, closed his hand into a fist and pounded on the glass. "Hey! Anyone out there! Answer me!" He yelled at the top of his voice and kept shouting, variations of the same thing.
After a moment, lights came on. It was just a low-level illumination in the corridor but after the almost perfect darkness it was more than enough for Dean. He waited. The door at the end of the corridor opened. Two people came through the door: men wearing what looked like a hospital staff uniform: grey pants and white lab-coats. They approached Dean's cell, not hurrying.
Dean let himself relax - a little. "What's going on?" he demanded. "Where am I? What am I doing here?" He didn't know if it was a good idea to let them know he couldn't remember, but he needed information, and fast. Direct seemed the best way.
One of them called out, "Fifteen, open up!" and Dean realised this might be the only chance he had to escape. He heard the lock click open and the man who had spoken reached forward to open it.
Dean darted forward, pushing at the glass as hard as he could. A panel of the glass swung open, knocking the first man down, and Dean was through. The first man grabbed for him. Dean wrenched out of his grasp, but felt the sharp prick of a needle in his arm.
He grasped the man's hand and forced it away from him. He saw the empty hypodermic. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded, but already his vision was clouding.
The first man caught Dean's arm and twisted it behind him, wrenching up and sending pain through Dean's arm and shoulder. It was a move Dean should have been able to counter easily, but his body refused to cooperate. Dean fell to his knees; his legs felt like wet spaghetti. "What are you doin'?" he mumbled, before everything went black.
When Dean woke for the second time, it was day. Or, rather, there was enough light that it felt like day.
Dean tried to get up, and found he could not. There were heavy restraints on his wrists and ankles, each attached to the sleeping platform with a short length of thick elastic. It allowed him to move, a little, but not enough to sit up or stand.
There was also someone with him in the cell.
Dean studied the man suspiciously. He looked about thirty, maybe a little older - roughly around Dean's own age. He had dark hair swept neatly back from his face. He was clean shaven. He wore a charcoal grey suit with an open-necked shirt. Smart but casual. A professional man: lawyer? Doctor, maybe?
The man leaned forward, studying Dean as intently as Dean studied him. "Dean, do you recognise me?"
It was an odd question. "Should I?" Dean returned.
"Perhaps not. Can you tell me what you do remember?"
Dean scowled. "Dude, I'm not tellin' you a damned thing until I get some answers."
The man nodded. "Alright."
"Where am I? Who the fuck are you and why am I tied up?"
"This is the Woodward Institute. We're an intermediate security hospital, primarily for patients with a history of violence. I'm Doctor Samuel Grey. When you were admitted here three days ago you were having violent seizures. We used heavy sedatives and restraints to keep you from hurting yourself. When you came out of it, we ran the usual tests, CAT scan, drug screening. There were no drugs in your system except the sedatives we put there. Your scans showed some left-brain abnormalities but that's most likely a result of the seizures, not the cause of them. You were in a state of withdrawal, almost catatonic, until last night, when I understand you became violent and had to be sedated again. Which brings us to this morning."
It was as if he was talking about a stranger. Dean remembered none of it (except the bit about last night, and if they thought that was violent they really didn't know him). Nor did it make any sense. If he'd been having seizures - not that he believed that for a second - he should be in a hospital. Dean knew about the Woodward Institute. It wasn't a hospital. It was an asylum. There was no reason for him to be here.
"Why am I here? If I was sick, why not a real hospital?"
The doctor hesitated. "As I understand it, you were in police custody when you became ill. It's standard practice for the cops to call us, rather than the county hospital. Security reasons."
Dean tugged at the restraint on his wrist. "So...am I free to leave?" Police custody meant he'd been arrested, but he didn't remember that. He remembered talking to a cop in the storm. That's right, there was a detour and they told him to take a different road into Willow Creek. And then... Remember, damn it!
"I'm afraid not. Dean, I've answered your questions. It's important you answer mine. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"
Dean ignored the question. "Why did you ask if I recognised you? Do I know you?"
The doctor leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be struggling to keep his expression neutral. "I...I think that, if you don't remember, we should table that question for the time being. I'm a doctor, and I'm here to help you."
"Dude, quit treatin' me like I'm gonna break. I'm okay and I want to know what the fuck is goin' on! And get these things off me!"
Dean expected a refusal, but to his surprise the doctor nodded. "Alright." He stood and walked to the bed. He bent over to undo the restraints at Dean's ankles.
"Your name is Dean Winchester," he said as he worked. "You were born in Lawrence, Kansas, son of John and Mary Winchester. Is that right?"
"You coulda got all that by running my fingerprints," Dean pointed out.
The doctor smiled. "I did. I wanted to know whether you remembered it." He reached across Dean's body to his wrist and opened the buckle, then freed Dean's other wrist before returning to his chair.
Dean sat up with relief. "Thanks," he said grudgingly.
"You're welcome. Dean...my name is Sam Grey now, but it's not the name I was born with. My original name was Winchester. Sam Winchester."
Dean stared at him. It was impossible. Sammy was dead.
He narrowed his eyes, studying the doctor's face. He saw nothing of his baby brother in that face. But then, it had been so long, and all the photos of Sammy were lost years ago. He couldn't be sure. He gazed into the doctor's eyes, and thought, Maybe. But he shook his head.
"You ain't Sammy. Sammy died fifteen years ago."
The doctor - Sammy, if it was really him - shook his head. "They don't kill all psychics, Dean. Just the dangerous ones."
Dean shook his head in denial. He was having trouble with his memory, but only with the recent memories. He remembered his life. He remembered his little brother, and he could never forget the day he and his dad were told Sammy was gone. Dean blamed himself. He should have taken Sammy from the school the second he saw the Psi Project testers were there. Dean swallowed.
"The Psi Project took Sammy from us, but we never gave up. Dad and me...we went back every few months, as often as they'd let us, but there was always some excuse. We weren't allowed to see him." The Psi Project had complete control over the children in its care. If the Project leaders said the kid's family couldn't visit, that was it. No court would intervene, because the purpose of the Project was control. Psychic children were dangerous. You wouldn't give a kid a loaded gun, or so the theory went, so kids who could kill with a mere thought were too dangerous to be allowed freedom. The Psi Project taught those kids control. It raised them to be useful citizens instead of dangerous renegades.
It was a good theory. The dark side of The Psi Project was what happened to the children who couldn't be controlled. It happened. Dean knew better than most that some psychics had powers that simply couldn't be used for anything but death; and many were so powerful it was impossible to refrain from using their power. In other words, some of those children were human time-bombs, killers by nature. One purpose of The Psi Project - its primary purpose, when it was first established - was to identify and cull the dangerous from the controllable. The ones deemed too dangerous were put down - killed - to protect the public.
That was what happened to Sammy.
"They told us Sammy killed someone," Dean said aloud. "He was on the death-list, and they still wouldn't let us see him. Sammy is dead." He turned angry eyes to the doctor. "So you ain't him. No fucking way."
The doctor's face was stricken. "I never knew... I...I thought..." He stood, abruptly, turning away from Dean. "Son of a bitch!"
It was a good act. Dean stayed quiet, waiting for the punchline.
Finally, the doctor turned back to him. "Dean, I was deathlisted when I was fifteen. Some kid I didn't know committed suicide, and I got the blame because she'd been having nightmares before it happened."
Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "No one gets a reprieve once they're deathlisted by The Project."
Sam nodded. "It's rare." He smiled suddenly. "One thing I learned from Dad was never give up. If you're still breathing, if your heart's still beating, there's hope. I fought for a chance to prove myself, and even after I won, I had to keep proving myself over and over." He moved to sit beside Dean on the sleeping platform. "Dean, you're in real trouble here, don't you realise that? Man, I remember you teaching me to tie my shoes. I remember you staying awake with me all night to fight the monster in my closet. You always took care of me. I want to help you now. I can help, but you've got to trust me. Please."
He seemed sincere. But he'd admitted to being a psychic. That meant that he could be pulling all this out of Dean's mind. Dean wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe his little brother could be alive. That was his weakness. He could not afford to give in to it.
Dean met the doctor's eyes. "Even if I believed that you're Sammy, the only person I trust is my dad. Does he know I'm here?"
A look Dean couldn't read passed across the doctor's face.
"Well, does he? 'Cause if Dad knows where I am, I ain't gonna need your help, dude. And if he doesn't know, the only help I need is freaking phone call."
Sam's eyes widened. "You really don't remember anything, do you? Oh, my god."
"I thought you were a psychic."
"Yes, but I'm not a telepath." He took a deep breath. "Dean, Dad's not coming for you."
Dean stared at this man who claimed to be his long-lost brother and knew he'd finally caught him in a lie. The man was a damned good liar, though. Dean could find no hint of it in his body language or his eyes. "What are you talking about? Of course Dad'll come for me!"
Sam swallowed hard. He looked very uncomfortable. "Dean...Dad's dead. All the evidence says you killed him."
Dad's dead. Sam watched Dean's expression carefully as he said it, keeping his tone as even as he could.You killed him.
Dean stared at him. Shock chased disbelief across his face. Suddenly, Dean lunged for Sam. Sam had half-expected it but he reacted too slowly, scrambling back away from Dean. Dean's hands closed around his throat. Sam's back slammed into the wall, driving the breath from his body.
Dean's eyes were cold and controlled. His thumbs pressed down on Sam's windpipe, slowly and deliberately cutting off his air. "You're a fucking liar!" he spat into Sam's face.
It wasn't the first time a patient had attacked Sam. He had a silent alarm implanted in the heel of his left hand: a sub-dermal implant couldn't be taken from him in a crisis. Sam clenched his fist to activate the alarm but even as he did he knew there wasn't enough time. He looked into Dean's eyes, pleading. Don't do this, Dean. Don't make me hurt you. Dean pressed harder, and Sam saw death in his eyes.
Sam felt the power punch out of him, tearing Dean's hands from his neck and blowing him away. It wasn't like using muscle; this was physically effortless, but it sent a spear of pain through his head, and Sam knew he'd pay for this later. Dean's body hit the opposite wall, a foot above the ground. He didn't fall; he stayed there, suspended.
Sam doubled over, coughing, trying to breathe. His telekinetic ability had always been involuntary. Involuntary meant no control, which in turn meant he shouldn't use it. Ever. Self defence would be no excuse if he killed someone, and he could. He sucked air into his lungs and looked up at Dean. He wasn't hurt. Thank god he wasn't hurt!
But the look in Dean's eyes would stay with Sam forever. Dean was afraid of him.
Sam staggered to the cell door as the orderlies arrived to answer his alarm. One carried a hypodermic and Sam didn't need to ask what it contained. He held up a hand in a "stop" gesture as the door swung open.
"It's okay. That's not necessary."
Behind him, he heard Dean fall to the ground. Sam stepped out of the cell and turned around to look at Dean as it swung closed.
Dean stalked toward the glass. "So that's what you are," he announced, in a voice that clearly said monster.
Sam met his brother's eyes through the glass. "What I am is a dreamwalker, Dean. I have some other minor abilities, premonitions, telekinesis, but they're not voluntary. You attacked me, and my power responded. I apologise."
"Dreamwalker," Dean repeated, his lip curling with contempt.
It was a familiar reaction. Sam had hoped for better from his brother, but he knew that had been optimistic at best. So he simply nodded. "Yes. I meant what I said, Dean. I can help you."
"You think I'm gonna let you fuck with my head after this?"
Sam schooled his expression to neutrality. "Fine. Whatever. If you change your mind, ask for me. I'll come." He walked away before Dean could get the last word.
Jessica was waiting for Sam in the nurses' office at the end of the cell block. Sam rubbed at his neck; he was going to be bruised, but he smiled for Jess.
"Ready for breakfast?" she suggested brightly.
That was code for Let's talk in private. "Definitely," Sam answered. He took her hand as he reached her, but he spoke not to Jess, but to the ward supervisor. "No more sedatives for Winchester unless he's going to hurt himself again. Give him an hour or so to calm down, then see if you can get him to clean up. But make sure he's supervised; he's likely to be a flight risk."
The supervisor wrote down the instructions as he spoke. "Understood, doctor."
"Thanks. One more thing. If he asks for me, I want you to page me at once, day or night."
She nodded, making a note. "No problem."
"Thanks," he said again. Jessica squeezed his hand; a silent question. He smiled her way, promising an answer when they were in private.
Breakfast was fresh orange juice, coffee and bagels. They ate together in Jessica's office. She had a large leather couch in one corner; she kicked off her high heels and relaxed with her feet in Sam's lap as they ate.
Sam gave Jess a summary of his meeting with Dean. "He doesn't remember the murder, Jess. He didn't remember it at all."
Jess set her coffee down. "The seizures could have caused a loss of memory, but it's just as likely he's trying to set up an insanity defence. Sam, I read the file on this man. He's got a criminal record a mile long."
"I know he has," Sam admitted, "but this murder makes no sense. He's a paranormal-hunter, Jess, they both were. They've been working together for years. Where's the motive? Dean was devastated when I told him his father is dead. He wasn't faking it."
Jess reached up to touch his shoulder. "Are you ready to explain all this to me?"
Sam gave her his best blank face. "Explain what?"
Of course, it didn't work.
"Oh, come on, Sam! You dragged me out of bed before dawn, telling me we're needed at the Institute. When we get here there's this stranger in ICU and cops everywhere, and somehow you knew everything about him and the man he's killed. Sam, you even described his car!"
Sam fought not to smile. His father's Chevy was the closest thing to a home he'd known, before the Psi Project Centre. When he'd described the car for the cops it wasn't a psychic revelation (though he'd been willing to let them think so); one of the cops mentioned it was an old musclecar and Sam just remembered it. He turned the smile to Jess. "I thought you were used to my freaky ways." He ran a hand up her leg from ankle to knee, smiling.
Jessica wouldn't allow him to distract her. "That's the point, Sam, I am used to it. You've never done anything like this before. I want to know what's going on in that freaky head of yours."
Jess was his wife, and technically she was his boss, too; Sam owed her the truth on both counts. "Okay," he sighed. "But when I tell you, you're gonna want me off this case. Promise me you'll let me follow this through, Jess. It's important."
She shook her head and moved around, lifting her legs away from his body. Putting distance between them. "I won't make a promise that could compromise my professional judgement, Sam, and you shouldn't be asking me to."
"Jess..."
"No."
There's a no that means maybe, and then there's the absolute no. Sam knew the difference when Jess said it, and this was definitely a no. He met her eyes. "I had a dream, Jess. I saw the murder and I saw Dean was in trouble. I have to help him. I might be the only one who can."
"But why? Why him?"
"Because I owe him that much and more. The man he killed, John Winchester, is my father. Dean's my brother."
He watched her process that. She knew Grey wasn't his real name but she accepted he couldn't talk about his old family. They'd been building a future together, a new family...until they lost Rachel, their little daughter... But Sam shied away from that memory.
Finally, Jessica looked at him again. "Sam. Oh, Sam, you know you can't treat a family member as a patient!"
"I knew you'd say that."
"Medical ethics 101, Sam."
"If things were different, I'd agree, but, Jess..."
"He's a murderer, Sam. I don't want you to lose sight of that."
Sam wanted to reach for her, but this was a professional conversation; he resisted the impulse. "I don't think he murdered his father, Jess. I...I saw what happened. I saw it through his eyes and it was Dean, but it wasn't and I don't know how to explain that. The only thing I'm sure of is this case is a lot more complicated than it looks. Dean has got to remember what happened and you know my ability is the best chance for him to do that."
"You're not making sense, Sam."
"I know. So let me stick with it until it does make sense. I'm begging you, Jess. Please let me help my brother."
Dean paced the small confines of the cell. He knew its exact dimensions now. Seven paces from the sleeping platform to the glass. Four from one side to the other. And that glass made him feel like Hannibal-fucking-Lector.
He couldn't take it all in at once. Somehow he'd lost three days of his life. That would be scary enough. But then this doctor claimed to be his little brother. Sammy who died - who was murdered by the fucking Psi Project - fifteen years ago. Dean didn't know whether to believe him or not. He'd never seen Sammy's body or visited his grave. So, yeah, maybe it was possible that Sammy didn't die.
But was this what his baby brother had become? He slammed Dean against the wall without even a gesture. Dean hunted ghosts and monsters and sometimes the monster turned out to be a rogue psychic. He'd put them down, just like any other monster. So Dean knew about psychics. He knew that the most powerful psychics had more than one ability. Sam - the doctor - called himself a dreamwalker: a psychic who could enter and control the dreams of others. A dreamwalker could dig out a person's worst fears and memories and turn them into a nightmare. They could drive a person to suicide or make them kill. If Sam was powerful enough to have secondary powers, and his primary talent was such a dangerous one, it was a miracle The Project allowed him to survive to adulthood.
I fought for a chance to prove myself, and even after I won, I had to keep proving myself over and over. That did sound like Dad's training. He taught them to play the roles expected of them, to appear innocent and harmless, to blend in. What Sam said: If you're still breathing, if your heart's still beating, there's hope - those were John's words.
Of course, there were other ways a psychic could have lifted that phrase from Dean's memories. Did Dean dare to believe it? Was this man his brother?
Dean wanted to believe Sammy was alive, but he needed to believe the doctor lied to him. Because if he was telling the truth about who he was, then the other thing he said must also be the truth. It meant that John Winchester was dead. Dean couldn't believe that. His dad was indestructible. You could throw a fucking army at him and he'd find a way to bounce back.
The rest of it, the details, Dean dismissed. He would never have hurt his Dad, so it didn't matter what evidence the cops had, they were wrong. It wouldn't be the first time he was wrongly suspected of murder. It didn't matter to him. He would find a way out of it; he always did.
What mattered was being locked up in a nuthouse.
Dean pivoted to pace toward the glass again and saw an orderly there, watching him. "What do you want?"
"Time for you to take a shower, freshen up a little. Unless you'd rather stay there."
Dean thought fast. His first priority had to be escape, but he was thinking more clearly than the night before. If he was going to escape he needed information. He needed to know how many locked doors and guards were between him and the exit. The doctor said the institute was "intermediate security" - that meant Dean could beat it.
So he walked toward the glass, relaxing his body so his walk looked casual, his expression submissive. "Okay," he said agreeably. Let them think I'm just another patient...until it's time to kick some ass.
Dean stepped out of the cell. The floor was cold under his bare feet. If he did escape, he wouldn't get far in the thin grey pants and t-shirt that the hospital dressed him in. Where were his own clothes?
The lights flickered as he followed the orderly down the corridor. Dean looked up at the lights, worried. There were no windows in sight. "Is it day?" he asked. The orderly gave him a weird look, and Dean added, "I mean, what time is it?"
"Eleven thirty in the morning."
"You got electrical problems?" Dean tried to make the question casual.
The orderly shrugged. "It's an old building. The wiring's a bit temperamental."
"I bet it's hell at night, huh? Blackouts, shorts all over the place..."
The orderly opened a door ahead of them. "You get used to it," he said.
That wasn't reassuring at all. Still, a place like this, you've got to figure it'd be haunted. It might not mean anything.
It was a communal bathroom, like a locker room: a row of shower heads along one wall, a row of sinks and a long mirror opposite and a wooden bench down the middle of the room. There were three cameras in corners of the room; between them they covered the whole room. So privacy wasn't an option.
"Take a shower," the orderly instructed. "You can shave, too, if you want to." He nodded toward the row of sinks. "I'll get you a toothbrush and some clean clothes."
"Yeah, thanks." Dean stripped where he stood and left the clothing on the bench. He walked over to the nearest shower head and turned the water on. He hadn't been aware of discomfort but the shower did feel good. The water was lukewarm at best and the soap was scentless and cheap, but the water pressure was good and even lukewarm water felt good to his aching muscles. Dean took his time. He found hypodermic bruises inside his arm, and felt the bruises on his shoulder blades from when he hit the wall. But those were surface injuries. The bone-deep ache in his muscles was worse.
Behind him, Dean heard the door open. He glanced around, saw another orderly, and went back to his shower. He didn't take much longer in the shower. He stepped out, dripping water and found a towel waiting on the bench. There was also fresh clothing with a toothbrush and a disposable razor sitting on top. Dean rubbed himself dry and pulled the pants on. He picked up the toothbrush and razor and walked over to the sink.
The mirror above the sink was old and dirty. The silvering was beginning to flake away from the back and the glass was covered with finger smudges and splashes of soap. Even so, Dean could see himself fairly clearly and the image in the mirror shocked him. The three-day beard he'd expected, but the dark circles under his eyes made him look like he'd come off worst in a bar fight. His cheeks were hollow, as if he hadn't eaten properly for weeks. And he was pale, his skin almost grey...or maybe that was just the bad lighting. Whatever. He looked sick.
When you were admitted here you were having violent seizures. We used heavy sedatives and restraints to keep you from hurting yourself. You were in a state of withdrawal, almost catatonic, until last night. Dean believed it now. It explained why he looked like a freaking zombie. It explained the pain in his muscles. But why would he have a seizure in the first place? He wasn't epileptic. He wasn't on drugs.
Dean picked up the soap and started to lather up. His actions were like an autopilot while he tried to make sense of everything that was happening to him. He picked up the razor and leaned closer to the mirror to start shaving.
There was a child behind him, reflected in the glass.
Dean froze. He almost turned around, but stopped himself. He stared at the girl's reflection.
On the road, in the storm. There was a little girl in flames.
Oh, shit.
Okay, Dean, calm down. What do you know? Well, the kid was obviously a spirit. This was the second time he'd seen her, so she wanted something from him. A figure in flames...that had a very personal meaning for Dean, but he pushed the association aside. It couldn't be that. So what? What the hell did she want?
The ghost-child screamed, a banshee's scream, higher than a human voice. Rougher. Unending.
The mirror exploded out toward Dean, shattering into a thousand shards. Dean threw up his arms to protect his face. Broken glass raked his skin as it flew by. Shards burrowed into his face, his arms, his chest. There was blood everywhere. Dean fell backward, getting cut again by the glass now on the floor. The ghost scream filled his head, more painful than the glass, a sound that drilled into his brain until he couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't feel anything but pain.
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