SPN Fic: Dreamwalker (2/3)

[briarwood]

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.)

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: Part One

---

DREAMWALKER

Part Two

Sam watched Dean through the one-way glass.

Dean sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his bare feet swinging slightly, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were hugging himself. Nurses had pulled the glass out of him. The worst of the cuts had been stitched, the rest just cleaned and left to heal. He had been given a mild sedative, to help with the pain and keep him calm.

Jessica moved in to his side and Sam slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in to his body. For comfort. "What do you think?" he asked her quietly.

"I think it was a suicide attempt," Jess said. She, too, spoke quietly. "The video shows he was at the mirror when it broke, though I can't see how he did it. But the mirror didn't smash itself." She looked at him suddenly. "Unless it did. I mean..." Jess broke off before speaking Sam's secret aloud, but he understood. Dean was Sam's brother.

"You think he's telekinetic?"

"Is it possible?" Jess asked.

Scientists had been studying psychic phenomena for fifty years. No one had been able to prove psychic ability was in the DNA, or identified the genes responsible. But it did seem to run in some families. Sam answered honestly. "If he is, Jess, he was never identified as a psychic. Dean took the tests at school. And I don't believe he's suicidal. There was no sign of that level of distress when I spoke to him." On the other hand, psychic abilities could be involuntary. But even an involuntary use of power...the user would know.

"He tried to throttle you, Sam!"

Sam nodded. "Yes, but that was anger. He's paranoid, in denial. He thought I was lying to him. Violence was a normal reaction. But not this." He drew back to look at her. "Can I talk to him, boss?"

It made her smile. "The case is yours, Sam. Can you get him ready to talk to the cops tomorrow?"

"Put them off." A day wouldn't be enough.

"I don't think I can, Sam, he killed a man. The courts will only leave him with us if we demonstrate we can help. Otherwise he's going to be transferred to prison and the only help you'll be able to give him is finding a lawyer."

Sam thanked the nurse and asked for privacy. He picked up a chair and moved it closer to the bed where Dean waited.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Dean frowned. "How am I feeling?" he repeated, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "That's crap, dude. I just got a wall full of broken glass in my face. How do you think I feel?"

"Are you in pain? Because we can do something about that."

"I'm fine. Except...you know. These scars are gonna ruin my sex life."

Sam smiled, because he was supposed to. "I don't know. I hear some women like a little wear and tear in a man." More seriously, he added, "Dean, can we talk?"

Dean's smile vanished. "What's the point?"

So Dean was still suspicious of him. Fine, let's keep this professional. Sam nodded, settling himself into the chair. "Dean, can you tell me how you broke the mirror? I never knew you were telekinetic." It was always going to be an awkward question and Sam had no time to be subtle.

Dean's eyes flashed with anger. "You think I'm a freak like you? You think I did this to myself?"

"Didn't you?" Sam asked evenly.

"No, I fucking didn't!" Dean leapt off the bed an stalked toward the door. He saw the guards through the glass and pivoted to face Sam again. "Forget it, doc. You can't help me."

Sam hadn't expected such a vehement response. He stood when Dean did, but stayed where he was: it was important to seem non-threatening. "Alright, Dean. Why don't you tell me what you think happened?"

Was it possible Dean was a psychic and didn't know it?

It was a mistake. "So now I'm nuts?" Dean snapped. "Fuck you, doctor."

"I didn't mean that," Sam protested. "Dean, please. Why won't you trust me?"

Dean walked toward him and laid both of his hands on Sam's shoulders, leaning close. "How can I trust someone who thinks I'm crazy?"

---

That afternoon, after he had eaten, Dean was taken into a courtyard "for some fresh air". It felt like the exercise yard of a prison: a square of grass with timber benches scattered around, surrounded by high walls and locked doors. It was the first time he'd been in the same room with other patients and their presence reinforced his feeling of being in prison. Men gathered in small groups around the yard, most of them sitting around, not talking or doing anything much that Dean could see. Others sat alone, morose and withdrawn. One man seemed to be counting a handful of pebbles over and over. This really was a nut-house.

Holy crap. Maybe I died in that storm and this is Hell.

But this was a chance for Dean to get out of his cell and take a look around. He wanted to check out the lie of the land, assess the weaknesses in the security. There are always weaknesses in any security system: you just had to find them. Dean fully intended to escape from this hell hole; it was just a question of when and how. When had to be soon; Dean was impatient to be out before he became as crazy as everyone else here. How was harder. He was beginning to figure out an exit route but there was a lot of detail missing.

This place was a nightmare. Cops he could handle. If he were under arrest he'd have some rights. No matter what they believed he'd done he would be entitled to a phone call and contact with a lawyer. Dean knew how to work the system. But this was different. As a patient in a hospital, Dean was completely at their mercy. They could keep him in isolation for as long as they could fabricate a reason for it. They could drug him or chain him up, and it was all perfectly legal. Only his next-of-kin would have a chance of getting him out and, if Sam told him the truth, John was dead and unable to help him. So Dean had to co-operate. He had to be harmless, because if they decided he was dangerous he might never escape.

The problem was Dean was dangerous. That was kinda hard to hide.

He paced the perimeter of the courtyard. He looked at his hands and arms, the skin streaked with cuts from the glass. None of the cuts were serious. He'd lost some blood, and the cuts on his face were likely to scar, but he'd gotten to see more of the hospital layout than he could have seen from his cell. In a way, the ghost-kid did him a favour. Huh.

He'd seen her before. She was on the road in the storm. In the rain...he'd seen her spirit in the road and...and ended up in the ditch because he tried to avoid hitting her. It was his last clear memory.

A little girl grabbed his face, her hands in flames...

...She melted into the fire and Dean's legs gave way. He fell to his knees in the cold, driving rain...

He had no memory of driving home but he did recall opening the door of the cabin he and John had rented.

...The door squeaked a little as it swung open. "Dad? It's me."

Then there was nothing until...

...John, his face covered in blood, aiming a gun at him. Dean saw John's finger squeeze down on the trigger...

...Kneeling beside John's body, blood all over both of them, tears stinging his eyes...

Dean sank to the ground. The grass was damp and cold beneath his ass, from the recent rain.

He remembered. Not clearly and not all of it, but enough. Enough.

Dad's gone...oh, god...

For an endless time, Dean stayed there. He felt numb. He couldn't think.

Crazy would be better than this. Anything would be better than believing those flashes of memory. John tried to kill him? That just wasn't possible...was it? Maybe it wasn't a true memory. Maybe it was just a nightmare he was remembering.

He needed help.

Dean made his choice. He scrambled to his feet and approached the nearest guard. "I want to see my doctor. Doctor Sam Grey."

---

Moving from the monotonous grey of the main institute hallways into the more welcoming staff wing, Dean felt a little like Dorothy walking out of her grey house into the Land of Oz. He hadn't realised how unpleasant grey stone could be. Dean had a guard on either side of him, and walked through four sets of locked doors before they emerged into the staff wing, and just crossing that last threshold felt like entering a new world. Suddenly there were colours: pale green paint on the walls, pictures, noticeboards with brightly coloured posters and even a rug beneath his feet.

When they reached the destination, one of the guards knocked on the door. Dean read the name on the office door: Doctor Jessica L Grey. The guard opened the door for him and Dean walked in. He found himself in a large, wood-panelled office. There was a large, stained oak desk, bookshelves, a leather couch...it was impressive.

Sam was there, standing near the desk with a woman who had to be Dr Jessica L Grey. She wore her long, blonde hair loose down her back: a cascade of curls over her dark blue suit. Both she and Sam looked at Dean as he walked into the room. Dressed in his hospital greys, Dean felt very out of place. They had given him shoes though: soft-soled slip-ons. That was progress.

Sam glanced at the two guards. "Thanks John, Gareth. I'll call when I need you." To Dean he added, "Dean, this is Doctor Grey."

She came toward Dean smiling and offered her hand. "Jessica. Sam told me about your relationship, so, I think that makes us family."

Dean looked sharply at Sam. That relationship that's all in your head? To Doctor Grey he said, "I think the jury's still out on that one." He took the hand she offered with a smile. She had a firm handshake and her skin was soft and warm to his touch. Under the severe suit, Doctor Grey was kinda hot.

Her welcoming smile changed a little under his gaze and Dean recognised the look. This was a woman accustomed to men finding her attractive. "I'm on my way to a meeting," she said, releasing his hand. Sam wanted to use my office so..." She turned her smile to Sam. Dean saw her expression soften. She really loved him. Another piece of information for Dean to file away.

"Thanks, Jess," Sam said.

Dean waited for her - and the two guards - to leave the room. He turned back to Sam. "She's your wife?" he asked.

Sam moved to the plush leather couch, gesturing for Dean to join him. "Yes, she is. Jess is head of our psychiatric team so technically, she's my boss, too."

"Huh." Working for the ball-and-chain. It was so healthy it was sickening. I bet you've got two point four kids and a house with a white picket fence, too. Dean sat down on the couch, a careful distance from Sam.

"Okay, Dean. You asked to see me. So what's on your mind?"

No small talk. Dean appreciated that. Straight down to business. "I think I remembered something. Something from that night."

"That's good." Sam's tone was careful, not quite patronising but edging that way. "What do you remember?"

The tone irritated Dean, but he ploughed on because he knew he needed help. "I was there. I was there when my dad was killed."

Sam nodded. "Yes, you were."

"I remember...but I wasn't alone. I don't know who was with me, or why, or what happened but there was someone else."

Sam's careful expression slipped into uncertainty. "Dean, the police found no evidence of a third person present."

Dean was ready for that one. "I'll bet they didn't look for it. I mean, our neighbours knew it was just me and Dad renting the cabin. Unless someone else saw the other person... But there's more. Sam, I've been seeing this girl..."

Sam smiled. "You always did."

"No, I mean a kid. That night, I ran my car into a ditch because I nearly hit a child on the bridge. Except it wasn't really a kid - it was a spirit. I saw her again here. In the bathroom."

"Do you mean when the mirror broke?"

"Yeah. I don't know how the girl's spirit is connected, but I'm sure she is. Sam, you live around here, right? Do you know of any kids who have died here, in the Institute? Or on that bridge?"

"No children have died here at the institute, Dean. This is a secure facility and we've never had a juvenile ward. What bridge are you talking about?"

Dean frowned, trying to remember. "It's a white wooden bridge about three miles west of Willow Creek."

Sam looked away from Dean. Dean caught something in his expression, some memory. "I know the bridge," Sam said. "I don't remember any deaths there. It's more a fishing hole than a suicide spot, but I'll check if you like."

"You know somethin'. About that bridge. Don't you?"

"Nothing relevant, Dean." Sam blinked a few times then met Dean's eyes again. "You said you ran your car off the road because you saw this...spirit. Was this near the bridge?"

Dean studied Sam closely: the slight hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his hands. Sam didn't believe him. He was behaving as if he didn't even believe in ghosts. But if he was really Dean's brother and John Winchester's son, then he knew what was out there in the dark...didn't he?

Dean nodded uneasily. "Just before the bridge, yeah."

"Okay. What happened next? Do you remember?"

"I got out of the car." Dean frowned as he spoke, fighting to remember everything. It was like trying to recall a dream. "I thought I might have hit the kid, but she was still there, just standing in the middle of the road. I...I went to her...and she...she was on fire. She grabbed me... That's the last thing I remember clearly. After that, it's just fragments. I remember parking outside the cabin. I remember Dad pointing a gun at me. I remember sitting next to his body...but I didn't kill him, Sam! No way did I do that."

Sam looked thoughtful. He was silent for a long moment.

"You don't believe me," Dean said.

Sam leaned toward him slightly. "Dean, I'm trying. But you have to realise how this sounds."

"How does it sound, Sam?" Dean demanded. "If you're really my brother, then you know what's out there. You don't believe I ran into a ghost? It happens, dude!"

Sam nodded calmly. "Yes, it happens," he agreed. He hesitated, looking at Dean. "Alright. Just...just try to see this from my point of view. You've been through something so traumatic that you've blocked out all conscious memory of it. Your father is dead. And now you're talking to me about a ghostly figure in flames. Dean, I know what that means to you and Dad."

Anger flared through him, hot and immediate. Dean shot up off the couch. "You stupid son of a bitch! This has nothing to do with mom!" Fuck! I thought you'd help me, Sam. Instead of help, Dean was just getting this Freudian bullshit. He walked away from Sam, blindly pacing the room. Dean was too angry to stay still. He couldn't look at Sam. If he did, he was gonna punch him and if he did that he would blow his chance to escape. So instead, Dean walked, looking around wildly for something he could focus on that wasn't Sam's face.

The small collection of photographs on top of a bookcase caught Dean's eye. The largest was a wedding photograph: Sam in a charcoal suit with Jessica in a white gown. Another showed Jessica with an older man: her father, perhaps? And there was one photograph of a child: a little girl about five years old. A girl Dean recognised.

Dean snatched up the photograph.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, coming toward him.

"Who is this? Sam, this is the girl I've been seeing!"

Sam took the picture from his hand. "Dean, that's enough."

"Just tell me who she is! Why did I see her on the bridge? Why flames? You know, Sam!"

"Stop this! Please, just stop!" Sam turned away, cradling the photograph against his chest.

The distress in Sam's voice got through to Dean and he backed off. "Okay, okay." This was Jessica's office. The other photographs on the bookcase were her family. Probably this child was family, too. Dean approached Sam slowly, carefully. "Who is she, Sam?" he asked softly.

Sam held the photo frame in his hands, gazing down at the girl's face. "She's my daughter. Rachel."

Sam spoke in the present tense but Dean knew the child was dead. You don't see spirits of living people. "She's beautiful," Dean said quietly.

"Yes, she was." Sam set the photograph back in its place on the bookcase.

"What happened?"

Sam met Dean's eyes. "Rachel was murdered four years ago." His eyes narrowed. "And, no, it wasn't on that bridge."

But the bridge means something, doesn't it, Sam? I saw your face when I mentioned it. She was murdered? That's how angry spirits are born, dude.

Dean swallowed. "Sam, I'm sorry. I've never had kids. I don't know what you must have gone through. I do understand that this is painful, but..."

"Don't," Sam growled. For the first time, Dean saw anger in Sam's eyes, heard it in his voice. "Just fucking stop." The way Sam looked at Dean in that moment: the grim line of his mouth, the set of his jaw...Dean saw his father in Sam. Dean believed, then, that Sam told him the truth. This was John Winchester's son.

It made Dean hesitate, but only for a moment. "Sammy, you know the score. I saw this girl on the bridge and I know she's connected to whatever happened to Dad. I saw her again today." He held out his cut hands with their patchwork of dressings; he gestured to his torn face. "She did this to me."

"You're delusional."

"Dude, I wish I was. 'Cause there's only one way to stop her."

"For god's sake, Dean!"

"Sam, you have to do it. I can't, I'm locked in here. You have to open up her grave and salt and burn - "

Sam hit him, a single punch with all of his weight behind it. Dean staggered and touched his jaw gingerly. I guess I asked for that.

Sam grabbed the front of Dean's shirt, forcing Dean to straighten up. He leaned in to Dean's face. "You are talking," he said through gritted teeth, "about desecrating my daughter's grave."

Dean swallowed. Yeah, Sam was right. This stuff was normal for Dean; it couldn't be easy for Sam to understand after so long away from his family. He spoke quietly, hoping Sam would know he understood. "I'm talking about laying her spirit to rest, Sam. As her father, you should want that."

Sam let him go, turning away. "This is crazy! You're telling me my little girl cut you up! That she somehow killed our father. Dean, don't you see how impossible that is?"

You're a psychic and you're talking to me about impossible? Sam wasn't going to listen. Hell, if their positions were reversed, Dean might not believe it himself. "Yeah, I know how it sounds, man. But I know what I saw."

Sam walked over to the desk and leaned over the intercom. "I think you've said enough." He punched a button and spoke into the phone, asking for security.

Well, I fucked that up good. Dean approached Sam cautiously, torn between needing to keep his distance and wanting to make Sam understand. "Sam, listen, please. This spirit has attacked me twice. I have no idea why. If you're not gonna deal with this, then you've got to let me have some salt. I need to keep her out, dude."

The door opened. Sam shook his head. "I can't do that, Dean."

"Bullshit! Sam, cut me a break here. She could kill me next time!"

Sam looked at the security guard. "We're done here."

---

Sam entered his work-room that evening with his thought still in chaos from his meeting with Dean. He had known that Dean was...disturbed, but raving about ghosts, fixating on the photograph of Rachel...Sam hadn't been prepared for that. Maybe he was wrong about Dean. On present evidence, he was either genuinely insane, or putting on a hell of an act. Some half-assed attempt to build an insanity defence, perhaps? It wouldn't be the first time a patient at the institute had tried it.

Somehow, he had to stop thinking about Dean. Sam needed to work.

All jokes about working in his sleep aside, Sam needed a working environment that was both comfortable and had minimal distraction. His working room was deliberately Spartan. An adapted private hospital room with white-painted walls, it contained only the bed, the nightstand and a plain rug on the floor. He changed his clothing before entering the room, exchanging the smart-casual suit for jogging pants and a simple sweater: dressed for comfort. So all he had to do was remove his shoes and he was ready.

Sam put the shoes away in the nightstand and sat down on the rug. He took several deep breaths, slowly, centring himself the way he'd been taught by his mentor at the Psi Project. It took longer than it should to clear his mind.

It was lucky Sam's dream schedule for the night wasn't a taxing one. Ashley Saylor, was first. Sam had been working with her for nearly two months. She was an addict: crack cocaine and heroin. Like everyone else, she had to go through withdrawal the hard way. Sam's job was to help her through it. He could give her a pleasant dream instead of the nightmares of paranoia withdrawal tended to inspire, and he was beginning to give her a vision of the future, something hopeful, something she could look forward to. The idea was give her enough strength to do the rest of the work herself. She was making good progress, and Sam's work with her was easy now because she wanted to be free of the drugs.

His second patient of the night would be the most challenging: Duane, a permanent resident of the Institute, committed by the court after he killed his wife. Duane had some serious personality disorders. Sam worked in cooperation with his therapist and was gradually getting to the source of Duane's trauma. Over the past year he had uncovered the layers in Duane's dreams and he was finally responding to treatment. He would always have some mental illness but Sam was hopeful that he would eventually be stable enough to leave the institute.

Lastly, Sam had a new patient, Mitchell Thorne. He was here voluntarily. Dreaming with him tonight would just be exploration, a time for Sam to learn how Mitchell dreamed, and to see how his issues manifested. The real work wouldn't begin until the third or fourth shared dream.

Dean should have been on Sam's schedule - that had been Sam's plan - but Dean made it clear he wouldn't consent and Sam believed that to invade someone's mind without their consent would be a kind of rape. Sam wouldn't deliberately enter anyone's dream-state without their permission, though he wished Dean would allow it. It was, for Sam, the quickest way to figure out the truth.

And his thoughts were back to Dean again. Sam stood up with a sigh, pushing aside all thought of Dean and his ravings. He had to work, now. He would worry about Dean in the morning.

Sam lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

---

Dean sat on the floor of his cell, leaning back against the sleeping platform. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about the spirit haunting him, and if he were honest with himself, he was scared. He didn't usually face an angry spirit so unprotected.

It was all too much to take in. The spirit was Sam's daughter...which would make her Dean's niece, wouldn't it? Maybe that was why she picked on him: they shared blood, and that forged a link between them even though Dean never knew she existed. But why would she attack him?

Spirits see things differently from the living. Could Dean be a proxy for her father? Shit, did Sam do something to his own kid? Surely not...

...It would explain Sam's denial...

As if in answer to Dean's thoughts, the light outside his cell flickered. Dean rose to his feet and walked toward the glass, looking out into the dark corridor. The flickering was worse. Dean made up his mind. He was not going to be a victim to little ghost girl. He had no gun, no rock salt. He couldn't fight. So he needed a different strategy.

Dean pressed one hand against the glass. "Rachel? Rachel Grey. I know you're there, sweetheart. Let me see you."

Dean saw something like a ripple of water behind the glass and just like that, there she was. A five year old girl with shoulder-length dark hair and wearing a thin white nightgown. She was soaking wet, just as he'd seen her on the road. Her hair clung to her head and face, the nightgown dripped water, though the drips never reached the ground.

Dean drew in a shaky breath. What he was going to try was crazy, but then, crazy was appropriate to this setting. "Okay. Rachel, I know you want something from me. Is it revenge? You want whoever hurt you?"

She merely looked at him, her eyes dark and serious. Her face was terribly bruised.

Dean took that as a yes. "I can do that for you," he told her. Hell, he was already facing a murder charge; what was one more? And anyone who would murder a child... He went on, addressing Rachel as if she were a living adult. "But this is a two-way deal, kiddo. I do that for you, you've gotta do something for me. I want out of this cell."

Rachel raised her hands to the glass. Dean stepped back quickly, not wanting another set of scars, but she laid one dripping hand over the lock. He saw her flesh flare into flame and heard the lock click open.

Dean hadn't really believed it would work. He grinned. "Alright!" He pushed the glass door open and stepped into the corridor. Rachel gazed at him expectantly. Dean nodded. "A deal's a deal, I guess. But if you ain't gonna speak to me, honey, you'll have to show me. Show me what you want."

And if she led him to Sam? Would Dean kill his own brother?

The stone floor was cold beneath Dean's feet. Rachel had vanished.

Would I kill a psychic freak who offed a little girl? Damn straight I will. If that's what happened.

For now, it seemed Dean was on his own. He walked toward the nurses' room, which was the only source of light. Cautiously he peered through the small square of glass.

The room was empty! Dean saw a coffee cup on the table, next to an open magazine - porn. Dean smiled to himself. Maybe whoever was supposed to be on duty ducked out for a little personal time. Whatever, it was Dean's lucky night. He opened the door as quietly as he could, blinking against the suddenly bright light. He was through the room and looking through the next door in no time. He saw no one outside, so slipped out quickly. Dean knew from his earlier recon that he had a locked door to get through next, then another with a manned guard station. He needed to find a weapon and something he could use to pick a lock, or this was gonna be a real short trip.

"I guess I'm on my own for now, Rachel, but a hint would be nice..." Dean whispered the words, and the lights flickered, just a little. He saw Rachel appear some distance from him: a moment, then she vanished again. She was leading him somewhere. Dean followed.

That was how it happened. Dean followed Rachel's spirit through the hallways of the Institute. He figured out quickly that she wasn't showing him a way out. She was leading him deeper into the rabbit-warren hallways. Dean reached the guard station and pressed himself flat against the wall, watching. The uniformed guard was hunched over a desk, a book open in front of him. There was a bank of TV screens in front of him, but he wasn't watching them. Beyond the guard, on the other side of a locked prison door, Dean saw Rachel watching him.

There was no way he could sneak past the guard. A simple distraction wouldn't be enough for him to get through unseen. He needed to take the guard out.

The screens in front of the guard flickered and dissolved into white noise. The guard abandoned his novel and tapped one of the screens. He half-stood and reached behind the bank of screens.

Dean moved. He hooked his arm around the guard's neck, cutting off the man's air. The guard struggled. Dean pushed the guard's chair into the desk, trapping the guard there and tightened his stranglehold slowly. It didn't take long. Dean sat the unconscious man up and turned his chair toward the screens so he appeared to be watching. He closed the man's book: it was Carrie by Stephen King, and stole the ring of keys from the guard's belt.

"Thanks, Rachel," Dean whispered. "Couldn't have done it without you."

He quickly found the right key and unlocked the door ahead. Dean knew that there must be security cameras everywhere and he was sure someone must be aware of him by now. So he needed to move quickly. Where was Rachel taking him? Why?

Rachel's spirit led him into the women's wing of the Institute. He followed her into what seemed to be a low-security ward; there were no locked doors, no guards. Just a nurse's station he slipped past easily. His ghostly guide drifted ahead of him, no longer appearing and disappearing. She drifted into a room, vanishing through the door. Dean headed for the door. There was a square glass pane in the middle of it and a number above the glass: 83. Whatever Rachel wanted from him, it was in this room.

Dean approached the door apprehensively. From within, he heard a sound: a woman's voice in pain or protest. The sound made him move faster and he peered through the glass into the darkened room.

He saw the woman, lying in her bed, a pale sheet tangled around her legs. She wore a hospital-issue nightshirt. She thrashed from side to side, but to Dean it looked like a simple nightmare. He saw no sign of Rachel.

Then he saw the outline of a hand on the woman's nightshirt. The barely-visible hand pushed her shirt upward, above her waist. She cried out again wordlessly. Her hands batted at a body Dean couldn't see. It was there...and it was not. Not invisible, but like a mirage: there one moment, a vanishing shimmer the next.

Dean had seen enough. He knew rape when he saw it.

"Hey!" he yelled without thinking, reaching for the handle of the door.

The spirit rushed toward the glass and Dean jerked back. For an instant, he saw it clearly: a man, his body naked, tattooed, the face bearded. Then the image vanished. Dean caught his breath and went to the window again. He heard the woman crying, saw her struggle against hands he could no longer see. The door handle wouldn't turn. Dean pushed at it, shook it, but the door wouldn't move.

Dean backed off and ran at the door, hoping to break it open. All it got him was a bruised shoulder. The door remained stubbornly closed. Maybe one of the keys he was holding would open it. Maybe he could break the door down eventually, but there wasn't time for either. The woman needed help - now.

There was only one thing left to do. Dean took off at a run, shouting at the top of his voice. He burst through the door toward the nurses' station. Rachel stood in the middle of the hallway. She screamed into Dean's face, flames bursting around her. Dean whirled and ran in the other direction, still shouting for someone to help.

---

The high-pitched beep of Sam's emergency pager roused him from sleep before he was finished dreaming with Ashley. He sat up in the bed, disoriented. He took a deep breath to ground himself.

The pager beeped again and Sam grabbed for it. He checked the number and turned the signal off, then touched the intercom. "This is Doctor Sam Grey. I was paged?"

"Yes, doctor, thank you for calling so promptly."

"Talk to me."

"Your patient, Winchester, escaped from his cell and broke into the women's wing. We recaptured him, and he's demanding to see you."

"He what?" Sam said, shocked. Then he added quickly, "No, never mind. I heard you. I'm on my way."

Dean had been moved to the maximum security ward. Here each cell was a cage with bars on all four sides; inmates had no privacy, and each cell was constantly monitored. Sam found Dean in restraints again, tied down to a hospital bed. His was the only occupied cell on the ward: the ward itself was a relic of harsher times and used only when absolutely necessary. If Institute patients were so violent as to need permanent housing in maximum security, they were transferred to a different hospital with more appropriate facilities. For Dean to be restrained here, Sam knew he must have seriously hurt someone, or tried to.

"Have you given him anything?" Sam asked the nurse.

"Five CC Haloperidol to subdue him. Nothing else as per your instructions."

Sam nodded, acknowledging. "Good. Prepare another five CC just in case. And lock the cell behind me."

There was just enough room in the cell for Sam to stand beside the bed where Dean would be able to see him. He looked down at his brother. "Hi."

Dean tried to raise his head, but the position he lay in made it difficult. He met Sam's eyes and spoke urgently. "Sam, there's a woman in room eighty-three. She was being attacked. You've got to check on her, dude. Make sure she's okay."

It was the last thing Sam expected him to say. "What are you talking about?"

Dean pulled against the restraints and half-shouted. "Room eighty-three! She was hurt, screaming. Damn it, Sam, I don't care if you believe me but check her!"

It sounded like more of Dean's craziness, but Sam went to the cell door. "Who's in room eighty-three?" he asked.

The nurse seemed to share Sam's thoughts because she answered, "Doctor no one has been attacked except by him."

"Just answer the question, please."

She looked chastened. "I'll find out."

Sam returned to Dean's side. "Dean, did you hurt someone?" he asked carefully.

"I took out a security guard," Dean said. "But I was careful. He'll be fine."

"And this woman you're talking about?"

"You still think I'm delusional, don't you? Dude, I don't know exactly what I saw but I think it was a spirit."

Sam struggled to keep his expression neutral. "A spirit. Another one."

"Doctor?" The nurse called to him and Sam looked her way. "Room eighty-three is Chloe Sava."

Sam felt his stomach drop down to his toes. Oh, god. Chloe? He looked at Dean. A moment before Sam had been ready to write this off as nonsense: a delusion or an invention. But Chloe? Sam didn't believe in coincidences.

"Dean, when you said you saw a woman being attacked...did you mean rape?"

"Yeah." Dean seemed to relax. He'd just wanted someone to believe him.

Sam strode to the door. "Have Chloe moved to medical right away. Check her for injuries and don't leave her alone." The nurse looked startled, but she muttered a yes, doctor, and hurried off. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He returned to his brother and leaned back against the bars. "Dean, tell me what happened. All of it."

"Untie me first."

Sam shook his head. "Not this time. Talk to me, Dean. Then we'll see."

Dean swore. "You won't believe me." He turned his head away.

Sam sighed. "I realise you have no reason to trust me right now, but I'm listening, Dean. I believe you saw something attack Chloe, but I need you to tell me everything. Let's start with how you got out of your cell."

Dean looked up at him, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "Rachel's spirit let me out."

Telekinesis was easier to believe, but Sam nodded, accepting Dean's statement for now. "Okay. And then...?"

Dean told him everything.

---

Doctor Diane MacKenzie stripped off her surgical gloves as she approached Jessica. Sam rose from the bench where he'd been waiting and moved to Jess's side. MacKenzie didn't look at him.

"I can't explain it," she said to Jessica. "I found no trace of semen, or any other biological matter from an attacker. But she was raped, there's no doubt of that. I found fresh bruises on her thighs and upper arms, clearly the imprints of fingers, and there's vaginal tearing." MacKenzie looked at Sam, then. "There are also indications that this has happened to her before. She has bruises in different stages of healing. Some a day or two old, others a week."

Sam was offended by her implication. Diane MacKenzie wasn't comfortable with psychics. She was also correct in that this was something Sam could have done; he had the power to do it. But for MacKenzie to imply he was guilty, in front of Sam's wife, was unacceptable.

"Diane," Sam said softly, using her first name deliberately, "I requested this exam. I wouldn't have done that if I were responsible. Would I?"

"I have no other explanation for these findings," MacKenzie said shortly.

Jessica laid a restraining hand on Sam's arm. "I hear you, Diane. Let me test my understanding here. Can you prove that Chloe has been assaulted before tonight?"

"Nothing I have is absolute proof. But I can gather the evidence, yes."

"Can you extrapolate a handprint from the bruises? Something we could use to identify the attacker?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Please do so, and submit a written report as soon as you can." Jessica waited for MacKenzie to leave and then turned to Sam. "Could Dean Winchester have done this?"

Sam was prepared for the question, because he would have asked it himself in her place. "He was never in her room. In spite of the evidence, Jess, I don't believe Dean is a psychic. Even if he is, Dean took the Psi Project test three times, at eight, twelve and sixteen, just like every other kid. He wasn't identified. So if he does have some psychic ability, he can't be powerful enough to have done this to Chloe." Psychic power was at its strongest in a person at puberty. If Dean didn't have enough power to register when he was sixteen, he didn't now.

But even if Dean were a powerful telekinetic - which he wasn't - Sam still knew he wasn't the attacker. No, Chloe's ordeal didn't start when Dean entered the Institute. It had been going on for years.

"I know what you're thinking," Jessica said worriedly.

Sam met her eyes. He kept his voice low, not wanting anyone to overhear. "She tried to tell me, Jess. She's been telling me for as long as I've been working with her and I wasn't listening. God!" He ran his hands through his hair. "I didn't do this to her, but I'm responsible. I should have known. I should have stopped it."

Jess reached up to him. "Don't blame yourself, Sam. I didn't believe Chloe's rape stories, either. I thought you were crazy when you suggested an exam today."

"I know. But I...shit, Jess. What that girl has been through..." He took her into his arms, holding her tightly against him.

Jess hugged him back, comforting. "It's okay, Sam."

It wasn't okay. Nothing could make it okay that Sam had failed Chloe so completely. Now Sam needed to make certain it would never happen to her again.

He stepped away from Jess as MacKenzie walked past them. "Diane. Can I see her?"

Diane shook her head firmly. "She's a rape victim, Doctor Grey. I don't think she needs male company right now."

"I'm her doctor."

"Even so," MacKenzie insisted.

Perhaps she was right. "Alright," Sam conceded. "No, Jess, it's okay. I need to speak with her but it doesn't have to be today. She's right. Can you make time for her today, Jess?"

"Of course," she agreed.

Good. MacKenzie had played the gender card, but she couldn't object to Jess on that ground, and Jess outranked Diane. It was the best Sam could do for now. But there was one more thing. He turned to leave the medical bay.

"Where are you going?" Jess called after him.

"To get some salt."

---

"You gave Winchester a sedative?" Sam read from the chart. "Why?" Damn it, he needed to talk to Dean. He'd been trying to get away all day and now it was evening and this was the first chance he'd had. And Dean was sedated. Shit.

The nurse took the chart from Sam and replaced it on the wall. "The patient hadn't slept for over twenty four hours and he appeared agitated. He requested something to help him sleep."

No, that was wrong. "Dean asked for a sedative?" he repeated.

"Yes. Is there a problem, Doctor?"

"Uh, no, I just wanted to speak to him. It will wait until morning. Thank you."

Why would Dean have requested a sedative? Was he that afraid of the ghost he kept seeing? Well, there was no use worrying about it now.

Sam was halfway to his workroom before it occurred to him that the request might be Dean's version of an invitation.

He called Jess from the workroom and told her he was going to start early to make up for the sessions he'd missed the night before. "How's Chloe?" he asked, before he disconnected.

"I had a session with her this afternoon," Jess told him. "She's a mess, Sam, but I think she's past the crisis point. You know, when you hit rock bottom..."

"...The only way to go is up," Sam finished with her. It was Jess's basic principle of therapy in trauma cases. "For Chloe, rock bottom is a long way down, baby."

"I know, and I'm worried. She'll have someone with her all night, Sam. And you can watch her your way if you want to."

Sam wasn't going to watch Chloe tonight. He a plan to take care of Chloe, but he intended to protect her permanently, not just for one night. He answered, "I'll look in on her, but it's probably best for me to keep my distance. I'm part of her trauma now."

"It wasn't your fault, Sam."

"Not my fault, but my responsibility."

"You saved her, darling," Jessica insisted. "Let's talk this over in the morning, okay?"

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you, too. Sweet dreams."

That made Sam laugh and she disconnected while he was still laughing. Sam set the intercom to divert all calls and turned off his emergency pager. He wanted no interruptions tonight. He prepared himself and lay down on the bed to dreamwalk.

Sam couldn't remember a time when he didn't share the dreams of others. It was so natural to Sam it freaked him out when he realised not everyone could do it. He'd never realised it was something special. Sam had always dreamed with his father and with Dean, but as a child his dreamwalking was passive. He shared their dreams; he didn't control them. Only after The Psi Project took him from his family did Sam learn he could be active in the dreams of others. He was a Dreamwalker. He could enter and shape the worlds of others' dreams. Dream is where the conscious and subconscious minds meet and interact. The ability to control that place is the ability to control the dreamer, or it could be, which was why so few Dreamwalkers were allowed to live to adulthood. None as powerful as Sam was ever allowed to live.

Sam survived. He was the most powerful active psychic ever to graduate from The Psi Project. Passive psychics were safe; they were the children whose powers involved receiving impressions, but not sending - the empaths and pre-cogs. They couldn't directly harm anyone with their abilities, so they were trained and encouraged. They were safe. Active psychics, like Sam had to prove themselves safe. Sam convinced his Psi Project mentors, including other psychics, that he would never use his ability to do harm.

Now, he was about to use his ability to break the law. And if he was wrong about Dean, he was going to have to use it to kill.

Usually, when Sam began dreamwalking, he had to skim through many sleeping minds around him before he found the person he wanted. On this night, it was different.

Sam slid into Dean's mind as easily as a key fitting into the lock it was made for. It felt like he'd found a missing part of himself. Dream-sharing was never so easy, not even with Jess.

He made himself passive at first, simply observing. Dean's dream-self was a few years younger than he was in reality, which was quite common. In his dream he was driving across a sun-kissed landscape that could have been any of the tall-corn states: a long, straight road with fields on both sides. The car Sam remembered with affection: his father's old Chevy Impala. Sam remembered filling the rear seat up with his toys and kicking the back of the driver's seat when he got impatient with the constant driving. There was music playing, the car windows were open and the wind rushed by as Dean drove. It was Dean's perfect world, Sam thought, which, given his situation was a hopeful sign.

Sam placed himself in the front seat alongside Dean and gave that little mental nudge that would make Dean aware of his presence.

"Took you long enough," Dean remarked.

Sam grinned. "I wasn't certain I'd been invited. We need to talk, Dean."

"Yeah. I know."

With a thought, Sam took control of the dream. The landscape around the car dissolved, followed by the car itself. Sam took them into a setting he hoped would be comfortable for both of them. It was the last bedroom he and Dean had shared: a tiny boxroom with barely enough space for their two beds. The setting was probably not exactly right but Sam built it to match his memory: Dean's poster on the ceiling, the cracked mirror, the clothing piled on the chair, the stack of Sam's schoolbooks and the box of weapons under the bed. They were both sitting on Dean's bed.

Dean looked around in surprise. "What the - ?" He stared at Sam. "Is this your dream or mine?"

"Both," Sam grinned back. "This is what I do, Dean." He hesitated, then added more seriously, "I owe you a huge apology."

Dean shook his head. "Fuck the apology. How's the woman?"

"Her name's Chloe. A doctor has checked her out and she's safe for now."

"For now? What does that mean?"

Sam moved across to the other bed so he could look at Dean comfortably. "If I understood you this morning, my daughter...Rachel's ghost led you to Chloe."

Dean nodded, lifting his feet up onto the bed, crumpling the comforter. "That's right."

"Then she's not...responsible...for what happened to Chloe?"

"No, I think she was trying to save her. What attacked Chloe was a spirit. A man's spirit."

"You see, Dean, that spirit has been abusing Chloe for a long time. I think as long as I've been treating her."

Dean fell silent. He looked down at the floor, then back to Sam. "How long?" he asked, in a voice that told Sam he understood the implication.

"More than three years."

"Holy crap."

"Dean, I don't know how to stop this. But you can."

"Not while I'm locked up in a freakin' cell."

Which got to the point nicely. Sam noded. "That's why I'm here. To fix that. But if I help you escape, Dean, you've got to promise me you'll stop this spirit."

Dean didn't answer at once. He leaned down and pulled the box out from beneath his bed. He opened it and pulled out a gun. He turned the gun over in his hands before looking back to Sam. "Dude, it's not that easy. Chloe - you can protect her by surrounding her room with salt. Especially the doors and windows. A spirit can't cross a salt line. But whatever attacked her is one seriously pissed-off spirit, Sammy. If I'm gonna stop it, I need to find out who he is. Was."

"Well, you can't do that from your cell."

"How long did it take you to notice that, genius?" Dean leaned back against the blue-painted wall. "Boring dream, Sammy. You know we could have our little get together in a strip joint or the Superbowl."

"We could," Sam grinned. "Familiar is best for a first session and the setting has to be static or you won't remember when you wake up."

"It doesn't matter what I remember, Sam. I can't do anything."

"Yes, you can. That's why I'm here. When you found Chloe last night, you were trying to find a way out, weren't you?"

"No!" Dean said sarcastically. "I was just lookin' for the swimming pool."

"I'm serious, Dean. If you'd found a way out, what were you gonna do? Where would you go?"

Dean was still holding the gun. He popped the clip, checking the contents, then slammed it back in. "Willow Creek, first. I've got to know what happened to Dad, Sam. All our research is there, everything. I think he'd identified this spirit of yours. Or he was close."

"Wait a minute. You and Dad...you were already looking for the spirit that raped Chloe? How?"

Dean shook his head. "A friend of ours...another hunter, died near Willow Creek a couple of months ago. When we heard about it, we came to find out what happened. So we rented the cabin and started tryin' to retrace Ellie's hunt. We were still working the case when..." Dean's voice trailed off.

Sam could feel Dean's memory, something close to the surface. He relaxed his control of the dream - not completely, but enough to let Dean's memory emerge.

Dean was in the Impala, driving in the rain. Through the rearview mirror he could see the lights of the roadblock behind him. 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."

John was silent for a moment before he answered. "Hurry, Dean. I need you here."

Dean frowned. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"Just some new information," John said, but Dean could tell it wasn't "just" anything. John sounded worried, even shaken. "I'll tell you when you get here. What's your ETA, Dean?"

"Um...in this rain I'm not sure. An hour, maybe." Something appeared in the road in front of him; a figure, pale and small. Visibility was down to almost nothing; Dean had no time to stop. "Holy crap!"

Dean swerved to avoid the figure and slammed on the brakes. The Impala lost traction on the wet road and the tyres screeched as she spun out of control. Dean dropped his phone and 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 off the bed. "What the hell...?" He stared at Sam accusingly.

Sam allowed the room to melt away around them. "It was your memory, Dean, that's all. That's how dreams work. Your thoughts, your memories, can be real in your dreams." The room began to reform, to whatever shape was in Dean's mind. Timber walls, a dimly-lit room. The cabin?

Dean looked around. "Dad knew. The answer is here somewhere, Sam!" He marched over to a table, looking for something, but the table stood empty.

Sam understood. "Then we need to get you there. In reality, not in your dream." He asserted control over the dream setting again, taking them both into the maximum security cell where Dean was sleeping. Sam stood at the edge of the cell, leaning against the bars. Dean lay on the bed. Sam had left him free of the restraints, of course, so Dean sat up at once.

"What are we doin' here?"

"You're about to escape," Sam explained.

"Escaping in a dream isn't gonna help, dude."

"Yes, it will. You'll do it once, now. I'll show you how to get out, how to avoid security. When you wake up, you'll remember the route."

"And I'll still be chained up in a cage," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "I think I can do something about that. I'm going to try, anyway. But the most I can do is get you out of the cell. The rest is up to you."

Dean nodded, but he met Sam's eyes looking worried. "Are you gonna get into trouble for this?" he asked pointedly.

Sam grinned. "The really cool part about being psychic is no one will be able to prove I've even talked to you tonight. Unless they got a telepath to read me but..." his smile became cold, "I'm powerful enough to keep them out if I need to."

"Okay then. What are we waitin' for?"

---

Sam rose from Dean's inner dreamscape, swimming through the clouds of image and sensation, but he did not let himself wake. He cast out among the sleeping minds around him, touching first one (female, restless) then the next (male, afraid, shying away from his mind-touch). Sam caught fleeting impressions of their thoughts and dreams.

A child throwing a basketball up to a hoop too high for the child's small reach...

A dog, snarling as it leapt to the attack...

A woman, naked and sweat-soaked...

Flying, moving fast over endless ocean...

He could spend all night like this, flitting from mind to mind, touching but never intruding. Now, however, he was looking for one mind in particular. A mind that wouldn’t be sleeping, exactly, but it was the night shift and he would be bored to death. Sam might have a chance.

Sam had never tried this before. He knew it was possible, but he had ethics, damn it. This wasn't therapy, it was mind-rape. It was evil.

Sam slipped into the spaces between the man's conscious and unconscious minds. He touched carefully; if he was noticed, this was over. He found a thought - the man's memory of a football game - and as unobtrusively as a mouse Sam nudged the thought into a daydream. Just a pleasant little daydream to while away the long hours of the night. From there it was easy to push him into that odd half-asleep state where the daydream could become a real dream. Once the man was there, Sam had full control.

He could keep the man asleep indefinitely, if he wanted to. If Sam used his full power, not even medical intervention would wake the man up. Drugs might wake his body; his mind was Sam's. But it wasn't Sam's purpose to turn the man into a vegetable. He gave him a sweet, pleasant dream and pushed his mind deeply into it, so it would be at least two hours before he woke. It was enough.

Withdrawing carefully, Sam woke himself up. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, to take a sip of water from the nightstand, but that was all. Dean was depending on him, and the next thing Sam had to do was going to be difficult. In theory, distance was irrelevant to psychic ability. Science had proved, for example, that telepathic communication truly is instantaneous, not limited to the speed of light as electronic communication had to be. There was a pilot program sponsored by the Psi Project to use telepaths to communicate between the space colonies. Sam didn't think it would work as a replacement, but he'd followed the program with interest.

Sam should be able to share a dream with anyone he knew well, and if they were in the same bed, or a thousand miles apart it made no difference. But that was dreaming. Dreaming was Sam's strongest ability and it was the one over which he had the most control.

This was different.

Awake, Sam lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and visualised himself leaving his physical body behind. Was it real astral projection, or just a visualisation? It didn't matter, as long as it worked. Whether Sam was truly leaving his own body made no difference; it mattered only that he saw the room clearly, that he believed he was standing there, looking down at his own body.

When the image was strong in his mind, Sam moved his spirit-self out into the hallways of the Institute. He could move swiftly in this form because it wasn't the journey that mattered: only the destination. The destination was Dean's locked cell.

His spirit self found Dean still sleeping. Sam could do nothing about that: it was important for Dean to wake on his own. Dean slept, apparently peacefully, his ankles and wrists still restrained by heavy buckled cuffs. Sam reached toward the restraints and tried to touch them. It took him five attempts to get the necessary control, but eventually he managed to move the first buckle. It was like riding a bicycle: once his mind stumbled onto the trick of it, he could do it. He undid each buckle carefully, freeing his brother.

Now for the cell door. For this, he made his spirit-self tiny, so he could literally climb inside the lock to see how it worked. He dropped the tumblers and the lock disengaged with a loud click. Sam smiled to himself. Job done. The rest was up to Dean.

With the thought, he was back in his own body, cold and shivering. He rubbed his arms, trying to get his circulation going and prayed Dean would wake up in time.

Concluded in Part Three