Dean remained seated until he was sure Angel was gone. Then he ransacked the room a second time, listening at the same time as some deluded bitch on the intercom replaced the Head Doctor's voice and dropped some more info. Something about caverns, then something about "parts" to play (not exactly volunteer-work, he knew), and the last bit, he couldn't quite make out. This "parts to play" thing really didn't make him feel any better - it definitely sounded like people were chosen here and he still didn't know what got you the first-class ticket to Crazyville. Much fun as it was to go on and on about what he didn't know, Dean knew he was wasting time. Find some metal in the bathrooms, then he could get that knife, then he could go on about the what-ifs.
By now his headache had gone down enough that it was easier to concentrate on what he needed to do and not the pounding in his head. It still left him without a flashlight. Turning over the room, Dean was relieved when he came up with a spare - well, maybe not a spare exactly but he didn't think Angel would miss it if he borrowed it and anyway, it wasn't the first time he just helped himself to whatever was convenient: part and parcel of the job and all that. Tucking the flashlight in the crook of his elbow with a tight smile, he went and opened the closet...and stood stock-still as his eyes fell on clothes that definitely weren't Landels-issue. The satisfied smile dropped.
They were his clothes. More importantly, they were the clothes he'd been wearing the morning he walked into that shack, still smelling like death and his brother's blood, and found Sam, alive and well and pretty damn confused. Even his favorite, beat-to-hell leather jacket was there, part of his necklace's black cord sticking out of the side pocket. But instead of making him feel any better, Dean instead felt worse. Nauseated. Blood and guts he could deal, corpses in about any state he could look at and shrug it off...but seeing the clothes he'd been wearing when he made that deal, remembering all the screw-ups, everything he could've but hadn't done to save Sammy...
He could feel that emptiness opening up again to eat him alive.
Dean closed his eyes. Took a breath. Steeled himself, opened his eyes and reached out and took his clothes off the hangers to change. He swapped the patient clothes for his jeans and shirt without even thinking about it, hands going on auto-pilot.
Shrugging into his jacket, he slipped the necklace over his head, touching the pendant. It, too, was as beat-up as his jacket, the surface scratched up with tiny dents from years of wearing it, but he felt better having it on - or, at least, he told himself he was gonna feel better about it and he guessed that'd have to be good enough for now. Dean hated it though, how he'd get sidelined by these feelings. Some days he'd get through it fine, shrug it off. Deal, y'know? But others - and this had been pretty much getting worse since last year in the hospital - some days were worse than others, to the point he even didn't want to roll out of bed and see his face in the mirror and know he was keeping things from Sammy. Now there was just another thing heaped on and while Dean knew Sam would find out sooner or later about his deal (dropping dead a year from now would probably do it), Dean was too damn scared shitless to tell him. He could save Sammy, sure, sell his soul, no problem, but there was no way he could break the news to him without hurting him and seeing that look of disappointment in his eyes. Dean hated himself for it, every friggen second that it started to sink in what he'd done and that even now, the days were ticking by.
He already had less than a year to live.
The hunter dropped the pendent, feeling its familiar weight as he closed the closet and shook himself, cracking his neck and working out the kinks. Much as things sucked right now, he still had to get that knife, "goddess" or not and he wouldn't afford to just sit here either. New flashlight in his hands, he opened the door and stepped outside into the gloom of the hall.
Dean remained seated until he was sure Angel was gone. Then he ransacked the room a second time, listening at the same time as some deluded bitch on the intercom replaced the Head Doctor's voice and dropped some more info. Something about caverns, then something about "parts" to play (not exactly volunteer-work, he knew), and the last bit, he couldn't quite make out. This "parts to play" thing really didn't make him feel any better - it definitely sounded like people were chosen here and he still didn't know what got you the first-class ticket to Crazyville. Much fun as it was to go on and on about what he didn't know, Dean knew he was wasting time. Find some metal in the bathrooms, then he could get that knife, then he could go on about the what-ifs.
By now his headache had gone down enough that it was easier to concentrate on what he needed to do and not the pounding in his head. It still left him without a flashlight. Turning over the room, Dean was relieved when he came up with a spare - well, maybe not a spare exactly but he didn't think Angel would miss it if he borrowed it and anyway, it wasn't the first time he just helped himself to whatever was convenient: part and parcel of the job and all that. Tucking the flashlight in the crook of his elbow with a tight smile, he went and opened the closet...and stood stock-still as his eyes fell on clothes that definitely weren't Landels-issue. The satisfied smile dropped.
They were his clothes. More importantly, they were the clothes he'd been wearing the morning he walked into that shack, still smelling like death and his brother's blood, and found Sam, alive and well and pretty damn confused. Even his favorite, beat-to-hell leather jacket was there, part of his necklace's black cord sticking out of the side pocket. But instead of making him feel any better, Dean instead felt worse. Nauseated. Blood and guts he could deal, corpses in about any state he could look at and shrug it off...but seeing the clothes he'd been wearing when he made that deal, remembering all the screw-ups, everything he could've but hadn't done to save Sammy...
He could feel that emptiness opening up again to eat him alive.
Dean closed his eyes. Took a breath. Steeled himself, opened his eyes and reached out and took his clothes off the hangers to change. He swapped the patient clothes for his jeans and shirt without even thinking about it, hands going on auto-pilot.
Shrugging into his jacket, he slipped the necklace over his head, touching the pendant. It, too, was as beat-up as his jacket, the surface scratched up with tiny dents from years of wearing it, but he felt better having it on - or, at least, he told himself he was gonna feel better about it and he guessed that'd have to be good enough for now. Dean hated it though, how he'd get sidelined by these feelings. Some days he'd get through it fine, shrug it off. Deal, y'know? But others - and this had been pretty much getting worse since last year in the hospital - some days were worse than others, to the point he even didn't want to roll out of bed and see his face in the mirror and know he was keeping things from Sammy. Now there was just another thing heaped on and while Dean knew Sam would find out sooner or later about his deal (dropping dead a year from now would probably do it), Dean was too damn scared shitless to tell him. He could save Sammy, sure, sell his soul, no problem, but there was no way he could break the news to him without hurting him and seeing that look of disappointment in his eyes. Dean hated himself for it, every friggen second that it started to sink in what he'd done and that even now, the days were ticking by.
He already had less than a year to live.
The hunter dropped the pendent, feeling its familiar weight as he closed the closet and shook himself, cracking his neck and working out the kinks. Much as things sucked right now, he still had to get that knife, "goddess" or not and he wouldn't afford to just sit here either. New flashlight in his hands, he opened the door and stepped outside into the gloom of the hall.
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