Saving Grace -- Chapter One
Title: Saving Grace (1/?)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Summary: Sam has been in a mental instition for most of his life and has accepted the fact that he would never be out, would never be normal. When a new psychaitrist takes over his case, he begins asking different questions and Sam starts to think that maybe, just maybe, he can be saved.
Warnings: Angst. Suicide attempts. Self mutilation. Character Death (Winchesters). Angst. Angst. Oh, angst.
A/N: Based off the prompt by emmatheslayer and written for her! I own nothing, except the fiction. Huge thanks to my bestie keywielder for listening to me whine bounce ideas off of at three in the morning and for her constant input. Also to elwarre for betaing this for me! Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Prompt: Sam is in a mental hospital and Castiel is psychiatrist that sees how good and sweet he can be when he is in his right mind but Sam can never understand why he is drawn to Castiel and sticks close to him hoping he gets better.
Blood. Hot and sticky, congealing in large pools across the floor. There was always so much blood.
Sam spun around, his eyes darting wildly across the room. He could still feel the presence, the monster lurking in the shadows. He held his breath, hoping the beating of his heart echoing in his head was there, and there alone. He took a step back, pressing himself against the wall.
He was still there.
A floorboard in the hallway creaked and Sam felt his heart stop. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down hard on his tongue, the coppery taste flooding his already bloodied senses. He heard the squish of something moving through the soaked carpet; he could feel the heat radiating from the manifestation before him.
His eyes flew open along with his mouth in a silent scream.
He knew he was doomed.
“I need some IM Haldol in here!” Sam bucked against the set of hands pushing him down. The metallic tang of blood was still in his mouth and he gasped wildly for air, fighting to breathe.
“No! No!” He screamed, clawing at the set of hands holding him down. “It was him! It was the monster!”
“Son of a bitch!” The voice belonging to the hands hissed, ripping one of his hands back. “Sam! You need to calm down! I need some help in here!”
“No! I need to go!”
“Five?” A second voice joined the room and Sam looked up at the new face in desperation.
“He’s going to come back, please! You have to listen to me!” He pleaded, gripping the wrists that were back against his chest, pulling at the sleeve of his night shirt.
“Make it ten, Ally. He fucking drew blood again.”
“Sam? Hi, Sam…” The woman was coming closer, eyes darting back and forth between the glass vial and syringe in her hand to his face. She smiled kindly, and he knew it was useless.
She didn’t care. She didn’t believe him. They would never be able to save him.
“No, no please.” He felt the tears streaming down his cheeks, hot and wet as they dropped down to pool in the hollow of his neck. Pooling, like the blood. “Please… Mom… Dean…”
He felt the pinch in his arm and the woman was speaking to him softly, rubbing her fingers through his hair. The other set of hands withdrew, taking the rest of his fight with them.
He was truly doomed.
***
“Good morning!” He blinked his eyes a few times; his arms and his head felt like they weighed a million pounds. “Remember me? I’m Charlie. I’m going to be your nurse today.” She turned to face him, her red hair spilling over her shoulders and clashing with the lime green scrubs she was wearing today.
“Charlie.” He croaked out, nodding his head. “You were here yesterday.” She smiled at him and moved to the side of his bed, pulling a dry-erase marker from her pocket and wiping off the night shift's notes, adding her name.
“Are you in any pain this morning?” She asked, walking back around the bed and pulling the med cart into the room. “I heard you had… a difficult night again. Can you tell me your name and date of birth?”
“My head… feels fuzzy. But I’m not in pain. Sam Winchester, May 2nd, 1983.” He said after a moment, watching as she clicked away at the keyboard, nodding her head as he spoke. From outside the room he could hear the rumbling of the food cart coming down the hallway. His stomach grumbled in anticipation.
“Okay, I have your Protonic, Ativan, Zoloft, Lithium and two Tylenol. We finished your antibiotic last night.” She paused between each medication, giving him time to ask what each one was for. As if he didn’t know. As if he hadn’t been forced to take them for the majority of his life. As if they were suddenly different….
He nodded, and it was taken as an acceptable response. She dumped all of the pills into the small metal well so she could crush them completely.
He smirked. He had managed to get away with slipping whole pills under his tongue for almost the entirety of last year. Seeing them crushed into a fine powder to ensure they were taken and digested made him swell with pride. And feel a bit sick.
“Alright, Sam.” She handed him a small cup, the applesauce in it tinted a strange blue color from the pills, and then a plastic spoon. She waited until he scraped the cup clean, handing back the plastics before shutting the drawers on her cart and pushing it back out of the door. “Get dressed. Breakfast will be in twenty minutes. And Sam? Make sure you clean your nails.”
He looked down as the door was shut. His fingernails were caked in dark blood, thick strips of flesh dried underneath the nails. He flicked a piece out, watching where it landed on the floor and bit back the hope the same nurse wouldn’t be on duty tonight. He laughed bitterly, the sound splitting the new silence of the room. He would never be that lucky.
He slipped his legs off of the bed, taking care to pull the comforter up and attempting to smooth it out. He would get points for having a "well-kept living space”. As if normal people actually made their beds every day.
Sam supposed he should consider himself lucky: as a ward of the state, the taxpayers were fitting this lovely bill of him living in style. Most of the other state-paid residents were kept in double rooms, scattered through to the end of the hallway. Sam, however, was given the first room on the floor, straight across from the nurse’s station, and would never have to share his room with anyone else. He did miss having his own shower stall in his room… but that would never be something he would have again.
Besides the bed, the only other furniture in the room was a large plastic chair and a small plastic cabinet. He slipped off his boxers, and opened the top drawer to pull out a clean pair and a fresh set of white hospital scrubs; the only clothing he had, again thanks to being a ward. White. Everything was white.
Because white was pure. And if he was surrounded by it, it would cure him.
He shoved himself into the clothes and tossed the dirty set on top of the cabinet. He eyed the tennis shoes sitting under the base of his bed, zip ties replacing the shoe laces that were supposed to be there. He thought about slipping them on, rubbing it in their faces that as much as the staff thought so? They weren’t perfect either. He opted for socks instead.
“Where’s Charlie?” He asked as he slipped out of his room. Behind the desk a young blonde woman looked up from the computer screen, eyeing him carefully. Great. New secretary. He fought not to throw his hands up and scream ‘boo’; the fear in her eyes told him all he needed to know.
“She’s seeing patients. Can I help you, Mr. Winchester?” She asked, eyes darting to the computer screen again, no doubt checking to make sure she had the right name.
“I went out yesterday. They forgot to take my shoes out of my room.”
“I will let her know.” The girl smiled at him carefully. “Thank you for telling us, Samuel.”
“Just Sam.” He replied, turning away from her and starting down the hallway.
Morning was his favorite part of the day. Although he wasn’t a fan of being woken up and having pills shoved down his throat, he enjoyed the scent of coffee that met him in the hallway, and the smell of hot plastic from the food cart was oddly comforting. He made his way to the cart, glancing down at the trays quickly until he saw his own.
“Morning, Sammy.” Bobby said as he walked up behind him. The older man had always been friendly to him, and never minded when he took initiative to get his own food at mealtimes. “I added some extra sugar packets and creamer to your tray.” He winked at Sam and clapped him on the shoulder to let him pass.
“Thanks, Bobby.” Sam was grateful and went for them immediately. He ripped open the sugars first, dumping them into the hot cup and crumpling up the wrappers. He didn’t need anyone getting on him about how much sugar he was taking in and wondering if that was the reason he was up all night.
That would be a much better reason. He would ingest only sugar packets, if that were the case.
“You were screaming out for Dean again.” A tray slammed down across from him and Sam felt his stomach twist in a knot.
“Fuck off, Az.” He whispered, refusing to look away from his plate. The man across from him laughed, the sound sending shivers straight down his spine.
“Dean. Dean, save me. I mean come on, Sam. That’s not how you convince them you’re not totally bonkers. If I were you, I’d be screaming out Charlie’s name. I would totally bone that nurse.”
“Fuck. Off.” He repeated, his hands shaking as they gripped the end of the tray.
“Oh, come on, Sammy,” Az purred, and Sam snapped.
“I told you not to fucking call me that!” He could feel his entire body shaking, and his eyes darted up to meet bloodshot yellow ones. He knew from group that it was a condition from the alcohol Az used to drown himself in. A smile crept across Az’s entire face, eyes dancing as they took in Sam’s stance. This man was a demon. Sam reached forward, hand twisting in the front of Az’s shirt and yanking him up, hard. Their knees hit the table top, sending their breakfast plates clattering onto the floor.
“Sam!” Bobby was yelling behind him, tossing the tray he was carrying on a table nearby and grabbing onto Sam’s arm. “Sam, let him go.”
“Yeah, Sammy. Let me go.”
Sam shook. His shaking shook Az, shook Bobby. Bobby was still yelling, Az was still laughing when he felt a pinch in his neck. He was still laughing as Sam’s fingers loosened and he slipped back into a sitting position. He was still laughing when Sam was loaded into a wheelchair and carted away. Sam could still hear him laughing.
***
“Come in,” a rough voice called out when Charlie knocked on the door, and she nudged him forward with a smile. Probably glad to get rid of him. Sam sighed, pushing open the door. “Sam Winchester?”
He fought back the grimace as he took in the man sitting behind the large desk in the center of the room. He had dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and he was the third therapist he had seen this week.
“One and only,” Sam muttered, hearing Charlie close the door behind him. He waited for direction.
“Please.” The man stood up, adjusting his tie as he nodded to an oversized plush chair. Sam eyed it for a moment before taking the offer. It would be much more comfortable than the plastic chairs he was used to. “I’m Dr. Novak.” He walked around his desk and met Sam with a shake of his hand. “You can feel free to call me Dr. N or Cas, if that makes you more comfortable.”
“What does it matter?” Sam shrugged, relaxing into the cushion. “You’ll see me for two sessions and then decide I’m too difficult for you. Then I’ll be shuffled through the doctors here until a new one comes to take a bat at it.”
Dr. Novak nodded carefully, listening to every word that Sam said. They all did, every single word he uttered. Until they decided he was crazy.
“Well, I like a challenge.” He smiled. Instead of taking his position back behind the desk, the man pulled up a chair to sit before Sam, leaning carefully back against it.
“Where’s your notepad? Your tape recorder? Your desk as a safety blanket in case I snap and get violent?” Sam spat out, suddenly feeling extremely uncomfortable. Without missing a beat, Dr. Novak smiled and leaned forward.
“I thought we would use this session to get to know one another. And do you feel like you’re going to be violent, Sam?” The doctor leaned forward to grab a pillow from beside him, and Sam stiffened as his thigh was brushed. He crossed his arm over it, holding it against his chest. “Security pillow,” he said in explanation.
Sam stared. In the ten years he had been living here, he had seen a total of forty different psychologists and six specialists, and not one of them had ever made him feel this way. He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“So Sam… I was reading through your notes from other sessions… I’m going to let you know what they say, okay?” Sam nodded, rolling his eyes. “17 year old male who presents with paranoid schizophrenia, developing before adolescence. Patient suffers from extreme paranoid delusions, often suffering periods of catatonic behavior. Patient experiences positive symptoms including hallucinations and impulses that result in disorganized behavior and psychotic episodes.
“Your treatment plan for the better part of the last decade was to work on active listening and agitation triggers to better acclimate into everyday life and society. There have been more relapses in treatments that successes. How am I doing so far?”
“Looks like you’ve got it all memorized. You left out that the paranoid delusions usually result in night terrors, causing the patient to sink into avolition and miss vital opportunities for successful involvement with treatment course.” Sam said, raising his voice slightly in a mocking tone. “I’ve heard it all before.”
“Sounds like it.” The doctor smiled again. Sam hated him.
“So, are you going to change my meds? Try a new treatment? Maybe electroconvulsive therapy again?”
“What do you think about what your chart says, Sam? I can call you Sam, right?”
Sam blinked at him, then nodded. “Everyone else does.”
“Okay, Sam. So? What do you think about it?”
“Well, that I’m crazy obviously. I have more than a few goddamn screws loose and I am a complete danger to myself and to society. Treatments haven’t worked, I’ve relapsed because I am an incurable psychotic freak.” He was surprised to feel the hot sting of tears behind his eyes, the knot sliding up in his throat. “We would all be so much better if I wasn’t here.”
“Is that why you tried to kill yourself?” Sam swallowed the knot, his left hand immediately covering the thick, red scar on his right forearm. He refused to answer. He didn’t want to go down that road, not again.
“What type of changes are you going to make.” He asked after a moment, the silence in the room suffocating.
“None.” Sam’s eyes shot up, and he studied the Doctors face. “Not yet anyways. I don’t know you, Sam. We will keep you on your current medications, and we will continue to have sessions three times a week unless you feel like you need more. I am glad to read my colleagues interpretations, but they’re not mine. I think it would be highly unprofessional to assume that their interpretations of your symptoms were the same I would make, don’t you?”
He didn’t wait for Sam to reply.
“The art of mental health is fascinating, Sam. And complicated. It is definitely not a perfect science. We would not be here if it was. And it’s unfortunate… You know firsthand how unfortunate that is. You’ve spent ten years of your life here, and as your doctor and a professional who is dedicated to helping my patients, I owe it to you to start from a clean slate. Everything is open to interpretation and there are new studies and treatments popping up every single day. We need to embrace that opportunity. Does that sound like a plan?”
Sam blinked a few times, trying to process the Doctor’s words, guess at the hidden ultimatum.
“I think you’re just as crazy as I am.” Sam said after a moment, crossing his arms across his chest and eyeing him carefully.
“Sam.” The doctor laughed. “Let’s stray away from that word, shall we? I don’t think you’re crazy. The definition of crazy is also up to interpretation. Just because your mind works differently, doesn’t mean it’s wrong. We live in a society that is not completely accepting of people who have mental incapacities, our mental health alliance is extremely lacking…”
“Right.” What he really wanted to say was ‘what the fuck?’
“Well, do you have any questions for me, Sam?”
“Are you going to analyze everything I ask you?”
“Probably.” Novak cocked his head, thinking. “I’m hardwired that way.”
“Then, no.” He was given a smile as a response.
“Have you ever written in a journal, Sam?”
“You already know the answer to that, Dr. Novak.” Sam snorted, eyes darting to the clock on the wall.
“I meant a journal for you. I think that sometimes writing down ones thoughts can be a form of self-expression and therapeutic. Forcing you to write in something that is supposed to be an extremely personal part of yourself and then share it, is not a productive way to get truth written on a page. It enables you to lie, to yourself as well as those who will read your thoughts.”
“I don’t need a diary.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They sat in silence. The doctor seemed completely comfortable in his presence. Sam found himself picking at the bottom of his shirt, then froze, eyes darting back up to see Novak watching him. He let his hands fall still, wondering briefly what could be interpreted from picking at one’s clothing.
Restless. Impatient. Intolerant. Noncompliant. Destructive. Dangerous.
“I think we made a good start today, Sam. I look forward to seeing you on Wednesday. I think for tonight and tomorrow, you should consider getting your thoughts down on paper, even if you destroy it afterwards, before you to go sleep.”
“Sure.” Sam said, nodding his head, relief washing over him that he was free to go.
“And Sam?” Sam froze, his hand on the door knob. Dr. Novak had stood again and was replacing the pillow in the chair, smoothing the fabric carefully with his fingers. “Clean slate. Okay?”
***
Sam’s heart was beating wildly, jolting him out of his sleep. He could hear his breath, panting in the darkness. He inhaled, holding his breath, trying to calm himself.
He pushed himself up against the headboard, looking around the room.
Considering he was in the hospital, it was strangely quiet.
His heartbeat increased, fluttering against his ribcage, causing his stomach to churn.
“No,” he whispered, fighting not to squeeze his eyes shut. “Go away.” His eyes darted to the corner of the room, the inky darkness untouched by the light filtering in from the hallway.
He didn’t need to see him. He could hear him. His breathing was slow, deep inhalations through sharp teeth. There was a faint gurgling sound and Sam knew what it was.
If he could see him, he would see the blood tainting his lips, dripping down his chin, spilling onto the floor.
“No, please,” he whispered, tears falling from his eyes as he pushed himself into the corner of the bed and the wall. They sat there in silence, their breaths battling with each other, both waiting for the other to make the first move.
Sam waited until the morning light chased away his demons. He let his eyes fall closed, the early morning sun hitting his face. He allowed himself to relax in its faux embrace, let himself believe for a moment he was safe.
Even the brightest light couldn’t ebb out his darkness.
***
Sam hated a lot of things.
He hated the dreams that plagued him, causing him to wake up screaming in the middle of the night. He hated the pills and the shots that made him different. He hated being forced to talk in a group, acting as if he cared that Bulimic-Megan was eating most of her meals, that Annie-Anxious was able to go to a store without a panic-induced freak out, that Joe-Shmoe-Who-Really-Should-Be-At-Alcoholics-Anonymous was 15 days sober. Because Sam didn’t care. They were just more stories, names and faces to add to the jumble inside of his head, more people to think about and to worry about.
But more than that? Sam hated himself.
“You’re quiet today.” The doctor, Cas, mused from his spot on the couch. His legs were crossed at the ankles, tucked underneath the couch, and Sam couldn’t stop his staring at the long, knotted laces he found there. A sign of normalcy.
Today, Sam hated him most of all.
“I have nothing to say.” He sighed, tearing his eyes away from the laces, eyes flicking to the clock on the far wall.
“Am I boring you?”
“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” Sam replied, sighing again.
“What do you want to talk about?” Cas shifted forward, his blue eyes searching until they met Sam’s own.
“You’re the psychiatrist. You tell me,” Sam spat, shrinking back away from the gaze. He swallowed hard, wondering what exactly it was that those eyes were seeing. Did they see how truly screwed up he was? Could he see the blood that Sam saw, everywhere he went? Could he see how terrified Sam was, the threat of him coming back, looming over Sam, no matter where he went?
“Are you telling me I can choose?” Cas cocked his head, adjusting his tie. Sam hated that too. The questions, always fucking questions. When he didn’t respond, Cas pressed on. “Let’s talk about your family.”
“I’m a ward of the state.”
“Let’s talk about your family, before.” Sam felt his blood freeze, right there in his veins. He felt his body start to shake, shivering and fighting against the chill. If he could warm up, melt the bloodied icicles scratching their way to his heart, he would be okay. He felt his eyes darkening, the ice spreading, suffocating, killing.
“Sammy, you need to go.” Sam shook his head, fingers scrabbling to grip at the back of Dean’s shirt. “Sam! Now!” Dean hissed, ripping himself out of the grasp, pushing Sam down hard. Sam landed on the floor, a sharp gasp escaping his lungs as he landed with a thud. He looked up, Dean’s bright green eyes flashing in apology. His brother, always strong and smart, stood there with his lower lip trembling, eyes pleading.
Sam nodded, pushing with his legs to scramble backwards across the floor. Relief passed over Dean’s face, and Sam wanted to vomit.
“Don’t come out until I come and get you, Sammy. I’ll come for you.” Sam nodded, finally pushing to his feet. Dean would come for him, Sam knew that. He met Dean’s eyes again, and they spoke of an age far greater than the eleven years they’d been around.
“Promise,” Sam whispered and turned to fly into the night.
“Sam? Sam!” Sam blinked, his vision still foggy. A warm hand was on his shoulder, pushing him down, heat radiating down through his chest, melting the ice. “Are you with me?”
Sam swallowed hard, looking around the room. He scanned over the dark cherry wood desk, a stark contrast to the pale yellow walls around it. The carpet was a dull tan color, faint stains that had failed to scrub out completely were splattered around. Concerned blue eyes, hidden by a spill of dark brown hair, swarmed into focus.
“Sam?”
“I need to go lay down,” Sam whispered, his stomach churning. He could feel his eyes widen, his finger clenching down on the fabric of the chair, like they had to the back of Dean’s shirt. He gasped, lungs fighting to take in as much oxygen as they could. “I need to… I’m going…”
“Sam.” Cas’ voice was soft, firm; it grounded him. He blinked again, shaking his head.
“Please,” he whispered, not knowing what he was asking, why he was asking.
“We can just sit here in silence, let you catch your breath.” Sam nodded, watching as Cas moved away from him, knees creaking as he pushed himself to a standing position. He returned to his spot on the couch, picking up his notepad, twisting a pen between his fingers.
Sam waited, waited for Cas to start scribbling away. Adding notes and suggestions and treatments to his filled-to-the-brim chart. He waited for Cas to start prodding, asking him to explain, to talk, to remember. Ask him to forget, to practice finding an anchor to reality, to normalcy. He waited.
Like he had waited for Dean. Sitting with his knees pulled up into his chest, the cold from the earth seeking into the seat of his jeans. Waiting until the sun filtered in through the cracks in the wood. And like with Dean, Sam was left waiting.
Chapter Two