Blue Skies From Rain Part 1 - Chapter 2

[lovesrain44]

 

He let his eyes focus as he stared at his shoes. They were slip-on sneakers over a thin pair of socks; he could feel the grind of a very small bit of matter beneath his big toe inside the sock, rice, perhaps. Or a little rock that had made its way in. He contemplated taking off the sneaker to dump out whatever it was, but that thought died before it was born. As did getting up and moving out of the sunlight that was pouring hot and yellow through the window. Right across his legs, his arm. He was covered in thin cotton, pale blue, or maybe it was tan, he couldn’t be sure.

Lifting his head, he looked across the room. It wasn’t enough to want to focus, there was something in his head keeping him muzzy, kept the room at a distance beyond his capacity to focus. There were figures, moving about, coming and going, shuffling on what sounded like paper slippers, the clink of keys, the buzz of a slightly out of tune radio, and underneath that a song he almost recognized.

A bell sounded, like an off-color chime, and the movement became narrowed and purposeful. The figures were leaving the room. Like white ovals, pale blue ovals, moving away. Through an open doorway.

He leaned forward, pitching himself out of the sunlight and into the dusty shadow of the crooked blinds that hung halfway down. Someone was coming closer, dressed in a white coat; he squinted. It was a woman, she was carrying a clipboard. Busy. Her brown hair coming out of a ponytail, like she’d just come out of the wind. She had dark-rimmed glasses, and as she came closer, she reached out. Touched his shoulder. He leaned back, not sure if he wanted her to touch him or not.

“Come on, Ethan,” she said. “We’re going to have Group now.” She said it like she’d said it to him before, like she expected him to respond as he had in the past. It was in her tone. But he didn’t recognize her, didn’t know where he was. There was no way he was going to go marching off into who-knew-where.

“I-” he started, but he couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say. And his throat felt raw, like someone had run a fork up and down it. For hours.

She gave him a pat. It was a gentle pat, but she was busy, was already turning away, writing something on her clipboard. “Ethan, you’re going to have to come to Group now, or I’ll have to get an orderly.”

“Who’s Ethan?” he asked, almost whispering.

This stopped her. She turned to look at him, her body going still, eyes narrowing. “Ethan?”

Curling a hand to his chest, he could smell his own sweat start to prickle along the back of his neck, under his arms. “My name is Dean,” he said. “Dean.”

Turning fully towards him now, she nodded and wrote something else down. “That’s good, you know your name. Is that your real name? Can you remember your last name? Can you remember anything else?”

“Dean,” he said, letting the rest of her questions rattle over him unanswered. “Dean.”

“And do you know why you’re here?” She asked this, and he saw her make a gesture at the door, where a large figure filled the frame.

“I know my first name is Dean,” he said, swallowing. “And I-” He had to stop. Something black was rushing at him, right behind his eyes. Flickering with yellow and orange and white. Sam screaming as the flames took him down, something large and heavy, a beam, maybe, falling on him. Landing hard. Dean outside the circle, reaching in. Fire covering him, sucking him in with heat. The screams, so many screams. Sam’s. His own. And then silence.

“My brother is dead.” He stood up, towering over her, waiting for her to tell him it wasn’t true. But by the look on her face, he knew it was.

“That’s right, Eth-, I mean, Dean. That’s right. Your brother died in a warehouse fire, you told us that. Do you remember?”

He shook his head, feeling a cold ice crawl up his spine. Started to shake, backing away. He wanted to run so bad, his knees were knocking together. The figure in the doorway was coming closer, a big, brawny man with a military-short buzz cut, tattoos on his arms, coming close with purpose, his face betraying no emotion at all.

“You just stay calm, now, Ethan,” said the man.

“It’s Dean, Greer, he says his name is Dean.”

Greer nodded, kept coming closer, spreading his arms like net. “Is he coming to Group, Dr. Logan, or is he going back?”

There was a moment of stillness, as Dean’s eyes suddenly sharpened and he recognized the smell, the mild tones of paint on the walls, the faded brown rick-rack pattern on the floor, the thick, old-fashioned doorways, the somber, flickering light, like something out of an old movie. He might not know this place, but he’d been in plenty like it. Where they stuck people who talked funny, or made outrageous claims, had truck with voices. Claimed to be God.

“No,” he said. Lifting his chin. “I’m going home.” Wherever that was. Since Sam was dead, home was no where.

“Room, I think,” said the doctor, as she tapped her pencil against her cheek. As she looked at Dean, there was no malice, but no kindness either. It was an entirely clinical look, surveying the situation, making a call.

Dean took a step back. “No. I want to go home. I’m going.”

“Not today, sport,” said Greer. His arms were huge as they grabbed at Dean, meaty hands encircling Dean’s upper arms the way a man might grab a baseball bat. Hefting the weight. Controlling it.

“No!” said Dean, his voice rising to echo around the now-empty room. The TV was still on, the radio still buzzing, the empty floor, slick, reflecting the lights overhead. As he twisted in Greer’s functional grasp, someone else came over. Greer held him like an expert, pressed against the wall, with enough room to breathe, but not enough to wiggle away. Someone rolled up his sleeve, wiped his arm with sharp disinfectant. This felt familiar somehow, and in that short second that he had to think this, he felt the needle go in. He couldn’t fight it, the feeling was too thick. And he couldn’t cry, though he could close his eyes and collapse against the wall, boneless as Greer released his hold.

The room started to go fuzzy again, and his head, so heavy, sank against his chest.

“That’s some amazing progress,” he heard the doctor say. “We can start decreasing the Haldol in the morning, and give him Thorazine.”

Someone started him walking, but he kept his eyes closed, shuffled along where he was led. The air in the corridor was cold, the noises banked from far away, and behind his eyes, the flicker of fire. Shrieks. Sam. Dying. Dead. Dean couldn’t cry, wouldn’t cry. He let his body sag. Heard someone ask for something, felt himself being slipped into a chair. Let his head fall where it might. What did it matter. He didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Didn’t have to. Sam was dead and gone forever. The crash into the darkness was a welcome one.

*

He was walking. He was awake and walking, down a corridor that was chilly, like the other one had been. The walls were pale, with shiny tiles in faded patterns that caught his eye as he walked. There wasn’t anything in his sneaker though, but the socks felt scratchy. Like they’d just been washed. The smell of cooked meat wafted out at him, making him open his eyes wider to realize he was following a man, and that there was another man following him. They were all headed towards the smell. This felt familiar, like the shot from before had. His brain didn’t care that he was going towards food, but his stomach stood up and growled.

Silver yellow light came in through the windows on one side of the corridor, and he had the feeling it was raining. Where had he been the last time it rained? He couldn’t remember.

The line of men walked through a doorway; Dean could see it was a dining hall of sorts, with long tables, and men with trays. All men. Which made sense. If he was in the loony bin-

-he was in the loony bin. He remembered that from yesterday, too. What else was he supposed to remember?

The line of men stopped in front of a lady in a white coat. It was a different lady from yesterday, and she was checking her list and handing each man a little paper cup and a large paper cup. She made each man toss back the contents of the small paper cup, and then let him drink from the large one. This felt familiar too. Dean struggled with why it did, but not too much, there was something safe in those cups. Something that helped keep him safe.

When it was his turn, the lady gave him his little cup. Dean looked down at it. There were three little pills, one white, one yellow, and one purple.

She checked her list. “Dean Doe,” she said. “You’ve graduated to Zoloft, you’ll be pleased to know.” She said this like she didn’t really expect him to respond, like she was talking to herself.

“Zoloft is for pussies,” he said, not understanding why.

“Take it anyway, Mr. Doe,” she said. He did, and she took the empty cups from his hand to toss them in a tall, round bin at her side. “Don’t be making a fuss on me now, it’s too early in the day.”

Morning, then. It was morning. He was in a dining hall and he was about to have breakfast.

He followed the line of men where it led, taking a tray, waiting his turn. But when he got to the head of the line, he realized he was shaking, and that his arms hurt. Bad. He could hardly hold the tray up. Maybe they wouldn’t give him food if he couldn’t hold his tray. He tried to say something to the lady behind the counter, waiting, her hair in a net, giving him the hairy eyeball.

Someone pushed up from behind him. It was another orderly, not the one from the day before, but dressed like him, thinner, with dark hair, dark eyes. His skin the color of creamed coffee. In spiffy whites that he suddenly remember Sam wearing. When they went to-

Something clicked in his brain like a door shutting off. He let it.

The orderly took the tray out of Dean’s hands, and held it up while the woman put food on it. Then he tipped his dark head in the direction of the tables. Dean followed him, stomach howling now, his mouth completely uninterested.

“We’ll sit here, Dean.”

Dean sat down. The man’s nametag said Rubio. He seemed to know Dean, but Dean had never seen him before.

“I’ll help you eat,” said Rubio, pouring some sugar in the bowl of oatmeal and stirring it around. “It’s hard to get moving when you’ve been in four-point restraints all night.”

Dean’s mouth opened as he let Rubio spoon the thin, overly sweet oatmeal in his mouth. No one had ever fed Dean before. Even when he was a baby, no one ever had. His mother had told him that he insisted on feeding himself, so he could shovel it in as fast as possible. His mother who was dead. Father who was dead. Brother Sam-

“Uh-” he said, trying to chug down the food and talk at the same time. His hand flopped up towards Rubio’s, jigging the oatmeal on the spoon so that it splatted on the table.

For a moment he froze. This was not good. Spilling food was not good, you could get in trouble for it. Dean remembered that. Remembered something about throwing a bowl of spaghetti at someone, running, getting slammed against the floor. This had been followed by something in a dark room that was definitely not fun.

Rubio looked at him, his thin mouth narrowing even further. “Don’t mess with me, boy, just don’t. You let me feed you, and the feeling will come back to your arms by lunchtime. You mess with me? And you’ll be back in that bed so fast, your head will swim.”

Bed. He’d spent the night in bed, spread-eagled, hands and feet tied. Not stretched in any painful way, but held there. Immobile. Still. Someone had come in the darkness to give him another injection, and he’d thankfully slid back into sleep. But his arms and his shoulders would be longer in forgiving him.

He nodded at Rubio, and swallowed another spoonful of oatmeal. It was thin, the way Sam liked it. Thin, and milky, just on the verge of cooling. And sweet. Sam could use so much sugar, it made even Dean’s sweet tooth ache. Sam-

“Dean,” said Rubio. “You want some bacon?”

Dean shook his head. His stomach was full, his head, starting to ache.

“Juice?”

Dean shook his head again. He looked at the tray, with the bowl of grey oatmeal, the pale bacon. Saw the toast. It had a smear of butter; he could eat that. He raised his fingers, and tried to nod towards it.

“The toast?”

Dean nodded. Rubio broke the toast in half and brought it to Dean’s mouth. The toast was cold and gritty, but it felt comfortable to eat it. He wished there was more butter. And cinnamon and sugar. He wished Sam were there to make fun of him for getting fed by hand like this.

“Hey, Dean,” said Rubio, and Dean realized he was bringing his hand up to Dean’s face. Wiping something away. “You just let those meds kick in and you’ll feel a lot better.”

Dean turned his head away. Made himself stop thinking and crying. It wouldn’t help. He had to get out of here.

Halfway through the second piece of toast, something inside of him began to flatten out, drawing him towards it like a serene horizon. It was okay like this, it was much easier to sit there and finish chewing his toast, to take a drink of juice from the glass in Rubio’s hand. To swing his arms back and forth to get the blood moving like Rubio suggested.

When Rubio got up to take the tray to the counter, Dean followed him, weaving around the tables, not looking at anyone. Keeping his eyes on the back of Rubio’s dark head.

“I’ll take you to the game room,” said Rubio. Dean didn’t know where that was, but he followed anyway, walking without picking up his feet, shivering in the coolness of the pale corridor. They passed groups of orderlies with their charges, men all, wearing garments like Dean’s, their eyes dull, faces slack. They look like he felt. And that was okay. It was easier than feeling.

When they got to the Day room, Rubio checked the list on the door, and then checked the bracelet on Dean’s wrist. “Nope. Says you’re for Laundry work therapy. Let’s go.”

Laundry turned out to be a large, long room, with a bank of high, narrow windows along one side, and lined on three walls with washers and dryers, with a back to back row in the middle. Big ones. Industrial ones. Dean thought about how he knew that, where he’d seen equipment like it, but he couldn’t place it. Rubio let him look at the other patients working, loading and unloading the machines that filled the room with a low, moaning din, while he checked the list on the door, and then checked with an orderly, who wore a whistle around his neck.

“Neland,” said Rubio, “Dean starts work therapy with you. Today.” He waited a minute, as if for Neland to process this.

“What?” Neland was a short, thin man, with thin brown hair and a fussy mouth. He wore an orderly’s outfit, like what Rubio and Greer had, but it looked like he both pressed and starched his. Which only made sense, if he worked in a laundry. He narrowed his eyes at Rubio.

“It’s what the list said. Both lists, I checked them. Work therapy, and he starts today. But take it slow, they’ve just started to decrease his meds.”

Neland made a sound in his throat as he pursed his lips and looked at Dean. The sound blended in with the hum of the dryers, and for a second, Dean thought he could float away on that sound. It was familiar to him, just as familiar as the hum of rubber tiers on a blue line highway.

“He can fold,” said Neland. “How long do I have him for?”

“Lunchtime. After that, I don’t know. Depends on the schedule.”

Neland hummed again, and Rubio left Dean there, walking out of the room, without looking back. Almost like Dean didn’t exist. And Dean almost didn’t care. The room was warm, warmer than anyplace else he could remember being, and the hum was comforting.

Neland led Dean through the warm air and the din over to a big metal sink. There was a metal shelf stacked with clean white towels over the sink, and a low shelf beneath with more towels and a bottle of lotion. Neland shoved a bar of soap in his hands. The soap was trailing with melty mucus, but that was okay. It was just soap goo. Neland turned on the water, and pointed at it.

“Wash up. Under your nails too. I won’t have black streaks on my sheets and towels.”

Dean did as he was told. The water was warm and getting warmer; it felt good on his skin, leaving the rest of him wishing it could get in as well. He used the soap and dried his hands on the towel that Neland handed him. Then he followed the orderly to a long metal table. On the edge of the table someone was dumping a pile of freshly dried towels. They smelled like bleach and heat.

“Fold each towel like this. You see?” Neland demonstrated, first, in half, the long way. Then in half, the short way. “Put them all in the same direction. You get gold stars for every towel you get right. And then some nice person in a hotel will use the towels you’ve folded. Got that?”

Dean nodded. Looked at the pile. He could do this. It would be sweet and it would be easy. Those gold stars were as good as his.

*

Up until the time he stopped, he was fine. The folding and the warm towels made him sleepy, and he melted into the task until he heard the bells chime, and Neland blew his whistle for everyone to stop. All of a sudden, the soothing murmur of the washers and dryers came to a thumping halt, filling the air with a bleak, unnatural silence.

The ease that had kept up with him for the morning, now, in the blank whiteness, was filling him. Had been filling him. Scratching at the inside of his brain with insistent hands. But Neland was motioning him out in the corridor with the rest of the men, and Dean started to feel crowded as he pressed his back against the wall.

The line of men began to move, and took Dean with it, his heart hammering, and thoughts of Sam bucking into view, raging and strong. Sam, standing there, arguing about something. About families, and promises. About memories. Dean had shrugged him off, and then the fire had started. Smashing down on Sam, the heat of the flames sweeping Sam’s dark hair back from his forehead. Burning him. Killing him. Dean realized he was shaking.

No one noticed; there was no stopping the line of men marching towards food. By the time he arrived at the lunch room, the smell of food was rotten, he didn’t want any of it. Then he saw the lady with her pairs of cups, one large, filled with water, and one small. You had to take what was in the cups before you could eat. It was a rule. Dean stood in line, watched her watching him. Still shaking.

“Problems, Dean Doe?” she asked. Dean stared at her teeth, yellowed from coffee, he figured.

“Not hungry,” he said, reaching willingly for both cups.

She held them out of reach for a moment. “Is that all?” she asked. “Any strange smells, any headache, any high-pitched sounds?”

Dean frowned at her. Her questions were keeping him from what was in the little cup. Sweet oblivion. “No,” he said. “I don’t get headaches.”

She made a little noise in her throat and handed him the cups. While he swallowed the pills and the water, she wrote something down on the clipboard. “Dr. Logan will ask you the same questions tomorrow. You be honest with her, and that will help you get better. Okay?”

As the man behind him pushed forward, and Dean was pushed into the line to get food, he wondered, for the first time since he could remember, what was wrong with him? And, just as important, where was he? He told his mouth to think about food, told his stomach to be patient. He’d take care of one first and then the other.

The smell of overcooked carrots and limp spinach hit the back of his throat as he held out his tray and let the woman behind the silver-topped counter fill it. Minced steak and brown gravy. A carton of milk. A roll. A little paper tub of frozen butter. Dean looked at the food as he walked to a table, wondering where Rubio was.

He sat alone at a round table with five empty chairs, the tray in front of him, plastic silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. He looked at his hands, the tips of his fingers touching the edge of the tray. The faint, swirly pattern in the cheap plastic, the thin dividers keeping the spinach juice away from the roll. Dean reached for that, cut it opened and buttered it.

Someone stopped next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Everything okay, Dean?”

Dean looked up. It was Rubio. He had someone with him, someone with eyes as glazed and slack as a dead man’s. Dean shook his head. “I’m okay,” he said. And thought about that. Was he okay? And if he wasn’t, what was wrong with him? Then he nodded at Rubio. “I’m okay.” The other guy was worse off than him, it was plain to see; let the other guy get the help.

Rubio and his pal for the day walked away through the maze of tables as Dean bit into his roll. The roll was barely warm, but the texture was good. He washed the bite down with milk, and looked at the grease thickening across the top of the minced steak. It looked like icing on a German chocolate cake, but probably wouldn’t taste the same. He stuck his finger in it and brought it to his lips to test. It tasted okay, but it was cold. Sam would have turned up his nose at it for sure. Sam liked his steak rare, the rarer the better. With noodles. And butter. Served up hot, so that the bloody juice coated the noodles. Sam liked-

This made his head hurt. Like someone had just smacked the back of it right where his skull met his spine. He had to duck his head down and catch his breath, feeling the weight of hard spikes going through his eyeballs, like someone had driven him there. Like someone was standing right there, stabbing at him, making him-

There was a commotion at the other end of the dining hall, someone had either tripped or been pushed, and two men in slip on sneakers were going at it, fists flailing, spinach flying. There was a smell of grease in the air, and Dean concentrated on that. On all of that. He couldn’t think about Sam, wouldn’t, otherwise, he would start coming apart from the inside out. If he could just remember the details about the fire, and why Sam had been standing under a beam that was in flames. And why he hadn’t pulled Sam out of the way, when he, Dean, was obviously outside of the range of the fire? What the fuck had he been thinking?

Was it his fault that Sam was dead?

Maybe that was why. Maybe that was why he was in this place, because he was responsible, and Sam was dead, and he couldn’t take it. Maybe that was his breaking point.

One of Dad’s friends once, maybe it had been Caleb, had said something about that. They’d been taking a breather one weekend, had met up with Caleb that summer he’d been in the camper. They’d sat around the door in Caleb’s lawn chairs while the sky had gotten dark. Beers had been passed out, and Dad, probably thinking that Dean wasn’t paying attention, had said something about how Dean’s training was coming. Caleb had said, “Won’t nothing break that kid of yours?” And Dad had looked at Sam. Dean hadn’t understood it at the time, but he got it now. Had known it for a while, that Sam was his weak spot. Losing Sam had broken him. Which is how he ended up here.

Or at least why he’d ended up here. He couldn’t remember the how. Which was probably a good thing because he was starting to shake again. It was out of his control, his hands were trembling and he tried to stand up and pushed the tray away so he wouldn’t knock it off the table. It was as far as his mind got before the room started to turn white and someone turned up the volume, and all he could hear was Sam screaming for him.

Just as Dean tried to clamp his hands over his ears, Greer was there, grabbing his upper arms, holding on tight. Greer’s mouth was moving as the room behind him got sparkly and overly bright. Dean felt like he was in an elevator dropping too fast and only Greer’s baseball bat grip was holding him in place. Dean didn’t struggle, just tried blinking against the lightning now arcing through the air. And the smell. Burning, burning flesh. Flesh that was alive. Sam.

He could almost hear Greer saying his name, recognized it on Greer’s lips, but shook his head. Tried to say something, tried not to throw up. Almost failed as he sank against Greer and buried his forehead into Greer’s chest. Greer smelled like sweat and worn out Electrashave, it had to be near the end of his shift. The elevator feeling started to go away as Greer started him walking out of the dining hall. He leaned Dean against the first cool wall there was, away from the hot, greasy smell of the dining hall. With Greer’s hand on the back of his neck, he bent Dean forward until his head was between his knees.

“Breathe.”

Dean breathed. Smelled his own sweat, the funk of chemicals mixing with the mist from his skin, from between his legs, from under his arms. Breathed. Swallowed and breathed until Greer pulled him up.

“You got one of two Treatments,” Greer was saying. “You pick which one.”

Dean could barely remember what Treatment was, but he knew it wasn’t any fun.

“Well?”

“I want oatmeal,” said Dean.

“What?” asked Greer. Irritated. “Dean, that’s not an option.”

The bell sounded announcing the end of lunch. Dean looked at Greer as steadily as he could. “I’m okay now.”

A line of men started to walk and shuffle past them, pushing them aside in their purposeful, albeit slow, snaky-curved pace. The woman from the lunchroom pushed her cart, tucking her clipboard in amidst the plastic cups as she went. Greer motioned her over. The wheels trundled like squeak toys as she made the cart turn.

“What?” she asked with a snap. “I’ve got rounds, Greer.”

“Hang on,” he said, gripping Dean by only one arm now. “Check your list. Was he given Thorazine today?”

“You do realize you’re just an orderly here, Greer. Don’t you?’

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

She checked her list with a complete lack of good grace, and Dean felt his stomach rumble.

“Mmmmmmmm,” she said. “Yes, Thorazine. It’s his first day on that; Dr. Logan’s recommend.”

“No wonder,” said Greer. “Okay, thanks.” He waved her along, and she gave him the finger. Greer shook his head.

“This way, Dean.”

Dean let himself be led back into the dining room, the greasy smell hitting him smack in the back of the throat. “I can’t-” he started.

“Breathe through your mouth.”

Greer led him through the silver doors to the back area where the servers were cleaning up and getting ready for the supper shift. There was a long, metal tray of leftover chopped steak with gravy and Dean had to swallow hard. He tried to breathe through his mouth, and could barely concentrate on where Greer told him to stand, feeling the roughness of the walls as he spread his palms out behind him. Greer was talking to someone, his low voice barking out an order. Then he came back with a little metal bowl with a spoon stuck in it.

“Let’s go.” He grabbed Dean’s arm and have him a little shove in the direction of the metal doors. Once they were both through, the gates to the serving area closed behind them, cutting off the greasy smell of the chopped steak. The air was cool and a little dense, but Dean could breathe.

Greer motioned at a table and pointed for Dean to sit down. He put the metal bowl in front of Dean; it had chopped boiled potatoes with salt and pepper. Dean watched the little cube of butter melting as the potatoes steamed up at him.

“Can you eat that?”

Dean lifted the spoon and his mouth started to water. He nodded and blew on a spoonful of potatoes. Took in a mouthful and breathed in cool air to keep his tongue from burning. It was good. It was very good. He nodded at Greer.

“I’m not coddling you, sport,” said Greer as he stood there and watched Dean inhale the potatoes. “Some people have that reaction to Thorazine. We’ll get you on something else, then you’ll be able to eat what’s put in front of you.”

As Dean finished, Greer looked at him. “Any loud noises, and flashing lights, anything?”

Dean shook his head. “My mouth tastes like metal.”

“That’s the Thorazine, but then, any sedative might do that. I’ll let Dr. Logan know.”

“I’m supposed to see her.” Dean found himself saying this for some reason. Feeling it, like she had the secret that he wanted to know.

“Not today, Dean,” said Greer. “She’s a busy lady, that one. You up for laundry?”

Dean nodded now. The laundry had been peaceful, and the work had let him float. It was funny though, because even though he and Sam had done laundry so many times, the folding and the warmth and the din made it easy to keep thoughts of his brother at bay. He wanted that. Like right now.

“Okay, Dean?”

Greer pulled Dean to his feet and left the bowl on the table. They walked out the doors, and Dean breathed in as deeply as he could. At least his stomach was quiet and the screaming had stopped. He would fold towels for a while. And not think.

*

Supper was better. He got a little blue pill instead of a purple one, and the water felt cool on this throat. Supper was chicken nuggets and creamed corn. Dean inhaled everything, even though his mouth still tasted like metal a little. Someone else sat at his table and ate while the creamed corn ran down his chin. Rubio walked among the tables, checking; Dean didn’t see Greer. The light outside the windows made it look like the sun was setting. The sun set in the west, Dean could see the angles of shadows but not the source of the light, which meant that the windows on this side of the building were probably facing north. It was good to know that. It felt good. He wished he had a second carton of milk. Maybe tomorrow he would ask for one.

The bell announcing the end of supper sounded, and left an echoing buzzing in Dean’s head. When everyone else stood up, he stood up. Followed the group of men out the door, took his place in line. He had no idea where they were going, but no one seemed to think that what he was doing was odd.

They ended up in room that someone said was the Day room. It might be the same one that Dean recalled from before, looking at his sneakers and thinking there might have been some rice in his sock. Or it might be a different room, he couldn’t really tell. The TV was on, it was an old TV and the picture wobbled across a talk show. Some men took over the couch and started watching. There were checker games on some tables, puzzles on others. At the far end of the room there was a radio; it sounded like baseball. Dean watched a few men pull up some chairs. Other men stood against the wall as if nothing really mattered except the pattern of the floor. One guy was swinging his arm almost gently against the open door frame until an orderly that Dean didn’t recognize made him stop.

Dean stood with his back against the wall near the window, watching out of the corner of his eye as the sky grew fully dark, and lights went on across the grounds. He realized that he’d seen some little green leaves on the trees and realized what this meant. Still spring. Early spring. Sill May, which it had been the last time he’d driven in the Impala, with the window wipers going full bore and Sam talking a blue streak. Arguing about families and something else that Dean couldn’t remember.

A breath hitched itself in his chest. Where the hell was the Impala?

His hands clenched into fists. He made himself stand still and not start running like he wanted to.

The Impala, the Impala, and Sam and the rain, and the warehouse. Windshield wipers. Putting on the parking brake. Something was wrong, very wrong. Dean felt his lungs pushing against his ribs, saw the orderly in the doorway looking at him. Dean turned to the window. Looked out. Tried to count to one hundred. Tried not to shake. Wanted it to stop. Maybe if he just died, right now, it would.

He could almost see his reflection in the window, and it was one he almost recognized. The outlines were blurry in the condensation building up on the window, but it was him, alright. Not a stranger, then. Just him. Just Dean. Alone.

It was the worst feeling in the world.

He made himself stop. Made himself walk over to the TV and lean against the couch until the men moved over and let him sit down, too. Then he could watch the talk show, and float away on the voices. He would stay in this place forever; there wasn’t any point in going anywhere else.

Not with Sam gone.

*

By the time the talk show was over and the bell rang, Dean’s eyelids felt like they could close all the way down to the floor. He stood up and got in line, followed the line down the chilly corridor, and when it stopped, he stopped. An orderly looked over at him, and Dean could tell by the curve of his mouth that he was bored. Either that or annoyed.

He gave Dean a pill in a cup and a little glass of water. Then the orderly pointed, sighing with a dramatic air and Dean looked. On the door was a piece of tape that said Ethan Doe, only the name Ethan had been crossed out with the name Dean written in smaller letters underneath.

For a second, Dean was confused. Doe? His last name wasn’t Doe. He didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t Doe. His last name was a whole lot longer than Doe. Longer than three letters. There was a metal frame next to the door with a file folder and a clipboard in it. Dean could see his name underneath the scratched-out Ethan on both of them, but not the other name he was thinking of but couldn’t remember.

“Some time tonight, Dean,” said the orderly.

This must be his room then. Dean put his hand on the knob and opened the door to step across the threshold. As he looked at the long, narrow room with one single bed, the door shut behind him. He heard it lock. He was locked in. But that was okay. He was alone for the first time he could remember. The room held nothing but the bed. The window on the far wall had a grill over it, and there was a doorway with no door to the left through which Dean could see a toilet and a sink and a tub. He didn’t know what they were thinking, he could drown himself in that tub if he wanted. It sounded like a pretty good idea. Only he was tired, so maybe tomorrow.

He went into the bathroom and peed, then washed his hands with a little bar of soap and the lukewarm water, wiping them on the one, thin towel. It occurred to him that the towels in the Laundry room were nicer, but then, they were bound for some mysterious hotel somewhere.

Above the sink, beneath the plastic box that shaded a single light bulb, was a sheet of metal that was supposed to be a mirror. He didn’t need to look at it to see himself. They were Samless eyes he’d be seeing, and he didn’t need to see that. Ever. So he brushed his teeth with the toothbrush and toothpaste that were sitting in a cup.

As he took off his shoes and his socks, he looked at the bed. The pillow looked thin, the sheets scratchy. Was he supposed to sleep in his clothes? Why didn’t he know? If he’d been here for any other nights, he couldn’t remember them. Couldn’t remember any of the rituals he’d gone through today. It was all a blank up to this morning. Then he saw the dresser and pulled out all the drawers until he found what looked like pajamas, and put them on.

Drawing back the blue cover and the white sheet on the bed, he figured maybe it was better to forget.

There was a chime, and the lights went out. Dean hustled into the bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin. Everything felt strange. He let the night get dark and still around him, breathed in the chilly, still air. Thought about the rain, and the open sky, and wondered how long it had been since he’d seen them. Since he’d stepped out of the Impala, walking towards the warehouse, Sam hot on his heels, talking, that mouth of his going as he tried to make his point. About what? Dean would never know. Sam was dead and-

Dean made himself stop. He clamped his mouth shut, and bit down on his lower lip. If he started thinking about Sam now, in the dark, with nothing to distract him, he would lose his mind for sure. Flipping out before had earned him the threat of choosing between one of two Treatments. If Greer hadn’t stumbled across the nurse lady with her list of drugs, he would have carried through with one of them, of that  Dean was sure.

There must have been something in that last pill he’d been given, which was a good thing, otherwise, he’d be crying into his pillow like a girl even as he thought about it. He knew this because he felt it. Something in the pill kept that impulse at bay, like it was an abstract shape and nothing that had anything to do with him. He’d never taken so many drugs in his life. That he knew of.

The darkness came, and took him with it, walking him down a long corridor banked with shadows.

Chapter 3

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post