Blue Skies From Rain Part 1 - Chapter 3
When he woke in the morning, it was raining again. At least it smelled like rain. And mold. The chill worked its way into his skin and he made himself get out of bed when the door opened. He had a feeling that there would be pulling and pushing and injections if he didn’t. In fact, he remembered this, just as the orderly stepped into the room to give him a warning look and to hand him a plastic razor to shave with. He had to get up or there would be shots that would make him dopy and compliant. Not that he wasn’t sure that being dopy and compliant wouldn’t be more fun than being fuzzy and half-irritated, but he didn’t like shots anyway, so. Time to get up and put on his shoes and socks and use the bathroom.
Breakfast followed, with pills, and then the laundry, and then lunch with pills, and then, oddly, work detail outside in the afternoon. The rain had stopped, and he’d been given a thick windbreaker to go outside and pick up branches and debris from the large, green lawn that was almost perfectly flat with trees arranged on it in neat little groups. There was a tall plastic fence around the lawn, and from somewhere, Dean could hear the sound of rushing water.
“Keep moving, Dean,” said a voice. Dean turned. It was Greer. He was looking at Dean’s feet in the slip-on sneakers that were damp through within moments of stepping onto the grass. “Keep moving, keep warm.”
Dean nodded and moved toward the next branch on the lawn. Grabbed it and a little piece of paper from somewhere. Took them over to the container in the center of the lawn, for someone to take away later. The air, though damp, was nice. It was fresh and it moved ceaselessly. But from which direction? The sun was behind the clouds, so he really couldn’t tell which way was north. It bothered him, but in a vague kind of way. Rather like he realized he should be more bothered by it than it was.
Picking up the lawn was followed by the sock ritual, where everyone exchanged wet socks for dry, and the smell of wet feet and the crowd of damp bodies in the hallway was starting to get to Dean when an orderly came through and pulled him and seven other men out and took them all to Group. Dean remembered hearing about this the other day, but couldn’t remember having been in Group before. It was like someone had taken a slice out of his memory, leaving a black, bottomless hole where that chunk used to be.
Group was held in a little room with nine metal folding chairs and a chalk board that had no chalk but that had, oddly, three erasers. Dean sat in the chair nearest the door, and let himself float while the man in the while lab coat with the clipboard started talking. He was younger man with a snappy bow tie and a headful of choir boy hair that curled around his ears.
“Welcome to Group, everyone,” said the man. “Now let’s get started. We-”
“Dr. Baylor,” said one of the patients, a weedy, thin man with mousy hair who was sitting directly across from Dean. “He’s in my seat.”
The man was pointing right at Dean. “He’s in my seat and he won’t move.”
Dean sank himself further into the metal seat and gripped the edges. He was sitting by the door and he was going to stay there. Why that was important, he didn’t really know, but he was staying put. Mr. Pointy Fingers could just shove it up his ass if he thought Dean Winchester was moving.
He could see Dr. Baylor’s lips moving, but there was a ringing in his ears. The name felt awfully familiar and he realized it was his. His full name. And a damn sight longer than three letters. He couldn’t let go of the seat now, even if he wanted to move.
“Now, Randy,” said Dr. Baylor, “we’ve talked about this. You were going to work on being more flexible, remember?”
“Yes, but you said to try as hard as I could. I’ve been flexible all day. I don’t see why-”
Dr. Baylor looked at Dean.
Dean shook his head. “Not my job to be flexible.”
“Now, that’s interesting, Dean. What exactly is your job, would you say?”
Dean thought about this. Thought about what he could remember and where he was and how everyone in the small circle of men was looking at him as though very interested in the answer.
“Folding towels?”
“And?”
Dean stopped, his mouth open. That wasn’t it, obviously. Some of the men were looking at him like they knew the real answer and if Dean didn’t speak up soon, they were going to start raising their hands.
“Taking my pills?”
“And?”
Still not it. He felt himself scrunching in the chair, his shoulders curling in on themselves like someone was pushing on them. Feeling like a searchlight had found him. If this was the result of sticking to his guns, maybe he’d just move next time. Yeah. That’s what he’d do.
“Dean?”
”Um, getting better?”
“That’s right.” Dr. Baylor was nodding, though some of the men, Mr. Pointy Fingers included, looked pissed that Dean had gotten it right and was getting the full effect of Dr. Baylor’s bright smile. “Everything you do and everything we do is to help you get better. So do you think you would be willing to switch with Randy today? And the next time Group meets, you can sit by the door. Okay, Dean?”
Dean was on his feet before Dr. Baylor was finished, brushing past Randy, who practically yelped with pleasure. Thinking that Baylor’s technique was slicker than owl shit, and that he himself actually felt better for having given in. Which didn’t feel right at all.
The metal seat of the chair that Randy had been sitting in was warm but the legs wobbled. The back of Dean’s neck felt the cool air banking off the window, outside of which the rain was starting again. Dean realized he was glad to be inside, out of the weather. But that didn’t feel right either.
“Okay, guys,” Dr. Baylor was saying. “Let’s talk about how we make decisions and how we decide to follow the rules. Does everyone remember how we talked about rules last time?”
Everyone’s hand shot up but Dean’s. Dr. Baylor looked around the circle, his eyes lighting on Dean for a brief second, and then he chose the man to Dean’s left.
“Carl,” said Dr. Baylor, flashing his smile. “You start.”
Carl started. Dean stared at his feet and the wiggles in the linoleum and let himself float away.
*
Dean floated through the next several days. He had Group sometimes, and laundry most days, pills with every meal, and someone always told him where to, showed him how to get there. As long as he looked the orderlies in the eyes and kept his expression steady, the world felt steady, and he got no more injections or threats of injections. Everything was floaty and smooth, and he found he liked it like that. Even the tub in his room was starting to become less and less of an option out. It was good here, and if he was to be Samless, then it didn’t matter where he was. Here was as good as anywhere. Better in fact, because he never, ever had to make a decision. Though somewhere, deep inside, he could still hear Sam screaming for him.
The lull of each day, pretty much the same as the one before, took him, and rocked him until he could barely think of a life beyond. Beyond the beige walls, the scarred brown linoleum floor, and the tall, white plastic fence around the damp green lawn dotted with trees. Even the schedule was part of that hypnotic sameness, every minute accounted for, listed, and checked off. He shouldn’t like it so much, but he did.
The appointment with Dr. Logan got pushed out a couple of times, but Dean didn’t mind very much. After all, what would he say to her? There was nothing to say. Sam was dead and it wouldn’t matter if the end of the world came.
*
Dean had thought he would meet with Dr. Logan in the same little room that Group met in. So he was surprised to be escorted into an office, clean, but piled deep with files and books, so many books that they were double stacked in most of the shelves. The doctor was the same woman he’d told his real name to, pretty enough to look at, in a mild sort of way. Now that he could actually focus a little. She sat looking through a manila folder. She closed it as Dean came and nodded to the orderly who had escorted him there.
“I’ve got him,” she said to the orderly, dismissing him. Then she motioned to the blue padded chair opposite from her. “Have a seat, Dean. Let’s talk.”
Let’s talk. Such a strange thing to say, seeing as how Dean hadn’t really been talking except to say yes and no and Zoloft is for pussies. Neither did he care. But she was nice, and it was probably best not to get into trouble, so he said, “Okay.”
She looked at him over the top of the desk. “So, Dean, you’ve been here about three weeks, now making remarkable progress. Any new memories or insights that would help up track down your identity? A last name, maybe?”
His mind rocked backwards at how long he’d been there. He only remembered one of those weeks, and except for the one day when they’d given him Throrazine, it had been pretty okay. Except for missing Sam, but he wasn’t going to think about that. As for the name, his real last name, Winchester, that’s all he could remember. If he didn’t care if he was found, and after all, who was there to find him? And why would he want them to? So, no last name for her.
“No,” he said. “Nothing new. Some flashbacks, maybe, of a black car. An-an Impala.”
He didn’t know why he said that, even if he could remember that much, because, wherever the Impala was, it was far beyond his reach. And anyhow, without Sam in the passenger seat, there was no point in driving it. Anywhere. Though even this sad though melted away without impact.
“Interesting,” she said, pulling out a file from one of the stacks on her desk. “Shortly after you were found, we sent in a report to the police, and got a response from the Joliet Car Pound.”
She placed two things in front of him. “You were found walking on a deserted blacktop, half a mile from this car, with the keys in the ignition and the car still running. And here’s this necklace, you had it around your neck. Do any of these items ring any bells?”
He leaned forward to look. The piece of paper showed a picture of the Impala. She looked dusty, but okay. Then there was a ring of keys that sprawled on the table like a casual acquaintance, tangled in with the leather cord of the charm necklace that Sam had given him one Christmas. The Impala was now as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He wanted to reach out and grab everything there, but clenched his hand in his lap.
“Yeah,” he said. “I recognize it. That’s the car my dad gave me.”
“And your dad’s name?”
“John,” he said, without thinking.
“The car is registered to a Ronald R. Bon Jovi, which wouldn’t happen to be your name, by any chance?”
This made Dean smile. He remembered changing the registration after the botched bank job in Wisconsin. He and Sam had been in some hotel in Sparta, and had decided to do it in Ronald’s name, as a sort of eulogy. Sam, putting the paperwork in the envelope, his eyes glinting as he smiled at Dean and licked the envelope shut. He stopped smiling, missing Sam like a part of him had suddenly been ripped away, all over again.
“Anything wrong, Dean?”
His stomach rolled a little bit at the unsettled feeling swamping up through him. Of course, everything was not okay. Everything was wrong. He’d been responsible for Sam dying, and even all those damn pills he was on couldn’t keep the jagged memories of the fire and Sam from hitting him square in the head. Only he didn’t want her to know that.
She was looking at him with bright earnest eyes, and he had to answer her. Give her something so she would leave him alone.
“Sometimes,” he said, swallowing, “I feel sad.”
He waited a handful of heartbeats for her to announce that he needed more drugs or to have him hauled away for Treatment, something in a black room where he couldn’t move. But she didn’t.
“Actually, Dean, it’s quite normal to be sad and for you to admit it is very healthy. Remarkably so. It shows a great deal of improvement from when they brought you in. You were alternately catatonic and then violent. For days. Do you remember any of that?”
She looked at him, expectant. So he gave her a response.
“I don’t remember, except that day-”
“One week ago,” she said, agreeing. She nodded and wrote something down. “And how is work therapy going? Are you liking the laundry or the yard better?”
“Both,” he said. Then he ducked his chin like he was admitting a big secret. “But the laundry, mostly.”
Dr. Logan made a little noise as she pursed her lips and wrote something else down. When she looked up, she said, “You’ve been doing so very well, been very responsive to the drugs and the Treatment.”
“So-” he stopped to think about it, about what he wanted to say, and whether it would make her mad. “Does that mean I’ll be off the drugs soon? If I’m getting better and remembering more?”
“Well, actually no. If things continue the way they have been, we can start decreasing your meds little by little, but we’ll have to see. Besides, if we took you off the meds all at once, that could be dangerous. It’s hard on the body, and the shock could send you into coma. You could die. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The look she gave him was a warning: she was in charge and he needed to remember that. “Yes,” he said.
Then she said, “I have something I need to ask you but I think you are ready for it.”
There wasn’t much he could say to that, so he shifted in his seat and nodded. Wondered if the meeting would be over soon.
“However much you’ve been improving, the young man we brought you in with has not been. Is there anything you can remember that might help us understand why?”
“Young man?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Logan slowly, flipping pages in the folder. “He was brought in when you were, found along the same road, in the same condition.”
He watched her run her fingers down the page, reading as his heart was thumping. He was suddenly sweating down the backs of his arms, hot along the backs of his legs, his neck, even though he felt like he was being swept over by a blast of cold air. Was it Sam? Alive?
“Records state that we talked to you about him, several times,” continued Dr. Logan, “but you were unresponsive. Still-” She stopped, and he could hear her mutter under her breath. “Looks like we haven’t brought it up since, well, not since last week. That was an oversight on our part.”
His mind sheared down the middle. For her, it was just an oversight. To him, it could mean everything, everything. The world could be his, if Sam were alive. If it was Sam.
“Who-?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question. The guy could be anyone, anyone at all.
“Let’s see if this jogs your memory,” said Dr. Logan. She looked up. “He’s about six four, dark hair, green eyes…”
Dean stood up. “You never told me.” He tried to keep his voice even, though he wanted to shout at her. Parts of him felt numb, at war with the scream in his head that had started in his gut and sliced its way up his spine so fast, a white hot pain of brilliance so bright he almost didn’t recognize what it was. But it was Sam. He was alive.
“Yes, we did, Dean. We tried several times.”
Dean walked to the door and put his hand on the handle. The knob rattled beneath his grip, and for some reason, he couldn’t make it stop, couldn’t make the clicking noise stop, couldn’t figure out if it was his teeth chattering from the cold, or the echoes of metal hitting itself, over and over. And over.
“Dean, calm down.”
He was shaking so hard, his knees smacked against the door. His heart was banging against the inside of his chest, it wanted out, he wanted out, he wanted-
“Dean, I’ll take you to him, but you need to calm down and listen to me.”
Dr. Logan was standing right beside him now, in her white coat, as calm as a flat piece of paper.
“It’s Sam,” he said, his throat thick. He knew he was baring his teeth and glaring at her even though that was no way to do this, you had to pretend to be something else, not this, someone who could do what he could do. A hunter. That’s what he’d been. Something fierce, not this docile jerk he’d been shuffling around as. “It’s my brother Sam.”
The look in her eyes was curious and not at all worked up. “Now Dean. Are you telling me that your brother is not dead?”
“I want to see him.”
Dr. Logan reached back to her desk and Dean realized she’d pushed the panic button. “Dean,” she said, stern. “Either your brother is dead and this is not him, or all of your memories are false. Which is it?”
What kind of question was that? His memories were real, as real as breathing. Except they weren’t. He didn’t know what to tell her. The clicking noise got louder, and there were footsteps coming down the hall. He had to make the clicking noise stop and he had to get his lungs working again, only he wasn’t sure which one should come first.
But Dr. Logan was still talking. “If you’re deluding yourself, then we might have to increase your meds and your Treatment, so you need to choose, Dean. Is this your brother Sam or just a friend named Sam?”
She was concerned, it was easy to tell; but at the same time, she wasn’t going to put up with any crap. She had the keys to all the doors, to get out, he would have to go through her. He made himself let go of the doorknob and wiped his palm on his cotton pants. Then he took a deep breath, and watched as she nodded when Greer came in.
“I don’t know,” said Dean. Almost whispering. He would be docile for a little while longer, if he had to. If it could get him to Sam. “Honest. If I could just see him, I could figure it out.”
This seemed to satisfy her. For the moment. “Fair enough. Now, we’ll go see him, Dean, but I need you to be aware, he’s in bad shape. We’re hoping that seeing you will help him with his memory problem. As for the rest, well, we’ll just keep doing what we’re doing.”
It had to be Sam. Who else could it be?
Chapter 4
Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post