Chapter Text
Who looks outside, dreams.
Who looks inside, awakens.
-C. G. Jung
Blonde hair feels like silk as Dean drags his fingers through the wavy locks, the scent of vanilla extract from baking pies remains permanently on her skin, kind, loving arms surrounding him in a tight, warm hug; these are the memories Dean wants to have of his mother. Happy things like her bright, cheerful smile or the high-pitched ring in her laughter. Unfortunately, the further he falls into the pits of inebriation, the more his recollections turn ominous.
To drown them both out, Dean swallows another white pill, chasing it with a shot of whiskey. If he fucks himself up enough, maybe he’ll simply move to the unconscious portion of the evening, fast-forwarding past the nightmares. His head drops to the solid support of wood, maybe a bar or possibly a table; Dean doesn’t really care.
The vision is always the same. A little boy, barefoot, dressed in Kermit the Frog pajamas, wandering down the dark, silent hallway. “Mommy?” he calls, but never hears an answer. The kitchen light is bright on his eyes, so he turns away, barely catching the body on the floor with corner of his eye. “Mommy?” The woman is sprawled across the green, cracked linoleum, a chair overturned next to her.
Rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes, Dean squats down next to the lady, taking her hand into his. Her flesh is still warm, the vanilla bouquet kicking up from the movement. He stops asking for her, realizing that she’s sleeping with her eyes open. Dean is a patient 6-year-old; he will wait for his mother to wake from her slumber.
Two days later, with a toddling Sam by his side, their father will find them, Mommy still motionless on the floor.
“Man, you can’t sleep here.” The hands are rough and calloused.
Dean shrugs off the touch, “Get off me,” he grunts, his brain still lost in the memories of his childhood, unable to catch up with the present. “I need to stay with her.”
“Who?” The shove is harsher, knocking Dean to the ground. “You’re way past the limit buddy. If you don’t leave I’m calling the cops.”
“NO!” Dean screams, his eyes still hooded, his mind far from reality. “She’s still warm. If I stay long enough, she will wake up.” His fingers tighten into a fist. This time will be different; his mother will wake, and it will all have been a terribly bad dream.
A strike hits his cheek, ringing in his ears. “Get the fuck out, you piece of shit. Your sleeping beauty is dead.”
All Dean can see is red. Rage floods through his body like a violent river. In a substance induced frenzy, Dean begins throwing punches until the darkness swallows him whole.
****
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Dean can’t decide which is worse, the relentless banging from somewhere unidentified or the foul stench of urine permeating through the air. He takes a few shallow breaths, battling the spinning sensation in his mind. In a rush of courage Dean flutters his eyelids open, but then uses his hand to cover them, trying to keep his stomach from expelling all contents.
Hangovers were obviously created by the devil himself!
Carefully scanning the space around him, Dean attempts to solve the mystery of his current location. It is a gift from the heavens that the room is swimming in shadows; however, he can still make out black steel bars, a filthy toilet, an unused cot, and a delightful choice of cement flooring for which he is lying upon.
“Jail,” he sighs to no one in particular, “fucking awesome.”
Dean doesn’t have a single coherent thought in his mind right now. He’s totally going on survival instincts; hence, moving off the revolting floor isn’t even in the cards. Instead, he rolls onto his back, glancing up at the drab black painted ceiling. The crunching of his stiff jeans as they jostle about is not an encouraging sound. This is not the first time Dean Winchester has found himself in such a position after a night of drinking and debauchery. Although the 29 year old can usually recall at least flashes, he pauses, willing his brain to provide even an inkling of useful information. Several minutes later, Dean is simply impressed he remembers his name and age.
His throat screams with the need for liquid, coercing him to sit up in search of something to drink. As he suspected, a small, silver sink is positioned just to the left of the toilet. Now comes the next dire question for the day, is he thirsty enough to sip from said spout, knowing the ungodly amount of nastiness that could have been washed in there?
Eyeballs that feel glued to his eyelids and a tongue that could double for a dry sponge provide pretty fast answers. Clearly pride left the building around the time Dean pissed in his pants, so he crawls over to the deplorable excuse for a water fountain and gulps down the wet elixir from hell.
Once his thirst is sated, Dean plants his palms on the wall, urging his limbs to keep him balanced. The rocking boat syndrome of his hangover is in full effect.
Glancing down at his disheveled appearance, Dean mentally ticks off that his leather jacket, wallet, Bounty Hunter ID, and cell phone are missing; not surprising given his imprisonment. The soft, black t-shirt and green Henley are smothered in stains of varying levels of gross, not to mention the urine drying on his jeans.
“Shit!” he whispers to the pathetic vision of himself in the small, broken mirror hanging above the sink. Dean will have to remain in these clothes until his dad bails him out.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Suddenly the disturbance that pulled him from his alcoholic coma catches his attention again. Stumbling over to the wall of bars that separate his cell from the one next to him, Dean slants heavily into the steel, glad that the bars can keep him vertical. A strange gentleman sits striking his shoe on the floor in an even beat.
“Hey, man,” Dean calls out, wincing as his brain lashes out in fury at the noise coming from his own throat. “Where the fuck am I?”
The guy pauses his perfectly timed banging while pivoting to face Dean with a sly grin, “Isn’t it painfully obvious?” he retorts, waving his hand around their lovely accommodation.
Winchester rolls his eyes, “I realize I’m in lock-up, dumbass, but what city?”
“Just my luck,” the statement dripping in sarcasm, “stupid questions from a tatted jerk first thing in the morning?”
With his long sleeves, most of Dean’s body art remains hidden; however, the two tattoos on his neck are visible: a weaving noose crawls up his right side, while an antique colt revolver rests on the left. Flashing the stranger a sassy faux smile, he tries again, “I just want to know where I landed so when I get my phone call, I can tell my dad where to pick me up.”
The other man bursts out in a loud cackle that trills at Dean’s nerves. “I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon, man.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo. Everyone gets a phone call once they sober up.” Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose, desperately hoping that aspirin will be provided soon.
“Oh the Sheriff here is very by the book. You’ll get that call, but I suggest you use it for a lawyer. I was there when they booked you, and trust me, they won’t be releasing you in the foreseeable future.”
“Last night is a total blank. What the hell did I do?” He rests his forehead on the cold bar, praying that the charges won’t be anything serious.
Depending on which state he’s in, he could be in some real deep shit. There are several states across the country with the three strikes rule for aggravated assault. He tries to keep track of which ones not to hit lucky number three in, because a prison sentence will screw with his bounty hunter license, especially in the few states that have stricter regulations. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Ephraim.” The guy sticks his hand through the bars so Dean can shake it.
He mouths the name finding it weird on his tongue.
“I know, oddball name. Clearly you haven’t been hanging out in our tiny city for very long, because they get worse.”
“What, do all the pregnant ladies have a crappy naming competition or something?”
Ephraim winks, shaking his head, “Stay here long enough, someone will tell you all about the darker side of our community, but I’m not that person.”
“Am I supposed to be curious about the shadowy past of a town that names their kids like,” Dean gesturing towards the man, “what exactly?”
“Angels.” The other prisoner answers, crossing his arms defensively. “Ex-Heavenly hosts abound here.”
Stepping back to rub at his temples, Dean pleads, “Seriously, I could care less about angels, now, city and state would be extremely helpful.”
“Well, Dean Winchester, and yes, I know your name, let me be the first to welcome you to Little Falls, Minnesota.”
Dean’s entire world comes crashing down around him. “FUUUUUCK!” he yells to the ceiling as he drops onto the cot. Glaring at his jeans, Dean can easily imagine the orange jumpsuit he will be wearing next.
Both men start when a heavy door swings open, revealing a jovial looking deputy, “How you two doing this fine morning?” The query said in a thick Minnesota accent.
“Peachy, Deputy Doug,” Ephraim sighs, crossing back to his cot, “Can I go now?”
“Nope, I’m here to collect Mr. Winchester.” The officer swings passed Ephraim’s cage to Dean’s, with a skip in his step. “It appears our own personal ‘Max Rager’ addict has friends in high places.”
Confusion is evident all over his face as Dean shoots his eyebrows up, “Huh?”
“Really?” Doug scrunches his nose questioningly, “Haven’t you even heard of the CW? iZombie…the drink that makes people rage out like zombies…”
“Of course, I don’t live under a rock, but what do you mean high places? I know zero people in this Podunk town.”
“I believe our Judge Moore would disagree. He just set up a plea deal with your brother while you were taking a little nap.” Deputy Doug unlocks his cell, moving back so Dean can step out.
“Sam’s here?” Then the name of the city sinks in, well, his absolute lack of any awareness of the existence of said place and why he would be in it does at least.
The officer nods, “Been here since 5am prepping paperwork for your transfer, but I’m under strict orders to say nothing. Simply lead you to your lawyer.”
Ephraim pipes up from his cot, “Damn, you have a brother who’s a lawyer?”
“I’ve found milk in my house with a longer life than his law career.” Dean snorts derisively and with that, he follows the deputy out, wishing his dad had shown up and not Sam.
The two brothers have a strained relationship on a good day. A Christmas tree in the center of the bullpen reminds Dean why he’s in Minnesota to begin with. The goal of spending a nice holiday with Sam and his wife Jess obviously went to shit fast.
Now, as he winds through the station, it all comes back to him in a windfall of memories. Dean showing up unannounced, Christmas Eve morning on Sam’s doorstep in St. Paul, Jess inviting him to join them for the night, then onward north to Little Falls, where her parents live, to celebrate Christmas Day. He remembers being forced to watch the constant smothering of domestic bliss around him, causing Dean to break out in hives; hence, his decision to hike it to the closest bar that was open. There he made quick friends with several other “Grinches” as the group took rounds of whiskey and popped Oxy, his personal fave. What happened after the third or fourth round remains a mystery.
He enters a small interview room with a metal table and two chairs; one is already occupied by his baby brother, dressed in a smart tailored grey suit. For siblings, the two men couldn’t be more opposite. The only thing they have in common is the protection tattoo over their heart in honor of their mother Mary. Her death, even at their young ages, was probably a truly defining moment of the men they would become. Years later it would be the catalyst to Dean dropping out of school Junior year to become a bounty hunter apprentice under their father’s watchful eye. Sam did the unthinkable, graduating high school with honors, and went the distance finishing both undergrad and law school in record time.
“Take a seat, Dean.” Sam’s voice is all business, his eyes never leaving the papers before him.
Obeying the order, Dean slumps into the free chair, snagging the bottle of water and aspirin on the table and sucking it down in one go. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the eldest brother asks, “What happened last night?”
“You don’t remember?” Sam’s gaze finally lifting to peer at Dean.
He shrugs with a noncommittal grunt, “I was definitely drunk with maybe a dash of Oxy’s. The goal was not to make lasting memories.”
“I’m sorry that spending the holidays with Jess and I sent you to the bottom of a liquor bottle.”
Dean rubs his eyes harshly, “God, Sammy, it’s not like that. I just needed a break from all the family cheer.”
“Okay, so you left Jess’s parents' holiday party early, catching a ride with her cousin, and several hours later was arrested for attempted murder.”
“Attempted what?” Dean’s head snaps up because holy shit! “Sometimes I get into a few bar brawls, but this must be a trumped up charge.”
“Dean, I went and found several witnesses, all of whom say the same thing… you would have taken the young man’s life if the Sheriff hadn’t pulled you off herself.” Sam gives him a stern expression, “If Sheriff Hanscum hadn’t recognized my last name and called Jess’s dad, you would be on your way to an arraignment hearing that would eventually lead you to a jail sentence of three to five years.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to send him a thank you note.” Dean leans back clapping his hands, “So instead, what did I get, like a crap ton of community service and a fine?”
“No.”
The older brother should be jumping for joy, but something about Sam’s inability to meet his eyes has the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He tentatively inquires, “Am I free to go?”
“Absolutely not. I decided on your behalf to take a plea deal that will only give you 8 months and no record.”
“Way to go, Sammy.” Dean’s grin explodes over his face. “This is awesome. I can totally do 8 months with no problem, but how are you getting my record expunged after?”
His baby brother raises his hand pointing his finger at Dean, “There will be utterly no record of the assault if you agree to one condition.”
“Sure, what is it?” Dad will barely miss him over 8 months, and no record means all his state licenses will remain legit. This couldn’t have worked out better.
“You have to do your time in a psychiatric hospital.”
Silence settles in the room, nearly strangling Dean with panic. “No way. Go back and change the deal. I will take 3 to 5 over even one minute in the looney bin.”
“Can’t do that, Dean, you’re being admitted on a 220 with zero chance of reversal.” Sam flips through some papers, “The sheriff will handle your transfer immediately.”
“Fuck my life.” The older brother whines as he flops his forehead onto the chilly metal table.
A 220 is police code for involuntary commitment. Dean has absolutely no say in the matter. Finally he lifts his gaze to stare at Sam, “Why are you doing this? Dad would have bailed me out eventually.”
A raw glare of anger builds in Sam’s eyes as he speaks, “John Winchester is a deplorable leech, sucking your entire life away from you. Traveling from job to job across the country is no way to live long term, Dean. Jess and I both think this will be good for you. It’s my hope that after 8 months of sobering up and focusing on you, and not being a mini-John, you will finally step out from beneath his shadow.”
“I do not hide behind Dad!” Dean yells with an uneasy croak to his voice. “He’s going to come looking for me, possibly attempt to bust me out.”
“I am aware, but he will fail.” Sam nervously stretches his hand out to pat Dean’s. “Let me give you this, Dean, to repay everything you did for me growing up. Just promise me you will take the program seriously?”
Rolling his shoulders, Dean ignores the tightening in his gut at the almost endearing moment between the two brothers, “I’m not promising a thing, Sammy.”
Sam’s shoulders drop in defeat, “Of course not.”
“Umm, do you think I might get to head back to Jess’s parents’ house to shower and change?” He motions to his disheveled clothes, the stench of urine on his pants makes his stomach roll.
“No. Like I said, once I leave, you’re headed over to the psych care facility about 30 minutes north on the edge of town. Jess has packed up your things; they will be waiting at the hospital for you.”
Dean chuckles coldly, “Why do I feel like you're dropping me off at summer camp?”
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Dean. This is your chance to straighten out.” Sam sighs leaning into his chair, “Next time I won’t help you.”
“No one asked you to help, Sammy!” Dean shouts, slamming his fist on the table. “Just go back to your perfect white fence life and completely forget about your fuck-up of a brother.”
“Dean -”
A blonde woman in a sheriff’s uniform enters the room with a bubbly grin. Her words also doused in a thick Minnesotan accent, “Alrighty then, who’s ready for a road trip up to Heavenly Host?”
“Jesus, where the hell are you sending me?”
Sam answers while putting away the file on Dean, “Heavenly Host Psychiatric Hospital is where you will be spending the next 8 months.”
“What kind of person names a nut house Heavenly?”
“Oh, you…” the woman smacks his shoulder, “it’s named after the religious group that owned the land before the state took it over.” Then it’s like the lady remembered her manners, “Oh, so hello. I’m Sheriff Donna Hanscum.”
“Great.”
****
The drive north is quiet. Dean lets his gaze fall to the snow-covered hills as he zooms past them. Rays of sunshine bounce off the white drifts, coercing Winchester to squint his eyes. Hanscum didn’t make him wear handcuffs, but just riding in the back of a squad car makes Dean anxious.
“What’s this place like?” He asks, wanting even a glimmer of insight into his new residence.
“Oh dear, are you scared?” the sheriff asks in a kind tone. “They will take good care of you here, I promise.”
“No, I’m not scared, just curious is all.” He huffs trying to hide his nerves.
Hanscum bounces her blonde hair softly, “Sure, I believe you.”
Driving over a large ridge, Dean gets his first glimpse of the psychiatric hospital. Two imposing white towers lift to the cloud sprinkled sky. The dousing of snow gives the building an eerie, ghost-like effect. Behind the hospital, the icy Mississippi River flows south into town. Dean zips up his leather jacket, trying to stave off the shivers running up his spine.
A lanky looking dude with a prominent nose stands on the curb outside the massive building, waving as the squad car approaches.
Once the vehicle stops, Sherriff Hanscum hops out, wandering over to shake the guys hand before opening Dean’s door. “Mr. Winchester, this is Garth Fitzgerald, one of the lead counselors here at Heavenly Host.”
“Nice to meet you, Dean. Welcome.”
Dean simply jerks his head in comprehension as he feels the pit of his stomach drop out entirely. He is not ready for this, not at all. There isn’t even a chance to voice his concerns as Donna jumps back in her cruiser pulling away without even a goodbye.
Garth pats Dean’s shoulder, tugging him towards the two glass doors. “I know this has been quite a transitional morning for you, but first I need to perform an intake evaluation and health check before taking you up to your floor.”
“Listen, can I please take a shower?” Winchester begs.
The sliding glass doors swoosh closed behind them, cutting off access to fresh air. One whiff and Garth coughs, acknowledging Dean’s predicament. “Normally it’s a couple of hours of us chatting and some blood work before we let you onto the floor with the other patients, but maybe this time we can change things up.”
“Oh God, thank you. I will spill my entire life story for a shower and clean pants.”
“Lucky for you, Jess Winchester dropped off your stuff at my place this morning before I came into work, so your things have already been searched and cleared.” Garth pauses next to a reception desk, grabbing the familiar duffel. The counselor nods to a high-strung lady who literally looks like she could vibrate out of her seat, “Hey, Becky, I’m just going to take Dean upstairs and do his intake paperwork after he showers.”
The woman responds with a weird squeaking noise, then, “That’s against the rules, Garth. I will have to report you to Dr. Shurley.”
“Do what you feel is right, Becky. Follow me, Dean.” They step into an empty elevator as Garth swipes a key card over a locking mechanism and pushes 4.
Watching the doors glide shut, Dean takes his final breath as a free man. Unfortunately, his stench is not something he will recall with fondness. He shifts apprehensively as they climb upward to his new home.
Garth shoots him a genuine comforting grin, “Don’t worry, Dean, this is a place for healing. I think you may come to like it here. Your roommate has spent all morning getting your side clean and prepped.”
God, Dean hasn’t had a roommate other than Dad since he was 16. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Castiel.”