Sam finally breaking apart and ending up in the mental ward, every single night the nurses listen to the terrified screams of "Dean" and he has that name written over every inch of his room, carved into his skin :))))
Janet, the night nurse at St. Henry's Mental Rehabilitation Institution, had seen a lot. From people who scream at the top of their lungs, refuse medication, and won't calm down until they're physically held stationary and injected with their medications; all the way down to the little creepy old women who can't remember what year this is, the president, or their last name. But she's never seen a case this interesting, this terrifying, and this -- eerie ever in her life.
His name's Sam, clipboard says. And what's strange is that nothing about him is specific, and that, just that, makes him mysterious. He's quiet, doesn't speak unless spoken to. But when he does, his voice is soft and slow. He's got long, scraggly hair, and wide puppy eyes. A hurt puppy, surely.
When everyone else has the chance to go get a little fresh air, Sam stays in his room. He looks out the window, he stares at the wall, and he screams at people only he can see.
Sam says he can see the devil.
That's what they all say, she's heard it before.
And despite his standoffish manner, and the way he keeps to himself, more than anything she just wants to hug him. And she wonders if she tells him that Dean, whoever that is, is on his way, that maybe that'll allow Sam to get some rest at night.
He says it, screams it, pleads for Dean to come back. For Dean to come save him. For Dean to protect him. Janet hates to listen to it.
"Dean! Dean, please! Dean!"
That's all she hears for hours. And sometimes she finds herself wishing, actually wishing, that Dean could some how burst through the doors like some kind of superhero and put this poor kid out of misery.
It was just after one in the morning when Sam had gone quiet. Too quiet. She couldn't see movement, hear him at all, nothing. She'd put down the book she was skimming and pushed her chair out from behind her desk. B134 was Sam's room. She knocked on the door, always knocked, and waited for a reaction of some kind.
"Sam?" she had said, and counted to three. Three seconds before she went in. Three seconds of long, painful silence.
When she'd walked in and flicked on the light she had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming. The walls, the floor, his desk, the back of the door: all covered with "Dean" sketched in sloppy, frantic handwriting. It was everywhere.
Dean, Dean, Dean.
"Sam?" she says again, taking a step closer. "Sam, what're you doing? Sam, stop!"
She reaches for his hand in one swift movement and the nail he got from the bolts in the door went sliding to the other side of the room, drops of blood flying with it. Shaky breaths came quick for Janet as she studied the writing on Sam's wrist.
Long, jagged lines, spelling out roughly "D -- E -- A -- N". Oozing blood was already beginning to dry, some of it staining the floor, a lot of it all over his all-white clothes.
"Oh my god, Sam," she says, and she can't say anything else.
When he looks up at her, she can see the tears in his eyes. But she can't tell if it's from the pain or not.
But he says, "I need Dean, I need Dean," over and over.
Doesn't stop when the men come rushing in, doesn't stop when he's hauled into the ambulance, and doesn't stop when he's in the hospital.
"I need Dean," he says, over and over, until he sees the needle slide into his arm and forcing black dots to form into black clouds that turn into a black sea that forces him to sleep.
He dreams of Dean.
