Archive of Our Own

SAINT DYMPHNA

The siren screeched above him; even a week into the job the sound still set his teeth on edge. Or maybe it was the frantic beat of the heart in his chest that flooded his body with adrenaline. He gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles gone white with the tension.

His partner, Bobby Singer looked over at him, a fond, sympathetic smile on his lips. “You’ll do fine Dean. We’ll do our best to save the guy.”

Dean nodded but didn’t feel any lessening of the tension that made his muscles burn like he had run a marathon. He hadn’t treated a gunshot wound before. Within minutes they were at their destination. The sidewalks glistened with the rain that had passed a few hours ago and reflected the strings of Christmas lights that hung above them.

Dean grabbed his bag, threw open the door of the ambulance, and walked into the tight alleyway between the closed kitchen supply shop and a Starbucks.

In the gloom he spotted the man, half propped up against the brick wall. There was a dark patch radiating from his body, and the smell of copper flooded Dean’s nostrils as he got closer. Dean heard the rattle of the gurney behind him as Bobby lowered it and got it ready for their patient. Dean grabbed the man’s hand, index and middle finger finding the weak flutter of his pulse. The man’s eyes were closed.

“Hey, can you hear me? My name’s Dean. I’m going to take care of you.” The man’s eyes fluttered open, and two pools of blue stared out at him.

Dean smiled and was flooded with relief. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

+++

4 years later…

He flicked the radio off as he neared his destination; a green sign flicked by him on the quiet road. The yellow lines of the highway faded, and the asphalt became a gravel path. He slowed the Impala, letting his foot off the pedal as the expanse of the still lake stretched out before him. It was a small lake, cold, dark, and forbidding to families and swimmers. He leaned back in the leather seat; let his spine curve into the hollow made by the weight of his father’s broad shoulders and straight back. His father’s shoulders weren’t so broad now; they were withered, rotting in a pine box in Stull cemetery. He gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles going white. It hurt. God, did it hurt to lose him. The fingers of his free hand wandered to the hard ball of brass that rested against his sternum, the horns of the amulet poked at the cotton of his black tee. The flash of dimples broke into his mind’s eye. He bit back a pained sob at the image. He looked at himself in the mirror, jade green eyes gone bloodshot from the tears that had wracked him. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there a year ago and the stubble that shadowed his chin was thick and rough, bright ginger against the waxen pallor of his skin beneath.

The Impala rumbled under him, her engine purring, immaculately maintained. He let his thumb run over the grooves of the steering wheel. His left hand loosened from around his amulet as he let it fall to the gearshift. He thumbed the dip in the middle.

Vibrations thrummed against his hip, he had been ignoring the cell phone that trilled incessantly in his pocket. He knew who it was, what the call was about. It was a conversation he didn’t want to have. He didn’t want to lose his conviction now, be told what a coward he was for choosing the ‘easy’ way out. Yet he didn’t have the heart to throw the cell phone out of the window on the drive to the lake.

The cell phone stopped ringing. He sighed, took it as a sign as he took in a deep breath and smelled the unique scent of the Impala, the old leather, the vaguest hint of rust and motor oil, the scent of sugar and grease from fast food restaurants and roadside diners. There’d never be another road trip to go to a concert or to see a baseball game.

He shifted the car in to drive, and the Impala lurched forward and rolled towards the water’s edge. The pebbles crunched under her tires, he heard the water splash her underside.

His phone buzzed again. Seemingly without thought he fished it out of his pocket and put the car back into park, but let hid palm rest against the gearshift, ready to change gears again. “Hey Jo.”

There was an immediate relieved sigh from the other end of the line. He could hear the roughness of her throat from the sobbing.

“I read your suicide note Dean.”

“Yeah?” The word was so casual, so out of place.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because John and Sam wouldn’t want you to do this. Dean, come home, we’ll get you help, things will get better.”

Dean huffed out a bitter laugh, felt bile washing the back of his tongue. “How’s that? I pop a few pills to drown the pain? Have sympathetic shoulders to cry on and ears to moan to? They’re dead Jo. Dead people don’t care.”

“They would have! You know that, don’t…” It was that same plaintive word again, don’t. Dean clenched his jaw with an audible crunch.

“I’ve waited a year Jo. Today’s the anniversary. Strange, the way people describe these things? Anniversary. Everyone celebrates anniversaries. Good or bad. Marked on your mental calendar. Drinking happens either way I suppose.”

“Dean, please. You’re not well, there are people that care for you. I care for you. Come home.”

“An empty house isn’t a home. People make a home, bricks and mortar don’t.”

“Just give life one more chance Dean. What do you have to lose?”

Dean raised his gaze and looked out on the lake. Its dark surface reflected the roiling storm clouds above him. He tasted ozone on the air -- a storm was coming. He took it as a sign. Storms killed people, or changed them. A storm was cathartic, and he’d ride it.

“Alright Jo, I’ll put off my death. Just for you.” He replied bitterly, spiting the words out as he turned off the phone, rolled down the window and lobbed the little black device out into the lake. It landed in the water with a satisfying plop.

He’d be back to fish it from the silt bottom, he was sure. For now though he put the car in reverse, hooked his arm over the bench seat and made his way off the gravel path.

The radio stayed off.

+++

One week later…

The driveway crunched under the tires of the Impala. Dean steered her under the trees that loomed over the driveway, casting a permanent shadow onto it. The building ahead was old, that much was obvious, but not in the quaint or magnificent sort of way. The plastered stone grey walls were cracked and lines of green mould clung to the exterior where the gutters lining the edges overflowed. Above the double doors of the entranceway wrought iron letters spelled:

SAINT DYMPHNA

On top of the triangular point in the roof a white statue of a woman praying broke the steel hue of the sky.

He put the Impala into park and took the keys out of the ignition. He thumbed the plastic Stanford key ring. Dean jumped slightly when Jo placed her hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Dean didn’t bother to smile, “Never better, sweetheart.”

He threw open the door and stepped out. He locked the Impala and then threw the keys over her roof to Jo, who barely caught them in time. Dean wasn’t in the mood to pander, or be civil.

Jo sighed and pocketed them and slowly made her way up to the stone stairs. Dean took a moment to let his fingers run over the chrome lines that framed the windowpanes. As he began to walk he let his fingertips run a line in the gravel dust that had clung to her perfect black paint job, “Bye baby,” He murmured as he joined Jo on the stairs.

Dean pushed open the doors.

The place reeked of antiseptic, disinfectant - harsh fumes that hung in the air like an invisible cloud. It soaked into his skin as he walked inside. Jo was at his side, kind smile stretching her lips taut as they approached the admissions desk. The woman had been frowning, picking at peeling red nail polish that shone on her fingertips under the fluorescent lights. When she looked up she smiled.

Dean swallowed and sported another fake smile. Her badge read Becky Rosen.
“How can I help you today?” she asked.

Dean licked his lips and let out in a nervous exhale, “I’m Dean Winchester, I’ve-“

“Oh! Dean. Right on time.” Jo’s hand went to Dean’s shoulder again, her fingers curled in the thick leather of his jacket, “You’re going to be okay Dean,” she encouraged. “You’re going to get better.”

Dean shrugged away her hand.

A door clicked open and a man walked through; his smile reminded Dean of a coyote he had seen licking shit off a barbed wire fence. He had a receding hairline, hair gone so fair with age it was unnoticeable and the jut of the man’s belly lapped over the black leather belt he wore, visible beneath his long doctor’s coat.  “Hello Mr. Winchester. My name is Zachariah.” The doctor then held out his hand and Dean took it with a smirk, “That’s a mouthful, how about Zach?”

Zachariah huffed, “My full name is fine…if you would follow me.”

Suddenly Dean wanted the weight of Jo’s hand again, and he turned to face her. Her skin was wan, her eyes wet and Dean wrapped his arms around her, hugging her to him tight. “I’m sorry Jo, you’re a good friend.”

She stiffened against him at the choice of his words but then she relaxed, “I’ll visit every weekend ‘til you’re ready to come home.”

Reluctantly Dean pulled away, “Deal.”

He followed the doctor’s back, turning down white hallways mind -- strangely blank, head light and detached. Dean hadn’t realised he had been staring at the linoleum floor until the doctor stopped in front of him, the backs of his black shoes breaking into his vision. Dean looked over the doctor’s shoulder. The room they had come to was small with two chairs, a cupboard, table and a safe in the corner of the room. On one chair there was a set of white clothes and in front of it was a set of shoes, ready for Dean to walk into his new life.

White was a depressing color, Dean never liked it. Screw the virginal holy crap, nothing white was good. Maggots were white. Bones were white. Hospitals and loony bins were white.

“I thought the uniform was meant to come in orange.”

Zachariah let out a labored sigh, as though Dean’s joke was one he had heard many times before. He rested his hands on the back of the spindly chair that held Dean’s plain hospital clothes. “You’re self-admitted Dean. This isn’t a prison. This is a place to heal.”

Dean clicked his tongue against the roof his mouth. “’Course.”

On the second chair there was a box, which Zachariah motioned toward with one sharp jab of his finger, “Personal affects go in there. Everything; your watch, wallet, any jewelry.”

Instinctively, Dean’s hand went to the comforting weight of his amulet. He dug the pad of his thumb into one of the horns again in a nervous tick. “I can’t keep this?”

“No.” The tone was sharp and clipped, allowing no rebuke.

Dean’s heart plummeted to his belly, his chest felt hollow and yet constricted. “Can’t you-“

Zachariah raised a hand, brows drawing together, “No exceptions Dean. You’re here to make a new start. This is the first step.”

Dean felt himself nod, and he bowed his head slightly as he took off his amulet. He let it rest in his palm for a moment, letting his eyes soak in the details, the tiny nicks and scratches it had endured throughout his life. His knuckles brushed the edge of the wooden box as he dropped it in. The rough edge gave him a splinter that wormed its way under his skin.

“Good”, Zachariah said through his same stomach-turning grin. “Get changed, I’ll wait outside.”

The doctor tucked his hands into his pockets, “Don’t worry Dean, when you get your necklace back you’ll be a new man. A better one.”

Dean stayed silent until Zachariah left and the door had clicked into place.

“I doubt that.”

Dean shucked off his jeans, his father’s leather jacket, plaid button down and the faded cotton green shirt. He began to unfold the clothes, stiff with starch and thick with the smell of detergents. He stepped into them, kept his own underwear and socks on as he dressed himself. On one side of the wall there was a plastic mirror that had warped and began to curl in its frame. Dean looked at himself and saw a faceless stranger. He was blank, with no identity.

The door creaked open an inch and then after a moment opened fully. Dean pushed his feet into the white slip-on Keds, and looked down to where just the hint of his black socks peeked out from the top.

Zachariah walked over, snatched the box of Dean’s valuables off the chair and turned to the safe. Dean heard safe door creaking shut and then there was the finality of the key being slotted in and locking it with an audible thunk. Finally, the doctor bundled Dean’s clothes into a clear plastic bag and left it in a corner.

He smiled saying, “Let me show you to your room.”

Dean found himself following the doctor again; watching the edges of the long colorless coat the man ahead of him wore as they passed through the sterile corridors. They paused as the doctor withdrew a set of keys from his pocket to open a thick wooden door.

People milled around aimlessly like fish with one fin, bees with one wing – going in perpetual circles. Some of them spared Dean a glance before returning to their activities; bright plastic pieces on board games, stretches of white paper and the scratches of a pencil, the whisper of pages as others read their novels.

Dean’s fingers reached for his chest as he sought the comfort of his amulet. He let out a shaky sigh as his fingers only found the unfamiliar cotton shirt.

“This is the day room as you can see. It’s open any time during the day.”

A man twisted in his seat next to the window, between his fingers he rolled the stem of a red leaf, making it spin in circles. The man’s startling blue eyes found Dean and held him in place. The man tilted his chin up slightly and the whisper of a fond smile pulled at the edges of his mouth.

“Your room is this way,” the doctor murmured. They entered another corridor; this one was lined with rooms where most of the doors remained open. Dean caught glimpses of the rooms, each unique – paintings on the walls, books stacked in piles next to the beds. Dean’s room lay at the end of the corridor, where a door with a reinforced glass panel offered a view of another long stretch of plain walls. “Here we are. I have appointments to attend to, make yourself at home Dean.” With that Zachariah left, the hem of his coat snapping around his legs as he walked back down the corridor.

Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he scanned the room. There was a desk and an LED desk lamp, a chest of drawers that when he pulled them open had some underwear and socks, and a single bed. He sat on the edge of it, the springs protesting under his weight.

The walls were all white.

Before he was allowed the time to stagnate in his thoughts a man stood at the door. He held himself like a soldier, shoulders straight and pulled back, chin tilted and eyes that burned like dry ice. He, too, wore the staple white uniform of the interred.

Dean’s mouth went dry. He felt as if he knew this man. The feeling clung to him like a shadow.
Dean licked the salt from his lips as he dismissed the feeling, “Can I help you?”

The man cocked his head to the side, “No, but I want to help you Dean.”

Dean quirked a brow, wondering how the man knew his name. “Why would you want to do that…and how exactly.”

The man stepped into the room, gaze firmly locked onto Dean, “Does it matter?”

Dean hummed his acceptance, “I suppose not. What’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

“That’s a strange name.” Dean began and then when he spotted the subtle frown that passed across Castiel’s countenance, Dean shrugged and let an easy smile mould his lips.

“I’ll show you around. I presume Zachariah just led you straight to your room.” Castiel spoke, tone scathing as he spoke of the doctor.

Dean let his smile turn into a smirk, “Yeah, seems like a great guy huh?”

Castiel’s lips thinned into a line, missing the sarcasm, “Don’t trust him Dean. He’s only interested in one thing, and that’s money. He’ll keep you here as long as he can…well, as long as your inheritance lasts.”

Dean’s lips parted with a pop, eyes widening, “How-“

Castiel disappeared as he moved from the doorframe and back into the hallway. With a sigh Dean followed after him until he fell into step with the other man.

“So, what are you in for, Cas?”

Castiel gave him a sidelong look, half glare and half something else. “It’s not important Dean. But I’m not self-admitted like you are.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply but was cut off as Castiel pointed to another room. Dean’s gaze took in the delicate hands, the tanned wrist that peeked out from under his long sleeved shirt. “That’s the cafeteria.”

Castiel stood there for a moment, completely still to allow Dean time enough to look. The room was functional and plain, there was a window from which each patient got their specially prescribed meal, several long tables that reminded Dean of a military base or a prison, and dull silver plaques hung on the walls.

Nodding to himself, Castiel moved on as he crossed into the day room, weaving his way past the mess of red chairs sprawled like blood spots across the white linoleum. He rested his palm on a curved door handle. The handle, when compressed, hardly moved -- locked. Dean bit back a smile at how it made his companion thin his lips into a line. “This leads to the gardens.”

“I take it you like it there?”

“I watch the bees.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair; the crazy was starting to show. “Uh huh.”

Without a word Castiel found a chair and sank into it and laid his hands onto the tabletop. The tips of his fingers played with a chess piece, a wooden pawn. Settling himself at the other side of the table Dean rested his chin on the palm of his hand, he let the pads of his fingers run across his freshly shaven cheek. “So, that was the tour huh?”

“Saint Dymphna is only a small facility. Patients have their own room. There isn’t anything else to see. Except, of course, for the doctor’s office and the group therapy room, but you’ll see those soon enough.” Castiel tipped the pawn over and let it roll across the board, before it could fall off the lip of the table Dean deftly caught it and placed it onto a black square.

“So what are you in for Dean?” Castiel parroted, completely without amusement. Dean briefly wondered whether the repetition was purposeful or not. “Depression I guess. They slapped me with a few other labels, but I’ve had those my whole life.” With a bitter smile Dean leaned back in his seat and plucked a tan knight off the board and rolled the horse’s head between his middle finger and his thumb. “But who hasn’t got problems, right?”

Castiel nodded at the admission, merely absorbing the facts presented. “You lost someone.” It’s not a question, and it makes Dean’s stomach twist itself into knots. “Uh, yeah that’s right.” Once more Castiel tilts his head to the side quizzically.

“What are you going to say? That I should move on? Grieve, and then get on with my life?”

Dean watches as Castiel’s shoulders relax slightly, “You’re human Dean. It’s not weakness that has driven you here but love. A part of you has being taken.”

Dean laughs bitterly, “You’re a special son of a bitch you know that? Quit talkin’ like you know me, alright?”

“I merely-“

The sudden movement of Dean standing has Castiel swallowing his words, “Stop it, alright. I’m not here to talk about my problems with you. I appreciate you trying to help, but you’re rubbing me the wrong way.”

From the corner of his eye Dean watched as an orderly tensed, large black hands going to the radio on his hip. Stepping back from the table Dean flicked over a rook before heading back to his room.

He closed the door and turned on the light. From his barred window he watched as storm clouds began to brew on the horizon. He flopped down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The fluorescent bulb above him buzzed.

“Crazy son of a bitch,” Dean murmured as he rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes.

Dean rolled over slightly and hooked a finger into the handle of the bedside drawer. It opened with a muted hiss. Inside were a few pens and a notebook. He pulled out a plastic Bic ballpoint pen and the book. He rolled over onto his belly and levered the notebook up against his flat, hard pillow. Turning over the cover he stared at the first blank page and the blue lines on it. He used to write letters to Sam all the time when his brother was away at Stanford. Emails were too impersonal. A soft bitter laugh filtered from his lips.

“This isn’t me letting go huh?”

With a shrug Dean put pen to paper and started to write.

Sam.

Dean paused, brass tip spilling the blue ink into a dark spot.

I’m not doing too great at the moment. But I’m going to try and get better. You always said I was anti-social, that I was a typical case of the hedgehog’s dilemma. I can’t get close to Jo, and just now I think this guy was trying to be my friend, but I just shot him down. You’d say I should apologize. You know I find that hard. He doesn’t seem like a bad guy. Just not doing too great, like me.

I miss you.

Dean threw the pen back into the open drawer with a clatter. He rolled back to face the ceiling and crossed his legs at the ankle. He closed the notebook and placed it on his chest, fingers smoothing over the cover.

“What the hell am I doing here, Sammy?”

Dean let the question hang unanswered in the air. He let his mind empty, visualized it as a tap with all of his thoughts flowing out of him, but the flow was sluggish like thick black molasses. He lost track of time as the noise of the light above him persisted.

There was a knock at the door. Listless, Dean called out, “What?”

Dean’s fingers curled into the sheets as he fully expected the gravelly tenor of Castiel, but instead he got the smooth calculated lilt of another man. “You know you should keep your distance from that guy. He’ll only get you into trouble.”

Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, letting the notebook slide onto the mattress, and was faced with a man who leaned his shoulder against the door jam, whites of his eyes bright in the shadows of the storm. “My name’s Gordon Walker.” He began, “And that guy, he told you his name was Castiel, right?”

“Yeah…that’s right.”

Gordon gave Dean a knowing smirk before continuing. “Dymph’ is an open unit. He’s getting worse and there’s talk of him being transferred to a facility for violent patients. He’s dangerous, trained. So if you want my advice keep away.”

Dean swung his legs off the bed and fixed Gordon with a cool glare, “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

Defensively, Gordon raised his hands. “I was just sayin’.” He backed out of Dean’s room but left the door open. Dean groaned and slid his legs back onto the mattress. He buried the side of his face into his pillow, tucking his hands under it as he stared at the wall. He wasn’t used to being cooped up inside, staying in one spot.

He closed his eyes and tumbled into sleep.

Dean didn’t know how long he had slept, but knew that it was a fitful half-rest; he woke with a headache and was filled with confusion. His heart leapt in his chest as he surveyed his surroundings: the clinical smells, the rough fabric, lumpy mattress and the harsh lights were all strange.

The mattress dipped behind him and a warm hand clenched around his shoulder, the palm fitting snug onto his bicep. His skin tingled with the sensation. “It’s okay Dean.”

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had bottled as his memory came back to him. He was in Saint Dymphna.

On Castiel’s lap was a plastic blue plate, flecked with spots of black and silver and on top of it was a fluffy white BLT sandwich that overflowed with green lettuce leaves and the shine of tomatoes.

Castiel cleared his throat, “You missed your dinner.”

Dean glanced up to the window; a grey deluge battered the windowpane, and the dark shapes of trees swayed outside in the howling wind.

Dean took the plate, his fingers brushing the soft edge of Castiel’s hand as he did. “Thanks.”

Sliding his fingers under one half of the sandwich Dean lifted it and then with a sigh dropped it and turned his attention to Castiel, who watched him carefully, as though assessing him. It didn’t make Dean’s skin crawl like when Zachariah did the same somehow.

“I’m sorry for being a dick before.” He started but was cut short when Castiel raised a hand, “It’s fine. No one expects you to be polite when you come to a place like this.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean started but then shrugged and picked up his sandwich again. The mattress flexed again when Castiel stood and the man inclined his head to Dean before he left the room.

Dean found himself smiling as he took a bite into the sandwich, tasting the rich cream of cold mayonnaise and the sweetness of the tomato. He hadn’t screwed it up then, not yet.

+++

When Dean awoke the next morning, he let his head loll to the side, winching slightly at the ache in his neck from the stiff pillow. The plate from his sandwich last night was gone, the bedside table bare and the notebook had been neatly placed where the plate had once been. Dean swung his legs off the mattress and lazily raked his nails under his shirt, scratching at the soft flesh of his belly. He wasn’t in the best of shape. He turned his alarm radio to face him and read the green numbers that declared 6:24.

With a yawn he headed into his private bathroom. The room was minimal and plain, like the rest of Dymphna, with only a porcelain sink and mirror above it, a shower stall and a toilet. It all looked clean though. He opened the shower door and stepped in. He turned on the water and bowed his head, letting the warm stream wash over his back. It didn’t take long for him to scrub himself clean and dress himself once more in the hospital whites. When he reentered his bedroom a man stood there. He was handsome, tall with dark hair and eyes that reminded Dean of a storm-swept sea. The man took a step forward and raised a hand with a gentile smile. “I’m your doctor, you can call me Michael.”

Dean took his hand. It was smooth against his calloused grip. “Okay, hi.”

“The group therapy session is at 7:30. Naomi will be here shortly with your medication.” Michael finished with a grin; one that Dean was sure was supposed to be a smile but had gone sour.

Michael left, calling over his shoulder, “See you soon, Dean.”

Dean needed another shower. Instead he scooped his notebook off the bedside table and crossed the room to the desk and settled himself into the chair. He rubbed at his eyes and daydreamed of coffee. He had managed to find some of the city’s best coffee houses as a paramedic. All of the hidden little gems that went unnoticed because of their less-than-appealing exterior. His mouth watered as he remembered a Turkish kebab shop that did a great strong coffee and homemade Turkish Delight and another that did a homely comforting type of coffee and the best damn apple pie he ever did taste --, after Mary’s of course. There was a ballpoint pen on the table and he flipped open the book and ignored his letter to Sam on the left page and doodled on the inside of the cover. He wrote KAZ 2Y5, Blue Oyster Cult’s symbol and the beginnings of the horned amulet that he had locked away in the safe.

“Hello Mr. Winchester,” came a singsong voice as a slim older woman with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head filled his doorframe, “I’m Naomi, and these here,” she shook the little cup in her hand, “are your pills.” Dean’s brow corrugated at her patronizing tone. He took the little cup without comment though and spared the red and blue capsules a brief look before swallowing them down dry, despite Naomi holding out a cup of water for him. She gestured for him to open his mouth and Dean did so. She nodded and took his miniature plastic cup back and crushed it in her palm. “Thank you. See you again soon, Dean.”

“There’s a god damn echo in here,” Dean groused to himself as he pushed himself up from his seat and flipped his notebook closed. The clock displayed 7:23.

Dean made his way out into the corridor and followed a woman with bright red hair. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. Dark rings plagued the skin around her eyes and her skin was deathly pale. She picked at her cracked, thin fingernails, and general cloud of illness hung around her. Still, her blue eyes were bright when she smiled at him. “Are you going to the group therapy session?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Dean replied as he fell into step with her. “They like to get started early in the morning here huh?” He remarked, uncomfortable with the silence. “Yes, I suppose.” She made as way for an answer. They approached an open door and Dean spotted a circle of chairs in an expansive room. She paused before entering, “My name’s Anna. It was nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

She ducked into the room and Dean followed her in. Already most of the chairs were taken and Dean noticed with a raised brow that Anna made a beeline for the empty chair next to Castiel. She immediately perked up and looked at Castiel from under her thick set of lashes. It was almost comical how Castiel merely repaid her with a curt, businesslike nod. Dean felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Dean took one of the few remaining seats in the circle. He sat directly opposite Castiel.

Michael walked in and filled the last seat.

“Let’s get started shall we.” Michael’s finger traced over the clipboard on his lap. “Jimmy, we’ll start with you.”

Dean looked around, wondering who the man was.

“Come on now,” Michael added, tone terse and cold, “Tell us your fondest childhood memory, so we can all get to know you a little more.”

Dean’s attention was caught as Castiel shifted in his seat; the man had squared his jaw.

A man to Dean’s left groaned with exasperation, “Jesus Christ! You’re not Castiel, you’re Jimmy fucking Novak.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Castiel, no, Jimmy, spat out with a vicious vehemence. “And to answer your question Michael, I don’t have any childhood memories, seeing as how I never had one.”

Dean was vaguely aware of the sad sigh that filtered over Michael’s pleasantly pink lips, “That’s very disappointing, Jimmy. I thought we had been making progress.”

Michael shook his head and turned to the next person in the circle. Dean was absorbed by Jimmy, the righteous fury that boiled in his eyes. He seemed to writhe yet keep still in the little plastic chair. Dean now understood Gordon’s warning. Jimmy was a powder keg.

“Dean?”  Dean shook himself out of his reverie and offered a wan smile to Michael, “Ugh, sorry.”

“Introduce yourself to the group, seeing as how you are new here, and then tell us a fond childhood memory.”

“Sure,” Dean drawled, Texas accent slipping slightly with his nerves as his fingers played with the cool metal of the chair’s legs. “Right, so I’m Dean. Here ‘cause I’m depressed.” He added, “And my fondest memory is…probably, a white Christmas. My dad was late back from a job he had got, I think it was working at a gas joint…no one wants to work on Christmas right?” Dean realized he was rambling, the collective eye of the group was on him, “Anyway, my brother Sam,” Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, and quickly finished his story to hide the crack in his throat, “He gave me this amulet. We watched bad movies and stayed up way too late and ate Lucky Charms straight out of the box and drank Coke all night.” Dean scanned the faces watching him, they all seemed to mesh into one pale entity of listless bored countenances, “That’s it, I guess.”

Michael sat up in his chair, long doctor’s coat scrunching at the back, “That’s great, Dean. Thank you for sharing that.”

Dean nodded and he looked back over to Jimmy. The rage had subsided and instead there was curiosity. Dean huddled down into his chair. He felt like a fool. Not only for rambling on about his seemingly lackluster story but he also felt duped, that he had fallen for Jimmy’s false ‘Castiel’ identity. Dean pushed the feeling away, not that Jimmy could help it, he supposed, as his fingers ran along the bars under the chair. They were all nuts here anyway.

When the group therapy session finished Dean was the first out of the door, it had been well over an hour and he had had his fill of sob stories and outbursts from the other patients. He walked over to a secluded spot in the day room and pulled the back of the chair around to lean it against the cinder block wall. He fell into it and let his headrest against the cool wall in a pitiful attempt to bid away the pounding that had taken up residence in his skull. Dean closed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest.

“Mind if I join you?”

Dean eked one eye open to catch a glimpse of Jimmy’s face.  Dean shrugged, and Jimmy must have taken it for a yes as he heard the chair across from his squeak across the linoleum tiles. Dean let his eyes flutter closed again and there was a relative quiet for a few moments until the clatter of cardboard boxes and plastic clicking against each other roused him.

With a few choice obscenities whispered under his breath Dean ran a hand over his face, opened his eyes and inched himself a little closer to the table.

Jimmy had retrieved a game of Guess Who, the bright yellow cardboard box lay open as he busily turned the cards facedown. “You like this game?” Dean inquired of him. Jimmy shrugged, “I prefer chess, but variety is good.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh, “Yeah, a balanced board game diet is important.”

Apparently, sarcasm was not completely beyond Jimmy who frowned at the disparaging words. Dean grimaced, “Sorry.” He was the first to admit, he was being a dour little brat. He felt the heat of his embarrassment color his cheeks.

“It’s fine, I know you must be feeling frustrated and angry.” Jimmy commented as he pushed one half of the ‘Guess Who’ set over to Dean’s side of the table. “You can make it up to me by playing this game.” He added with a smirk, and it was contagious as Dean felt his own pull at his lips. “I gotta warn you though, I’m pretty good at this game. I had a travel set that my brother and I used to play.”

“I like a challenge.”

Dean began and asked about facial hair, Jimmy clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and Dean grinned and tapped down a few of his tiles. The game continued uneventfully until Jimmy paused, fingertip running along the plastic side of his board,  “I’m an angel you know.”

Dean looked up from the game of Guess Who, and quirked up an eyebrow at the admission. “Really?” he asked, word lathered with skepticism, still feeling the sting from before, despite knowing that he was foolish for harboring the sentiment.

Jimmy who sat across from him titled his head, blue eyes wide with curiosity, “Don’t you believe in angels?” Sighing, Dean leaned back in his chair, staring vacantly at the cartoon faces watching him from their little yellow frames. “If angels existed, bad things wouldn’t happen to good people.”

Jimmy shifted in his seat, gaze darting momentarily to the linoleum floor before colliding with Dean’s eyes again.

“Angels are warriors. We fight demons, not everyday occurrences.” He supplied, in sharp clipped tones.  Pushing the game aside Dean’s eyes narrowed, hands balled into fists. “So you mean things like car accidents don’t matter, people being taken too soon? You’re crazy, even for this place, Jimmy.”

The chair squeaked as Dean stood and he towered over Jimmy momentarily.

Jimmy huddled down in his seat, playing with a loose thread on his shirt. “Don’t talk to me again,” Dean bit out as he turned and stalked away, garnering the attention of a burly orderly who watched him walk from the room.

Leaning over the table Jimmy turned around Dean’s side of Guess Who and stared at the strange face; a young man with a shock of dark hair.

+++

Dean had escaped to his room for an hour, drawing nonsensical lines on spare pieces of paper and then tried to make a picture out of them. Most turned into snails or an octopus, he wondered if his self-prescribed activity was anything like a Rorschach, and if it was, what it said about him. Dean pinched at the bridge of his nose and dropped his pen. He had cooled down, he should go back out, he can’t hide in his room forever, he knew that.

Despite his resolution he dragged his feet as he made his way back into the day room. His stomach growled with hunger. Ignoring it Dean found a chair by a window and sat himself down on it, not quite ready to find Jimmy.

Bright sunshine filtered through the glass, bathing Dean’s freckled face with warmth. The plastic chair bit uncomfortably into his back as he relaxed into it.

“Hello Dean.”

Squinting through the sunlight he caught a bright glimpse of tousled hair and chapped lips. “I thought I told you not to talk to me anymore.”

Jimmy said nothing and merely brought a chair closer to Dean’s. With a groan Dean opened his eyes, but the lids were made of lead, he was impossibly tired. Smothering a yawn with his hand he looked as Jimmy sat in a chair across from him. “It’s the medication they’re making you take, it will make you tired and irritable.”

Dean scoffed, “Now I know how women feel when everyone blames their ‘behavior’”, He paused to add dramatic air quotations, “on their period.”

Jimmy merely squinted at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “But-“

“Dad!”

There was an immediate response -- almost a paroxysm -- stiffening the rigid lines and taut muscles in Jimmy.

Dean twisted in the chair to see a young girl walking over. Her cherry lips were stretched into a smile as she strode straight over to Jimmy’s side. A few paces behind the girl a woman stood with her hands clutched in front of her. Her gaze skittered over the place, Dean imagined her as a tourist lost in some strange place.

The girl knelt at Jimmy’s side and she reached a hand out to take the one lain on his knee. He brought it away, and her smile fractured. “I’m not your father.”

“I - I don’t understand, you were getting better.” Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes, “Daddy please, don’t you remember who you are?”

Jimmy stood and looked down on the girl, eyes cold and dispassionate. He stood there for a moment, statuesque, before turning away and disappearing into a corridor.

Dean felt his heart lurch in his chest as the girl looked up at him, bright blue eyes rimmed with red. “He was getting better.” She murmured whilst staring vacantly at him. Dean swallowed, his throat clicking with dryness as he thought of something to say but was stopped when the older woman approached. “You’re new here.” She began as she ushered the young girl into her arms who immediately went to her and wrapped her arms about her waist. “Maybe he has fixated on you now.” Dean was unsure whether she was speaking to herself or to him but he sat up straighter in his chair when she thinned her lips as she considered him. “You know he thinks he’s an angel right? Amongst several other paranoid delusions…he thinks that half of the staff here are angels; Zachariah, Michael, Naomi…even a new orderly named Alfie, he calls him Samandriel though.”

She licked her lips but Dean held up a hand, “Look, lady, I don’t get what this has to do with me, or even who you are.”

The woman stroked a delicate hand through the girl’s long golden hair, “I’m Jimmy’s wife, Amelia Novak, and this is his daughter, Claire.” Dean’s mouth formed into a little ‘o’ but he remained silent to allow her to continue.

“Well, he gets obsessed with certain people, other patients especially, and they can sometimes make his illness worse.” Amelia breathed in a shuddering sigh, “Anna was the latest, Jimmy managed to convince her that she was an angel too…that they used to be warriors together. Something like that.” She finished with a bitter smile.

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair; all he wanted to do was sink through the floor. “Sorry?”

Amelia shook her head, “There’s no reason for you to be but if he does become obsessed with you, I want you to help him realize that all of this angel and demon crap is just in his head. Will you do that for me?”

Dean nodded, “I’ll do my best.” That seemed to be enough for Amelia as she sent him a wan smile and then untangled her hand from the locks of her daughter’s hair. She leaned down slightly and murmured something into her ear that Dean didn’t catch. “Goodbye,” She began but then she paused and frowned, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Dean.”

“Thank you Dean. Perhaps I’ll see you soon. I hope your own recovery goes well.” That said she took Claire’s hand and headed towards the door leading out of Saint Dymphna. Dean watched them leave and then turned his thoughts inward, ignoring the curious looks of the lanky orderly that stood as silent sentry over the visit. Dean wished he had asked Amelia why Jimmy suffered, what had happened to make him think he was an angel. There was an uncanny sensation at the back of his mind that hinted that he knew Jimmy. Dean sighed and stood up, back stiff from the chair.

A flicker of white in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Another patient passed him by and approached a door. When it opened, Dean spied bright spots of color, pebble paths, and the smell of freshly mown grass. Dean caught the door before it could close; the patient glanced over her shoulder at Dean but then shrugged as she meandered through the garden. Taking in a deep breath Dean stepped off the cement and onto the path that crunched beneath his shoes. There was a grey filter cast over everything as the storm clouds from last night lingered over the sun yet made the air crisp and invigorating.

Dean spotted Jimmy who stood in the middle of the garden, his azure eyes tracking something small. As Dean approached he realized it was a bumblebee that buzzed around the tops of a white rose bush. “Hey,” The word came out as a croak. “Hello, Dean,” Jimmy answered.

“Your daughter was really upset you know. Claire.” There was a slight twitch to the set of Jimmy’s shoulders, but Dean couldn’t be certain if he imagined it or not. Dean tried again. “This your favorite place?”

“No, it’s not. Here it is, at Saint Dymphna, but not my favorite place in the world.” Jimmy spoke as he stared at the bumblebee. He reached out a finger and let it crawl onto his skin, he placed his fingertip on the petal of the next rose and the bee ambled across the narrow plane of his flesh until it made it onto the flower. “How are you?”

Dean pulled his gaze away from the bee to see that Jimmy was watching him carefully, blue eyes penetrating. “Okay, I guess.”

“You should eat.”

“I’ll get some lunch soon,” Dean commented off hand. “But I want to know something. What happened to you? Why are you like this?”

Jimmy raised a dark brow, “Like what?”

“Well everyone’s here for a reason.” Dean began with a vague wave of his hand. “I’m here because I’m depressed after losing my brother.”

“You were close.”

Dean knew it wasn’t a question, but he let it be one anyway, “Yeah we were. So, what about you, what brings you to the Looney bin?”

“I shouldn’t be here. People just don’t understand, and what people don’t understand, frightens them. Fear is what brings me here, to answer your question.”

“Right. So, what are they frightened of? What don’t they understand?” Dean folded his arms over his chest. He felt a headache coming on. He was never good at reaching people at an emotional level. He spoke with his hands and his actions -- hardly ever with words.

“That an ordinary man like Jimmy can be chosen as a vessel. That he’s special.”

Dean let out a breath, there was no cracking Jimmy today. “It’s cold out here, let’s get inside and grab some lunch.”

+++

After his lunch with Jimmy, most of which had passed in a semi-comfortable silence he had retreated to his room.

That headache he had felt coming on had evolved into a full migraine and latched painfully to his brain. There was something niggling at the back of his brain that prodded him every time his mind became vacant but when he chased it, it escaped, like a word on the tip of his tongue. It was the same sensation that spoke of a familiarity to Jimmy.

The sun was just setting. Massaging his temple Dean breathed out through his nostrils. His mind wandered to Jimmy and he pored over the mental image of him. His stubble-covered cheeks and chin, the wide set of his mouth and the ever-present rough, almost chapped look of his lips. He felt himself hitch a breath, he couldn’t deny that the man was good looking, though that wasn’t a problem, he had long since gotten over his sexual preferences. The fact he was married was a damn shame, but he had his policies; never take a joint from a guy named Don and no messing with couples. No, it was something else, it was that thought in the back of his head that pestered him.

 It whispered to him you know this man.

He caught onto that thought and let it unravel.

Dean nursed the Styrofoam cup between his palms as he walked towards his destination. The room was like any other in the hospital, though this one was a bit more ritzy; private, with a green vase filled with fresh cut flowers on the bedside table.

In the bed was the man he had saved, attached to an assortment of machines that beeped and clicked as it monitored his vitals. The blue eyes that had shone on that frigid night some weeks ago were closed, and Dean felt that fact ache inside of him.

With a sigh he sat down on the chair next to the bed and sipped at his coffee. His first life-and-death patient was in a coma, and he hadn’t been good enough to save him, not really – not in the way it mattered.

The coffee burned a track down his throat and into his empty gut.

“He’s cute ain’t he?”

Dean sat up in his chair and swung his gaze to the doorway, where a woman with dark hair and red lips smiled at him.

“Dr. Barnes?”

The doctor rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, “How many times do I have to say it? Call me Pam.”

Dean smiled ruefully, “Sorry Pam, I still feel like the new kid here.”

She nodded her understanding and then let a coy smile curve the set of her lips as her gaze roamed from the prone form in the bed to Dean. The young paramedic’s gaze was locked onto the man’s face, despite the plastic tubing down his throat and the wan pallor of his skin.

 “You find him attractive don’t you?” Pamela threw out, blunt and to the point.

Dean balked at the half question, half statement, “Nah…it’s just, he was my first…you know.” The answer made Pamela snort. “It’s plain as day Dean. I could understand you coming in here a few times a week for the first month or so. After all, he was your first critical patient but everyday for two months? You’re attracted to him.”

“How can I be attracted to someone I’ve never spoken to?”

Pamela took another step into the room and idly picked up the chart from the end of the patient’s bed. “You never seen Sleeping Beauty, pretty boy?…Hey, that’s an idea….”

Dean’s green eyes widened at the thought, and he managed to splutter out a clipped retort, “Somnophilia isn’t on the menu, Pam.”

“Hmm, shame. I guess this is a good time to also tell you he’s married, got a daughter and everything.”

Dean’s stomach dropped, “Yeah?” He replied, voice hollow.

“Sorry kid, looks like you’ll have to find your sleeping beauty elsewhere.”

The man in the memory was familiar, achingly familiar. But the memory was faded by time and Dean worried his lip with his canine. It was too much of a coincidence that the man in the room next door could possibly be the same guy. The guy he had felt an immediate attraction to just like he had with Jimmy when he first set eyes on him in the hospital. With a groan Dean flopped back onto the bed and raked his nails over his belly. He was hungry but the thought of seeing Jimmy again made his heart lurch in his chest.

What if it was the same guy? Would it even change anything? Jimmy wouldn’t know him, Dean, when he awoke from his coma, even though he was the guy to save his bacon.

Rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead Dean flicked off the light switch at the side of his bed and squeezed his eyes closed. That was a long time ago.

+++

“Hello Dean.”

Dean startled awake, a curse half formed on his lips. “Don’t do that.”

Jimmy stepped back from his bed, head cocked curiously to the side. “Sorry, I was merely wondering if you wanted to get some breakfast.”

Dean rubbed at his eyes, “What time is it?”

“9:30.”

Dean nodded his assent and climbed out of bed, “Give me a minute to get ready.”

Jimmy down sat on the chair at the side of Dean’s bed.

Dean paused and gave a long look to Jimmy, eyes soaking in the features of his face. Jimmy said nothing, merely let Dean rake his eyes over him as though it was a completely normal thing to do.

The man from his memory was undeniably similar, with the same arched lips and eyes. Jimmy’s bright cobalt eyes stared unflinchingly back at him. Finally Dean tore himself away and disappeared into the bathroom.

He let the shower run hot, scalding hot as he dipped his head under the stream. His mind immediately turned back to Jimmy and soon began to focus on his lips and the hard lines of his body. A knot began to grow in the pit of his belly and grow tighter. With a groan Dean laid his forearm against the slippery white tiles of the shower stall. He felt himself growing hard. Morning wood was no surprise but his mind usually turned to some faceless, nameless, porn stars he had watched on the Internet on his days off and even some one-night stands.

Dean didn’t question it though and let his mind wander, imagined what Jimmy looked like beneath his clothes, whether he would still hold himself like a soldier with his straight back and level shoulders, or if he could get the man to writhe and plead. Without realizing it Dean’s hand wandered to his dick and he had slowly began to build up a momentum, using the water and soap to lather the way.

There was no harm in some idle fantasies, now was there?

He pictured Jimmy’s hipbones, of sucking a hard dark bruise there in the curve, a momentary pause in the path his lips would take to the painful arch of Jimmy’s cock that was blushed and needing to be touched, licked, tasted.

Dean felt a rumble in his chest as he groaned at the thought. Guy thought he was an angel, so most likely wouldn’t approve of such a relationship in real life. Dean thumbed the cluster of nerves under the head of his cock. Then there really was no danger in letting this little fantasy play out. No need to fret over whether he was stealing away a married guy or not.

He imagined Jimmy gasping out, hips bucking instinctively into the warmth of Dean’s mouth as it finally enveloped him. Dean bit back a gasp as he felt his cock twitch and finally come, much quicker than normal. He quickly finished cleaning himself, ignoring the little shiver to his hands as he struggled to grip the bar of soap in his lax grip.

When he eventually emerged Jimmy was still sitting where he was some fifteen minutes before but with his eyes closed. His face was peaceful, unlike the intensity he usually regarded the world with.

“Hello, Jimmy.” Dean parroted with a grin.

Jimmy opened his eyes. “Breakfast?”

“Lead the way.”

When they entered the cafeteria it was nearly empty, with most of the patients having slunk away to the mess room. They wandered over to the bench, where only a few slices of cold toast and some sausages shiny with congealed oil and a few yellow scrambled eggs were left amidst the typical boxes of cereal and cartons of milk.

Despite their appearance Dean took a few of the sausages, a spoonful of the scrambled eggs and a few slices of toast. Jimmy on the other hand settled for a bowl of corn flakes. Dean raised a brow at that and gestured with the fork he had just picked up to the bowl of sugar, “You aren’t going to sweeten that cardboard?”

Jimmy smiled at the playful prod, “No, I like them just how they are.”

Dean answers that with a snort of derision, “Damn, you are vanilla.”

They took one of the empty tables, and over Jimmy’s shoulder Dean spotted Gordon watching them.

“How am I ‘vanilla’?”

The question took Dean by surprise, “Wouldn’t an angel be vanilla?”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed, “How can someone taste of…vanilla?”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “It’s an innuendo.”

At that, Jimmy’s mouth formed a little ‘o’, then licked his lips; “Lucifer gave humanity original sin, Azazel gave you cosmetics in order to help you fornicate-“

Dean raised a hand, “Okay I get it, you guys can be creative.”

Jimmy seemed to be satisfied with that and turned back to his cereal.

“So, why aren’t you, in particular, vanilla, if that’s what you were going for?”

There was an audible swallow from Jimmy and he coughed slightly at the question. Dean demurely slid his orange juice closer with a raised brow.

“Come on, spill it.”

Jimmy flushed crimson, which delighted and baited Dean.  “Come on,” Dean reiterated this time punctuating the words by reaching across the table to prod his shoulder, “Can’t be as bad as giving us lipstick can it?”

“I was enamored…”

“Enamored?”

Jimmy pushed around a few of the flakes of cornflakes, “With humanity, your creativity, your free will – I disobeyed orders and this,” Jimmy paused to pluck at his white hospital shirt, “Is my punishment.”

Even if Dean didn’t believe him he felt his mood sour slightly, felt pity for the man, “Was it worth it?”

Jimmy’s expression immediately brightened and he raised his eyes to Dean, “Of course it was.” It was spontaneous, so out of the blue that Dean never reacted when Jimmy reached out a hand and gripped Dean’s across the table.

“I don’t regret a moment of my Fall from Heaven. Though it pains me that the remnants of my Grace must reside in Jimmy’s body.”

Dean licked his lips and stared back then drew his hand away to grip his fork. Yeah he was married, but he didn’t believe he was…There was harm in idle fantasies after all. Dean distracted himself by skewering some scrambled eggs. He grimaced, “These taste like ass.” Yet, he cut up some more and ate the food, interspersing them with slices of sausage.

“Yet, you’re still eating.” Jimmy remarked, “Next time, I’d recommend the corn flakes.”

Dean chuckled, “Yeah, with some sugar.”

Dean stood and gestured to the bathroom behind him, “Gonna take a leak, I’ll be back in a second.”

Jimmy nodded and continued with his breakfast, “I’ll wait.”

Dean took a few minutes in the bathroom, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes, still sore from a lack of sleep and was about to open the door to the bathroom when he heard voices coming from under the door.

The first was a deep voice. Gordon’s, he thought.

“So you like that new Winchester guy, huh?”

“What do you want, Gordon?”

There was no mistaking the owner of the second voice, that gravel rough tenor was uniquely Jimmy.

Gordon’s laugh was hard and mirthless, “Straight to the point. I like that, Novak. Rumor is, is that you used to be some hard ass special ops or something. With skills like that you must know how to get out of here, quietly and without fuss. I also know for a fact that you already know a way out.”

“That’s not true. I don’t know.”

Dean raised a brow and inched away from the door, holding his breath subconsciously.

“Don’t lie to me. You don’t think we don’t notice? A few hours every week you can’t be found, you’re just careful enough not to do it during any scheduled therapy sessions. So, I’ll cut to the chase now Novak, you show me your way out, get me some supplies, and I won’t hurt Dean. He’s the only one here you seem to genuinely like…Anna likes you but it’s obvious the feeling ain’t mutual anymore.”

There was a thud, Dean could picture Gordon being shoved against the wall.

“If you know about my past, you must appreciate the fact that I can hurt you in a myriad of ways, without ever leaving a mark. I will make your life hell, Walker, if you so much as lay a finger on him.”

There was a rustle of fabric and then the sound of someone sliding down the wall.

“Fine, fine.” Gordon’s words were followed by the sounds of his footsteps receding. Dean’s heart drummed a tattoo against his ribs, his mouth was dry. He didn’t think Gordon was going to try anything, even if he did, it was nothing he probably couldn’t handle. But that Jimmy seemed to care so much…it was, elating.

Dean pushed open the door and crossed over to table where Jimmy sat with his chin in the palm of his hand. “You okay?” Dean asked as he stood beside him.

Jimmy looked up at him, “I’m fine.” After a beat he continued, “Would you like to go to the dayroom with me? There is a television show on that I’m quite fond of.”

Dean nodded, “Sure, what is it?”

Jimmy mumbled out the words, “Dr. Sexy, MD.”

Dean let out a laugh, “Funny, that’s my guilty, pleasure too.”

If Dean’s heart skipped a beat when Jimmy sent him a grin, no one needed to know.

+++

Dean sat alone in his room on the edge of the bed and stared down at the blank page of his notebook. He wanted to write to Sam again but words failed him once more.

“How are you feeling today Dean?”

Zachariah stood at the open door of his room cocky as the king of diamonds with a smirk on his face and hands tucked into his coat’s pockets. “Fine.” Dean replied.

“Not feeling any side-effects of the medication? Tired? Irritable?”

“Pretty sure I’ve been feeling those two things my whole life, Doc.”

Zachariah began to pick at the dirt under his nails, “And I see you’ve been spending a lot of time with Jimmy.”

“I’ve only been here for a couple of days.” Dean countered, “I wouldn’t call the time I’ve spent with him a lot.” Zachariah stepped over, looming over Dean with his hard gaze burrowing into him. Dean didn’t flinch. “Be careful of him.”

Dean gazed down at the white blank page again, and he heard Zachariah walk from the room. Suddenly, he had inspiration for his next letter to Sam.

Sam.

Most of the people here are dicks.
But this one guy, Jimmy, I trust him, I like him. I might even know him from a few years back. Even if nothing comes from being in this place, I’m glad I met him.
Nothing can come from it though, the guy’s married and that just isn’t my style.

Dean put the pen into the center of the notebook and closed it. Sliding off the edge of the bed, Dean flipped back the sheets and tucked the book between the mattress and the slats.

“What are you doing?”

Dean whipped around at the voice and swore under his breath when he spotted Anna. “Don’t do that,” he groused, heart calming slowly in his chest.

She shrugged, “Do you want to help us decorate the day room?”

Dean furrowed his brow, “For what?”

Anna shot him an incredulous look, “Because it’s nearly Christmas.”

Dean’s smile was sheepish, “’Course it is. Thanks, but I’ll pass. Christmas isn’t exactly my favorite time of the year.”

Anna tucked a loose lock of bright red hair behind the shell of her ear, “Suit yourself.” She lingered though, and Dean heard her lips part with a pop, “Castiel seems to like you a lot.”

“Jimmy.” Dean corrected. She gave him a bitter smile, “Sure, Jimmy. Castiel. I don’t see why he can’t be both.”

There’s a flash of red as Anna turns on her heels. Dean heard her walk away.

Dean reached under the mattress and grabbed the notebook, fingers half crushed under his weight. “God Sammy, you’re still the only one I can really talk to.” Dean brushed his fingers over the smooth cover. “That ain’t so bad though, right?” Maybe he’d feel the same with Jimmy soon too…

Dean pulled out his pen and started to write again.

Sam.

I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I wasn’t on call that night. I’m sorry that I’m not handling this well, that I’m a self-loathing mass of flesh. It’s only been a little while, and I want to scrub my skin until it’s raw, I feel trapped even though I’m here by choice.

Dean nipped the end of his pen.

I think things would improve if I got some good coffee though. Like what Ellen used to make. Not to mention the crap food. I wonder if Jimmy is any good at cooking?

+++

Dean turned in early. He closed his door and looked for a lock but when he didn’t find one he merely breathed out a sigh, because of course there isn’t a lock. The air is bitter cold. The storm from last night brought the full brunt of winter with it so that inside the sterile room Dean’s breath misted above his lips. He found the heater in his room and tried to turn it on to no avail.

The sheets were cold against him, crisp as he curled his fingers into them and pulled them back. He slipped inside and lay against his ribs, half curled up with his chin tucked tight into his chest as he squeezed his eyes closed. He didn’t feel himself fall asleep so much as tumble into it, lights gone out in a storm.

He knew he started dreaming. Knew it wasn’t real. The first spikes of terror bled onto the corners of his consciousness, but he was stuck.

The wet and dark asphalt stretched out before him. The yellow lines of the highway ran into the distance, throwing up tiny sparks of lurid color as the drizzling rain starts up again. He began to walk. The highway was empty, but that didn’t seem strange. He walked for hours and passed field after field, all empty. He couldn’t look too long otherwise there’s just darkness on the outskirts. He’s not sure if the impulse to keep walking or the fear of the dark and the cold that sustained the rhythmic tempo of his footsteps.

Finally, after blisters formed and popped on the soles of his feet and his boots have worn through, the remains of his shoes crunched on a shard of glass. He bent down and picked it up. It isn’t glass. It’s plastic, bright orange, from the taillight of a car. He squeezed it into his palm and felt it cut through his skin, but his blood was cold, no warmth in it to help with the icy air.

He knew what was coming; he could feel a scream clawing at the base of his throat. There were two cars, one tipped over on its side, and like a box of toys there was a random assortment of objects discharged from the fractured windows. A headache thumped angrily at the back of his skull. He stepped over a cell phone with a dead screen. He reached the side of the upturned car and knelt down in the glass -- glass he knows without looking. Glass cut deeper. He saw a white shape -- a hand with its fingers curled loosely. A hand that had dozens of tiny cuts and grazes running along the digits.

Dean tilted his head to look inside, but he knew what he would see.

Hazel eyes stared out at him, glazed over. The man’s lips parted slightly, pale with flecks of blood painting them. The man’s hair matted with blood. Dean reached out his hand to feel the ragged cut on the lifeless head. The hard edge of the man’s skull protruded through his scalp.

He screamed and screamed. He knew it wouldn’t help, but there wasn’t anything else he could do. He crawled inside the car and wrapped himself around the stiff body. The man’s clothes felt damp from the persistent drizzle.

“Dean. Dean wake up.”

Dean shot up in bed, making Jimmy jerk back lest he be hit. Dean placed a hand over his heart, which thumped behind his ribcage.

“You were screaming for Sammy…. Was Sammy your brother?”

Dean nodded, too afraid to speak. Over Jimmy’s shoulder Dean watched the drizzle that licked the glass of his window.  Jimmy knew there was nothing he could say, he merely sat on the mattress and watched Dean as the other man dragged in deep calming breaths. Perhaps he should reach out, put a hand onto the other’s man’s shaking shoulder but all Jimmy does is sit there, useless. After some time Dean wiped a hand across his eyes and groaned. “How come you heard me and no one else did?” Dean asked, looking the other man up and down. Jimmy shrugged, “My room is next to yours and the room across the hall is empty. I was merely the closest to you.”

“Aren’t you cold?” Dean queried, the radiator in his room sits benignly against the wall.

“Do you want to talk about your nightmare? It might help.”

Dean bit out a laugh, “Not really.”

Jimmy nodded and pushed himself off the mattress but is stopped when Dean’s hand shoots out and wraps his fingers around his wrist. “Don’t go though, I don’t want to fall back asleep.”

A hint of a smile betrays Jimmy as he sits back down at the foot of the mattress. “I’ll watch over you.”

A condescending remark sat on the edge of Dean’s tongue but he swallowed it and lay back down. He stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling and then let his head roll to the side. The green numbers of his digital alarm clock burned themselves into his retina, 3:33. Jimmy’s warmth against his legs was a comforting weight, but Dean didn’t say so as he dozed on the precipice between sleeping and wakefulness.

The break in the rain woke Dean a few hours later. The clock this time read 6:39. In the gloom Dean could make out Jimmy’s figure sitting on the edge of his bed. His back was straight, his hands loosely clasped in his lap, and his chin was tilted upwards.

“You been staring at the wall for the past three hours?” Dean groused, voice rough from sleep.

“Mostly.” Jimmy replied. Dean lifted a brow, “Mostly?”

Jimmy deigned not to answer as he got up, “Good morning.”

“Yeah, not so much.”

The subtlest hint of unease passed through Jimmy in a shift of his weight from one foot to another. “I have a private therapy session.”

Dean waited for more, “Go on then, I’ll be fine.” He stated with a flippant wave of his hand, “I don’t need you babysitting me.”

Jimmy gave Dean a nod before he stepped out. Dean kept still in his blankets until he heard his footsteps recede. He got his notebook out, and wrote another letter to Sam.

He slid out of bed and hid it under the mattress again. The words from his letter made him break out into a sweat despite the chill. He stayed crouched on his haunches for some time, chewing his cuticles, ripping them off with his teeth so that he tasted the first hints of copper as he bled. He had written more about Jimmy, how he stayed with him all night, guarded him from more nightmares. How he felt about the guy…Dean paused and glanced down at his fingers and scrubbed at the blood on his hands. Without thinking, he strode into his bathroom and stepped into the shower. He twisted the silver knobs until steam clouded the glass and his skin turned pink. Putting his forehead against the tiled wall he concentrated on breathing in the humid air. After he was clean, he got out and wrapped a towel around his waist. The mirror was fogged up across from him and he swiped his palm across it to reveal his reflection.

His blood froze in his veins; a startled gasp left him as he saw someone behind him. Dean spun on his heel and turned to face the person tailing him to find only the empty space of the bathroom. His numb fingers groped for the lip of the sink behind him to steady his shivering knees. A stubborn remnant of his nightmare perhaps? He glanced over his shoulder at the mirror again. The clear path he had made with his hand had begun to fog up again. He rubbed it and stared into the space. Nothing.

Dean walked back into his room and suppressed a sigh as he scrubbed a hand across his face. He pulled his clothes back on to his skin, still damp from his shower. They stuck to him, clinging tight when he moved. There was a knock at the door, two polite taps. “Yeah?”

In stepped Michael with Dean’s miniature plastic cup of pills in his hands. “I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

Dean took the proffered medication and swallowed them dry, regretting it slightly when they burned the flesh of his dry throat. “So Dean, how are you settling in?”

Michael cocked his head to the side, remarkably similar to how Jimmy sometimes looked at him, “You look tired. Didn’t you get much sleep?” Dean rolled his stiff shoulders. “Couldn’t get to sleep.” Michael nodded and seemed to catalogue the information. “Did you have any nightmares?”

Dean froze but then let an easy grin slide across his lips, “Nah, I was cold as hell. Damn radiator won’t work.”

Michael pursed his lips as he took a step over to it and then twisted the knob. Immediately the metal columns began to click as it stirred to life. Dean spread his arms out, “It wasn’t working last night.”

Michael thinned his lips and dragged a chair over to Dean’s bed. The doctor gestured for Dean to seat himself on the bed. Dean complied, and for a moment they merely watched each other. “Tell me about the relationship you had with your brother.”

Dean slapped his hands against his thighs, “Well,” He started as he chewed the inside of his cheek, “I’m not great with words, and it seems obvious that we were close seeing as how his death put me in here.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve always looked out for him, ever since we were kids, because when my mom died my dad, John, couldn’t take it. He wasn’t ever himself after that.” Dean licked his lips. “She died when our house caught fire. Gas leak apparently.” Michael seemed unfazed, just blinked and waited for Dean to continue. “For a while John couldn’t settle on a town, we hopped from motel to motel, never staying too long. But eventually we stopped in Sioux Falls.”

Dean drummed his fingers against his thighs, a bead of water tracked down the curve of his brow, hair still wet from his shower. “It was calm for a while, we went to school like normal kids, ‘cept John left it to me to look after Sam. I didn’t mind. We were together everyday, because Sam wasn’t very social. He wasn’t interested in making friends, so he latched onto me.”

Dean rested his palm against his chest as it tightened. “After graduation, I started working at the garage my dad worked at -- Singer’s Auto. It was good work, but when Sam decided he wanted to go to Stanford I quit and moved with him. I couldn’t be without him. He felt bad about it,” Dean said with a smile, “But he expected it too. It was Sam who suggested I be a paramedic.”

Dean fidgeted under Michael’s gaze, “So, Cliff’s Notes? Sam and I have always been joined at the hip – close.”

“You didn’t really answer my question Dean, you told me some of the facts of your life. We’re here to see why you can’t let go of your brother.”

Dean leaned back and planted the heels of his palms against the sheets behind him. “It ain’t a switch I can turn on and off. I can’t just let him go.”

“I am cognizant of that but you have to move on. You told me before coming here that you contemplated taking your own life.” Michael let the truth hang on the air for a moment. Dean could almost taste it as he breathed, bitter. “It’s imperative that you move on with your life.”

“I’ve had enough ‘therapy’ for one day.”

Michael’s lips parted with a wet click but Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and continued. “I see what you’re trying to do but-“

“He died over a year ago Dean. Your father a year and half now.”

“I have a long mourning process.” Dean snapped out, his mouth salivating for a fight.  As though sensing this, Michael hung his head before he pushed back his chair and stood. He lingered and let his hands rest on the back of it. “I question your relationship with your brother.”

As soon as the words left Michael’s mouth Dean stood up, he was shaking, his rage rocking him in a veritable sway. “Leave.”

Knowing he had gone too far Michael acquiesced and strode from the room, the door creaked as it opened and he left it ajar. After a moment the door slammed shut; the sound snapped the rage from Dean’s body, and he collapsed back onto the bed. The fog began to lift from him and he let his forehead fall into the palms of his hands.

Dean muttered nonsensical things into his skin, just needing to hear something more than the hum of the infernal fluorescent light above him. He sat like that for a time until  he was jolted from his reverie by someone’s weight dipping the mattress. Inhaling through his nose Dean, picked up the faint scent of honey and lavender as well as something distinctly masculine – sweat but cleaner. Dean turned his head in his palms and spied Jimmy through his splayed fingers.

Dean expected him to say something but nothing was forthcoming. In his own time Dean chose to break the silence. “I think coming here was a mistake. I should have gone through with it.”

Jimmy seemed to understand what ‘it’ was. Jimmy knew that words were obsolete and deigned for another course of action. “Would you like to see something?”

Dean finally pried his head from his hands. “What exactly?”

Jimmy’s smile was mischievous; his knee tapped Dean’s. “Is this going to get me in trouble?” Dean questioned without caring.

Jimmy stood and tugged Dean to his feet by yanking him up by his bicep, “Only if someone finds out.”

Dean grinned, “Sounds great.”

Jimmy led Dean outside, through the dayroom and out of the door. He wandered in the garden, seemingly aimless. “What are you doing?” Dean queried as his brows drew together with curiosity.

Jimmy sent him a withering stare, “Checking for witnesses.”

“You’re making this sound like murder.”

“Hush.”

Dean quirked a brow and let out an incredulous laugh.

Jimmy started to move again, this time his pace was quick and his path was straight. They headed towards the tall brick wall that encased the gardens; in front of it grew a large clump of thorns and ivy. Jimmy walked behind it and Dean followed quickly with a cursory check over his shoulder for inquisitive eyes.

There was a break in the old brick wall, a tumble of red squares that revealed a glimpse of the forest behind it. Dean let his fingers wander into the dust from the old cement masonry. This must have been the escape Gordon was talking about, so it was true after all. Dean smothered the smile he could feel tugging persistently at his lips. Jimmy trusted him too. “Through there? Bit of a squeeze isn’t it?”

Jimmy smiled and lightly tapped his shoulder in a companionable gesture. “You’ll fit,” he stated but let his gaze linger on the beginnings of a belly that swathed Dean’s waist. Dean mock-scowled at the man before Jimmy sidled his way through the break in the wall. Leaning up on the balls of his feet Dean looked over the thick shrubbery that disguised the break. No one was looking at them,. The orderly that had wandered into the garden from before had disappeared back into the main structure of Saint Dymphna. As Dean began to squeeze himself through the hole in the wall he felt a childlike mischievousness wriggle its way into his disposition. When he emerged through the other side he rubbed at the orange dust that smeared his ivory clothes. Jimmy waved a hand as he began to walk. The faintest suggestion of a path wound its way through the trees. Jimmy followed it with confidence long after the wall was lost from view by the trees and the curve of the land. Dean’s nostrils flared as he stole a deep breath of the crisp air.

The forest was quiet around them. The rains from the night before lent everything a vibrant green hue and the soil under his shoes was soft. Dean shivered in the cold and wrapped his arms around his torso. Jimmy seemed unaffected by it.

With a sharp turn Jimmy led Dean into an opening in the forest. Dean grinned and shook his head. “Wow, would never have guessed this was here.”

Out before him stretched a placid pool of water, too small to be a pond but too large to be a lake. The grass grew right to the edge of the leaden water where a small rowboat bobbed on its surface. Dean wandered over to the tiny cabin to their left and cupped his hand above his eye as he leaned up to the window. The interior was dark with only soft shapes of furniture visible. It appeared as though there was only one room; it was tiny and not so much quaint as it was simple.

“So, you come here often?” Dean asked with a wink and a grin, feeling his melancholy lifting slightly. Jimmy said nothing but toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks. In the next moment he stepped into the edges of the water, letting the icy coolness wash over his feet and swill between his toes. Dean angled his head as he approached to catch a glimpse of Jimmy’s smile.

“I come here as often as I can. It’s hard to find the right opportunity,” Jimmy answered as he let out a long exhale. “It helps me clear my head to get some fresh air. I thought it might do the same for you.”

Dean shrugged and sat himself down onto the grass. His fingers moved of their own accord as he started yanking the green shoots out from the pliable soil.

“No one knows this is here anymore,” Jimmy murmured as he let his gaze rove over the surface of the still water. “Everyone’s forgotten it.” Dean’s fingers grazed a pebble and he picked it up and lobbed it into the water where it sank with a resounding plop. The ripples made circles that grew larger and larger until they faded away completely. “I don’t think it’s so bad to be forgotten sometimes. It means you’re left alone, no one to bother you.”

Jimmy came over to Dean, his cold, wet feet a slightly duller shade than the rest of his tanned body. “Is that what you want Dean?”

Dean tilted his head to look up at the sky, in the motion he caught the edge of Jimmy’s chin who stood at his side. Through the kaleidoscope of leaves from the trees above he caught the whispers of stubborn storm clouds. “I’m not sure.”

Dean heard Jimmy sit down next to him and when he looked the other man had drawn his knees up to his chest and his chin rested on them. His blue eyes were soft; their usual intensity was missing in this place. Dean blushed when Jimmy’s gaze moved to him. “I’ve been forgotten. I’ve been left behind.” Jimmy’s fingers curled into his hospital trousers.

“Your family visited yesterday.”

Jimmy shook his head making the thin layer of stubble rasp against his cotton trousers, “That’s Jimmy’s family, not mine.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when Jimmy’s eyes narrowed that pinned Dean in place. “You think I’m crazy too don’t you? An atheist all your life, how could something like angels exist?”

Dean’s grin was hollow. “Hit the nail on the head, buddy.”

Jimmy sighed and pushed himself up onto his feet. “That’s okay…that’s okay. Maybe you’ll find your faith soon enough.”

The words struck a chord in Dean, the memory of what he saw in the bathroom that morning came back to him in a rush. Sam’s hollow eyes, his sunken cheeks…

Jimmy gestured for him to stand, “We should go before people notice we’re missing.”

Jimmy held out his hand and Dean took it, fingers wrapping around his wrist to allow the other man help him to his feet. The walk back was made in silence; Dean tucked his hands into his pockets and let his canine worry the skin of his lower lip. He cast furtive glances over at Jimmy. Then with a groan Dean stood still, and it took Jimmy a moment before he noticed that Dean wasn’t following him anymore. “This is a really stupid question but do you believe in ghosts?”

Jimmy nodded, “Of course, why do you ask?”

Dean shrugged nonchalantly and brushed past Jimmy as he followed the path back to Saint Dymphna. Dean slid back through the brick wall and felt as though he were Alice waking from her dream of Wonderland, reality crashing back into him as he gazed upon the morose structure of Saint Dymphna. He cast his eyes up at the windows as he followed the pebbled pathways and noticed the sparkle of strings of Christmas lights. “If they sing one fucking carol I swear to God…” Dean whispered to himself.

“Don’t blaspheme.” Came Jimmy’s curt response but Dean ignored him in favor of climbing the stairs to get back inside. When he opened the door he was hit with a wall of stifling heat. The radiators in the room hummed with life.

“Ah, Dean, I was looking for you.” Dean froze at the sound of Michael’s voice.

“Hey, Doc.”

Michael’s eyes zeroed in on Jimmy and Dean didn’t miss the slight narrowing of them or the tension that straightened Jimmy’s shoulders. “It’s time for your medication now isn’t it, Jimmy?”

Jimmy didn’t make a sound as he slipped away and headed towards the nurse’s station.

“You’re making friends with Jimmy?”

The question sounded like an accusation, and it made Dean’s jaw clench before he could answer, “Is that a problem?”

Michael waved a hand, “Not at all Dean, it’s good to see that you’re settling in.” Dean returned the plastic smile Michael offered him. He had told enough lies in his life to know one when he heard it. “So what did you want to talk about?” Dean asked, itching to be away from the doctor’s inscrutable gaze. “I wanted to apologize. I pushed you too hard this morning. Your recovery isn’t a race, we’ll do this at your pace, not mine. How does that sound?”

Dean was stuck for words as his surprise paralyzed his tongue for an extended moment, “Yeah, sounds good.”

“Good.” Michael repeated, “I’ll speak to you again, Dean.” Michael made to walk away but he raised a finger and looked over his shoulder back towards Dean, “I had the heater in your room looked at Dean, it’s in perfect working order.

“Great,” Dean said, and with that Michael dipped his head slightly and disappeared behind a door marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’.

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair as he looked around the newly decorated day room. Lurid strings of tinsel skirted along the window frames, a plastic tree sat to one corner dotted with a mix match of decorations; pale angels, rotund Santas and plastic icicles, and in strings all about the room were the rainbow lights.

“Michael seems to have taken an interest in you.”

Dean jumped and spun to turn Jimmy, “Don’t do that.” He bit out, heart speeding in his chest. Closing his eyes for a brief moment Dean leveled his hand out as he digested the words, “What do you mean?”

Jimmy leaned his shoulder against the wall in a remarkably relaxed posture; Dean briefly wondered if that’s what his medication did to him – robbed the tension from his body. “I mean, you’re Michael’s only patient. He owns this place, bought it a few years ago and ever since he’s let Zachariah and a few of the other doctors and nurses run the place.”

Jimmy licked his chapped lips, “It’s curious.”

“Maybe he just wants to get more involved?”

Jimmy’s look was one of pity as though he knew something profound that Dean didn’t, despite, but he responded simply with, “Perhaps.”

Jimmy looked over at the Christmas tree and a frown passed over his features. Following his gaze Dean bit back laughter as he noticed his attention had become fixated on the angel at the top of it. It was tilted to the left slightly, its angelic white garb looked no more grand than a sheet of toilet paper and the halo attached to its head by a line of gold metal was crooked. “Sorry-looking son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

“Do you think so?” Jimmy asked, wide blue eyes turning upon him, “It reminds me of my own predicament.”

Dean smiled again, “Yeah, I guess that makes you a sorry son of a bitch, too, doesn’t it?”

No one else heard it, but Dean’s ears snatched the clandestine burble of laughter that passed Jimmy’s lips.

+++

The quiet and general stillness in the air told Dean everyone was asleep. He perched on the edge of his bed and tapped his foot against the shiny floor. He looked over at the heater; it hadn’t worked despite Michael’s assurances. He chewed at the skin of his lip, his front teeth pulled at a flap of skin that had come loose. His mind kept replaying the nightmare from last night over and over again in his mind. The cool wet touch of his brother stiffening with rigor mortis in the car, the glass and plastic detritus that had cut his brother’s skin and had made his blood ooze and congeal on the car seats.

Dean let out a huff of breath as Sam’s death brought on more memories -- of standing outside his house in Lawrence as it burned, knowing that his mother was inside. Of sitting next a hospital bed, reading a muscle car magazine as his father breathed his last after his stroke.

Dean stood without thought, his body made the motions before his mind caught up with the idea. In just over a minute he found himself standing outside the door to Jimmy’s room. It wasn’t locked; none of the doors were locked. He swallowed around the ball of tension in his throat before he raised his knuckles and knocked in three quiet taps. Dean heard the whisper of fabric and not long after the door was opened. Jimmy was alert and bright; his bedside light was on behind him, which cast a yellow aura of light about his head. Jimmy stood back and opened his door to allow Dean inside. Dean stepped over the threshold and cast his eye about the room. Everything was immaculate, pencils and pens at right angles against the edge of his desk. There were a few novels and a Bible neatly stacked next to the bed, all with their spines facing towards the mattress and were ordered from thickest to thinnest.

“Did I wake you?” Dean asked as he took a seat at the desk. His fingers played idly with the writing instruments. Jimmy didn’t seem to mind that the angle he had set was ruined, as he shook his head, “No.”

Jimmy didn’t take a seat on the bed; instead he kneeled at Dean’s side. Dean’s neck and cheeks flushed with color and he was about to stand but was stopped when Jimmy placed a hand firm, but gentle, on his thigh, keeping him in place. “Are you afraid to dream again?”

“Yeah.” There was no point in lying or telling a half-truth. “You remember asking whether I wanted to be left alone?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Well I think I’ve decided I don’t want to be left alone. I was thinking of my parents, my brother and my whole life has revolved around my love for them. That isn’t a bad thing, they made me so happy. So what I’m saying is, I’m not prepared to be by myself. So if my dreams are bad but my brother is in them…” Dean shrugged, “So what. But I need something physical too.”

Jimmy looked up at him from under his lashes.

“You get it?”

“I do.” Jimmy replied, his hand slipping from Dean’s leg. It made Dean shiver.

“We’ll probably get in trouble.” Dean spoke to himself.

Jimmy grinned again, “Only if someone finds out.” Standing Jimmy opened the door again, “We’ll go to your room, it’s at the end of the hall, and we’ll hear if someone is coming.”

“You’re a sly son of a bitch. You know that, right?”

Jimmy shrugged and slipped out of his room, and before Dean followed suit he switched off the bedside lamp.

Jimmy sat on the end of the bed, back pressed against the footrest and his legs were stretched out over the covers. Dean tested the heater, and it finally came to life. With a contented sigh he walked over to the bed and tucked himself under the sheets. “Been a long time since I’ve had a sleepover.” Dean intoned before he dragged in a breath and bit the bullet. “So you really think you’re an angel called Castiel, huh?”

Jimmy looked down at his hands that he splayed against the cream cotton sheets. “Yes.”

“So then why do you look so human?” Dean asked and Jimmy’s head perked up at the tone of genuine curiosity in his voice. “This is a vessel. His name is Jimmy Novak, and he’s from Pontiac, Illinois.”

Dean passed Jimmy a pillow for his back and the man took it gratefully as he slotted it in between his spine and the end of the bed. “Tell me about Jimmy then, why’d you choose him?”

“He's a devout man. He actually prayed for this.”

Dean waved a hand, “Okay then, tell me what you know about him before you possessed him.”

“He had a normal childhood. He chose to go into the Army, climbed the ranks with his proficiency as a soldier and a leader. It wasn’t long before he was moved to a special operations unit.” Jimmy swallowed and Dean watched the faint shape of his Adam’s apple bob. “Then he met Amelia, and she urged him to leave the army, and so he did. He got a job in radio and they had a daughter, Claire. Then, a few years ago he was shot. He slipped into a coma, and I offered him peace in return for his body.”

“Shot?” Dean repeated, the eerie feeling of knowing the man before, rose up again.

Jimmy nodded, “Yes, on Christmas Eve. Four years ago now.”

Dean closed his eyes, “So it is you…Jimmy Novak. Bullet wound to the chest. We were called to 5th Avenue.”

When Dean opened his eyes again Jimmy was gazing at him with open astonishment. Dean tugged the sheets up around his waist in an attempt to avoid the stare, “I visited you, him,” He corrected quickly, “At the end of every shift. You were my first life or death patient, and God I wanted you to make it. You know, being my first and all.”

Dean’s hand shook as he ran it through his short crop of hair; the oxygen felt as though it was getting thinner in the room, “I didn’t know….I didn’t know that this happened to you after getting out of that coma. I just came to your room one day in the hospital and you weren’t there…I had thought, ‘good for him.’ I was happy for you.”

“For Jimmy.”

Dean’s head jerked up, he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, “That’s right.”

Jimmy lay down on the bed, he tucked his arm under his pillow, “You should get some sleep, Dean.”

Dean put his head down on his pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

+++

Dean knows it’s the same dream.

He’s walking the same steps, sees the same fragments of glass and plastic can smell the grease of the spilled oil and the faintest undercurrent of copper that laced the air. The pregnant clouds from above started their mist-like rain and Dean found himself crawl inside the car again. He put his arm under Sam and threaded his fingers through his blood soaked hair.

He screamed again, silent, let the sobs wreck through him. He tilted his head where it was buried in the crook of Sam’s shoulder and saw himself in the rearview mirror. He was faceless.

Sam moved in his grip. Dean stopped screaming as terror clutched tight at his breast. Sam moved like the reel of an old film -- scratchy and faded frames -- but eventually he managed to turn his head and set his unblinking eyes upon Dean. He said nothing but merely wheezed as he took in breath, lungs punctured by his broken ribs.

“Sammy?”

His lips moved.

Dean started to move away, let his fingers slip free from his brother’s hair but was stopped as Sam’s hand snapped out and grabbed him. His ice-cold fingers pinched and bruised his skin. “Sammy, let me go.”

Sam shook his head. He never blinked and Dean’s fingers scrabbled against his brother’s and fear began to choke him, cloud his mind.

“Dean.” His brother’s breath was cold as it brushed over his face.

“Dean.” The name was low, gravel rough.

Dean blinked awake and stared up into the blue of Jimmy’s eyes, creased in the corners with worry, “You looked as if you were having another nightmare.”

His heart still thundered in his chest, moisture burned at his eyes and on impulse Dean threw his arms around Jimmy. His arms found their way around Jimmy and his hands connected across his back. Jimmy stiffened for a moment and then melted into the embrace. He reciprocated Dean’s hold and let his fingers play along the raised indents of his spine. Jimmy hushed him; let his stubble rough cheek whisper against Dean’s own as he let the man sob into his shoulder, face hidden in the crook between his neck and his shoulder. Jimmy kept silent until the shivers that coursed their way through Dean’s body began to lessen. Imperceptibly Dean moved back, the whites of his eyes shot through with red, which exacerbated the rich greens of his eyes.  Tentatively, Jimmy closed the gap once more with a gentle brush of his dry lips against Dean’s plump ones.

The single response he garnered was a relieved puff of air against him and then Jimmy heard the words, “That wasn’t so bad.” But only a moment later Dean shook his head, “We shouldn’t do this…you’re married, you’ve got a kid – a family that loves you…” Even Dean could hear how weak, how hollow his words sounded.

Jimmy pushed his luck and pressed his lips against Dean’s again and licked across the seam as he asked -- pleaded -- for more. Dean’s finger’s curled against his back as he opened his lips and Jimmy’s tongue pressed into Dean’s mouth. Dean moaned into the kiss and deepened it. Soon the kiss dissolved from gentle mapping and touches to the click of teeth, the hard demanding pressure that begged for more. Jimmy’s hands wandered along Dean’s back, the tips of his fingers found Dean’s hair and he held on, pulling it as he suffocated, breath robbed by Dean who was relentless with the swipes of his tongue. Eventually, though, Dean pulled back slightly, and he panted in breaths as he looked at Jimmy from beneath his thick set of lashes.

Jimmy could feel a blush burning at the skin of his face, “Feel better now?”

A moment of confusion flicked over Dean’s feature but then it turned into a laugh, “I had forgotten about that, and yeah I do now.”

Jimmy pulled Dean closer to him, breathing in his scent; musk like leather, clinical clean soap and something distinctly masculine. “Good.”

Finally Jimmy unwound his fingers from Dean’s hair and parted himself from the mess of limbs that had formed their embrace. He stumbled slightly as he got off the bed and Dean chuckled in the dark before dawn as Jimmy headed into the bathroom. He emerged with two glasses of water and he handed one to Dean. Dean shivered as he pressed the rim of the glass to his reddened lips, the contact burned with a spider web of sensation.

“For an angel, you’re a damn good kisser. Are angels even allowed to kiss?” Dean asked, half-jest, half-serious but the lines were becoming increasingly blurred.

Jimmy leaned against the wall as he sipped the water and wetted his own flushed lips, lending them a sheen that Dean devoured with his eyes. “No one can tell angels what to do anymore Dean.”

“Not even God?”

Jimmy let out a humorless, bitter laugh, “I thought most of humanity had realized by now that God doesn’t care. He left us to our own devices long ago.”

Dean hummed his acceptance, “Makes sense,” He murmured over the cusp of his glass.

Dean heard himself as he spoke, the voice was broken and strained and it took him by surprise, “Is it crazy if I think my brother is trying to speak to me? In my dreams.”

Jimmy shook his head, “Not at all. I believe in ghosts. But I also believe there are certain profound bonds that transcend life and death, reality and time.” Jimmy then fixed Dean with a deep penetrating stare that told Dean he meant more than his sibling bond.

“Perhaps he can’t speak to you first. You should talk to him. Don’t be frightened.”

Leaning forward, Dean read his clock. 4:54. Just thinking of going back to sleep sent a trickle of trepidation down his back. The hairs on his arms rose with the ingrained memory of Sam’s unblinking stare and jittering movements. “It’s Saturday today, right?”

Jimmy replied with a curt nod, “Why do you ask?”

With a groan, Dean laid back on the mattress, careful to keep his grip on his water balanced, “Jo’s first visit is tomorrow.”

“I would have thought you’d enjoy seeing her.”

The tips of Dean’s fingers played with the cool water, “Yeah, I should be.”

There was a bang down the hall; it made Dean and Jimmy stiffen in unison as the rattle of wheels came towards them. Sitting up Dean’s eyes riveted to Jimmy and then skirted to the door, “You better scram.”

“That would be wise,” Jimmy remarked as he moved over to the door, carefully opened it and then let himself out. Dean stood up and strained his ears to hear Jimmy’s own door open and close for him. Letting out a relieved breath Dean took another gulp of his water. Through the window in his door he watched a janitor with his trolley full of tools wheel by. Standing on his tiptoes he observed the janitor pull a key from the zip-cord attached to his belt. After a moment he disappeared behind it and Dean heard the faint click of it locking again. Dean looked at the time 4:57.

Dean spent the next hour idly puttering around his room. He paced up and down the linoleum, imagined the soles of his feet making ruts in the floor. His breath misted before his lips, the room had gone cold again with Jimmy’s departure. He idly tapped at the heater. It didn’t make a sound or let a modicum of heat touch Dean’s soft fingertips. It was with a sense of foreboding that Dean once again retrieved his notepad filled with idle doodles and his numerous letters to Sam. His heart jarred in his chest as he opened it.

He had asked Sam questions and spoken to him on the blue lined pages. People believed in the power of Ouija Boards, which consisted of nothing more than wood and plastic sheen and the notebook wasn’t, to Dean, far from it.

His stomach twisted itself into knots as Dean found a pen from the drawer at his bedside and started to write on the notebook perched on his lap. He asked Sam a question.

Are you here?

There was no crack of thunder, no eldritch whisper cooling his ear or the sudden movement of something being flung across the room. Maybe it didn’t work like that? So Dean started to write again, he wrote what was on his mind, what he would never have had the courage to utter aloud to his baby brother. He spoke about his hope to leave this place, of Jo’s impending visit, of Jimmy and the strange pit he got in his throat when he thought about the crazy bastard, and the tacky Christmas decorations festooned over the day room – the micro to the macro of his current life. He threw the pen and the book back into his bedside drawer and with a hiss of wood he closed it again.

+++

When Jimmy got to his room he immediately walked to the window. He idly ran the tips of his fingers over his lips as the ghost of Dean’s kiss haunted his flesh with currents of sensation. He listened carefully to the silence and his ears strained as he tried to listen to the heavenly choir. Just one whisper and he would feel at ease again. Nothing met his senses, even when he thought of the different wavelengths he could try. Melancholy tugged at his heart, which prompted Jimmy to move away from the window and rip his gaze from the low hanging sky.

He heard a drawer slam shut in the room next door. Jimmy moved closer to the wall but could only hear muted sounds. Dean was an interesting human, to say the least. He was a pinprick of light in an otherwise dark world, unique, special. He could tell even without seeing his soul as he once could. No other human had thus captured his attention so. Even when he was prompted to riffle through his vessel’s memories, the war torn images of bloodied broken bodies and the smell of gunpowder, piss, shit and fear wasn’t enough to coax a deeper exploration into his vessel’s thoughts and emotions. When he did look a little deeper they struck too close to home. There was a deep yearning for his family, to be with his child and wife again – that wish was all too familiar to his own nostalgia for heaven and his brothers’ and sisters’ everlasting presence. So he locked his vessel’s personality away, deep down.

Jimmy plucked at a loose thread on his shirt put when he pulled at it; it began to unravel the seam at the edge. Leaving it alone, Jimmy picked a book titled Kafka on the Shore off his bedside table and considered the black feline with piercing jade eyes on the cover before flipping to find the page he last read. Was he the character Kafka, a runaway looking for his real family? Or was he Nakata, an old war torn simpleton who spoke to cats?

The question remained unanswered in his head, as there was a furtive knock on the door. When Jimmy raised his eyes from the lines of words he noticed the hint of red hair through the glass in the door.

“Come in, Anna.”

The door clicked open and with it Anna stepped in with a brow quirked with the hint of a question, which she soon asked, “How did you know it was me, Castiel?”

Jimmy closed the book and laid it carefully on his pillow. “Is something troubling you?”

“Do you want the whole list, or just my most pressing of concerns?” She asked with a slather of sarcasm to her tone. Jimmy took her question seriously, answering it with, “The most pressing.”

Anna let out a labored, dramatic sigh; “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Dean. You were both missing the other day for quite some time. It was lucky only I seemed to notice…You’re already teetering on the edge of being transferred, I don’t want him to take you away.”

Anger began to simmer at the back of Jimmy’s skull, “Is this concern or jealousy?”

Anna clenched her delicate pale hands into tight fists, “Stop asking me question after question. It won’t distract me. He will only make things worse.” She added after a thought.

Jimmy rubbed at his forehead with his fingers to try and massage away the migraine he could feel coming, “I just want to help him, Anna.” Jimmy’s liquid blue eyes found hers and she let a sad smile play across her lips.

She sighed and shook her head; “Too much heart was always your problem.” Jimmy didn’t comment on the fact and so Anna tapped her finger against the side of the door and continued, “If you do want to help him, although I don’t condone it, you should try talking to him again, find out what’s troubling him.”

“Thank you for the advice, I will try again.”

Anna gave Jimmy a curt nod, “Good luck.”

As soon as Anna left Jimmy got to his feet and walked to Dean’s room, when he knocked on the flecked wood of the door it swung open with a creak. Dean wasn’t there. Resolving to wait Jimmy sat on Dean’s bed, hands neatly folded in his lap. The bedside drawer was open slightly and when Jimmy tilted his head to the side he noticed Dean’s notebook. On a number of occasions he had seen Dean writing and doodling little nonsensical creatures into it. He slipped it out of the drawer and opened it, letting the cover fall open and the first few sheets of paper whisper over one another.

When the pages stopped they landed on the second last entry. From the first few words he inherently knew it was private, that he shouldn’t read this. Guilt paralyzed him for a moment and his heart began to drum a tattoo on the interior of his ribcage. He licked his lips and began to read the second to last entry.

Sam

That guy Jimmy? I really like him. You know, really do. He’s a nut job, but he’s also kind and gets me, gets when I need space, gets when I need someone to just be there with me, not necessarily saying anything. I haven’t ever felt like this before, I usually skip the foreplay and get straight to it. You criticized me for that and I never totally got why until I met Jimmy. I want to make something of this, even if it’s doomed. Jimmy’s never getting out of here and I couldn’t imagine being stuck here indefinitely. It would drive me, literally, crazy. But, hey, seeing as how many letters I’ve been writing to a dead guy recently maybe I wouldn’t be so bad at a long distance relationship? Wish you were here. Sometimes though, I think you are. I saw you in the mirror. I can’t focus on that, it scares me. I’ve never believed in ghosts and God – I want to now but I can’t be disappointed again. I really would break then. I just want to focus on Jimmy until I feel like I’m back on my feet.

Curiosity led Jimmy to read what seemed to be the last full entry.

Sam

I’m sick of this place. I feel like the longer I’m here there’s less chance of me getting out. It’s purgatory, stuck between normal and sick in the head. It’s a razor’s edge, a ticking bomb and I’m losing my balance. I don’t want to be stuck here in this white prison until I die... Or, mostly white, the other patients put up some ugly ass Christmas decorations today that made our beer can wreaths look like high end ornaments. Jo’s first visit is tomorrow, frankly I’m scared that she’ll think I’ve gotten worse, that I’ve fallen on the wrong side of that razor’s edge. Jimmy’s been good though. More than good. He’s been more help than the medication, doctors and sympathy all combined. He calms me, has this presence that makes me feel safe and that everything is going to be okay, that he’s going to take care of it all. He’s already fallen off the edge; maybe it’s given him perspective. And I kissed him today Sammy, I know I wouldn’t share such chick flick moments with you normally, but normal ain’t on the agenda. It had felt good -- more than just the physical. He’s a good looking guy, don’t get me wrong, I’d like to lick his neck and bend him over…Anyway, I’ve got a bond with him. I hope it’s the just the beginning. I really like Jimmy; I think you would have liked him too. He thinks he’s an angel and to be honest, I’m not sure he’s wrong. Fingers crossed I don’t screw it up.

On the other side of the page Jimmy’s mouth went dry at the out of context words. Were they meant for Sam, for him? Who?

Are you here?

Jimmy resisted the urge to say aloud, that he was. His fingers absently went to his dry lips and he felt them curl into a grin. An actual joy laden grin, so foreign and strange. Dean felt the same way about him as he did about Dean that much was clear.

Jimmy never noticed Dean at the door. The way he stood there with his back and shoulders pulled taut into rigid lines, the heat of his green eyes as he looked from Jimmy’s face to his written words. A white film possessed Dean as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Jimmy glanced up and immediately closed the notebook. Something of an apology was on his lips as he took in Dean’s stormy visage but the slightly taller man raised a hand to stop the words before they started. “I don’t want to hear it.”

The words were quiet but laced with a threat.

Bolstered by Dean’s written admissions Jimmy spread his hands slightly and slowly approached as though Dean were an animal about to be spooked. “I feel the same way about you and I understand how you feel about your brother….I’ve lost my family and-.”

The space between them dissolved as Dean launched forward and threw his fist, the hard row of bony knuckles connecting squarely with Jimmy’s lips. Jimmy stumbled back slightly.

Dean’s knuckles stung with the blow. Jimmy stood still; a thin rivulet of blood ran freely over the curve of his cut lip. Immediately guilt began to furrow inside Dean’s chest and hot and sticky bile washed the back of his throat. Casual as you please, Jimmy wiped a hand over his top lip to wipe away the blood; the sheen of it stained the back of his hand crimson. He never flinched.

Jimmy simply moved away, shoulders straight and back, chin raised defiantly. Dean was suddenly struck with the image of a soldier. Jimmy had been trained in Special Forces, was probably used to far worse pain. “I’m sorry for prying Dean. I knew I was doing wrong but I wanted to understand you better, to help you.”

Dean took half a step forward but then just nodded his head and looked away from Jimmy’s scintillating blue eyes and the angry inflamed cut on his lip. Dean instead stared at the black lines that separated the linoleum tiles until he heard Jimmy leave with the close of the door.

After a pregnant pause Dean kicked out, slamming his foot into the bedpost with a bitten out, “Fuck.” He didn’t feel the pain as he strode over to the discarded notebook and picked it up. He raised it to his lips and closed his eyes, smelling the ink and pages. Maybe he shouldn’t be so angry, Jimmy was trying to help but he couldn’t help the anger, the feeling of being betrayed.

He opened the notebook and his eyes immediately zeroed in on: Fingers crossed I don’t screw it up.

Too late for that.

+++

In the afternoon Dean made his way to the group therapy room. The corridors were tinged with violets and indigos from the setting of the sun. It changed the normally sterile environment into something eldritch and strange. The therapy room was nearly full, only two chairs remained. Dean scanned the crowd of faces, recognized a few; Gordon and Anna for instance. But Jimmy was curiously missing. Worry wormed into him but Dean did his best to ignore it as he took a seat. When Michael walked in he closed the door behind him. Swiveling in his seat Dean pursed his lips, “Where’s Jimmy?”

Michael shook his head as he made his way to the main chair. His body language was tense, strained and the grip he had on the brown clipboard was white knuckled. “Jimmy won’t be here, he’s been confined to his room for the next 12 hours or so. But we’re not here to discuss other patients Dean. This is time for therapy not gossip.”

Dean leveled a hand, “Just tell me why.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Gordon’s smug smirk stretch into a grin.

Michael rubbed at his temple, “Jimmy sustained an injury and he would not say how. I can’t make assumptions but there are numerous troubling scenarios. Now, if that has satisfied you Mr. Winchester, we’ll start now.”

The smile Dean attempted made his cheeks ache.

The next hour of group therapy passed in a blur. All the sob stories began to blur into one, abuse in childhood, reliance on drugs both illicit and legal, feelings of overwhelming inadequacy. When it came to Dean’s turn he was startled out of the despondency he had fallen into as his mind had become a jumbled knot of worry and nerves for Jimmy. He wasn’t entirely sorry he had punched the guy, he had kind of deserved it but he didn’t need to keep Dean out of trouble for it.

So, he quickly spouted out some drivel of how he had loved to help people being a paramedic. This apparently, was enough and Michael nodded him and praised him highly. It struck Dean as condescending.

Dean was the first out of the therapy room; he made his way to the patients’ corridor and made for Jimmy’s room. He stopped a few meters away as he steeled himself and ran a few lines through his head. He gave up with a growl of frustration and chose instead to slide down Jimmy’s door till his rear hit the cold hard floor. He leaned his head back against the wooden door. There was a shuffle on the other side.

“Who’s there?”

Dean swallowed and let his eyes fall closed. “It’s me. Dean.” The announcement was met with silence and Dean licked his lips, “I’m sorry for getting you in trouble. That wasn’t my intention. I’ll come clean tomorrow, I didn’t realize…”

“No Dean, it’s okay. There’s no point in you getting to trouble too.”

Dean’s front teeth tugged at his lower lip as he listened to Jimmy’s muted voice.

“Can’t sleep?” Jimmy asked, worry clear in his tone.

Dean let his eyes slide open, “Haven’t tried, but I don’t want to.” Dean admitted in conjunction with the twist in his gut.

“You have to sleep, Dean. Maybe you won’t dream again tonight. And if you do, speak to Sam. If he’s reaching out to you, help him.”

Getting to his feet Dean rolled his shoulders and turned to look through the small glass panel of safety glass that was threaded through with squiggly black wires. His green eyes met blue through the two inches of transparency. Jimmy’s face is replaced by his palm, lined and calloused from his previous years of gripping a rifle. Dean reached up and placed his own against Jimmy’s. Even though the glass separates them Dean thought he could feel the edges of Jimmy’s body heat eking through it.

Dean is the first to drag his hand away and he waited until Jimmy’s hand also slipped from the glass. “You’ll be fine, you’ve lost enough sleep. I’m right here.”

Dean raised his chin and exhaled through his nostrils, “Yeah.”

As Dean put his back to Jimmy’s room he felt the man’s gaze as it followed him until he had turned the corner into his own room. The bed stood before him, against the wall, like a silent threat. “Pull yourself together.” He whispered to himself. Before he could hesitate Dean threw back the sheets and tucked himself inside. Despite the trepidation that brewed in his belly sleep quickly washed over him.

The car was in front of him, the toes of his boots brushed the rounded edge of the car’s roof. When he twisted his head the black road snaked away into a gloom that was deeper than any shadow imaginable, an onyx pit that chilled him to the bone. He blinked and he was in the car again, with Sam in his arms. The dream had moved quicker had fast-forwarded, that same startling thought of being a character trapped inside a movie occurred to him again.

Sam’s hair brushed at fragments of glass as he turned his head to come face to face with Dean. This time Dean resisted the urge to scream and in its place he asked a question, remembering the strong tenor of Jimmy’s voice and his steady gaze. “Are you here, with me, outside of this dream?”

There was a lurch, akin to the feeling of an elevator dropping too fast or the Impala speeding down a lump in the road. The bright light made Dean hiss in a pained surprise as he covered his eyes. After a moment he lowered his arms and blinked until dark shapes began to formulate and break through the startling light.

It was the lake Jimmy had taken him to, but different somehow. Everything was saturated and vibrant, a still from an unseen cut of The Wizard of Oz.

At the edge of the lake Sam stood with his hands in his jeans pockets, thumbs hanging over the curve. “Sammy?” As though unaware of Dean’s presence, Sam moved slightly and raised his gaze from where it had lingered at the bubbles that had broken the surface of the lake. Sam’s lips stretched into a gentle smile. “Dean?” He breathed out in a contented sigh. “You found me. You’re here.”

Dean’s body moved of its own accord as he closed the gap between them and flung his arms around his brother’s broad chest. He began to sob, hot tears bled from his eyes. “Oh God, Sammy. It is you. It really is, isn’t it? I’m not crazy…am I?”

Sam’s strong hand came to a rest against the back of Dean’s neck. “No, you’re not Dean. I couldn’t leave you. Ever.”

Dean could hardly breathe, face pressed so tight into the crook of Sam’s shoulder. He could smell his brother, the Old Spice body wash he favored, the crisp cleanliness of red apples and the undertone of spilled black ink. A dream couldn’t replicate that. Could never replicate that, he repeated to himself.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Dean felt Sam laugh against him. “I’m sorry I hurt you with those nightmares. It’s hard being here, in your dreams. Your mind isn’t the happiest of places.”

“Fuck, I know that.” Dean groused as he stepped back and Sam’s hands fell from him with his fingertips ghosting over the nape of his neck in a delightful tickle. A songbird trilled from its perch in a tree above them to fill in the moment’s pause.

“God I miss you so much Sam.” Dean wiped away the tears that wet his cheeks. “I never believed in this stuff before…Then Jimmy made me think…that maybe something like this is possible.”

In the way that dreams are it didn’t seem at all strange when Dean’s bedside table appeared on the long verdant grass. The drawer slid open of its own accord to display Dean’s notebook. Sam stepped over to it got it out. Rubbing the back of his neck Dean averted his gaze, “It’s girly, don’t read it.”

Sam arched a brow and held up a page for Dean to see. It was his first letter. The final words of ‘I miss you’ stood out. “I’m not sure you were so skeptical. You were writing to me as soon as you arrived at Saint Dymphna.”

“I just thought…I was used to talking to you.”

Suddenly there was a strange sucking sound and from the corner of his eye Dean witnessed a whirlpool as it began to swirl to life in the middle of the water. The level of the lake began to drop, soon revealing its silt bottom. Something bronze glimmered at the centre of the drained lake. The bronze acted as a point of light as the colors began to fade, which turned the edges of the scenery white as everything slowly disappeared.

“Look for me,” Sam spoke, voice deep and sonorous as the dream began to fade.

Dean’s eyes widened, “How do I do that?” He stepped closer but stumbled as his foot fell through a gaping maw in the earth. He fell and he fell, plummeted until…

Dean awoke in a cold sweat; he peeled the sheets off him that clung to his damp skin and got out of bed. He made his way into the bathroom and scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands. Through his fingers he gazed at himself in the mirror. He paused, stopped breathing without realizing it as he spotted something in the corner of the mirror’s reflection.

He let his hands fall to his sides and he inched closer to the mirror and made it fog up with his breath. It was a dark shape with no face, a shadow that stood directly behind him. Dean’s hands found the lip of the porcelain sink to hold himself up as his body began to quiver. His mouth was dry like sand paper as he asked, “Sammy?”

The shadow nodded and its dark pieces began to flake away to reveal Sam’s face, his long arms and muscular legs. The hazel of his eyes danced with joy. “Well you weren’t hard to find.” Dean let out irritably despite the joy he could feel.

Sam didn’t speak, just shook his head and smiled as though inordinately pleased with himself.

+++

For the first time since arriving at Saint Dymphna Dean slept. Really slept, had the deepest, dreamless sleep that left him feeling lazy and smug as he stretched in the morning sunlight. At the foot of his bed Sam stood sentry. In the morning light his body seemed incorporeal, the motes of dust passed through him as though he were a film projector’s beam of light.

Dean read the time and blanched when he saw it was 10:05AM. Jo was due to visit him at half past. With a curse Dean launched himself out of bed and into the bathroom that Sam tracked with his eyes and rueful quirk to his lip. In record time he was clean and dressed. With his skin still pink with the heat of the water Dean quickly strode into the day room and he immediately caught sight of long golden hair. Jo sat with her back to Dean and without pausing long enough to get nervous Dean made his way around the table.

When he sat down at the table with Jo the look she sent him was full of worry. Dean touched his face and felt stubble, he didn’t think he looked that bad.

“How’s the Impala? You been looking after her?”

Jo seemed taken aback by the question at first before she smiled and tucked a wayward strand of blonde hair behind her ear, “It’s fine Dean. It’s only been a few days.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.” Dean joked through a grin but it was met with only a darkening of Jo’s expression. “How’s your therapy progressing? Made any friends?” She asked.

Dean deigned to ignore the first question, “Yeah, there’s a guy here called Jimmy. He’s really helped me settle in.” At that Jo regained some of the glimmer in her eye, she raised her chin to meet Dean’s gaze, properly, for the first time since sitting at the table. “What’s he like?”

Dean let out his breath through his nostrils as he tried to think past; he’s a fucking great kisser and he has the forgiveness of a saint as his opening lines. “He understands me I guess. He’s sympathetic without being pitying and sometimes he makes me forget that I’m in a self-inflicted little white box.”

Jo rubbed at her temple as her leg began to shift restlessly under the table, foot tapping against the spotless floors, “It’s this little white box that’s going to make you better.”

“You know what would make me feel better? Seeing the Impala.” The gears began to grind in Dean’s head, the beginnings of a plan he hadn’t realized he needed were coming to fruition as he sat there staring into Jo’s mahogany eyes. “Reckon I could get permission for keeping her here? I mean, they’d get the keys obviously so I couldn’t drive off. There’s a carport out back I saw, working on her could be therapeutic.”

Jo pursed her lips, “I could ask Dr. Zachariah.” At the name Dean visibly blanched, “Try Michael instead, he owns the place and I think he might like me a little more. I think I pissed off Zachariah.”

At that Jo let out a soft lilting laugh, “But of course.”

Over Jo’s shoulder Dean spotted Michael as he emerged from behind the door marked, ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ in a fortuitous turn of events. Dean raised a hand and beckoned him over, which Michael nodded to and came across the room. He shot Jo a blinding smile, showing off his perfect teeth. “What can I do for you?” Dean cut in, “Jo came in my car. I was wondering if it would be okay for her to leave it here so I can work on it.”

Crossing his arms over his chest Michael’s lips thinned with skepticism. Before allowing a refusal Dean continued, “I noticed you got a carport out back. Keep the keys so she can’t go anywhere or be a danger to the other patients. It’ll just be a big piece of metal. What do you say?”

“Fine. On one condition.”

Dean grinned, “And what’s that?”

“You have a therapy session with me tomorrow. Be open with me and you can work with your car. It’ll be a reward system of sorts.”

Jo’s eyes went from Michael to Dean, “Sounds like a good idea to me, I can call a taxi. It was good seeing you Dean.”

Jo leaned over the table and wrapped her thin arms around his shoulders and gave Dean a surprisingly tight squeeze, which pushed the air from his lungs. When she released him Dean looked up into her face, “Just a quickie, then?”

Jo rolled her eyes affectionately as she began to slowly make her way to the door leading to the reception, “Mom’s sick, I’ve got to take her shifts as well as mine at the tavern. See you soon, Dean.”

“Sure.” Dean replied easily and gave her a wave. Jo gave the Impala’s keys to Michael who pocketed them and then told Dean, “Seeing as how you did well in group therapy yesterday, I’ll unlock your car. It will be waiting for you shortly.” Dean drummed his fingers across the tabletop, “That’ll be great Doc, thanks.” Michael’s dark green eyes were warm as he moved away, fingers running over the cool set of keys.

So Dean was left with his thoughts. He sat at the table for some time as he people watched, saw them milling about. It seemed strange that most of these people were complete strangers, he had never bothered to learn their names, so caught up was he with Jimmy. Seemingly at the thought, the object of his affection appeared in the doorway. There was no hesitation as Jimmy stepped over and he laid a hand on the wooden table, tips of his fingers grazing Dean’s own. “Hello Dean.”

“Let out early on good behavior?”

Jimmy smirked, “Something like that.”

“My car’s outside, I was going to work on her. Feel like a breath of fresh air?”

Jimmy sighed with pleasure, “Sounds wonderful.” And from the pockets of his white hospital trousers Jimmy withdrew two pieces of plastic-wrapped slices of pie, “I thought I’d try to make up for yesterday’s transgression with sugar.”

Dean stood and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “It’s creepy how you know me so well. Apple and cherry, I can’t stay mad at you.”

When they emerged outside the winter chill bit deep into their cheeks, staining them red. Dean’s pace was quick, and Jimmy trailed behind him as they rounded the corner. “Hey, there Baby,” Dean murmured through the bright grin. There in all her splendor was the Impala, sleek black sides and shining silver rims. “So what do you think?” Dean asked as he planted his hands on his hips, “Gorgeous isn’t she?”

Jimmy nodded and deadpanned, “She’s lucky to have you.” Dean scoffed and lightly punched his shoulder, which Jimmy rolled with. Dean ran his fingers through the light coating of dust she had garnered from her trip down the gravel road to Saint Dymphna. “She’ll need a wash but that can wait.”

Jimmy approached the car tentatively; he ghosted around it, afraid to touch. His foot accidentally knocked over the empty fuel can, the Impala was yet to be drained. When he finally did he sighed with contentment as the onyx metal had soaked in the warmth of the sun and it oozed into his sensitive fingertips. Jimmy looked up at the sky and saw that the storm that had pervaded over Saint Dymphna seemed to have lifted for the moment. Dean’s eyes greedily traced the tanned length of Jimmy’s neck; he subconsciously licked his lips as he noticed the lines of his throat, the tiny flutter of his pulse. Finally Jimmy began to relax as he leant his hip against the Impala’s hood. “I say we start with our snack.”

Dean’s chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest and he took the cherry pie from Jimmy. He unwrapped it carefully and took a step back from the car. His plump lips wrapped around the triangle of pastry and as the sweet cherry syrup his moan was almost pornographic. “This is some damn good pie, how’d you get it?”

Jimmy shrugged, “I have my ways,” he announced mysteriously as his tongue darted out to lap at a cube of apple that threatened to tumble from its pastry shell. They watched each other eat; devouring the other as much as the slice of pie they each lapped and sucked at. The air grew tense, charged, in a way that had Dean moan that little bit deeper and had Jimmy tilt his hips just so. Dean found his opportunity when Jimmy spilt some of his pie’s inner syrup onto the Impala’s hood. He growled and licked his fingers as he finished off his pie, rolling the granules of sugar on his tongue until they dissolved. Smacking his lips Dean pointed at the offending cinnamon sprinkled droplet. “Don’t get food on the car.”

Jimmy hummed and tracked his finger over the spillage so it stuck to his fingertip and then, despite the dust that had clung to the Impala he sucked the appendage clean and then released it from his lips with an audible suck. “There, it’s all better now. No harm.”

Dean closed the space between them, boxing Jimmy in against his body and the warm metal of the Impala. “The damage is done.”

“You had to clean her anyway.”

Dean’s thumb and index finger latched onto Jimmy’s chin, fixing the man in place. The heated stare of his sapphire eyes sent a thrill down his spine. “Anyone watching?”

“No.”

Dean grinned and ducked down slightly to press his lips against Jimmy’s. It was messy and desperate, Dean nipped at Jimmy’s lower lip, threatening to break the scab on his lip unless he obeyed. Jimmy keened under him, the last part of his pie slipped forgotten from his fingertips as he opened his lips and Dean’s tongue pushed hungrily inside. The tip of his tongue ran over Jimmy’s tasting the sweet apple and aromatic cinnamon on him. Jimmy teetered off balance for a moment until Dean’s arms came around his back to hold him in place. Their tongues rolled over each other, chasing the sugary sweet taste and the prickling electrifying sensation that buzzed between them at each new swipe of their tongues. Jimmy rolled his hips against Dean’s thigh, which had fallen between his legs, and Dean gasped into the kiss as he felt the hard line of his erection.

When they finally broke apart Dean gasped out, “You might be an angel but you sure taste like sin to me.”

Jimmy huffed at the lame joke and rubbed himself against Dean’s thigh again. “The car is unlocked right?”

Dean nearly balked at the question, jaw going slack for a moment, which elicited a quiet laugh from Jimmy, “Do you really think that a being as old as time hasn’t had time to experiment? I know what I like, why wait?”

Dean’s fingers brushed over Jimmy’s lips, “My kind of man. Or angel, at this point, I don’t think it matters.”

Somehow, Jimmy managed to slip out from between Dean’s body and the car. His hand rested on the silver door handle before he opened it with a creak. He slipped inside and Dean made a perfunctory glance of the area before following him. It looked as if he wasn’t going to work on the Impala after all.

It felt like he was a teenager all over again. The tight, cramped space of the backseat had them knocking their knees against each other and made their cheeks graze against one another, which only served to intensify their shared scruff burn. Jimmy was under Dean and he rolled his hips, lifting them clear off the leather seat to run his groin over Dean’s own clothed crotch. Dean’s fingers dove under the waistband of Jimmy’s pants, going lower, until he felt the warm, hard flesh of Jimmy’s erection. The breath in Jimmy’s throat shivered as he closed his eyes in pure bliss. “Dean.”

In response he ran his reddened lips over Jimmy’s throat. “I gotta apologize properly for hitting you.”

Jimmy cupped Dean, pressing on his groin insistently with the heel of his palm. “I’ve had worse.”

Dean fisted his hand around Jimmy’s cock and started up a rhythm. He couldn’t see, but he could feel how hard and needy Jimmy was for him. He used his thumb to smear the pre-come at the velvety head, used it to smooth the way for his palm over the curve of Jimmy’s dick. Jimmy’s breath hitched in his throat, but he continued to run his hand over Dean through his clothes, let the man above him rut himself mindlessly into the firm pressure of his hand. Dean thumbed the engorged vein on the underside, nipped at Jimmy’s pulse and then sucked it hard, as he forgot for the moment, where they were, how even a faint hickey would raise questions. But all he could see were Jimmy’s lust blown eyes, his flushed face, the slight parting of his pale pink lips as he breathed in shallow little bursts. Dean’s whole body thrummed with pleasure as the knot low in his belly began to grow tighter in synchronization with the pulsing ache in his dick.

Jimmy tossed his head to the side and panted out, “Gonna come.” Dean’s thumb ran over the slit of Jimmy’s dick, and he grazed his lips over the shell of Jimmy’s ear, “Then come for me.” With that a broken cry left Jimmy, Dean kept pumping his cock, wringing every desperate cry and word – a litany of his name, “Dean, Dean, Dean, oh please.” Dean’s cock twitched, nearly came from how it sounded like a prayer. Dean’s fingers were wet as he withdrew them and he licked them clean. “Damage is done.”

Jimmy’s free hand cupped the back of Dean’s neck as he dragged him down for a long lazy kiss, in contrast to the hard friction he put on Dean’s cock. “I’m going to get you to come, without me ever touching your flesh Dean. I’m going to leave you wanting, wanting so much more.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered close and proved Jimmy right.

They lay in the car, hot, a little sticky and strangely comfortable in the tangle of their limbs. Jimmy purred with contentment as he felt Dean’s breath ghost over his lips as they faced each other, tips of their noses only millimeters apart.

Dean could feel Jimmy’s heart thumping against his chest in a comforting rhythm. Jimmy’s fingers splayed themselves across Dean’s left bicep with a scalding heat and it only seemed fair that Dean plant a kiss on the angle of his jaw. “I spoke to Sam and you were right. I had to speak to him first. I see him now, outside of my dreams.” Breathing out a trembling sigh Dean stared into the deep twin pools of Jimmy’s eyes. “He doesn’t want to leave me. I…I feel like I can wait now to join him in my own time.”

Jimmy’s fingers tightened marginally on his bicep but his thumb drew tight little circles beneath the cuff of his t-shirt. “Do you see him now?” Levering himself up on his elbow Dean looked out the rear window. In the gloom cast by the overarching evergreen trees he saw Sam, just a flicker of his hazel eyes. “Yeah, he’s there…but he wasn’t looking.” Dean added with a nervous chuckle.

Dean lowered himself again and was met with a fond, kind smile. Jimmy ran his kiss-swollen lips over the stubble of Dean’s cheek, which elicited a minute shiver in both men. “I’m so happy for you, Dean.”

Dean hummed, “And I guess, if I’m seeing my dead brother, who’s to say you’re not an angel called Castiel, huh?” Dean recollected how Jimmy never slept, seemed to know things without being told and the calming aura that battled with the barely bridled wrath that burbled beneath his cool exterior. 

“You’ve found your faith.”

Dean’s huff of breath brushed over Jimmy’s skin. “Guess I have.”

After a few more minutes Dean sat up and stretched, shortly followed by a lazy rake of his nails. He plucked at his pants with a grimace of distaste. “I need a shower.”

Jimmy followed the movements of Dean’s hands and with a smirk added, “I would be remiss not to also have one.” Dean traced the curve of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, “Guess we should get going then.” With a click, the Impala’s door opened and the humid, hot air laced with the musky scent of sex rushed out to be replaced by the frigid air outside. Dean swore under his breath as he clambered out, followed shortly by Jimmy. Over the back of the Impala Dean saw Sam turn and raise a brow at his creased clothes that stuck to the cooled sweat.

Ignoring his little brother Dean closed the door after Jimmy and then headed to the side door that led into the dayroom. The dayroom was its usual self of eclectic activities and stifling heat. Dean caught Gordon’s eye, who rose and crossed over to them, hands tucked into his pockets. His lips split into a grin and his gaze lingered on Dean for a moment before it crossed to Jimmy, where the grin only widened.

Dean immediately bristled as he remembered his very first meeting with the man. “What do you want, Gordon?”

Gordon whistled low, “You sound a bit antagonistic, Winchester. Jimmy rubbing off on you?”

Dean rolled his eyes, “Get to the point, okay?”

With a shrug Gordon wet his lips and this time his gaze rested solely on Jimmy, who had watched the exchange with the uttermost platitude. “There’s been talk that they’re organizing to move you soon, Jimmy. Apparently you’ve been too disruptive to the other patients, been getting in the way of their recovery. First Anna and now Dean and then the cherry on top is that split lip you’re sporting.” Gordon finished with a gesture to Jimmy’s cut. “Crazy just seems to roll off you don’t it, Jimmy?”

Each new word out of Gordon’s mouth was a nail that hammered itself into Jimmy’s coffin, and when Dean glanced at Jimmy he saw that his face had drained of color. “They’re gonna lock you up and throw away the key.”

Dean stiffened and clenched his fists, which made Gordon raise a brow and let out a derisive snort, “You going to hit me? Go ahead, you’d make my day.”

A firm hand found Dean’s shoulder and it was all he needed to bid away the growing thump of rage crowding in his skull. “He’s not worth it.” Jimmy spoke, voice quiet and subdued, losing its normally gravel deep assuredness.

Gordon’s disappointment was palpable and he raised his chin to spit out his next words, “You’re a coward, Winchester. A royal fucked up mess, and you’re never going to get out here either until you’re in a pine box, cos you’re getting worse.”

Dean blinked and nearly missed Jimmy’s elegant hand as it whipped out and wrapped itself around Gordon’s throat. There was a flurry of movement as Gordon’s struggled against the vice like grip that threatened to crush his windpipe. The wrath that created floods in the Bible and stole every first-born son of Egypt oozed from Jimmy’s every pore as he slammed Gordon into a wall with a vicious ferocity. Uriel the orderly rushed over, finger going to the call button on his belt.

“Jimmy, let go of him.” Dean urged as he clamped his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders, which were devoid of shivers, completely still and strong.

Gordon was choking, eyes rolling into the back of his skull as Jimmy coolly applied ounce after ounce of more pressure. Eyes like unforgiving ice, they burned into Gordon’s skin.

“Jimmy!”

Dean was forced aside as Uriel approached. At the very first touch, Jimmy released Gordon and kicked out at the orderly. In the one fluid arc of his leg he sent Uriel crashing to the floor with an audible rush of air. Jimmy was on him and had the hard line of his forearm at his throat. Jimmy’s military past was evident for the wide eyes and hushed audience of the day room.

“Stop, Jimmy, please.” Dean begged, afraid to touch the man who seemed only a remnant of the kind gentle person that had watched over him sleep only two nights ago.

Collected and calm Jimmy stood up. Immediately Uriel coughed and spluttered as he rolled onto his side to drag air into his deprived lungs.

“Come on, Jimmy,” Dean urged as he held out his hand. Jimmy’s calloused hand slipped into Dean’s, “I’m sorry.”

“It’ll be okay,” Dean stumbled over the words, numb from witnessing the efficient, graceful movements that had two larger men down in mere seconds. Dean tugged Jimmy behind him; he wasted no time in getting to his room at the end of the corridor.

Saint Dymphna was eerily quiet.

The door clicked into place and with it the tension began to leech from Dean’s bones. “What the fuck was that, huh? You shouldn’t have done that.”

Jimmy rolled his shoulders as he strode into Dean’s bathroom, “It doesn’t matter Dean, I’m leaving anyway. There’s nothing left for me to lose. He shouldn’t have said those things about you.”

Dean marched across the room and his fingers found purchase in the stiff cotton shirt as he spun Jimmy around. Jimmy’s cheeks were wet with tears and eyes reddened with their stream. “I never wanted to be here. I want to go home, be back with my brothers and sisters in Heaven. I want to help people again, I never wanted to be here,” He let out in a verbal deluge, “And then you came here and I don’t want to lose you, I can’t lose anything else.”

Dean’s hand cupped Jimmy’s smooth cheek, palm a perfect fit for the jut of his cheekbone; they stood fixed to each other in Dean’s lifeless room. “You’re not going to.”

Jimmy angrily wiped at the warm tears but otherwise didn’t move, “How?”

Dean spoke without ever having processed the words as though the plan had always lain safely in the back of his mind. “The Impala’s here, the key will most likely be in the safe in the room near reception. They haven’t emptied the fuel tank yet. We’ll drive straight out.”

“How are we going to open the safe? Or even get out, the windows are made with safety glass and the doors are locked as soon as the sun goes down.” As though to reinforce the fact the room became tinged with vermillion as the sun sank below the horizon, viewable through Dean’s narrow windows.

Taking a moment to think, Dean drew his hand away from Jimmy’s face, “At five AM the cleaner comes past my room. He’s got a ring of keys on his belt. There’ll be ones for the doors and there might be a spare for the safe. If not I’ll hotwire the Impala.”

Jimmy seemed to shrink in on himself becoming impossibly smaller and more fragile n the singular moment, “You would do that?”

Dean slapped Jimmy’s arm and grinned, “Well, first I’m going to have a shower while we wait for the cleaner. Then we’ll spring this joint, that is if they don’t take you away tonight.”

Jimmy shook his head, gaze sharp and calculating again, “No, they won’t, not tonight.”

“Is that an angel thing, knowing crap like that?”

Once again, in the same vein of previous questions, Jimmy did not answer but responded with a slight tilt of his head.

Dean’s smile was warm as he fondly shook his head; he made his way into the bathroom where he shucked off his clothes, which still stuck to him from the rut in the car. He stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over him in a therapeutic torrent. He pressed his palms against the tiles and bowed his head. Picking up the bottle of body wash he lathered himself with it, he smelled the spices, heady and strong as he scrubbed it into his body, letting his nails catch his skin. The skin of his chest, his arms and his thighs were almost rubbed raw with angry red welts. In the last moments of his shower he changed the setting to cold and he bit back a gasp, as his skin seemed to tighten at the sudden change. Mist hung heavy in the air when he emerged from the shower and once more he wiped the mirror clean. Sam was behind him, just like before. Madness, Dean realised was repetition. “Heya Sammy, you know I’m leaving here right? You can follow me?”

Sam nodded as he maintained eye contact with Dean’s reflection in the water stained mirror. Dean let out a breath of relief as he snagged a towel off the rail and tied it snug around his hips. It wasn’t strange that Sam was with him, even in the most private of places. It was normal.

Dean left the bathroom and felt a strange buoyancy possess him, heralded by the nervous energy that coaxed a lopsided turn to his lips. Jimmy sat perched on the edge of his chair by Dean’s bed. Dean glanced at the clock; saw that they had six hours left to burn.

“You can have a shower now if you want, we’ve got time to kill.” Dean murmured as he sat down on his bed. Sam had emerged from the bathroom, his pace a little slower than Dean’s but once more he stood guard at Dean’s bed, which put him between the door and his older brother. Jimmy nodded his assent and disappeared into the bathroom, soon Dean heard the cadence of the shower’s water as it drummed against the tiles.

With a groan Dean pulled off his towel and found a clean set of clothes. Once dressed he laid down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

He drifted into the place in-between sleep and wakefulness and when the mattress dipped with added weight his bottle-green eyes fluttered open. Droplets of water ran along the dark tousled spikes of Jimmy’s hair. He, too, was dressed but the new clothes were too large, hung off his frame, clearly Dean’s and not his own. A little spike of possessiveness went through Dean, he held out his arms and Jimmy gratefully slotted himself into the embrace, chest coming flush against Dean’s. Jimmy tucked the hard jut of his chin into the curve of where Dean’s neck met his shoulder. The grip Dean had on him was strong, tight, cloying with its intimacy. “Nothing’s going to happen to you okay? We’re going to get out of here, together. Sam’s here too.” Dean’s puff of breath tickled the edge Jimmy’s ear. “Team Free Will.” Dean said to no one.

The hours passed peacefully and Dean squeezed his eyes shut as his anxiety began to ratchet up. His fingers tracked along Jimmy’s back, he felt raised lumps and lines of skin where there should be nothing but smooth planes.

When the green numbers of the digital clock radio burned 4:47AM into Dean’s retinas he carefully untangled himself from the mass of sprawled limbs. A little grumpy moan left Jimmy as he lost their shared body heat.

“I’m going to watch the door, he might be here early.” Dean said as he opened the door ajar slightly so that he could see into the corridor from the chair at the desk. Jimmy stretched his arms over his head. “Do you want to take your notebook?”

Dean’s gaze immediately found Sam and Jimmy followed his line of sight but saw nothing. “Nah,” He emphasized the word with a shake of his head, “Not any point when I can speak to Sam directly.”

The smile dropped from Dean’s face as he heard the rattle of keys, the sure footsteps of someone walking towards their room. Jimmy’s gaze flicked from Dean to the door. He stood up from the bed and his nostrils flared as he took in a deep calming breath, smelled the spice of Dean’s body wash and the harsh chemical cleaners that lay in a veneer across the room’s surfaces. Jimmy indicated with his fingers that Dean should go out into the corridor. Dean nodded and complied. The man was older with a face covered in bristles and atop his head he wore a battered red cap, the yellowed laminated nametag on his shirt declared ‘Bobby Singer’. “Hey there Bobby.” Dean spoke by way of announcing himself.

The man stiffened, “You should get back in your room, or I’ll have to report you.” He groused as his fingers nervously twitched along the frayed seam of his hat. Dean inhaled in a hiss through his clenched teeth, “Ah you see, I was wondering if you could help me? My heater’s broken and my room is freezing, I can’t sleep when it’s this cold.”

Bobby looked about him but eventually smiled, “I don’t see why not. You just don’t go tellin’ anybody okay, boy? I’ll see what I can do.”

Dean’s smile was charming and warm, “Great, thanks a lot.” The lies flowed free and easy from his lips.

Bobby walked into the room and kneeled at the radiator. He ran his hands along the knobs and dials and peered behind it. Dean walked in after him and closed the door, which revealed Jimmy who had hidden behind it. All Bobby had time to do was stiffen before Jimmy fell to a knee behind him and wrapped his arm around his neck, he used the hard flat bone of his forearm to press down on Bobby’s windpipe. The older man struggled and his boots clanged against the metal heater. Dean winced at the loud sound and glanced over his shoulder at the window in his door. After another couple of seconds Bobby went still and Jimmy gently laid him down on the floor. Dean breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the man’s chest rising and falling.

Dean ducked down and pried the ring of keys from Bobby’s belt and twirled them on his finger. “Let’s go.”

Together they entered the corridor. Saint Dymphna was a completely different beast at night. The stark ivory walls were almost black; the shadows clung onto them like tapestries. The lights above were a harsh buzz of light that did nothing to banish the gloom and worst of all was the absolute silence, the stillness of the place that seeped from the hospital’s every cracked tile and inch of plastered wall. Dean’s breath was short and bottled in his lungs; even the sound of him breathing seemed an intrusion on the unearthly peace. Jimmy’s footsteps were measured, quiet and Dean inwardly cursed himself for his seemingly louder footsteps. Dean held up a key and tried it in the door, as though by some miracle it fitted and the door swung open with a labored creak. When they entered the dayroom they paused. There were no orderlies, no guards, no one to pry on their plans to leave. The Christmas lights twinkled and blinked as they alternated between settings. The glow tinged the room with red and green, turned the abstract paintings on the easels into macabre grins. Dean led the way through the dayroom, navigated around the chairs and detritus of board games that hung off the edges of tables. Jimmy’s hand clutched onto Dean’s arm and he dragged Dean down with him behind a table. Dean held his breath as he heard a door open. From between the table legs he watched the black leather shoes meander through. The footsteps came closer, careful loud steps.

Dean only breathed again when the shoes headed towards the employee door and then disappeared through it.

“Fucking hell,” Dean whispered and Jimmy pulled him to his feet and took the keys from his trembling hands. In a once more serendipitous event Jimmy chose the right key and they walked out from the dayroom, the plastic baubles on the Christmas tree swayed when the door swung shut behind them.

Dean’s mouth was dry, heart a constant frantic patter in his chest. The only thing that calmed him was the aura that seemed to emanate from Jimmy, a sense of confidence in the set of his shoulders, strength in the straight line of his back and assuredness from his quick pace as he made his way to the next door. This door was unlocked. Dean looked around the dark room, the silver moon hung heavy in the sky outside lending everything a subtle glow along its surface. Jimmy held out the keys for Dean, which he took whilst Jimmy looked around the room. Dean’s fingers slipped over the cool metal and jagged teeth in the palm of his hand. He picked a key and tried to slot it into the safe’s keyhole, he grunted when it was met with resistance. He tried another and another and another. Panic began to bloom hot and sticky. Dean spun on his heel, “None of the keys fit.”

In Jimmy’s arms were a pile of clothes, Dean saw his own, the plaid, the leather jacket and the ripped up jeans but added to that was a cobalt tie, a black suit that reminded him of funerals and a long tan trench coat. Jimmy passed him the clothes silently, “Let me try.”

With the keys in hand he picked a tiny silver one where the lacquer had begun to chip away to show the dark iron underside. There was a satisfying click as the key unlocked the safe door.

“That key…it wasn’t there before.” Dean murmured, stunned.

Jimmy ignored him as he took a step back. Dean rubbed the back of his neck as he leaned down. His eyes ached with the strain of looking through the dark. Finally he found the Impala’s keys and with it he also pulled out the wooden box he had stored his personal items in only days ago. He lifted the lid and took out his black plastic watch, his brown leather wallet and with a sudden smile he ducked his head and put his amulet back on. As he straightened Jimmy smiled back at him.

Dean never imagined it could be so easy he walked out the front doors of Saint Dymphna in his hospital whites, lurid white shapes in the dark. He paused to look back, the statue at the top of the roof hung over them with her hands still clasped in religious repose. “Hope I don’t ever see you again, Dymph.”

Jimmy’s hand slipped into his and their fingers intertwined. Their breath misted before their lips as their shoes crunched in the gravel. They walked around the building and into the garden. The flowers were shut, muted cold colors in the night and the grass snapped under foot, brittle from the frost. The carport lay before them and the Impala’s chrome edges gleamed in the half-light.

Only when they reached the hood of the Impala did Dean and Jimmy let their hands separate. Dean slipped into the driver’s seat and Jimmy rode shotgun. They left their civilian clothing in the back; their white clothes a stark contrast to the black and brown interior. This time Dean knew this key would be a perfect fit. The Impala purred when he started her up. Jimmy leaned forward and turned on the heat. The moon caught the blues of his eyes, so bright they gleamed. The Impala accelerated, her tires spinning on the loose gravel as she sped out from under the carport. Her back swung out when Dean rounded the corner and they made it onto the long snaking path of the driveway. The trees branches shook with a gust of wind above them.

Jimmy crowded in close on the bench seat and laid a warm hand on Dean’s thigh in a gentle press.

They drove for miles with no destination in mind. They didn’t speak just cast each other glances and stole fleeting touches. Jimmy wound down the window after the first hour despite the heat that cocooned them in the car. He draped his arm outside, spread his fingers and tried to catch the wind.  Dean laughed at the boyish grin on Jimmy’s face and when Dean glanced into the back he saw Sam’s lips fall into a grin.

The Impala’s headlights illuminated the yellow lines in the road, caught the eyes of animals in the bushes along the side of the road. But it wasn’t long before Dean shut them off with the rising of a golden, flat sun. Dean stifled a yawn and when he saw a wooden sign along the road, he sent Jimmy a grin, “Fancy stopping for an hour or two?”

Jimmy rolled the window up, cheeks burned with the wind and nodded.

They pulled in at Salvation Motel, got a room from the sleepy clerk and slipped inside.

They didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t need to with the rising sun’s rays that shone through the windows. It painted everything gold, caught Dean’s freckles that painted his nose and the tops of his cheeks. Jimmy leant forward and kissed the freckles, soft lips that ghosted across Dean’s flesh.  

Dean’s hands wandered under Jimmy’s shirt, the firm touches tickled his belly as he reached up to tease at Jimmy’s nipples. The other man groaned and rocked his hips up into Dean. Dean felt high, exhilarated and most of all free. Dean let one hand slip out from under Jimmy’s shirt and let his fingers latch on tight into his short crop of hair. He pulled slightly, made Jimmy gasp with the thrill of pain and Dean took the opportunity to lick inside his mouth, taste him and rub his tongue over Jimmy’s. The kiss was desperate, lacked finesse, and their teeth clicked against one another and in a feral lightheaded moment Dean bit down on the cut on Jimmy’s lip. The metallic tang of blood was crisp against his taste buds. “Strip,” Dean growled against Jimmy’s lips and with his hand still splayed against Jimmy’s chest he felt a shiver run through the other man, angel, whatever.

Taking a step back Jimmy stripped off his shirt and Dean’s gaze eagerly lapped up the stretch of his muscles in the action. Jimmy continued by toeing off his shoes and trousers. Jimmy stood there expectantly, cock arching up to his belly as he waited for Dean to do the same. With a swipe of his tongue across his swollen lips Dean quickly stripped nude. In a strange lapse they stood across from each other, bed behind Jimmy and merely devoured with their gazes.

Jimmy observed a man who had obviously had once had a great physique -- still did in places with the perfect curves and dips of his arms and legs, the tight waist but he also saw the slight softness of his belly and he longed to caress it, feel it. Freckles dotted his chest and a black tattoo of a pentagram within a sun had Jimmy rolling his hips with the spike of arousal that filled his blood with its pleasant buzz.

Dean saw scars covering Jimmy’s shoulders that wrapped down over him, raised white bumps that were stark against his tanned complexion. On his chest there was another scar, this one circular from the bullet wound he had treated all those years previously. “On the bed,” Dean choked out, half order, half plea. Jimmy complied and crawled onto the bed, firm ass on display that had Dean bite back a needy moan. The scars continued, fanned out from his spine in ragged harsh lines. Jimmy was about to turn around but Dean stopped him by placing a hand on his lower back. His fingers massaged the firm ass cheeks as he kissed along the raised tracks made by the scars. He tasted Jimmy’s sweat, the salt in it, and the lavender soap he favored.

“I’ll be right back,” Dean breathed across Jimmy’s back and the other man sighed and bowed his head slightly. He turned himself over to lie his back flat against the bed, using his elbows to prop himself up against the navy blue sheets. Dean disappeared into the adjacent bathroom but quickly reemerged with a few bottles.

Jimmy lazily stroked his hard cock on the bed, legs spread in invitation for when Dean emerged. Dean nearly let the bottles slip from his fingers. “I’m tired of waiting.” Jimmy said, voice deep like velvet. Dean walked over to the bed and knelt between Jimmy’s legs, feeling his own cock smear pre-come across his belly in a wet line. “With you there, angel.”

Jimmy smiled at the nickname but then let out a broken tinny sound when he felt Dean’s lips on his cock. There were a few tentative laps at the silken head before Dean’s tongue travelled over the underside. Jimmy’s hand went to Dean’s head and his fingers cupped the curve of his skull as he watched Dean lick at him, plump lips running soft with tiny little sucking sounds as they ran along the curve of him. Jimmy panted and lifted his hips free from the mattress, sweat collected in the dip of his throat. “Dean, stop, I won’t…I won’t last,” He gasped out, lips parted with his breathy words.

Dean raised his head and on impulse leaned forward to lick a line from the sweaty dip of Jimmy’s throat to where the lobe of his ear met his jaw. “Tired of waiting?”

“God yes,” Jimmy let out in a groan and at that Dean clicked open the bottle of cheap lotion he had found in the bathroom. He slathered his fingers with it, rubbed the pads of them together to warm it and then, gentle but insistent pressed a finger to Jimmy’s entrance. Jimmy’s head fell back, the rising sun catching the long arch of his throat. Dean added another finger as Jimmy’s hips jerked impatiently, which made another dribble of pre-come leak from the head of his cock. Dean added another finger, stretching the taut muscle. Jimmy leaned back and relaxed as he concentrated on sucking in the hot humid air that had collected in their room.

“Please Dean…” He begged, blues of his eyes almost lost in the black of his pupils. Dean nodded, brain fogged with lust as he squeezed more oil out of the bottle and let it collect in a puddle in the palm of his hand. He ran his palm over his cock and rolled his hips into his grip. “Jimmy…” He let out against himself and closed his eyes. A hand found his hip; thumb digging delightfully into the dip.

Dean’s eyes opened again, green eyes feverish with lust. He kept a hold of his cock and positioned the head of it against Jimmy’s entrance. “Please.” Jimmy committed to the air, and that’s all Dean needed to slowly lean forward on his knees, hands on either side of Jimmy’s slim form. He didn’t allow Jimmy time enough to relax, to get used to his girth, but the delicious little pants and words of nonsense and desperation that flew unbidden from his lover’s bruised and cut lips told Dean that he didn’t care in the slightest. Finally Dean bottomed out, hips flush against Jimmy’s searing hot flesh. “So tight,” Dean bit out. Dean took a moment for himself and in that time Jimmy leaned upwards and kissed a path along Dean’s jaw line.

Eventually Dean began to move again as he slowly pulled out of the tight heat that surrounded his cock. He almost had to remember to breathe as he stared down at Jimmy’s blissed out face, his parted lips, his bright eyes, the flush of desire that colored his throat and face. Soon Dean built up a rhythm, plunging in and out of Jimmy which had the man under him rocking, fingers curling in the blankets as the air was punched out of him with every strong thrust. One of Jimmy’s hands came around his cock and he began to stroke it in time with Dean’s thrusts and used his thumb to rub over the collected pre-come at the head with every upward stroke.

Dean lowered his head; his chin almost touched his sweaty chest as he began to pound in earnest. “I’m fucking an angel, god I’m fucking an angel,” he let out and he tilted his hips up, getting the angle just so. Jimmy arched up and his mouth formed around a silent scream, he writhed as he came with white lines that painted his stomach and chest as he pumped his hips into his own grip and down hard onto Dean’s own cock. Dean could feel the growing of heat inside of him, the way his balls grew tight and with a barely suppressed scream of pleasure he came inside of Jimmy and didn’t stop until it became painful with all of the sensation. Slowly he pulled out and rolled onto his side. Jimmy reciprocated and rolled to face Dean and he carefully laid his hand onto Dean’s left bicep.

They once more found themselves pressed together with their faces only an inch apart. Dean wanted to laugh, to smile to scream but the pleasant afterglow of his orgasm robbed him of his strength so he settled for a gentile smile. Jimmy felt one on his own face as he stroked Dean’s arm.

“I hope Sam was outside.”

Dean let out a small tremble of laughter. “Yeah, he’s in the Impala.”

Jimmy closed his eyes with a sigh and pressed himself more snugly against Dean. “Where are we going once we wake up?”

Dean’s canine rubbed along his lower lip, “You know what, I don’t know.”

Jimmy’s hair whispered against the pillow as he nodded, “Good.”