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It was so dark, and all that Dean felt was pain. Internal and external pain. His throat was hoarse from all the screaming, screaming for help, for Cas. It seemed like he was in Hell, screaming over and over again. "Sammy." He tried to yell, but his voice came out in a whimper. Time seemed to pass by so excruciatingly slow. And just as the previous pain began to pass, he felt another electrical surge go through him, and he screamed, tears rolling down his face. Then he remembered. He was on a hunt, with Sam and Cas. Nothing new. There had been complaints about a vampire nest near Rosewood Mental Hospital, and it was pretty easy to kill them. They had the job done in around 30 minutes, and then they were ready to go. Just as they approached the Impala, they heard a woman scream, but it wasn't a scream of pain, it was a scream of horror and anger. Dean ran over to where he had heard the woman, and he saw a young woman, with long blonde hair and the most innocent look on her face. Dean also saw that she was wearing a habit, and realized that she was a nun. "Excuse me, miss?" Dean called out, walking over towards her. She was sobbing, and her entire body began to shake. "You killed them." She looked up, meeting Dean's gaze. "You killed the Rosewood children." Dean was confused. Rosewood children, now that was new. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Those were vampires." And that was the last thing he said. She spun around, punching him with more force then he thought women could actually deliver. But then again, he must have really pissed her off. And that was when he woke up to the sounds of equipment being put together, and then came the pain. Dean couldn't remember how long he had been there, hook up to all that machinery, he could've been there for days. But at last, he got changed into a pair of white scrubs, and shoved out of the room. The building was old (old as balls). The wall were lined with bricks that crumbled when you touched them, and every single floorboard creaked if you put any weight on it. Lights flickered overhead as he walked through the eerily empty hallway. He passed doors that lined the walls, painted a disgusting shade of green, and not to mention they looked like jail cell doors. As he turned a corner, he heard a song playing faintly, but he couldn't quite understand the singer. The lights flickered again, and the fear grew inside of Dean, giving him the required strength to either run or fight. As he rounded another corner, the music became clearer, and that's when Dean realized he couldn't understand the singer because he was singing in French. At this point, Dean thought he was dreaming. But if it was only just a dream. (Cette fois c'était la derniére tu peux croire que c'est qu'une crise.) The music became louder as Dean approached the only room with voices coming from it. The room had two glass paned doors leading into it, and although he heard voices, none of them sounded happy or cheerful, but rather angry and depressing. The music echoed behind the doors, and Dean froze, not wanting to touch the handle. Matte une derniére fois Mon derriere Il est à cote de mes valises. Dean swung open the doors, and froze. The room was filled with Rosewood patients. Dean was at the Rosewood Mental Hospital. Shock immediately replaced the fear, and he could feel his sight began to fail him. Why was he in Rosewood? Where was Sam? Where was Cas? Dean walked further into the room, searching for some familiar faces, but none of the people seemed to know Dean. But he didn’t care, he was only looking for his brother and his friend. The song was coming from a record player, and frankly it was driving Dean crazy. (Rendez-vous, rendez-vous, rendez-vous au prochain règlement, rendez-vous, rendez-vous, rendez-vous sûrement aux prochaines règles.) Dean stomped over to the record player, and reached out to lift the needle off the record, before a hand grabbed his wrist. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The voice said gruffly. Dean looked up, seeing the most sane person he had ever met inside a mental hospital. “And why’s that?” Dean asked, the frustration clear in his voice. He ripped his hand from the grip of the other, glaring at him. “The sisters love that song, and as long as it plays, the common room is open, and everyone is happy.” The man explained, a sarcastic tone to his voice. He had the blackest hair Dean had ever seen, and the most pale complexion. “And who might you be?” Dean asked, still glancing around the room for Sam. “I could asking the same about you.” The other man replied. Dean sighed, introducing himself. “Dean. Dean Winchester.” He said in a flat tone. “Nice to meet you Dean. The name is Sherlock Holmes.” “Wait, Sherlock Holmes, as in Detective Sherlock Holmes?” Dean asked, immediately confused. “Yes, and as you can see, he isn’t a lowly fictional character developed from the lowly mind of a depressed author.” Sherlock seemed easily agitated, so people must have asked him that questions loads of times. “Well, thank you for stopping me, Sherlock.” Dean nodded, his face set in neither frown or smile. “You must be looking for your brother.” Sherlock said, “He’s over there, talking to my good friend, John Watson.” Dean immediately averted his gaze to where Sherlock was pointing, to see Sam in a deep conversation with a man who looked like he needed to shave. Dean practically ran over to Sam, smiling. “Sammy, oh thank God I found you.” Dean drew him into a hug, noticing that he also wore white scrubs. “Uh, I’ve been here for 3 weeks Dean.” Sam replied, hugging him back. “Where were you?” “I’m not sure I can remember. It was horrible though, it felt like I was in Hell again.” Dean spoke in a low voice, so that neither Sherlock or John could hear. “Where’s Cas?” He asked, looking around the room once again. “He hasn’t come back either.” Sam replied, pulling away from Dean. “He’s been gone for so long.”
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Panic and despair washed over Dean like a tidal wave. "What do you mean he's gone?" Dean asked. "No, Dean. I didn't mean that. I meant that I haven't seen him. I'm not quite sure where he is." Dean sighed, only 000.001% of relief replacing the pain and fear. "I've seen that you've met Sherlock Holmes and John over there." Dean flung his hand in a pathetic attempt to point in his general direction. "Yep. They were my first friends here." Sam grinned, his brown bangs flopping around. John smiled, reaching out his hand for Dean to shake. "It's so nice to finally meet the famous Dean Winchester. Sam has told us all about you, but only the good things." John had a very cheerful tone of voice, opposite to Sherlock's monotone. Dean smiled back k at John, but it came out more like a grimace. "So how long have you been here?" Dean asked, still looking around the room for no particular reason. "Sherlock and I used to own a flat together. I worked at a hospital nearby, and Sherlock worked as a detective. Around 4 years ago, Sherlock faked his suicide, and I got married to a former assassin and pyschopath. After she tried to kill Sherlock, I killed her and ended up here." John explained, still smiling brightly throughout the entire conversation. "Damn, I asked how long you were here, not your life story." Dean replied, chuckling lightly. Sam glared at him, and with that Dean apologized, all while John smiled. "So who is this Cas you talk about?" Sherlock asked. The question caught Dean by complete surprise. "Oh, uh, he's just a good friend of mine." Sam snorted in response. "What?" Dean asked in defense. "Just a good friend." Sam dropped his voice lower in attempt to imitate Dean. "We all know you're lying." "No I'm not." Dean replied, glaring at Sam. “Well Sherlock and I are in a relationship, so it won’t bother us.” John said, a bit too happily. Sherlock shot him a look, and he looked down at his feet, but Dean could tell that he was blushing. “Well, I’m sorry, but me and Cas...we-we’re not that.” Dean started to stutter, and both him and Sam knew he only did it when he was nervous. “Okay. Whatever you say.” Sam smiled. He was dealing with being inside a mental asylum much better then Dean was, but his presence did comfort Dean. He felt much better knowing that he was safe.They sat together, talking like they had been friends for years, when they had only met 15 minutes ago. (What doesn’t kill youMakes you wish you were dead.I’ve got a hole in my soulGrowing deeper and deeper. And I can’t takeOne more moment of this silence.)That night, Dean was escorted to his room by the main guard under request of Sister Joann, or known as the person Dean pissed off in the woods. He had the cell at the end of the hallway, the door painted the same forest-green as all the rest. As he walked down the long hallway, he heard jeers and insults shouted at him, but he just ignored them. The other patients tried to reach out and grab him, but all that was prevented by the guard. Once he reached his room, he noticed that Sam was a few doors down from him, and that made him feel safer. But when he tried to call out to Sam, he saw that Sam was deep in conversation with another guy, with blonde curls and bangs that bounced around in the same fashion as Sam’s. He was smiling, and Sam seemed to be enjoying himself. Dean shrugged, and was shoved into the dingy room. He looked around at the badly lit room, hearing Sam laugh at what the other person had said. He made a mental note to himself to ask Sam about it tomorrow. The guard shouted something inaudible, and the lights shut off.