Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Sanitarium

It could have been worse. After all, they had let him keep his amulet. And his ring. And his clothes, though there had been a very, ah, tense moment when the nurse ever-so-politely explained the bath and laundry rules in a wary tone that meant if he didn't smell better next time she saw him, he'd get stripped and hosed down and his clothing all replaced with backless hospital gowns.

If the nurse had been twenty years younger and about a thousand degrees hotter, Dean might have considered it.

There was a shiny plastic bracelet on his wrist now—bright, goddamned blaze orange. Most of the people in here had white ones, meaning that they'd come willingly.

Orange was "involuntary commit." Seventy-two hours. Minimum.

Sammy had better be taking care of his car.

Sammy had better be coming by as soon as visiting hours started.

Son of a bitch, he must be bored out of his mind if all he could think of was seeing Sam for 45 minutes. Sam was the reason he was in this mess. We can try to fool the ghost, Dean. This should work, Dean. We can save him, Dean. Yeah, save him so well the cops think I'm the suicidal nutjob and haul me off to the hospital! I'm so killing his ass.

He prowled the halls restlessly when they said he could—which was nowhere near as much as he liked, and there were all these stupid "classes" to go to—code-speak for "group therapy session"—and at one point they gave him pictures to color. To color! With crayons! Like he was a fucking six-year-old! And decaffeinated everything! No junk food!

Well, okay, that wasn't so bad. The food was decent. Especially for a hospital.

But if he'd been the suicidal bastard the cops had mistaken him for, he would have hanged himself with a shoelace by now. Too quiet, for one thing. No music, no TV, no white noise, no nothing.

The other—hm—patients were a mixed lot, mostly annoying. Most seemed normal enough, but they were way too friendly. All hugs. A couple—well, a couple were more like what he'd expected when he'd woken up in the ER to find a too-friendly doctor explaining that they were keeping him for psychiatric observation. And a handful had either been here so long the social workers were wearing off on them, or they were here for overactive cheerfulness. What the hell was he supposed to be happy about?

The nurse who handed out medication was smarter than Dean gave her credit for. Within five minutes of him pretending to swallow the pills, he was surrounded by three more nurses with another set of pills and a bottle of water.

Some things, even a Winchester couldn't fight.

About thirty minutes later, he fell asleep. Luckily, he made it to the bed first.

"Dean?"

Dean forced his eyes open. There was a floppy-haired blur leaning over him. Visiting hours already? But — "Goddamn drugs," he muttered, trying to force his eyes to focus. Then he saw the grin on Sam's face, and wished he hadn't. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Sam wisely did not answer the taunt. "I brought you some more clothes," he offered instead, setting Dean's bag on the end of the bed. "The salt didn't make it."

"What the hell do they think I'm going to do with salt?"

"I believe," Sam said, with a perfectly straight face, "that they're afraid you're going to spike somebody's dinner."

"Jesus."

"Some of the other patients are on restricted diets."

"They think I'm going to go around salting other people's plates?"

"Something like." Sam shoved Dean's feet out of the way and sat down. "You scared the nice lady with the crayons," he said. That grin was there again.

"She told me to color."

"Did she tell you to add the big black knife stuck in Winnie-the-Pooh's chest? 'Cause she stopped me to express her concern."

Dean tried his very best not to whine. "Please. Get me the fuck out of here, Sam."

"Can't. I tried. You've got to convince them that you're not suicidal anymore—"

"I wasn't suicidal to begin with!"

"—and that there's nothing else wrong with you."

"Oh, fuck."

"Yeah, I saw the problem with that too."

Dean glared at him. "Give me a reason, Sammy. Just one. I'm in a psych ward, I haven't had any caffeine, and I'm drugged."

"Sorry."

"If you were really sorry, you'd get me out of here." His eyes closed.

"Dean, are you okay?"

He didn't bother trying to open his eyes. "Drugged, Sammy. Did you miss that part?"

"What are they giving you?"

"I didn't ask." There was a muffled noise that, if his drowsy ears weren't mistaken, was Sam choking on a laugh. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean."

"Get off my feet." He kicked in Sam's general direction, then rolled to one side, pulled the blanket over his head, and went back to sleep.

In his dreams, he heard Sam laughing.