Didn’t think he’d do it.
He didn’t think of it himself. It’s scary.
You feel open in a way. Impossible to tell.
Possible to rename the story, call it a romantic movie.
But we were just. Like I said impossible to tell.
Our story is nothing new, I can’t tell you truly what it’s about or how it went on, but somehow I need to get it out. My name is not important well at least not for now. I wanted to write about him. The person I felt for the most and still do. His name was Cas, it's not his full name but I like to call him that, his real name is Castiel.
Novaaak No-vak, strange. Feels light yet heavy as it rolls off the tongue. I like saying it, alot.
Cas was an inmate here. He was just like everyone else yet completely different.
Blue eyes, pretty smile, messy hair.
Broken inside, the smile not reaching his eyes.
He liked the halls the most, letting his fingertips stroke the white and light blue walls as he walked somewhere.
I used to watch him when time had went by. Considering for a while why he made me smile, he sometimes made me sad, the way his eyes lingered on the floor, how his feet dragged behind him with each step.
Wanting to die.
I didn't like him until I first met him. Not from the beginning. But when he smiled.
He looked like an angel.
He used small movements.
He walked everywhere, somewhere, some places I couldn’t see some places I couldn’t reach.
I had barely been here two years when he came, it's hard knowing what is day and what is night.
I dont pay much attention to new inmates I didn't pay Cas any attention at first either. Well it took a turn. I'm not good with time anymore.
Then everything changed. The world I'm living in is dim, dark and mostly sad, bet it’s not too hard to understand.
Writing helps. It does. Writing a journal helps, my dad wrote one too. Sometimes I draw too, I don’t remember half of my life before they called me
I remember my brother, he comes to visit each and every week or month it’s now turning into years.
There were days I wanted to die and days I wanted to live, I do write a lot about myself even tho me is wrong.
Hate me like I do.
When my brother comes for the one hour visit he sits in front of me with his pleading yet a bit guilty puppy dog eye look feeling sorry for me, well I do too.
I tell him how sorry Iam “Iam so sorry Sammy” I say only to make him never forget. He nods and asks me if I'm taking my meds, if I'm okay.
Dosen’t care about what I have to say.
And I answer.
I show him my drawings and he smiles a bit as he looks upon the papers with black paint on them created by shaken hand movements. Then asks how the staff is holding up now when more people come and goes.
Dosen’t care about what I have to say.
And then again I answer. I can tell how his arms has grown stronger how his hair is getting longer. And how he is becoming taller.
He’s dying bit for bit by seeing me like this, he cares I’d like to believe other wise he wouldn’t sit here and watch the bags under my eyes, or dried tears on my neck. I cry pretty often these days.
Ive asked him many times if he could stop coming here, I don't want him to see me like this and I don't want him to be a part of the hell I’m living within these walls, even tho I need him more than he needs me these days, well it’s always been that way. Sorry to say. Since I'm the big brother.
I don't want him gone. Never.
We are both grown ups now but for me Sammy still is that little boy who's afraid of clowns, well that fear hasn't quite left him yet. I used to prank him alot with clown masks. How I laughed my ass off when he ran into another room yelling my name "DEAN". Afraid till I took the mask off, and then he used to hit me somewhere usally on my left upper arm. I pranked him for years and when I get out of here I'll probably prank him again.
If I get out of here.
They tried many things on me, since I became insane. They call them “tests” or “treatments” a much more mild word for hell.
I hated HATED, I'm not overreacting when I say this, so don’t you dare judge me like everyone else, you son of a bitch.
Back to what I was saying I hate the electric shock treatment. It really made me go mad.
Like truly fucking out of it. When I had these “moments” seeing all sorts of colors or figures I drew them. I hated them but got them out of my system by doing so.
They scared me, it felt like a thousand hands were placed upon my skin dragging me further down into madness. The nurses and doctors surrounding me sort of laughed, they didn’t.
Everything became my imagination only by the effects of different drugs. But I can guess or believe they enjoyed each groan and scream the depths of my throat created.
AND EVERYONE THOUGHT THIS PLACE WAS TO “CURE” THE MENTALLY ILL BUT NO... NO sir not at all. They made me the nutcase Iam. I promise.
I hate the word cure or curing, I know they only work here for money those sons of bitches. They surely wouldn't give a damn if I live today or die tomorrow.
I don't like getting angry all the time, it’s hard not too. When you walk around all day with these type of people. The living insane.
But not Cas.
He’s not one of them he’s just here. Like me.
Cas wasn’t insane either, he was sad and no one knew what to do so they sent him here.
Locked him up and threw away the key. We are not and I say not of importance anymore.
Maybe for each other.
I cried for him too.
I heard him cry very often at night through the thin walls. Back then I might even have hoped he cried for me.
And then he fell asleep.
The staff members didn’t care but there was this one man.
Staff Member 6478 that gave the most saddest of us a cookie and a pat on the back as he told us to cheer up with the soft voice of his. He was nice.
Even tho he might have thought it helped. It didn't, sometimes we even felt bad for him. Because he tried to cure what could never be cured.
And yes 6478 the system didn’t like real names, his real name is Robin I know that.
I heard someone say it someone with red lips and red hair in a bun, a woman, it was strange seeing her walk the halls listening to her heels make echoing sounds by each step she took, there wasn’t any females here only men. I pay attention to all the details, you kinda have too if you want to stay sane.
Robin flipped a bit for her making the mistake of saying his name.
Robin really like to follow the rules.
Well for an example.
Im inmate 448. 448888888, I like number 8 so I guess its ok.
Cas number is 241, I liked his too. Maybe even more.
Sammy told me everything about his life, about how he and Jessica had gotten a house and how Bobby was extremely supportive he even made it hard on Sammy.
Didn’t blame Bobby tho Bobby kinda were the only thing left in both of our lives especially in Sammy’s since I too had left him like our dad and our mom. But mom never meant to.
I miss her.
I got sad and in some ways mad because I didn’t have what Sammy had. But I truly loved the stories, he never made me forget that I still were a part of the family.
Sammy’s fiance Jessica never came to see me. Even tho Sammy said she would some day
Bobby I saw a few times.
I'm tired most of the time, I don't sleep much, but they have their methods
“here take these pills they’ll help”
I'm hungry too
“here take these pills they’ll help”
They say a million times.
PILLS PILLS pills motherfucking pills, they’re yellow, blue, red all sorts of colors you can’t see after you’ve swallowed them down, you're too out of it.
Oh and sex how I missed sex and alcohol and burgers and holy mother Mary (pun intended) my car driving baby felt like flying, I can think of a lot of things I miss. I actually missed sex for only a while.
But most of all I miss me.
I’ve lost myself along the way, it makes me depressed. I have never really felt happy.
Until blue eyes, broken smile and messy hair.
Even tho I'm not sure what I felt. It was too much.
I never told anyone why I’m here and I won’t write about it either, because I never did it.
Well then again its for the best.
I’m Dean, Dean Winchester, it felt like a good time for a name. Sounds boring.
Dean. Dean Winchester, nothing. Feels numb.
Then we sit there and stare at eachother, I'm watching Sammy’s every move trying to see if he’s still there.
He’s not fully there, I can’t blame him, I helped his world fall apart.
I miss him.
I miss him very much. My little brother.
My brother and I had always been fighters in a way. We grew up without our mother. Or a father.
That’s her name. Mary Winchester.
But I will call her mom. Mom died when I was 4 years and 10 months.
Sammy was only a baby, she died on the day he turned 6 months old.
He never knew her truly, neither did I.
Fire took her.
My dad blamed it to be an “accident” I blame the demons in our walls.
No one believed me. But I do.
She was my everything and now Sammy is.
Blonde hair, blue eyes. She baked amazing pies.
That’s her song, her favorite song. She turned it to a lullaby, she sang for me.
Sang me to sleep. She sang for Sammy too.
Dad wasn't really there after moms death. He became a hunter. Hunted deers and other animals.
At night at day.
He came home different times, different weeks.
Sometimes he was gone for longer, months even. I took care of Sammy for him.
I owe them both.
I owe Sammy still.
After all I'm nothing worth anyways.
I blame myself for everything bad that will ever happen to my little brother in the future for I’m not there.
There for him. There to protect what's left of him.
I'm not a big brother anymore.
Im 448. Only numbers.
God help me.
But there is no God. I know that.
My brother leaves around three o’clock I miss him around four o’clock.
I wave him goodbye.