See Chapters 1-5 for disclaimer. It hasn't changed.
I have to say thank you again to my reviewers. Knowing someone's actually reading and enjoying the story makes it so much fun to write. I would typically finish a story before posting so I would be sure it made sense. But I'm writing as I go along here, so please forgive me any plot blunders. For instance, Sam probably wouldn't have given his real name now that I think about it. But oh well. Just try to suspend your disbelief further than you already were, I guess. :)
This is a short chapter, but I just wanted to get it out there.
It took Sam exactly five minutes and twelve seconds of watching his new "roommate" meticulously apply half a bottle of lotion to every inch of his exposed skin to realize he didn't actually have a plan for getting out of here.
It had been hours – going on days – since he'd last eaten, and he was feeling shaky from the combination of hunger, fatigue, and the last traces of whatever it had been Dr. Anderson had injected him with. He wasn't sure where Dean was. The last he'd seen him, they'd been in that room together, Dean berating him for being such an idiot, and Sam groggily trying to explain without explaining.
"So who was the guy?"
Sam looked up to find his roommate studying him, the bottle of lotion still in his hand.
"Wow," the man said, flipping the bottle lid shut with a loud snap. He slammed the bottle down on the table so loudly that it made Sam jump. "Holy crap!" the man continued, standing up and throwing his hands into the air. He was smiling excitedly. "Oh my God! Just listen to you! That voice! Those eyes! The stupid questions!"
"Excuse me?" Sam interrupted. He had no clue what this guy was raving about.
"Oh, shit, I'm sorry." The guy seemed to be trying to reign himself in. He sat back down in the arm chair next to the window, pulling his feet up underneath him. He started to scratch at the inside of his wrist. "I don't mean to get so excited. It's just- Well, we've been waiting so long."
Waiting for what? Sam wondered, not sure he really wanted to know.
"It's so obviously you," the man continued. "I knew the minute they brought you in here."
"What's so obviously me?" Sam asked cautiously.
The man's expression shifted with an alarming suddenness from elation to regret. "You're so obviously the next one who's going to die."
Sam just stared at his companion, his blood running cold. As if having these dreams – premonitions – wasn't bad enough, random outside confirmation of the contents of said dreams had to be one of the worst feelings Sam could remember ever having felt. And Sam had felt some pretty bad things over the course of his young life.
"Why would you say that?" Sam asked, realizing too late that he was sounding a little pathetic.
The man leveraged himself up with both hands on the arms of the chair, extricating his legs out from beneath him. He set both feet on the ground and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
"I know you think you're brave and smarter than Dr. Anderson – which it's possible you are," the man paused to snort derisively. "But he has resources that you can't combat."
"What resources?" As much as he was usually prepared to put in the long hours doing research when it meant getting the job done and living to tell – or not tell – the tale, it was testing Sam's patience being spoon-fed tiny morsels of information by this creepy guy.
"Well, let's see…the orderlies, the drugs, you, the ghost-"
"Wait, wait, wait." Sam moved to the edge of his bed and sat facing his roommate. "Tell me what you know about MacGruder."
"Well, I know he kills people," the man said pointedly.
"And you said Anderson gives people to him?" Sam pressed. "What, like a sacrifice?"
The man looked up towards the ceiling, as if deep in thought. "Sacrifice?" he mulled, scratching at the back of his neck. "Hmm. Well, yeah, I suppose so. Or like a bribe. Like blood money. Protection."
Sam frowned. "Protection?"
"Protection against what?"
The man looked at Sam again. "I'm pretty sure you'll find out."
Sam waited a moment, hoping the man would say more. When he didn't, Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes in frustration. Nothing like having to rely on a cryptic nutcase for pertinent information.
He tried a different tack, "And you think Anderson's going to try to hand me over? Do you know when?"
"Soon enough. Oh, and he won't have to try. When Anderson's done with you, you'll practically hand yourself over. You'll want MacGruder to come!"
"And why me?" Sam continued. "It's not like anyone knew I would show up here. I didn't even know I would show up here. He couldn't have been expecting me."
The man stared at Sam with an unreadable look in his eyes. "I have a feeling there are a lot of people expecting you, Sam. You just haven't accepted that yet."
Sam stared back. "What are you talking about?"
The man smacked both hands onto either side of his head and wiped them down until his fingers were splayed across his cheeks. "Oh my God! There you go again!" he exclaimed. "Why do you ask so many questions you already know the answers to?"
Sam realized his mouth was hanging open slightly, and he closed it. Despite all indications otherwise, Sam reminded himself there was no way this guy knew anything about him. Since what had happened to Jessica, the only person who really knew Sam Winchester was Sam Winchester himself. It was just better that way.
"Since you know so much," Sam said, a little annoyed at this point, "How does MacGruder kill them? The fifteen dead patients were all said to have died from heart attacks."
"I'm no doctor, but that sounds like it could be true. But it was what brought on the heart attacks that really killed them."
"And what brought on the heart attacks?" Exactly what am I facing here?
"Fear," the man said simply.
Sam sighed. Fantastic. Further evidence of his nightmare being more than that. "Dean's going to love this," he muttered, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Dean?" the man repeated. "Is that your buddy from earlier? The one with the…"
"…with the spikey hair," Sam nodded distractedly, their voices overlapping. "Yeah. He's my brother."
The man scooted to the edge of the chair. "He was here after they brought you in. He and the nurse hustled in here all hush-hush. Like I'm stupid. Like I don't know what's going on."
"He was here? Did he say anything?"
Suddenly, the door opened, and both Sam and his roommate looked up quickly to see who it was. Two men in white entered the room. Sam recognized them as the same two who had overpowered him earlier during his intake interview. He eyed them warily.
"Dr. Anderson is waiting for you," one of the men said. "You need to come with us."
"Where?" Sam asked, standing and putting the bed between him and their uninvited guests.
"Dr. Anderson would like to begin treatment right away," the other man explained, moving towards the bed.
"What kind of treatment are we talking about?" He hadn't had time to figure out how he was going to avoid the medication.
"Just a therapy session," the second man clarified, and Sam allowed himself a brief moment of relief. "I'm sure you'll find it extremely…liberating."
Sam glanced over at the man who was still sitting in the arm chair. He didn't make a sound, just watched Sam with a mixed expression of curiosity and commiseration.
"Look," one of the orderlies said sternly. "Are you coming quietly, or do you need us to drag you down there?"
"Dragging won't be necessary," Sam conceded flippantly. He rounded the corner of the bed, and the orderly closest to him shoved a pair of shoes against his chest.
"Put them on."
Sam did as he was told and followed them into the quiet hall.