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Title: Broken Images
Season: 3
Category: General, Action, AU
Warnings: Tissues – lots of tissues.
Tagline: Who was the handsome stranger brought to the mental institution in the dead of night – and what terrible tragedy from his past had reduced him to a broken, empty shell?
Total Word Count: 29,284
Total Chapters: 6
Chapter 1 Word Count: 4823
Beta: ziggyuk
Story Banner: Chasidern
Awards: Sensue.net People’s Choice 2008 1st Place; SN.TV Fanfiction Awards 2008 Best Future Fic; Supernaturalville Unscripted Genius Awards 2008 Best Sam Story.
Awards Banners: Sensue for People’s Choice, Saiyuki for SN.TV Best Future, Bambers (I think?) For UnGen Best Sam.
Story Notes: This is the story that ended my days of flying happily under the radar. And you know...I still can’t quite figure out why. I am continually surprised by the interest this thing garners – it was even the topic of discussion by a group of British SPN fanfic writers during their annual get-together sometime after the story was posted. Even my beta...well, that’s a separate story in itself, is her reaction – lol. See, when Ziggy agreed to be my beta, she promised me that she wouldn’t pressure me for chapters....until this story. And truth be told, I had serious doubts as to whether the thing would even work! I sent her the first chapter with a note saying for her to be completely honest with me and tell me if it wasn’t worth posting up. Her reply went something like this: “I know I said I would never beg you for more chapters, but PLEASE tell me you’ve got more written! I have to know what happens next!!!!!!”
And despite scattering a couple of clues (albeit somewhat oblique) through the story, I kept everyone guessing until the final chapter as to who was who in the zoo. Ah, well – the cat’s out of the bag now, I suppose. But there were some truly novel guesses, and a few readers actually bounced back and forth in their guess as each chapter was posted and the story got a bit more twisty. And I have to say, I sniggered a wee bit to myself while reading the reviews, because of course I knew already who it was...*grins evilly*.
The usual thanks goes to my wonderful back-up team: ziggyuk for the beta-ing, and Chasidern for the bannering. And partway through the story, I had help from a fellow Aussie fanfic writer from down in Victoria, whose penname is sadly lost along with my original notes, but whom I must still thank for her help with technicalities of the particular affliction I chose for the story.
Chapter 1
“Got a live one for you, Doc.” The cheery voice was accompanied by a soft thwack, and I looked up, twirling my pen between my fingers as I eyed the file that had landed on my overcrowded desk. From the innocent looking manila folder, my eyes rose to the pale, sweating face of my assistant as she beamed at me across the mountain of paperwork that never seemed to get any lower, no matter how late I worked back.
Speaking of which… “Myra, why are you still here?” My distinctive Aussie twang was a sharp contrast to her soft Iowa drawl.
The middle-aged woman ran a hand through her red-dyed hair. “You work back, I work back, Doc. Who else is gonna look after you?”
“Yeah, well, there’s that to it, I suppose.” I gave a heartfelt sigh, and dropped my gaze to the folder as I opened it. Inside was a set of standard admission papers, and I frowned at the blanks that appeared on the pages. “What the hell’s this? Isn’t there anyone working at the front desk these days?” Shaking my head in annoyance, I pulled the incomplete file closer.
“No information on this one, Doc,” my assistant breezily – or should I say wheezily – informed me. “This one’s practically catatonic – no ID, no nothing. Cops picked him up off the streets. He wigged out on them, so they dumped him here.” Turning on her heel, she bounced back to her desk and squeezed her generous proportions into the chair. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it made the most disconcerting gasp as it settled under her rotund frame.
“Thanks, Myra,” I called belatedly, and she waved a hand in the doorway in acknowledgement. Sighing again, I perused the sketchy information in the file. Caucasian male; weight – around 170 to 180; height – just over six feet; no distinguishing marks or tattoos; hair colour – brown, eye colour – indeterminate; age – between twenty-five and thirty-five. I rolled my eyes. This was just super. Flicking the pen to my jacket pocket, I closed the file and tucked it under my arm as I rose from behind the flood of patient files threatening to drown me, and started for the door. “Better go down and see what I’ve got – be back soon.”
Myra waved a biscuit – what she called a cookie – at me. “I’ll hold all your calls, Doc.”
Nodding, I smiled faintly and took the elevator down to the ground floor, heading for what the orderlies jokingly called the Drunk Tank. One of the attendants was waiting for me, leaning a shoulder up against the wall just outside the door, and he smiled a greeting at me as he pushed himself upright.
“Got a live one, Doc.”
“Yes, I heard.” I peered in through the shatterproof glass panel. “Where is he?”
The orderly frowned, pressing his face to the glass as he searched the room. Finally he relaxed, and pointed to his left. “He’s in the corner.”
“Hmm.” Jamming my hands into my jacket pockets – a bad habit, I’ve been told – I chewed on my lower lip. “Is he restrained?”
“Oh, yeah, Doc. He went completely nutso on the cops, so we got him into a jacket as soon as we got hold of him.”
“Open it up, please, Jim.” I stood back a little as the orderly keyed open the door. Taking a deep breath before I stepped inside, I braced myself for what I might find.
What I found was another wreck of a human being – chewed up and spat out by a society that just didn’t care. I wondered what his story was, and where his family was, if he even had anyone to care for him. He sat huddled in the corner, his back pressed to the walls. His head was bowed, resting on his upraised knees as he tried to make himself as small as possible. I could smell him across the width of the room – a raw mixture of stale sweat, alcohol, urine, and rotting garbage. It was hard to get a good look at him, with him being in that position. And of course, the subdued lighting of the Drunk Tank didn’t help much with the assessment, but we’d found that the softer light was safest with patients in a highly agitated state.
As I got closer to him, I held out a hand, feeling a little like I was approaching a wild animal. Trying not to gag at the stench, I studied my new patient from a distance of a few feet. Even in his prone position, I could tell that he was tall – much taller than my paltry five feet two inches. There was a breadth to his shoulders that hinted at a strong physique. His hair was a mess – a crazy mixture of short and long, stuck out at all angles, and it looked as if it had been styled by a cross-eyed five year old with a blunt pair of scissors. Either that, or he’d been pulling it out in chunks. A ragged beard covered the lower part of his face, making it hard to see what he really looked like. It was eerie, standing there in front of him. He didn’t make a sound, and he didn’t move. It was like looking at a human statue.
“Hello there.” I kept my voice low and soothing, trying not to startle him. “Don’t be scared – we’re here to help you.”
Usually I’d get a response by this time, but not from this bloke. He remained perfectly still. The only indication of life was the gentle rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathed.
I tried again. “I’m Doctor Bartlett. Can you tell me your name?” My hand was still held out toward him, but he didn’t move, he didn’t even look up. He just kept breathing, in and out, and in the silence I detected a faint wheeze. “Jim,” I called softly. “Get him cleaned up, and have Doctor Reilly check him over. His breathing’s a little strained – could be an infection brewing.”
“Sure, Doc.” The orderly moved in front of me, and wrapped a hand around the patient’s arm. And then all hell broke loose.
The man let out a wild shriek that almost deafened us as he felt the touch on his arm. Rocketing to his feet, he lunged at the orderly, knocking him backward and into me, tumbling us both to the floor. Before we could untangle ourselves, he was through the door and away, and I could hear the security guard in the foyer yelling for him to stop. Pushing myself to my feet, I dived toward the door, cursing a blue streak under my breath as I saw the guard use a taser on the fleeing man. He crumpled to the ground, his limbs twitching uncontrollably, as I raced toward him. I could hear Jim pounding along right behind me.
Kneeling down beside the runaway, I finally got a look at his eyes, and I almost drew back in shock. They were wild, like a frightened animal, the whites showing as they rolled, not staying fixed on one point for more than a few seconds. Those pathetic eyes rested on me for the briefest of moments, and I was shaken to my very soul at the pain and the terror in their depths. Ignoring the warnings of the orderly and the guard, I leaned over the man, placing my hand across his dirt-encrusted brow. “Sshhh, shhh, it’s okay. It’s going to be all right. I won’t hurt you. Shh, shhh, now. It’s all right, it’s all right.”
Slowly, the madly rolling eyes calmed, and blinked up at me. Just for a moment, something flashed in their dark depths – some brief spark of intelligence, and a tiny, silent plea.
“It’s going to be all right.” Carefully, I smoothed his spiky hair back from his forehead. I could feel the orderly’s presence at my elbow, and I kept my tone even as I stroked the filthy half shorn locks. “Jim, get me a shot. Move slowly – let’s not startle him again.”
“Okay, Doc – you’re the boss.” Reluctantly, Jim got me the sedative, and I kept my hand on the strange man’s brow as I flicked off the cap on the syringe with my thumb.
“Okay, now I’m just going to give you a little shot to make you feel better, okay? It’ll sting a little.” Keeping my movements slow and deliberate, I pulled down the neck of his ragged shirt and the straitjacket, exposing his shoulder, and raised the syringe. He flinched, his eyes growing wide as he watched the needle coming closer, and I hesitated in case he tried to bolt again. The guard must have had the same thought, because he aimed the reloaded taser. “It’s all right – it’s just medicine. You understand medicine?”
To my astonishment, the man blinked slowly, and turned his head away, allowing me to give him the shot. I stayed by his side, stroking my fingers across his grimy forehead, until he relaxed under the influence of the sedative. Nodding to the waiting orderly, I got to my feet, letting him pull the patient up from the floor and onto a nearby gurney. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I dusted the legs of my pants as I watched Jim and another of the orderlies wheel my latest patient away. This case was going to be a doozy.
* * * * *
Patient John Doe was duly cleaned up and installed in a private room on the top floor – maximum security. That’s where they put the worst patients. I hated the top floor. Bars on the windows, bars on the doors, security locks everywhere. I was glad when my patients moved down to the lower floors. It meant they were getting better. He was kept sedated while the medical doctor checked him over – two orderlies standing by just in case we had another episode like the one downstairs. But he remained quiescent. The medical data landed on my desk the next morning, courtesy of the trainee nurse, as I sat yawning over a cup of coffee.
Idly, I flipped through the report, noting the usual things I’d expected to see – malnourishment, a chest infection – which explained the faint wheeze I’d heard the previous night, various bruises and cuts, and a few minor scars from old injuries. The man had probably been employed in some kind of physical labour in his past – perhaps a construction worker or something. What I would call a builder’s labourer. Or he could have been an office worker with a penchant for rock climbing or some other rugged outdoor recreation. Checking my watch, I saw that it was still fairly early, but I could see no reason why I shouldn’t wander up to the dreaded top floor to see how the latest arrival had fared during the night.
Draining the last of my coffee, I put the empty foam cup in the bin and grabbed John Doe’s file, tucking the medical report back inside as I left the office. Myra wouldn’t be in until 9am, so I had a couple of hours to spare before she bombarded me with the day’s problems. Taking a pen from my pocket, I twirled it between my fingers as the elevator took me up to my patient.
He was sitting in the corner of the room, his back wedged against the walls, just like he’d been downstairs when he was first brought in. Actually, he was in the exact same position, almost out of sight of the clear panel in the door, his head resting on his raised knees, his face hidden. But I could see from the subtle tensing of his shoulders that he was aware of me entering the room.
“Hello again. Remember me? I’m Doctor Bartlett – we met last night.” I flatly refused to treat these poor flotsam and jetsam any other way than as civilised human beings – except for the really hopeless ones. Something told me this man wasn’t going to be one of those. “How are you feeling this morning?”
I sat on the bed and watched him carefully. He didn’t respond, the same as the previous night. He just sat perfectly still, as an animal would in the wild if it sensed something stalking it. But I could tell he was listening to me. If he was listening, then there was a chance that I might be able to break through to him. But first I had to win his confidence.
“Can you tell me your name?” I waited for a full five minutes, but he just kept that same position, as still as death, but with the sense of motion held in suspension, like he was frozen in time. “Well, since you can’t tell me your name, I have to have something to call you. What about John? Can I call you John? Would that be all right?”
Watching closely, I waited for a response. He continued to sit with his face hidden, but for a moment, I thought I saw his fingers twitch inside the straitjacket sleeves. “Well, John, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I got up, and walked slowly to the door. “I’ll come back up in a while, and we’ll talk for a little bit, all right?”
As I closed the door, I felt a shiver run up my spine. Turning around, I looked through the glass panel in the door, and drew back in surprise. John Doe was staring at me, his eyes burning with a strange intensity that made me a little afraid. As I stared back, he slowly lowered his head back down until his forehead was resting on his knees again. I made my way slowly back to my office, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as I recalled that intent gaze. Something told me this man had seen things that sane people had no business bearing witness to.
* * * * *
The next three days were pretty much a repeat of the first – I would go up early in the morning, ask my silent patient how he spent the night, and he wouldn’t look at me until the door was between me and him. And of course, he wouldn’t answer me. Then I would go back mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and just before I left for home, with the same result. By lunchtime of the fourth day, I was staring at my degrees hanging on the wall of the office, and wondering what the heck I was doing there. Usually I’d get some sort of response by now, even if it were a fit of screaming and raving. Hell, I would’ve settled for a maddened glare. But I got nothing.
I’d stayed downstairs longer than usual before heading up to the nightmare floor after lunch. As I got to the door of John Doe’s room, I saw the orderly push a lunch cart along the corridor, and I waited until he’d delivered my patient’s meal before entering. “How are you, John?” I greeted automatically, and stopped in surprise.
He was standing by the window, staring at the sky. It was the first time I’d seen him on his feet since the first night, when he’d tried to escape. My guess was right – he was tall. I guessed his height to be about accurate on the admittance form – he was somewhere around six feet – probably a bit over. It was hard to tell – he was sort of slumped a little, his head inclined slightly toward the floor. He had his arms folded – the straitjacket had been removed on the second day, when we were sure he wouldn’t try to hurt himself. And of course, he was on a mild sedative to keep him calm. It seemed to be working so far.
“Well, it’s good to see you up and about, John.” I indicated the tray of food sitting on the rolling tray table at the end of the bed. “Don’t let me keep you from your lunch.” My mystery patient hadn’t been eating well – all of the meals so far had been returned almost untouched – he’d only taken a bite or two each time.
Slowly, he turned, keeping his gaze on the floor.
“Would you like me to come back after you’ve eaten, John?”
To my amazement, he shook his head slightly, reaching out a long arm to pull the table closer to him without his having to get any closer to me. This was the first direct response I’d had to any of my questions, and I felt a tiny thrill. Finally, he was beginning to come back to the land of the living. With hope in my heart, I watched him lift the lid on the lunch tray.
“What’s on the menu today?” I smiled encouragingly at him, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
He picked up his spoon – we didn’t trust him enough to give him a fork just yet – and scooped a tiny mouthful of lasagne into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. I almost held my breath as he had a second bite, and then a third, before setting the spoon neatly down on the plate and replacing the lid over the top.
“Not so good, eh?”
To my delight, he shook his head as he pushed the table back toward the bed, again not coming very close to me, just like a wild animal. He stood quietly, his back toward the window, and stared at the floor.
“I could smuggle you in a cheeseburger, if you’d like,” I offered hopefully.
He raised his head, and looked at me – really looked at me. And then he nodded once. His eyes appeared to be a deep green, and the look in them was guarded. But then he moved his head a little, and they seemed to shift into more of a hazel shade. I could see why the admittance form said indeterminate colour.
“Can I make you a deal?” I smiled as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’ll get you a cheeseburger, if you tell me your name.”
His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping, and my heart went out to him. “Okay, John – how about I just get you the cheeseburger for today, hmm? We can talk about the name thing some other time.”
My mystery man stepped back to the window, turning his gaze toward the sky. I supposed that was all the progress I was going to get that day. Assuring him that I would be back soon, I headed down to the staff cafeteria to get him the promised cheeseburger. Grabbing myself a bagel and a cup of coffee – interesting things, those bagels – I returned to find him still staring at the sky.
John turned his head as I walked inside his room, and then he stood perfectly still, watching me warily as I laid the cheeseburger on the rolling table. I was careful to keep my movements slow and deliberate, and to keep the table between him and me, to give him the feeling of safety. But he still held himself as tense as a bow until I moved away out of range.
“There you are – one cheeseburger, as promised.” Retreating to a chair at the far side of the room, I bit into my bagel as he carefully unwrapped the napkin I’d folded around the burger. He glanced at me; his expression unreadable, and then he picked up the burger and took a tiny bite, seeming to savour the taste for as long as he could before taking a second bite. “Better than the lasagne, eh?”
Nodding slowly, he took a third bite, and then a fourth. This was indeed a victory. I finished the bagel, and sipped my coffee as he continued to eat the burger. Finally, he was finished, and he wiped his mouth with the napkin before crumpling it and placing it on the table. He stepped back to the window again, and watched me guardedly. The window seemed to be his place of retreat. That was fine with me – I considered that day a major breakthrough. It might have been only one lousy cheeseburger, but it was a huge milestone for our Mister Doe.
* * * * *
We seemed to fall into a routine – he would grudgingly eat a mouthful or two of his hospital issue lunch, and then I would bring up a cheeseburger, and he would retreat to the window to eat, his gaze occasionally flicking warily toward me. He still wouldn’t allow me to get close to him, and he panicked whenever he was touched, requiring an extra dose of the sedative just to get him cleaned up each day. But he was listening to me when I spoke to him, and for me, that was a breakthrough. By the middle of the second week, I cancelled his lunch tray and just took the cheeseburger up to his room. I even had him moved into a private room on the next level down, even though he still hadn’t spoken one word or uttered one sound. My argument was that he was calm, and he was responding – in his own way.
“Hi, John.” Dropping the burger on the tray table, I sat on the chair at the far side of the room and drank my coffee as he ate. I glanced out the window behind him, noticing for the first time that day that it was raining. There had been paperwork to clear up, and then a staff meeting mid-morning, and I literally hadn’t stopped to check on the weather until that moment. I smiled a little, and raised the cup to take another sip, when I became aware of my patient’s intent gaze. Glancing up, I saw that he was staring at the cup of coffee. Curious to see what he would do, I held the cup out to him. “Want some? There’s plenty here.”
John hesitated for a long moment, and I kept my hand still, hoping that he would respond. Slowly, he edged forward, his eyes on the cup, until he was standing two feet away from me, his body tensed as though poised to flee.
“You can have the rest, John, it’s all right,” I murmured softly.
He reached out to take the cup from my hand. His dark eyes met mine, and I nodded. Raising the cup to his lips, he took a small sip, and then he sat down on the bed, gazing steadily at me.
I appraised my mute patient. John Doe had filled out a little bit since coming to the sanatorium, his ribs no longer sticking out quite so much beneath the hospital-issue shirt. His own clothes had been too damaged to salvage. He’d been sedated heavily enough one evening for one of the nurses to cut his hair into a neat style; short at the back, and with a little length at the top, instead of the patchwork mess it had been the night he’d arrived. He still had the beard, as we couldn’t get near him with a razor. I was curious to see what he looked like without the face fungus – going by those high cheekbones; I was betting he was a real honey.
“So, John – how’s the coffee?”
He wrinkled his nose, and I laughed softly. I took my coffee with two teaspoons of sugar, and plenty of milk.
“I’m guessing you like it black, eh?”
Nodding briefly, he frowned down at the brew, and then he shook his head, confusion evident on his face.
“Not black? Bet it’s no sugar then.” I watched him take another sip. “So, milk, or cream, but no sugar. Have to remember that for tomorrow.”
“Black.”
I froze, wondering if my ears were playing tricks on me, or if I really had heard that faint whisper. “Sorry – what was that?”
“Black….coffee.” John’s gaze remained locked on the pale tan brew.
“All right – black coffee it is.” I stood up to leave, and John seemed to shrink back a little. “I’ll see you later on, John, all right? Enjoy the coffee.”
He nodded jerkily, and I glanced back as I shut the door, to see him frowning at the cup as though he was trying to remember something. I slowly walked back to the elevator, my mind on my patient. Perhaps he’d lost all memory. Perhaps that was why he was so silent, and so flighty. But a niggling little voice told me that it was going to be a lot more complicated than that.
* * * * *
Sunday passed all too quickly, and I walked into my office early Monday morning wondering where the weekend had gone. Grimacing at the pile of client files strewn haphazardly across my desk, I sat down with a weary sigh, and picked one at random. Soon, I was engrossed in the files, oblivious to the world around me as I brought each one up to date, until a cup of coffee was waved under my nose and I almost jumped out of my seat. “Bloody hell, Myra! Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?”
Myra chuckled breathlessly as she set the cup down beside my elbow. “Sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean to scare you.” She glanced at the pile of completed files, and her brows rose. “How long have you been in here this morning?”
“Since sparrow-fart,” I muttered, wrapping my hands around the coffee cup.
My assistant chuckled again, shaking her head at me as she swept the files into the crook of her arm. “You Aussies and your funny little sayings.”
“Yeah, yeah.” At least I didn’t say something really Ocker like ‘stone the crows’, which would have required a rather lengthy explanation. Taking a sip of my coffee, I glanced at my watch, realising that I’d missed my early morning visit to John Doe. I pushed the last few files aside, gulped down half my coffee, scalding my tongue in the process, and hurried out of the office. “Back in a jiffy, Myra.”
She waved in a distracted manner, and I headed up to the fourth floor.
My patient was standing by the window again, looking at the sky. He spent a lot of time there. “Hi, John – sorry I’m late – got stuck into a backlog of work and I just forgot the time.”
His head snapped around and he glared at me. I took a step back in shock. “Not John.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not John!” Our Mister Doe began to pace up and down, his hands curling into fists by his side. I could see the agitation growing on his bearded face.
“All right, you name’s not John. Can you tell me what it is?”
“Not John!” he shouted, slamming to a halt before the window. His voice fell to a whisper. “Not John.”
“All right. I won’t call you John. What would you like me to call you?”
“John – my Dad.”
My mouth dropped open. This was a spinout. “Your Dad’s name is John?”
“John – my Dad…” The mystery patient pressed his back to the wall by the window, a high-pitched giggle escaping his lips. “My Dad…John…my Dad…” He slid down the wall, laughing hysterically. “My – Dad – John – Dad…”
“All right, then.” I watched, my concern mounting as his laughter went on for a few more breathless seconds.
Suddenly his face crumpled, and his hysterical laughter became broken sobs. “Dead… he’s…dead…Dad’s dead….” He put his hands over his face and rocked back and forth.
I knelt down beside him, and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. Shh, shh, it’s all right.” To my surprise, he leaned against me, burying his face against my coat. This was the closest any of us had gotten to him without him freaking out. I wrapped my arms around him and rocked him like a baby. “It’s all right, I’m here, I’ll help you through this, shh, shh, it’s all right.”
Eventually his sobs dwindled to the occasional hiccup, and I kept one arm around his shoulders while I stroked his hair with my other hand. This was a major breakthrough. One more piece was fitted into the puzzle that made up this man. We were one step closer to finding out who he was, and perhaps finding out what had happened to him to put him in this state.
He pushed himself away from me, and wiped his hands over his face, smearing the tear-tracks across his cheeks.
“Can you tell me your name?” I asked gently.
He gazed up at me, a lost little boy look in those damp green/hazel eyes. “D…Dean…”
I smiled at him, and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Dean.”
* * * * *
Beautiful
Date: 2019-12-07 09:19 am (UTC)From: