Windstar: This is a story of firsts. My first Criminal Minds fanfiction, and my first time writing in first person. I hope it's alright. Reviews are appreciated as I am new to this fandom and want to keep my characterization accurate. Thank you.

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid finds himself in a Sanitarium, and sitting across from him is a doctor who tells him that none of it was real, and he never existed. His real name is Jason Masters, a paranoid schizophrenic with multiple personality disorder. But she's wrong, isn't she?

Rated: T

Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or its affiliates, this is a non-profit work. Applies to all chapters.

Chapter One:

They always said that truly intelligent individuals were the first to crack, and I suppose that must have been true. I certainly never would have allowed the idea to cross my mind before I met Jason Masters though. He seemed like a nice enough individual, and as far as patients went- he wasn't nearly as violent or as angry as he could have been.

Still, there was something about the way that he sat in the corner of the lounge, his eyes staring out the window as though he could see everything and anything that crossed in front of him. He was endlessly intelligent, that was for certain, but most of his knowledge seemed otherworldly, and it added to his delusions.

I had been given him as a sort of joke from the other people I work with. Everyone knew he was basically a lost cause, but they enjoyed tormenting me with the idea that I was stuck listening to him. I was fresh out of school and was excited to work with someone that I could really change, but no one else had been able to do anything with Jason, and so I had been given him.

He was tall compared to me, and stood about six foot one. He was skinny though, and sometimes I heard the other residents joke about how if he stood sideways he could disappear. (I've seen him disappear on a more practical basis, he had a way of just slipping passed security and making it halfway down the road before anyone caught up with him. That cost him several weeks in solitary and he wasn't allowed to even leave his room for sessions. He only tried it twice after that and then he stopped trying all together. The last time was the most efficient though; instead of taking the road he cut through the woods on the side. He almost made it to town before the search dogs found him and brought him back.) He had the same hair cut as everyone, cropped short and tidy. It didn't look natural on him though, and I can easily imagine him with longer locks.

He's wearing the same uniform all the patients wear, and there's a medical bracelet around his wrist that screens against certain drugs. He didn't have any medical history or anyone to come for him. When he was delivered to us, he was raving during one of his delusions and he hasn't broken out of it yet. Not even the strongest anti-psychotics seem to do anything except sedate him, and his tolerance to these drugs increases daily. Greater doses need to be administered at times, and eventually it seemed like he just gave up.

He hasn't tried fighting the process in over six months, and now he just stares out the window and talks with me whenever it's time for our sessions. Through it all, he seems incredibly resigned and indulgent, as though he's speaking to a small child. He believes he's more intelligent then I am, and perhaps his knowledge of useless information is, but I have spent my entire educational career to study the mind and how to assist people through their own heads, and I know him better then he thinks.

"Jason? It's time for our session." He looks up at me, and he looks tired. He has chronic Dark-eye syndrome, and it always makes him look more exhausted then he actually is. Today is a good day, and I can see from the way that he glances longingly at the window, that he's more lucid then he was before. He pushes himself up from the chair, and follows me as I lead him back to my office. He doesn't like his cell, and is always distracted when he's inside of it. I've noticed our sessions go much easier when he's in my comfort zone and not his.

He sits down in the chair that I have ready for him, and I sit across from him at my desk. His hands are fidgeting, and he keeps rotating the medical bracelet about his wrist. I've often wondered if he could slip it off of his hand, but each time I mention it, he demonstrates how impossible that would be and gives a longwinded explanation about the physics needed to do something of that nature. I've stopped mentioning it by now.

"How are you feeling today, Jason?" I ask gently, looking over him for any signs of the injuries that may not have been reported. Accidents happen in facilities such as these, and I was prepared to always look for the worst case scenario.

He lifted one shoulder and his eyes scanned over all the books I have on my shelf. When he eventually turns his attention onto me, he gives me a somewhat pleasant smile and I feel my pulse quicken. I'm preparing for what I know will come. Today isn't a good day at all, today he's going to lie again. Today the delusions hold strong.

"My name isn't Jason, it's Spencer Reid, and I feel about as well as anyone would feel when they've been wrongly institutionalized in a sanitarium." This answer is the same answer he gives whenever the medications have ceased working. We've had him on the anti-psychotics for so long now, that the stages of his awareness have grown. It's rare that patients will hold onto their delusions this strongly, but he's resilient and he won't back down. We're going to need to find a new regimen for him. I make a note in my book stating as much.

"Jason," I corrected lightly, "We've been over this."

"Melissa," He corrects lightly, and suddenly I feel as though my father is scolding me again. "I can prove it."

This is the same bargaining chip he's been using since the moment I've met him. I wearily look down at my notes. The same phone number will be given, the same instruction to contact the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit and contact Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, and when I refuse, he gives me more names and more numbers. All of them are FBI agents; all of them probably don't exist.

"Jason, these delusions of yours aren't real." He gets frustrated at that, and he's fidgeting worse. I take in his pale complexion and now realize there is a waxy sheen to it. His Dark-Eye syndrome is far darker then it was in the past. I know he's going through side effects from the medications, and I can already see the warning signs greater damage. He's too agitated. The drugs he's on shouldn't allow him to act this way.

"What's so wrong with calling? It's one number! If you call them and it's fake then no harm no foul. If you call them and it's real then I can leave."

"Jason, I am not calling a phone number to indulge your fantasies." I tell him sternly, and now the agitation is growing.

"I really do not like that name." He says succinctly, and there is a wave of defiance crossing his features.

"Why not?" At least we're getting somewhere. His insistence on being called Spencer Reid must stem from somewhere. If he hates his own name, then perhaps we can understand the reason behind it and move forwards.

"It's Gideon's first name." I sigh at that. Jason Gideon, another one of the FBI agents that has come to possess my patient's mind. Masters had a close emotional bond with that particular fantasy. He'd practically rewritten history itself and considered the man to be his father. Gideon left though, and he hasn't reappeared in years. I don't understand what made him cast the man aside, but David Rossi replaced Gideon, and no new attachment was made.

"Why did you transfer your name onto Gideon?" Jason was scowling now, and I feel his anger crackling in the air.

"You aren't very good at your job." He insists irritably, and I prepare myself for another lecture. I focus on his hands; they're twisting around in his lap now. The long piano fingers are turning and clenching each other. His digits look like knots. He's sweating. He's uncomfortable. His hands look distorted, no longer human. It is only then, as that thought reaches my mind, do I look up and meet his eyes. He's been talking this whole while, and I fade back into reality. "…patients respond when you accept their delusions as true."

"Your delusions aren't true. I'm not here to talk down to you, I'm here to help you see reality."

"You won't prove my reality doesn't exist. You won't pick up the phone." I realize he's backed me into a corner. I can either continue on with this conversation, or lift the phone to my ear, or I can change the subject.

I decide to humor him. Nothing else has worked, and perhaps this is the only way to prove that he truly has created a fantasy around him. "What's the number again?" I ask him, and I see the hope in his features. He's smiling, he's excited, and he thinks he is going to leave here. He thinks that I'm wrong. He tells me the number; it's the same as all the other times. I wanted to make sure he knows that it is real.

I show him the phone as I dial; he's licking his lips in anticipation. He' practically begging me to put it on speakerphone, and so I indulge. The phone rings once, twice, and then suddenly I hear a man pick up.

"Hello?" I look up at my patient; his eyes are wide, his face drawn of any and all color. I don't believe he's breathing. He's recognized something about this call and I realize that this is not the voice of his delusions. I was right. He was wrong.

"Yes, hello, my name is Dr. Melissa Ryan, I'm looking for an Aaron Hotchner?" There is a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line.

"You're calling for Jason aren't you?" The man asked, and I gave my patient a direct look. He's not paying attention. He's practically vibrating he's shaking so hard. He can't believe what he's hearing.

"Yes, who is this?"

"I'm his father, he's been calling this number for years thinking that he's talking to some FBI agent of some sort."

"I'm sorry for bothering you sir, thank you for your time." I hang up after finishing the pleasantries, and look at my patient. He looks as if the truth has finally hit him, and I realize that this is a turning point. This is finally where progress can be made. "You see, Jason? They're not real. Aaron Hotchner doesn't exist. He never has."

"It's a trick. The phone…you can stop a call…reroute it through to another number. It's fake. This is a mistake." He was shaking his head, his hands pressed against his brow and his fingers clenched his scalp even as he hunched over. "This is all wrong."

"Jason…I'm sorry it didn't work out, but you must see that this is the truth."

"Delusions don't go away in hospital settings. I would still be hallucinating Hotch, or Morgan, or JJ. I would still be seeing them. I haven't seen them though."

"You're on anti-psychotics." I remind him.

"I wouldn't hold onto the fact that they're real people then. I would rationalize that they are fake and move on. That is not the case. Something is wrong." He looked up at me and I could see the pleading in his eyes. He was desperate to hang onto the delusion; he needed it. The moment that he admitted that he made it all up, the moment that he realizes he's truly lost his sanity.

This, more then any other, reminds me of that scene from A Beautiful Mind; the one where Nash finally realizes that his delusions were all false because the little girl never gets any older. Jason is having a breakdown. He is falling apart. Hopefully, when everything is all said and done, he can be put back together again.

It's been three days since I last spoke with Jason Masters and he saw the truth to his delusions. Now, as he sits across from me I realize that he has fallen into a deep seeded depression. We should have talked sooner then this.

He's been avoiding sitting at his window, and even now, in my office, he's keeping his eyes downcast. There are scratch marks on his scalp and bruises on his head. From the state of his nails I can only imagine these were self-inflicted. His file states that he was sedated, and yet despite that he looks worn down and broken.

"How are you feeling today Jason?" I ask the routine question, and I expect the same reply I usually get. I'm surprised.

"Not too well." He admits to me, and he lifts his dark eyes to meet mine. I try to decipher the color. They always seem to change. Dark brown? Green? They're dark…but what color are they? I'm distracted. I pull myself away from his eyes and I nod my head slightly. I angle my gaze towards my paperwork.

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" He doesn't say anything for a while, and when I finally look back up, I see that he is looking down. He's closed in on himself. His body language is screaming in defeat. He's been broken, beaten; he's finished. The parts of his soul have shattered, and I feel a surge of guilt. I did this! I remind myself foolishly. I was the one who picked up the phone. He needed the truth though, and he can get it now that he's accepted his world is false.

"I…" He trails off, looks decidedly uncomfortable, and then takes a deep breath. I wait. "I can't remember a life without…them." He says the word like its evil, and I'm filled with a sense of remorse. It must be terrifying. "What was my life like…before?" He asked at long last. It looks like it took him ages to figure out how to say it. I feel a surge of triumph. The healing process can now begin.

I look at my notes, take a deep breath, and begin.

His father, Isaiah Masters, was a metal worker in Pittsburg. His mother was a classical pianist. His mother died in a car crash when he was seven, he was in the backseat. His father was never in the house because of how long he needed to work. When he lost his job due to budget cuts, he became a coal miner. Jason's father went through a list of trophy wives that came and went and he eventually just raised himself.

When the mine collapsed when Jason we fifteen, he never heard about it. He came home and for three weeks was alone. When Isaiah came home at long last, his son had changed. In his absence, he had created a list of friends and guardians. The world shifted around him and he was no longer the same person.

"Why Spencer Reid?" Jason asked me when I finished the biography. I didn't understand. He clarified. "Why did I name myself Spencer Reid, give myself three doctorates, and say that I was an FBI agent?"

"You wanted to give yourself security, what's the highest level of security in this country?" He seemed to accept that answer, but not anything else.

"My father was a coal miner? My mother's a pianist? Why give myself chemistry, mathematics, and engineering doctorates? Why a philosophy bachelors?"

"You wanted to separate yourself from your home life." He nodded slightly, mulling over the idea.

"My mother…Spencer Reid's mother…was a paranoid schizophrenic. I…he…was always worried about developing it."

"You were projecting yourself. You knew you had the disorder; you wanted to tell yourself the truth. You just couldn't get through. It was the only thing your mind could do to let you know the truth."

"Schizophrenia develops in the twenties…I was fifteen?" he raised a skeptical brow, and I hurried to explain.

"In most cases. You could just be an exception." He nodded slightly, and looked thoughtful.

"Why Tobias Hankel?" I blinked. The name wasn't familiar. I flipped through my notes and didn't see anything. He laughed slightly, and motioned towards his arm where there were scars from needle punctures. I'd always assumed that we'd given them to him, but he seemed to think otherwise. "Dilauded. I…Spencer Reid became a dilauded addict after being beaten and tortured for two days by an unsub named Tobias Hankel. So…Melissa…why did I imagine that?"

My mind raced with explanations, but all I could do was stare at him. "Tortured?" I had to ask.

He was laughing slightly, and he reached down and slipped the uniform slipper off his left foot. He raised it up, and I stared at it for the longest time. There were burn scars bisected by the remains of a gash that had healed years ago. I felt physically sick as I looked at it. When I met his eyes, I could see he was still laughing. He was enjoying my shock.

"So tell me, Doctor, how did this happen? Why would I hallucinate Tobias Hankel just so he could torture me? Delusions are supposed to make us feel better, they act as a force to guide and protect us. They're our friends and family. This isn't like a drug hallucination, which is terrifying. This is all about keeping our mind protected. So…why would I imagine being tortured?"

"You…I…" I looked at his hands. They were steady. There was no fear or terror or confusion. He wasn't knotting them together. He wasn't uncomfortable. He was at ease. His body language had changed. He was sitting upright; his face was open to him. His eyes were challenging. He wasn't depressed.

At first I'd thought that it was because he was finally seeing the truth, but that was wrong. I clenched my hands into fists. He tricked me. "You're a liar." He laughed slightly.

"No…no I'm not a liar…I just see things much more clearly then you do. Explain Tobias Hankel to me…and maybe I'll believe you." He slipped his shoe back on, hiding the scarred flesh from sight.

I had never hated anyone more in my life, but in that moment, a part of me hated Jason Masters.

I avoided Jason for another three days before I knew I had to continue doing my job. Sitting down across from him again, I felt a surge of anger bubbling up in my chest, but I fought it down. Now was not the time. Now I had to remain calm and collected. I had to take deep breaths. I had to do my job. Jason was delusional, and he needed help.

"Tobias Hankel was a manifestation of the pain your father inflicted on you when he left."

"That's what you came up with?" He looked honestly intrigued by the idea, and that's how I knew he was lying. I grit my teeth.

"Your abused yourself because you thought you deserved it."

"You never told me my father abused me." He was teasing me, and I was fighting my urge to hit the table in frustration.

"He was an excuse to get hooked on drugs."

"That's not true." The anger in his tone made me fill with sudden satisfaction. Finally someone else was getting mad. He wasn't in control if he was mad. He wasn't giving me that condescending look any longer. "That's not true!"

"You wanted drugs, you invented an excuse. You hurt yourself!"

"No I didn't! I didn't murder all those people just to have an excuse to do drugs!" My mind went into a spiral.

"Murder?"

"Tobias Hankel murdered seven people in the name of God. While I was his captive, he told me to choose who lived and who died. I chose who lived, and he murdered a couple."

"Those people weren't real. It was a manifestation of your desire to do right or wrong."

"You're wrong." He sighed slightly, and looked suddenly defeated.

"Why are you so reluctant to give it up?" I snapped, breaking all protocol. It was a rookie mistake, but I couldn't help it anymore. He was driving me crazy.

"Because I spent two days being tortured by him. I refuse to pass the whole experience off as my excuse to get high. Not only is that completely illogical, it's nonsensical. Check the news reports, you'll see I'm not lying."

"Jason, Tobias Hankel never killed anyone. The people, who died, never existed. You used dilauded to get high."

"I was addicted! He made me addicted!"

"You made yourself addicted." The words slapped him across the face and he looked so broken down by it that I wondered if I'd gone too far. His head was spinning. He looked shattered once more, and I sighed. We were getting nowhere like this. "Why don't you go back to your room-"

"Cell." He mumbled.

"Your room," I insisted "I'll see you soon." He shrugged noncommittally, stood up, and walked away. I looked back at my notes, and sighed. I never faced someone so determined to prove me wrong. It was almost unbearably sad that his delusions were so strong that he rationalized his life around them. He was endlessly intelligent, and his logical reasoning was what made this so difficult. He knew that his world was wrong, but he couldn't prove it, and it made him cling even harder. It was depressing.

Two months later marked the one-year mark for Jason Masters. As he sat across from me now, I saw the real change in him. He had stopped fighting. He had stopped resisting. He now fully accepted who he was, and rejected the idea of Spencer Reid. For the longest time I believed that he was pretending, that his logical mind reasoned the only way he was leaving this facility was to adopt Jason's persona, but as the days passed and the pleasant conversations persisted, I'd started to wonder if it was true.

"I heard your father was planning a visit." I mentioned to him casually. He looked over towards me from where he sat on the grass. We'd taken our session outside today. He'd been cleared for the right to do so, and we were sitting in the garden with a small meal between us. He hadn't touched his, and had simply been laying back enjoying the sun. Now though, his face looked troubled.

"I don't remember what he looks like." He admitted, and I nodded. It was expected. He seemed to have erased any memories of anything that happened in that household.

"I haven't met him either, but I heard that he was thinking about coming."

"From who?"

"The other doctors on staff."

"Why would they know about that? Wouldn't you be told as my doctor?" It was an honest question, but it made my heart skip a beat. It sounded just like Spencer Reid's pragmatic thinking. I kept waiting for the lecture or the long words to spit from his face. He restrained himself though, and I had to press deeper to understand.

"Do you ever feel like being Spencer Reid again?" He visibly flinched and looked away.

"He's not real." His voice was soft, but there was pain there. He was hurting. I could practically see the questions rising on his face. Why is it so bad to be him? If I'm not hurting anyone…why does it matter?

"I know that, and so do you." I gave him that much credit. He had gotten better. "But do you ever feel like being him again?" There was conflict warring in him. His hands were gripping the grass beside us like it was a lifeline, a lifeline that would break if he pulled away just a little. He looked utterly lost, and then finally, he broke out the word that I'd been longing to hear for so long.

"No…he's not right…he's not real…he's wrong." I nodded my head, accepted the answer, and let him enjoy the rest of his time in the sun. When we were packing up our things and heading out, I told him the rest of what I'd heard.

"Your father might take you home after this. You've improved a lot. You might not be able to remember the memories you've forgotten, but you'll have new ones to look forwards to." He just nodded, and murmured his reply.

"Yeah…I'd like that…" He sounded anything but happy with the idea, but that's what I'd gotten used to. There was no emotion, nothing except when Spencer Reid was mentioned. Then there would be panic, terror, and insistence that Spencer Reid was bad, that he was wrong, and that Jason Masters was good.

It was a crude way to look at it, but it was only proper. It was the only way that he was going to let go of the fantasy that he lived in.

I was walking out of the building when I was passed by a group of people who looked entirely too official for where they were heading. I turned my head and looked over them, men and women of various shapes and sizes and all walking with purpose. They didn't so much as spare me a glance.

I shrugged and moved towards my car, and it was there I realized I'd forgotten the paperwork I'd been looking over earlier. Sighing, I turned and walked back the way I came. The group was all at the desk, and were hassling the security officer and attendant that were on the night shift.

"Excuse me?" I intruded lightly, trying to understand what was going on. I looked over at Brenda, the secretary that handled all the comings and goings at the front door. She looked relieved to see me.

"Dr. Ryan! Thank God, these people are with the FBI. They're looking for someone." Frowning slightly, I looked around us and knew that this was not the best place for this discussion.

"Why don't you come to my office?" I offered, and they quickly followed as I led the way to my comfort zone. Once we'd all gathered inside, I held out my hand to introduce myself to the most important looking one of the group members.

He was tall, stern faced, and looked like he could stare down a raging bull. He shook my hand on precedent only, and then quickly introduced himself. "I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, I'm here on regards to a case we have had for quite some time now. One of our agents went missing while trying to apprehend the suspect in question, and we believe that he may be here."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. It was the most inappropriate thing in the world to do, but I honestly couldn't help myself. I'd spent a year and a half with Jason Masters, and the information that I'd gained from that had been enough for me to write my own book on this topic. A part of me felt the urge to call security and have all of these imposters committed, just to prove a point.

"Something funny about that?" This was a Hispanic man who looked like he'd seen one too many dead bodies, and his stern eyes and drawn face instantly had me settling down. I shook my head and apologized.

"I'm sorry, it's just…ironic really. One of my patients, he kept insisting that I call an Aaron Hotchner from the FBI, and here you are." It hadn't occurred to me that I was on the verge of hysteria until much later, but for right now everything just seemed so entertaining. It was like a game. "How'd he get the call out anyway?" They were looking at me like I was the crazy person, but I couldn't stop. This game was too well planned. "Did he do this just as a joke?"

"Is Spencer Reid here?" This man was a black man, he was tall and muscular and looked like he could kick down doors for a living. His eyes were earnest. My heart was beating faster.

"Spencer Reid?" I asked them, incredulously. "Spencer Reid doesn't exist! I don't know what he's told you, but it's not true!" The Agents, fake or not, were looking amongst each other in confusion. Aaron Hotchner stepped forwards.

"Dr. Ryan, what do you know about Dr. Reid?"

"He's a delusional persona that my patient Jason Masters adopts. He actually thinks he's an FBI agent!" My voice was straining, I could feel my body temperature rising. The AC must have been shut off for the night.

"We need to see Jason Masters right now." The black man insisted, stepping forward and looking intimidating.

"Excuse me? You can't just come in here and demand to see a patient. It's against regulations!"

"You're not understanding me lady, you're going to do this or you're going to be walked out of here in cuffs for kidnapping."

"Excuse me?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Exigent circumstances, if we search this place and he's here – you're going down for kidnapping. So are you going to help us or not?" My mouth fell open; I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I couldn't believe a word of it.

"No, we found the right meds and therapy for him, he's finally accepted that Spencer Reid and the FBI doesn't exist, you showing up will be detrimental to his recovery!" My words only seemed to anger the Agents even more, and the black man slammed his hands down hard on my desk. I yelped and leapt back, hardly believing what I was seeing.

"Spencer Reid is a real person! Now where is he!" Terror shook through me, and I couldn't move, couldn't speak. The black man came around the desk, I heard someone murmur the name 'Morgan' in warning, and suddenly everything clicked in my mind.

Agents Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss, and that would be JJ behind them. They were all playing the parts of Jason's fantasy. I started laughing. "This is all a joke…it's an April fools joke." I was shaking, disbelieving. Morgan gripped my arms and started to drag me out of my office.

"Bring me to him right now." He hissed angrily, and I as the fear and hysteria got the better of me I started to lead him to the room…the cell…that Jason Masters had been living in for the past two years.

The door looked like any other, but I couldn't help but feel a surge of apprehension. I knew what this was going to do to my patient. He was going to loose it. We'd never get him back. He'd be lost in his delusions forever. These people had made it so much worse. They'd made it so much worse…too much worse. Jason would be scarred for the rest of his life.

I tried to plead for them not to open that door, but Morgan told me if I didn't unlock it, he'd kick it down. I knew he wouldn't be able to, it was bolted shut to keep such things from happening, but I was too terrified to disagree. I shakily lifted my keys and pressed them into the lock. The door opened, and I was dragged inside as the agents filled the room.

My arms were released, and I looked at Jason Masters sleep for the first time. He was twisted in his sheets, there was sweat drenching his brow. He looked like he was in the throws of a nightmare, but he never opened his eyes. He never spoke. His hands were clenched around his pillow that he held to him like a toy or child. He was pale and shivering slightly.

Morgan approached slowly, crouching down beside him and looking over him with a gaze I couldn't describe. It was like a man who had been starving finally being presented with a five-course meal. He didn't know what to do with it now that he had it, and he didn't know how to proceed. Reaching out slowly, he placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, and I whispered a quiet prayer to whoever was listening, that this was all going to be a bad dream.

Then…Jason woke up, and he screamed.