Title: Dancing on the Edges of Reality

Author: Westrina

Summary: The only thing he can remember is the name 'Dean'. And then the man with the sad eyes walks back into his life - but can things ever be the same again? My take on Castiel's return, 7x17.

Rating: T for attempted suicide, language and mature themes. And to be on the safe side =]

Pairings: Everything is totally canon in this.

Genre: Drama/Family/Angst

Spoilers: Practically every season, but mainly 6x21, 6x22, 7x01 and 7x02.

Disclaimer: Supernatural, and everything to do with it, is Kripke's. I'm sure we all know this but I have to put it in anyway just in case.

Author's Note: Hello everyone! This is my first contribution to Destiel Week, and hopefully I'll extend this story with a few more chapters until next Friday when (if all goes to plan) it'll be completed. (Although, knowing me and my busy life, it may extend beyond then!) It's my own take on how Cas will return - and yes, I know everyone is writing their own, but I simply couldn't resist. I must admit that I know absolutely squat about mental hospitals or conditions, or even hospitals in general. So I'm taking major artistic licence and all my research is Wikipedia-based because I'm lazy like that =] I just hope you like it!

Thanks for reading!

The pills make everything soft, blurring thoughts together, fuzzing round the hard edges, swilling the dregs of dreams into reality. The colors are all too bright here, the slightly off-white hurts his eyes, the shadows of night too are deep, too frightening. That's why his favorite place is the little garden, the courtyard with the gravel paths, hard wooden benches, and weed-filled beds. He will sit out there for hours, thinking. Sometimes a small bird will come and peck around his feet, for he barely ever moves. He is like a statue, watching the world go by with a careful interest on his face, but nothing more.

He sits back on the hard garden bench, feeling the wooden slats pressing into his thin back. The blue fleece he's wearing is warmer than most of the clothes the patients wear, but it isn't enough to stop the cold completely. He likes the numbing sensation, though. It's almost comforting, much like the drugs the doctors tell him to take. The cold smoothes everything out. And that's helpful when his world won't stop spinning.

The nurses will come for him in an hour or two. They'll help him stand up, even though it's really not necessary. His bones healed months ago, but he's still weak and the nurses can sense weakness. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, hoping that it's the dark-haired nurse who comes to get him. He doesn't know her name, but she has kind eyes. They remind him of someone, but he doesn't know who.

His own eyes scare people. He doesn't understand why, only that he's had more doctors come to see him than he can count. They are all the same. They all wear the same clothes and smell the same way and say the same things. They all tell him to take more of the little white pills that make everything easier. And they all leave as quickly as they have come.

He has no idea how long he has been here, in the hospital. Long enough for the daisies and wild primroses in the courtyard to blossom, bringing with them little pockets of color into his grey and white world, dripping pinks and yellows and greens. When they first appeared, he liked touching their delicate stems and petals, examining their beauty minutely, pressing it all into the back of his mind so he would never forget. He has forgotten too many things, important things. He doesn't want to miss anything else.

He is glad when the nurse comes, because it is the nurse he hoped for. Her face is nice, framed by her dark hair that comes down to her chin. She smiles at him, like she always does, and helps him to stand, like he knew she would.

'Let's get you inside. Are you hungry, Dean?'

The nurses call him 'Dean', because that is the name that is always on his lips when he wakes. He knows it isn't his name, but he can't remember his own name. He sometimes tries to think about who the name really belongs to, but it always leads to the same things - a feeling of loss and guilt in his chest so deep that he cries out, for no reason that he can fathom, and then the velvety blackness of a sedative-induced sleep when the nurses who come running hold him down.

The dark-haired nurse doesn't seem surprised when he doesn't answer her question. Everyone here seems to accept that he doesn't talk. It took a while for them to stop trying to coax him into speech, and he's grateful that he isn't expected to reply any more. It's not that he can't speak, more that he doesn't know what he would say. So all he does is stare. Perhaps that's why people find him so unsettling.

The only time he ever speaks is when he wakes, when he whispers the name Dean. He finds it strangely comforting, although he doesn't know why.

'It's cold today,' the nurse says, leading him back inside the hospital with a smile. 'We'll have to see about getting you something warmer to wear if you're going to spend any more time outside.'

He is the only patient that ever goes into the courtyard, not because the others aren't allowed to, but because he's the only one that wants to. He likes the solitude. He likes sitting alone in the courtyard and thinking of nothing. He likes watching things. Watching the birds, watching the insects, watching the flowers. It's the only place in this monochrome world where he can finally find some semblance of piece. Even if it is short lived.

The nurse with the brown hair understands this. It's one of the reasons he likes her.

'We've got a new patient coming in sometime tomorrow,' the nurse says as they walk along the grey corridors. He walks slowly because everything he does these days is unhurried; maybe it's the drugs he's on or maybe it's just his nature. He can't remember a time before the drugs so he can't tell the difference.

'I think it would be good if you show him around,' the nurse continues. She always leaves gaps in the conversation where he can speak if he wants to, but he never does. She's one of the few people who haven't given up on him ever speaking again. She's one of the few people who don't treat him like he's insane or stupid or both.

'Would that be okay?' she turns to look at him; he's half a step behind her, standing close to her because it feels familiar to be that close to someone. The people here don't like it, he's heard them talking about 'personal boundaries'. But he doesn't understand.

He pulls his eyes up from the floor with some difficulty and meets her gaze, unblinking. There's a question in her eyes, the usual kindness, and the promise that she won't push him to do anything he doesn't want to. He's grateful for that.

He gives her a small nod of assent, and she smiles.

'Thank you, Dean.'