Dean Winchester's Body

Prologue

     "Hell is a teenage boy"

Swan Lake Psychiatric Institution

      Miles outside a small town stood a  tall, and rather bland building. It had tall craggedy gray walls and the grass in the yard was a dry yellow and brown. It was hard to believe that long ago it was once a beautiful place. 

    when it was first erected the grounds were lush, the lawns were green and the fountain bubbled merrily in the middle on the black top. The walls of the outside had once been painted white, but over the decades the paint had been weathered away. Then they added the fences with barbed wire. The building had many windows, the insides blocked with metal bars so the patients inside could not used them to escape. The small town didn't have the  money to spruce it back up. They didn't care enough too, there were more important things that tax payers money went to first. Inside there rooms were beds of all sizes, depending on the severity of why you were there in the first place. The building had two main wings. 

    Castiel  Novak, at only seventeen years old, sits in the half of asylum for the criminally insane. The bed he's seated in is an uncomfortable hospital style cot. He's in his pajamas currently, they consist of a plain white shirt and boxer shorts. He has a ghost white pale complexion, Deep blue eyes that look haunted in their depth, and dark raven hair that looks like it hasn't been washed in at least a week. He stares out the window with empty eyes as he winds brown yarn around a pair of popsicle sticks glued together in a cross shape to create a simple string project called a 'gods eye'. If you look out the rooms only window you'll see the nine foot tall security fence with barbed wire lining the top. The walls of his actual cell are bare and unforgiving, no posters, no letters from home or other pictures. Everything felt muted.

     Next to Castiel sits a pile of of unopened mail scattered casually on the floor. There are letters, packages, and even creepy little gifts and totems sent by admiring "fans". Every day, Castiel get letters. He's starting think he gets more letters than Santa Claus, zac Efron, and Dr. Phil combined. He's kind of the shit.

......

     Castiel's eyes stare blindly at a pattern in the uneven planes of the wall while he works, his eyes tracing out a semi face looking divot in the stone. His hands move almost on their own, with quick, sure movements. He knows the pattern so well he could do it with his eyes closed, in his sleep even. When the face in the rock starts to look a little too familiar, a deep jaw line and a dimple, Castiel recoils with a flinch and blinks the image away. There's a knock on his cell door before it opens, and a man sticks his head in cautiously. "rec time started five minutes ago, Cas" the man informs. It was one of the many counselors at the asylum. He had flat red hair, and a sarcastic demeanor that appears to just be his personality, and what seems like a Scottish accent.

     "Grassy ass, senor Crowley" Castiel says back, his tone flat. After the door closes Castiel stands and changes. He slips off his pajamas and studied his body. A series of puffy, slash like scars mar his body still. He shivers from being exposed to the cool air of the compound, ignoring the memories that tug at the edge of his consciousness. He doesn't know why he checks everyday, he knew those scars would never just go away. As he changes Castiel idly thinks about all the mail scattered around his floor.

    Most of the time the letters he received were from people who say they're 'praying for him'. A majority of them tell Cas that everything will be alright if he just 'accepted Jesus Christ into his heart'. Sometimes he says the words, testing them on his tongue. Often actually, but nothing ever happens. Nobody comes back. Nobody gets off that damn cross. Castiel's eyes catch a photo of a girl on his dresser.  She has dark curly hair, and warm soft brown eyes. She smiled widely at the person behind the camera. She wears a marching band uniform, blue and gold. Castiel touches the frame wistfully, eyes full of remorse. He wishes he could go back, do some things differently now that he knew how it all played out. How things had to end.