If Walls Could Talk | Dean Winchester ✓

2. They Mustn't Know.

Dr Maine exhaled. "You know they aren't real, June. It's all in here." He pressed his finger to her forehead lightly. "You know that."

June chewed her lip, nodding.

"I'll bring you some breakfast, okay?"

She nodded again, and the doctor left. June stared at the empty sketch pad in front of her, picking up her pencil and let her hand move freely across the crisp white paper. Her brows furrowed, watching the drawing unfold in front of her. It was a portrait of a man, with a strong clenched jaw, unbelievably handsome lips, and piercing eyes that seemed to lift from the page. His freckles danced over his cheeks, and his hair was pushed back off of his forehead.

"June?" Dr Maine asked, looking at the paper, putting down the plate he was carrying with two pieces of toast. "Who's that?"

June put her pencil down. "I don't know," she swallowed.

Dr Maine pushes the plate closer. "Eat," he said softly. "Then go check on Maria. She's quiet again today."

June nodded and Dr Maine left once again.

•

"A mental hospital? Dude everything's creepy about an old mental hospital."

"I just wanted to check it out," Sam replied to his almost unpersuadable older brother. "Listen, it's been passed through from father to son for like 150 years."

"Whoop-dee-doo," Dean rolled his eyes. "Fathers pass things on all the time." He rubbed his thumbs against the wheel of the Impala, smiling to himself.

"No but Dean, the sons look exactly like the fathers, and there is no evidence of them during their youth, it's only when there's a new owner that everyone assumes is the son."

"Fine," Dean sighed. "You wanna look around a creepy old mental hospital, then be my guest."

"You know you're driving there."

"Yeah yeah, I know."

•

"This is stupid," Dean pulled at the blue fabric of his hospital clothes.

"You're stupid," Sam retorted. "This is the best way of finding out exactly what's going on here."

"But I don't want to be a crazy person."

"Sh!" Sam frowned. "Some patients are sensitive to being called 'crazy'."

His brother rolled his eyes, looking around the room they just entered. Dean caught sight of a girl, with ash brown hair and sad baggy eyes, staring at him from across the room. "Sammy," he whispered. "That girl is staring at us."

"Shut up Dean."

"She's creeping me out."

"Fine. You can stay here with the crazy people while I go talk to her. She might know something."

"Sammy!"

But Sam had already left his older brother to stand in the doorway, making his way over to girl, who was watching him with grey-blue eyes. "Hi, I'm--"

"Sam Winchester," the girl cut him off. "I know who you are."

Sam cocked his head to the side, sitting across from her at her small table. "How do you know who I am?"

"They talk about you. And your brother, Dean." June fiddled with her now closed sketch book. "How you travel the country in a 1967 black Chevrolet Impala, passed down to Dean from your late father, fighting off demons and the like, with an angel in a trench coat at your every call."

Dean stood behind Sam, both their eyes now wide at this strange girl who knew everything about them. They had nothing to say, their mouths were dry and their heads were suddenly empty.

June looked up. "June."

"Actually, it's March," Dean corrected her.

June narrowed her eyes. "My name, dimwit. It's June."

Dean chewed his bottom lip, looking away to avoid the tension that had settled over the table like an itchy old blanket.

"Why are you here, June?" Sam whispered.

"Schizophrenia," June replied. "Or so they say. The real question is: why are you?"