In The Garden(of memory) [4/?]
8/11/17 07:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: In The Garden(of memory)
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, OCs
Rating: R
Word Count: 3108
Summary: Struck with a spell, Dean suffers memory loss, losing everything that makes Dean "Dean". Sam is at his side, working to break the spell, but soon begins to wonder if it's helping Dean or hurting him.
A/N, warning: non-con in this update
At AO3
Breathe
Another day. Another aimless, pointless talk.
Dr. Brand tapped his pencil against a sheaf of papers, flicked the edges of them. Mike wondered how his other clients viewed the doc's constant movement; was it distracting to them? Mike liked it—Doc's little tics made Mike feel like the doc was a real person, like he was a guy who really did want to help. Good looking, if kinda skinny—a great guy. A real catch. Mike chuckled quietly, and Dr. Brand looked up at him. He laid down his pencil kind of pointedly, and gave Mike a sunny smile.
"Mike, let's talk about you staying on with us a bit longer, say for another month—if it's something you think might be helpful. My colleagues and I would rather you had some sort of support in place before you leave us. With this extra time, we can arrange something for you, a place to live, help with employment...more therapy. We want to be sure you have the tools to deal with your amnesia. To be prepared to handle any roadblocks, so to speak." Dr. Brand, smiled, shrugged slightly.
Mike nodded, hearing that it was his choice to stay or not...but was it really? It wasn't like there was something waiting for him out there. He knew in some ways, it was safer here inside. Life hadn't been good when he was on the street—at least, he was pretty sure it hadn't been good. Maybe he'd never really know. Inside, though, he could be certain of warmth, his own bed, clean clothes, and decent food—but there was also Trevor, and having to hide from him and not being able to tell anyone, and who would believe him anyway?
Dr. Brand said that this was the seventh day he'd been there, not counting the days he'd spent recovering in a hospital bed. Mike didn't know much, but this life now was something he did know. He'd take a chance and stay. Trevor was just something...it could be a lot worse, he thought, unconsciously stroking one of the many thin, white, scars scattered over his forearm.
+++
Mike was working his way towards a quieter corner of the room, where he could sit quietly and let his thoughts wind down. He pulled his feet up onto the couch cushions and leaned back, wrapped his arms around his legs. This way he felt small, small enough to escape notice. His head dropped to rest on his knees, his shoulders rose, curved in. One of the guys—the one that never stopped walking—wandered past Mike's couch. "Fuckin' turtle-dude," he mumbled, and the fog around Mike shivered slightly, little dashes of gold flickered in the blackness. He laughed, startling himself. Turtle-dude...well, it was a little bit funny. He wouldn't mind being able to shrink down and hide in a nice, thick shell. Turtle himself away from everything.
Someone stepped directly in front of him—he could feel them. There was a feather-light touch on his shoulder and he flinched.
"Mike...what do you say to coming outside and walking a bit?" a voice asked. "You could use a little sun and fresh air."
No, leave me alone, don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't—Mike pressed his lips tight, shook his head no, rubbing his forehead against his knees.
The touch on his shoulder got firmer, there was no twitching that away. He lifted his head, opened his eyes to a face directly in front of him. He flinched back, but settled when she smiled—it was a nice, sympathetic smile, a friendly face, short blonde hair framing round cheeks, and eyes that crinkled up in the corners. Not young, but not old. "Too bad," she said, "because while it may have sounded like a question, it was actually a command. Let's go, buster."
Mike stared, trying to get some sense of her. In the end, he nodded, yes because she...she made him feel okay. Pressure slipped from his shoulder to his elbow as he unfolded and slid off the couch; she guided him from the day room, past the nurses station, to the courtyard doors.
Mike couldn't remember ever stepping through those doors before. He generally came and went as he pleased, which meant he basically slip-slid from bed, to the day room, to the dining hall, to bed, regular as clockwork because that's how he survived. Between hiding from Trevor, and getting treated like a side of beef when he couldn't, Mike's days were full. He didn't have time for light and air and big open spaces….
Bright sunlight slammed into him like a pillow-wrapped hammer. He staggered out onto the sidewalk, his arm sliding out of the woman's grip. Warmth burst over him, warm air stroked his skin. Sun filled his desperate pores with light, and want. He tilted his face upwards, eyes carefully closed. "Oh man," he murmured, reverent, overwhelmed. Pure light, everywhere, not sketched in the narrow square of a wire-reinforced window, or spied distantly through a set of double doors. Everywhere. It was everywhere.
"That's it, Mike, breathe in, breathe out. Let it out, Mike. Breathe out whatever poison's been filling you up lately."
Mike blinked, his eyes finally clearing. The gluey fog that filled them day and night thinned so much he could clearly see William, standing next to the blonde woman. "William," he smiled. "Hello."
Just looking at William, feeling the air—just feeling--made him want to hug the man. Heck, made him want to grab him and dance all over the lawn. A laugh hiccoughed out of him, and William laughed with him.
"Hello, Mike. It's good to see you around." He glanced at the tiny woman standing next to him. "I'm glad you were able to talk him into getting some sun, Betty."
Betty smirked a little wider. "I didn't talk him into it, Will. Mike made his own mind up. He chose a little sunshine today."
He wasn't entirely sure that that was true, but he liked the idea that he chose the sun. He took a deep breath. There was the scent of something warm and sweet in the air. He let his captured breath out, almost saw the fog rolling out with that expelled breath thinning in the bright light, drifting apart with the scent of summer grass and sage….
Mike covered his mouth, hiding the smile he just knew had to be freakishly wide, the way his cheeks ached.
Betty never let up on him after that first day she'd gently forced him outside. She was nice, some kind of therapist of a sort Mike never really understood—"Horticultural therapy—Mike, are you giggling? Stop that."
She directed his good hours, led Mike and a few other patients to help in laying out a garden, described the type of plants being used and how to care for them, explained a bit about designing paths and beds and stopping places in a garden. While outside contractors designed and laid out the bones, Mike and some of the other patients did the grunt work. Mike was fine with that. Digging and moving dirt felt comfortable in a weird way, kept his mind clear—concentrating on shoveling piles of gravel onto soon-to-be pathways, stacking pavers besides a growing patio, digging holes for the bushes that he nestled into them with his own hands—it all kept the fog away.
Mike felt mercifully clear, almost bright, for the first time in what felt like forever.
He walked along the emerging pathways, trowel and pruners in his hands and staring down Trevor whenever he passed him—Mike knew he was laughing at Trevor with his eyes, but he couldn't help it. He was glad, happy even. Trevor hadn't been able to catch Mike truly alone in days. It felt good. He swept the gravel back into the pathways as he walked, and breathed. He smiled down at a short section of rocks edging part of a garden bed. When they'd set them into place, he'd taken a bit of flagstone, and scraped a star in a circle on the bottom of one of them—almost the same thing that was tattooed on his chest. No idea why he'd done it, just that it made him feel...good. Better. Wished more than once that he could put that star on his door...no matter what some of the clients said, the symbol was not evil.It was meant to help him, it was a good thing. That was one of the few things he was certain of.
Mike bent and put his hand over the sun-warmed stone and wished so hard that he knew why it was a good sign. It was important, in the same way Hey Jude was….
+++
Mike hunched over a wheelbarrow filled with gallon pots of plants. The sun warmed his back—almost a bit too hot. The speckles that he hated had multiplied under the sun, but he was willing to ignore them in favor of the good feeling being outdoors brought him. He'd lucked out today, and was assigned a bed to plant all by himself. Smiling, he picked up a pot, read the label on it. "Yarrow." His smile dropped away as he stared hard at the label. Something about that name...he set it down and picked up another two pots. Salvia officinalis, sage, with pretty purple flower spikes. Next came a few pots of the biggest, fattest marigolds he'd ever seen—and about the only thing he recognized. Towards the back of the wheelbarrow were plants that looked a little wild and weedy, what with their hairy leaves and tall flower stalks. He picked one up and stroked the leaves curiously. He just didn't get that they wanted the weird things planted, that they'd paid for the darn things—looked to him like stuff that grew on the side of the road. But he tilted the pot in his hand, examining the plant...it had personality. Yeah. It looked tough, like it could take a lot of crap and keep on growing. Alright, he liked it. Rhodiola rosea...whatever that was. He flipped the tag, and the common name was written there.
"Okay, Aaron's rod, we're going to put you along the back of this bed…"
He hummed and sweated and plugged pots into the places they should be. The guys doing other beds wandered off, but he stayed, seeing as how no one came to get him. He wandered over to one of the wheelbarrows and grabbed a no longer cold bottle of water, chugged it down. He felt...okay. No, he felt great. He grabbed up one of the pots of rosemary, intended for a tiny herb garden, pressed his face into its spiky-looking leaves and inhaled. It was...amazing. It smelled like all good things, it made him feel so good, he could hardly contain it. His heart beat a little faster and the world just seemed to spring into being all around him, all bright yellows and greens and blues—birdsong filled his ears and calmed his heart. He knelt in the damp, slightly sticky soil, trowel in his hand and thought what a really great day it was. The kind of day that made him feel alive, worthwhile. Less like a barely visible zero wasting space that real people needed. He dug a hole for the plant, singing as he did, voice low and rough and just for himself. "...and anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain—don't carry the world upon your shoulders…."
+++
Rain had kept them inside that day and between the overcast sky robbing them of sun, and the damp chill in the air, Mike was feeling less than fine. The fog was tip-toeing back, nibbling at his mind, eating at the edges that had been growing steadily sharper since Mike had been placed in charge of the herb garden. His body was jerky as a knot-stringed marionette, his skin felt paper-thin and his bones felt like glass. He headed towards his room, barely able to drag himself though the thickening air.
Mike closed his door and stripped, thinking that a hot shower might help clear his head, or at least make him tired enough to sleep.
His clothes hit the floor, he'd pick them up after. He sighed as he stepped into the shower and flipped the handle. Water, first too cold, but quickly warm enough, rushed over him. Helped melt the black taffy somewhat, and thinking hard about his herbs seemed to help. He rubbed his hands over his body, trying to lather up with his bit of hard, scentless soap. He swept it over his arms, down his chest, until he finally worked up some foam, and rubbed it into his pubic hair. He sighed, carded his fingers through wet curls, cupped his dick. He squeezed it a few times before dropping his hand. He felt a vague sense of frustration for a second or two before losing interest. He rinsed clean and stepped out, pushing water off himself with a thin towel. He felt a little better, yawning as he bent and gathered his clothes. He was tired now, swaying with the need to get in bed and let himself drift off to sleep.
He'd just pulled on his boxers, and was unfolding his pajamas when he heard the soft click of his door opening, shutting. He swung around to come eye-to-eye with his personal monster.
"Well, well, haven't seen you for a while, at least not up close and personal. How about we fix that, hunh? Get down, Michael Allen. On your knees. Now."
Mike was on the floor before he'd made any sense of what was happening, his knees crashing painfully into the damp tiles.
"We have to make this quick, shit, but I can't help it. That mouth. The way those fuckin' gorgeous eyes go all wet and swimming when I'm in you." Trevor pulled himself out, already hard, precome welling up—he squeezed himself, worked a drop of slick out and rubbed it around the tip. His eyes pinned Mike, the grin that exposed all his teeth like a snarling dog, and made goosebumps race over Mike's skin, made him want to throw up.
"Yeah, it's better than any drug, you cryin'. Fuck. Big fuckin' dude like you, folding like a little girl for me..." Trevor stepped forward, grabbed the back of Mike's head. "C'mon, now, open up for Daddy."
Daddy? Mike froze in the act of bending over to suck down Trevor's dick. Something wild seemed to roar up through him, from his gut to his brain—something that flipped switches to on all the fucking way inside of him as it came. He exploded, wide awake and clear as a bell, out of the darkness. He was Mike, he was half-naked and on his fucking knees, freezing-ass cold. Some...pimply-faced kid was staring down at him. Someone who thought he was a damn grown man—Mike snorted. Not hardly.
"Hey, hey...get to it, Michael Allen. Know you're a slut for this."
Mike snorted again. "Don't know who the hell Mike is, motherfucker, but I'm not a slut for any part of you." He surged upright, his forearm connecting with Trevor's throat hard enough to throw him back against the door.
"Hey!" Trevor gagged, tried to shove Mike's arm away. When he couldn't, he scowled, shifted forward.
The biggest part of Mike was well aware that Trevor knew how to take him down without a lot of fuss. Trevor could take Mike with one hand and a q-tip. But this...this thing that had suddenly taken over his brain, whatever the hell it was, shoved Mike out of the way inside his own mind. It knew how to take Trevor down with the maximum amount of damage and proceeded to just that. Let Trevor know how much of a slut Mike wasn't. And loved doing it.
+ + +
Mike staggered into a wall, struggling with the feeling of sliding back into a murky place... gaped down at the man on the floor, moaning and curled over himself.
"Trevor…" Mike whispered, horrified, trying to parse out just what the heck had happened. His heart stuttered; fog swirled wildly, trying to drag him down into the dark. The huddled ball on the floor moaned again, nothing like the guy who'd had Mike terrified nearly into a catatonic husk. Trevor coughed, moaned when a wad of blood hit the floor. He mumbled through swollen lips, "Fug, you bish, my nuds—you fugin' bathard.."
The sound of his voice broke through Mike's fear-frozen brain—he started to run, but only got a few steps in when his brain shut down again. He was semi-aware that he was walking slowly, casually towards the day room, then past it, into the windowless little office that Trevor had taken him to the very first time. But it was okay, because this time he was alone and this time, he locked the door. Shoved a chair under the knob and finally, leaned against the wall, fighting to breathe normally. Mike slid down until his ass hit the floor, his knees propped up...he rested his head against them and let all of it slide away. The fear broke first, letting his pea-soup brain process what happened and what could possibly happen next. "You won't get in trouble, not from anyone else," a soft voice whispered in the back of his head. "Trevor's not stupid, he won't say a word about this."
Mike nodded frantically. He was safe. Probably. Maybe Trevor would leave him alone, finally. Mike stayed there, wide awake until morning, then slipped back into his room. There were a few spots of blood on his floor, mostly it was cleaned—had been cleaned. He figured Trevor did it—covering the attempted attack. Mike slapped both hands over his mouth when he let loose a weird, warbling laugh. He ground them against his mouth until he managed to stop. He wiped up the small, rusty spots still left, and was sitting quietly on the end of the bed when an orderly knocked at the door. He didn't ask, but the guy volunteered the information that Trevor had apparently fallen in one of the public space bathrooms and would not be in that day, maybe not tomorrow. The guy rolled his eyes.
"With any luck, never," he mumbled and Mike was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear that.
It was hard to brush his teeth because he couldn't stop grinning.
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, OCs
Rating: R
Word Count: 3108
Summary: Struck with a spell, Dean suffers memory loss, losing everything that makes Dean "Dean". Sam is at his side, working to break the spell, but soon begins to wonder if it's helping Dean or hurting him.
A/N, warning: non-con in this update
At AO3
Breathe
Another day. Another aimless, pointless talk.
Dr. Brand tapped his pencil against a sheaf of papers, flicked the edges of them. Mike wondered how his other clients viewed the doc's constant movement; was it distracting to them? Mike liked it—Doc's little tics made Mike feel like the doc was a real person, like he was a guy who really did want to help. Good looking, if kinda skinny—a great guy. A real catch. Mike chuckled quietly, and Dr. Brand looked up at him. He laid down his pencil kind of pointedly, and gave Mike a sunny smile.
"Mike, let's talk about you staying on with us a bit longer, say for another month—if it's something you think might be helpful. My colleagues and I would rather you had some sort of support in place before you leave us. With this extra time, we can arrange something for you, a place to live, help with employment...more therapy. We want to be sure you have the tools to deal with your amnesia. To be prepared to handle any roadblocks, so to speak." Dr. Brand, smiled, shrugged slightly.
Mike nodded, hearing that it was his choice to stay or not...but was it really? It wasn't like there was something waiting for him out there. He knew in some ways, it was safer here inside. Life hadn't been good when he was on the street—at least, he was pretty sure it hadn't been good. Maybe he'd never really know. Inside, though, he could be certain of warmth, his own bed, clean clothes, and decent food—but there was also Trevor, and having to hide from him and not being able to tell anyone, and who would believe him anyway?
Dr. Brand said that this was the seventh day he'd been there, not counting the days he'd spent recovering in a hospital bed. Mike didn't know much, but this life now was something he did know. He'd take a chance and stay. Trevor was just something...it could be a lot worse, he thought, unconsciously stroking one of the many thin, white, scars scattered over his forearm.
Mike was working his way towards a quieter corner of the room, where he could sit quietly and let his thoughts wind down. He pulled his feet up onto the couch cushions and leaned back, wrapped his arms around his legs. This way he felt small, small enough to escape notice. His head dropped to rest on his knees, his shoulders rose, curved in. One of the guys—the one that never stopped walking—wandered past Mike's couch. "Fuckin' turtle-dude," he mumbled, and the fog around Mike shivered slightly, little dashes of gold flickered in the blackness. He laughed, startling himself. Turtle-dude...well, it was a little bit funny. He wouldn't mind being able to shrink down and hide in a nice, thick shell. Turtle himself away from everything.
Someone stepped directly in front of him—he could feel them. There was a feather-light touch on his shoulder and he flinched.
"Mike...what do you say to coming outside and walking a bit?" a voice asked. "You could use a little sun and fresh air."
No, leave me alone, don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't—Mike pressed his lips tight, shook his head no, rubbing his forehead against his knees.
The touch on his shoulder got firmer, there was no twitching that away. He lifted his head, opened his eyes to a face directly in front of him. He flinched back, but settled when she smiled—it was a nice, sympathetic smile, a friendly face, short blonde hair framing round cheeks, and eyes that crinkled up in the corners. Not young, but not old. "Too bad," she said, "because while it may have sounded like a question, it was actually a command. Let's go, buster."
Mike stared, trying to get some sense of her. In the end, he nodded, yes because she...she made him feel okay. Pressure slipped from his shoulder to his elbow as he unfolded and slid off the couch; she guided him from the day room, past the nurses station, to the courtyard doors.
Mike couldn't remember ever stepping through those doors before. He generally came and went as he pleased, which meant he basically slip-slid from bed, to the day room, to the dining hall, to bed, regular as clockwork because that's how he survived. Between hiding from Trevor, and getting treated like a side of beef when he couldn't, Mike's days were full. He didn't have time for light and air and big open spaces….
Bright sunlight slammed into him like a pillow-wrapped hammer. He staggered out onto the sidewalk, his arm sliding out of the woman's grip. Warmth burst over him, warm air stroked his skin. Sun filled his desperate pores with light, and want. He tilted his face upwards, eyes carefully closed. "Oh man," he murmured, reverent, overwhelmed. Pure light, everywhere, not sketched in the narrow square of a wire-reinforced window, or spied distantly through a set of double doors. Everywhere. It was everywhere.
"That's it, Mike, breathe in, breathe out. Let it out, Mike. Breathe out whatever poison's been filling you up lately."
Mike blinked, his eyes finally clearing. The gluey fog that filled them day and night thinned so much he could clearly see William, standing next to the blonde woman. "William," he smiled. "Hello."
Just looking at William, feeling the air—just feeling--made him want to hug the man. Heck, made him want to grab him and dance all over the lawn. A laugh hiccoughed out of him, and William laughed with him.
"Hello, Mike. It's good to see you around." He glanced at the tiny woman standing next to him. "I'm glad you were able to talk him into getting some sun, Betty."
Betty smirked a little wider. "I didn't talk him into it, Will. Mike made his own mind up. He chose a little sunshine today."
He wasn't entirely sure that that was true, but he liked the idea that he chose the sun. He took a deep breath. There was the scent of something warm and sweet in the air. He let his captured breath out, almost saw the fog rolling out with that expelled breath thinning in the bright light, drifting apart with the scent of summer grass and sage….
Mike covered his mouth, hiding the smile he just knew had to be freakishly wide, the way his cheeks ached.
Betty never let up on him after that first day she'd gently forced him outside. She was nice, some kind of therapist of a sort Mike never really understood—"Horticultural therapy—Mike, are you giggling? Stop that."
She directed his good hours, led Mike and a few other patients to help in laying out a garden, described the type of plants being used and how to care for them, explained a bit about designing paths and beds and stopping places in a garden. While outside contractors designed and laid out the bones, Mike and some of the other patients did the grunt work. Mike was fine with that. Digging and moving dirt felt comfortable in a weird way, kept his mind clear—concentrating on shoveling piles of gravel onto soon-to-be pathways, stacking pavers besides a growing patio, digging holes for the bushes that he nestled into them with his own hands—it all kept the fog away.
Mike felt mercifully clear, almost bright, for the first time in what felt like forever.
He walked along the emerging pathways, trowel and pruners in his hands and staring down Trevor whenever he passed him—Mike knew he was laughing at Trevor with his eyes, but he couldn't help it. He was glad, happy even. Trevor hadn't been able to catch Mike truly alone in days. It felt good. He swept the gravel back into the pathways as he walked, and breathed. He smiled down at a short section of rocks edging part of a garden bed. When they'd set them into place, he'd taken a bit of flagstone, and scraped a star in a circle on the bottom of one of them—almost the same thing that was tattooed on his chest. No idea why he'd done it, just that it made him feel...good. Better. Wished more than once that he could put that star on his door...no matter what some of the clients said, the symbol was not evil.It was meant to help him, it was a good thing. That was one of the few things he was certain of.
Mike bent and put his hand over the sun-warmed stone and wished so hard that he knew why it was a good sign. It was important, in the same way Hey Jude was….
Mike hunched over a wheelbarrow filled with gallon pots of plants. The sun warmed his back—almost a bit too hot. The speckles that he hated had multiplied under the sun, but he was willing to ignore them in favor of the good feeling being outdoors brought him. He'd lucked out today, and was assigned a bed to plant all by himself. Smiling, he picked up a pot, read the label on it. "Yarrow." His smile dropped away as he stared hard at the label. Something about that name...he set it down and picked up another two pots. Salvia officinalis, sage, with pretty purple flower spikes. Next came a few pots of the biggest, fattest marigolds he'd ever seen—and about the only thing he recognized. Towards the back of the wheelbarrow were plants that looked a little wild and weedy, what with their hairy leaves and tall flower stalks. He picked one up and stroked the leaves curiously. He just didn't get that they wanted the weird things planted, that they'd paid for the darn things—looked to him like stuff that grew on the side of the road. But he tilted the pot in his hand, examining the plant...it had personality. Yeah. It looked tough, like it could take a lot of crap and keep on growing. Alright, he liked it. Rhodiola rosea...whatever that was. He flipped the tag, and the common name was written there.
"Okay, Aaron's rod, we're going to put you along the back of this bed…"
He hummed and sweated and plugged pots into the places they should be. The guys doing other beds wandered off, but he stayed, seeing as how no one came to get him. He wandered over to one of the wheelbarrows and grabbed a no longer cold bottle of water, chugged it down. He felt...okay. No, he felt great. He grabbed up one of the pots of rosemary, intended for a tiny herb garden, pressed his face into its spiky-looking leaves and inhaled. It was...amazing. It smelled like all good things, it made him feel so good, he could hardly contain it. His heart beat a little faster and the world just seemed to spring into being all around him, all bright yellows and greens and blues—birdsong filled his ears and calmed his heart. He knelt in the damp, slightly sticky soil, trowel in his hand and thought what a really great day it was. The kind of day that made him feel alive, worthwhile. Less like a barely visible zero wasting space that real people needed. He dug a hole for the plant, singing as he did, voice low and rough and just for himself. "...and anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain—don't carry the world upon your shoulders…."
Rain had kept them inside that day and between the overcast sky robbing them of sun, and the damp chill in the air, Mike was feeling less than fine. The fog was tip-toeing back, nibbling at his mind, eating at the edges that had been growing steadily sharper since Mike had been placed in charge of the herb garden. His body was jerky as a knot-stringed marionette, his skin felt paper-thin and his bones felt like glass. He headed towards his room, barely able to drag himself though the thickening air.
Mike closed his door and stripped, thinking that a hot shower might help clear his head, or at least make him tired enough to sleep.
His clothes hit the floor, he'd pick them up after. He sighed as he stepped into the shower and flipped the handle. Water, first too cold, but quickly warm enough, rushed over him. Helped melt the black taffy somewhat, and thinking hard about his herbs seemed to help. He rubbed his hands over his body, trying to lather up with his bit of hard, scentless soap. He swept it over his arms, down his chest, until he finally worked up some foam, and rubbed it into his pubic hair. He sighed, carded his fingers through wet curls, cupped his dick. He squeezed it a few times before dropping his hand. He felt a vague sense of frustration for a second or two before losing interest. He rinsed clean and stepped out, pushing water off himself with a thin towel. He felt a little better, yawning as he bent and gathered his clothes. He was tired now, swaying with the need to get in bed and let himself drift off to sleep.
He'd just pulled on his boxers, and was unfolding his pajamas when he heard the soft click of his door opening, shutting. He swung around to come eye-to-eye with his personal monster.
"Well, well, haven't seen you for a while, at least not up close and personal. How about we fix that, hunh? Get down, Michael Allen. On your knees. Now."
Mike was on the floor before he'd made any sense of what was happening, his knees crashing painfully into the damp tiles.
"We have to make this quick, shit, but I can't help it. That mouth. The way those fuckin' gorgeous eyes go all wet and swimming when I'm in you." Trevor pulled himself out, already hard, precome welling up—he squeezed himself, worked a drop of slick out and rubbed it around the tip. His eyes pinned Mike, the grin that exposed all his teeth like a snarling dog, and made goosebumps race over Mike's skin, made him want to throw up.
"Yeah, it's better than any drug, you cryin'. Fuck. Big fuckin' dude like you, folding like a little girl for me..." Trevor stepped forward, grabbed the back of Mike's head. "C'mon, now, open up for Daddy."
Daddy? Mike froze in the act of bending over to suck down Trevor's dick. Something wild seemed to roar up through him, from his gut to his brain—something that flipped switches to on all the fucking way inside of him as it came. He exploded, wide awake and clear as a bell, out of the darkness. He was Mike, he was half-naked and on his fucking knees, freezing-ass cold. Some...pimply-faced kid was staring down at him. Someone who thought he was a damn grown man—Mike snorted. Not hardly.
"Hey, hey...get to it, Michael Allen. Know you're a slut for this."
Mike snorted again. "Don't know who the hell Mike is, motherfucker, but I'm not a slut for any part of you." He surged upright, his forearm connecting with Trevor's throat hard enough to throw him back against the door.
"Hey!" Trevor gagged, tried to shove Mike's arm away. When he couldn't, he scowled, shifted forward.
The biggest part of Mike was well aware that Trevor knew how to take him down without a lot of fuss. Trevor could take Mike with one hand and a q-tip. But this...this thing that had suddenly taken over his brain, whatever the hell it was, shoved Mike out of the way inside his own mind. It knew how to take Trevor down with the maximum amount of damage and proceeded to just that. Let Trevor know how much of a slut Mike wasn't. And loved doing it.
Mike staggered into a wall, struggling with the feeling of sliding back into a murky place... gaped down at the man on the floor, moaning and curled over himself.
"Trevor…" Mike whispered, horrified, trying to parse out just what the heck had happened. His heart stuttered; fog swirled wildly, trying to drag him down into the dark. The huddled ball on the floor moaned again, nothing like the guy who'd had Mike terrified nearly into a catatonic husk. Trevor coughed, moaned when a wad of blood hit the floor. He mumbled through swollen lips, "Fug, you bish, my nuds—you fugin' bathard.."
The sound of his voice broke through Mike's fear-frozen brain—he started to run, but only got a few steps in when his brain shut down again. He was semi-aware that he was walking slowly, casually towards the day room, then past it, into the windowless little office that Trevor had taken him to the very first time. But it was okay, because this time he was alone and this time, he locked the door. Shoved a chair under the knob and finally, leaned against the wall, fighting to breathe normally. Mike slid down until his ass hit the floor, his knees propped up...he rested his head against them and let all of it slide away. The fear broke first, letting his pea-soup brain process what happened and what could possibly happen next. "You won't get in trouble, not from anyone else," a soft voice whispered in the back of his head. "Trevor's not stupid, he won't say a word about this."
Mike nodded frantically. He was safe. Probably. Maybe Trevor would leave him alone, finally. Mike stayed there, wide awake until morning, then slipped back into his room. There were a few spots of blood on his floor, mostly it was cleaned—had been cleaned. He figured Trevor did it—covering the attempted attack. Mike slapped both hands over his mouth when he let loose a weird, warbling laugh. He ground them against his mouth until he managed to stop. He wiped up the small, rusty spots still left, and was sitting quietly on the end of the bed when an orderly knocked at the door. He didn't ask, but the guy volunteered the information that Trevor had apparently fallen in one of the public space bathrooms and would not be in that day, maybe not tomorrow. The guy rolled his eyes.
"With any luck, never," he mumbled and Mike was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear that.
It was hard to brush his teeth because he couldn't stop grinning.