Work Text:
and we
can only pray that if these rooms
have memories
they are not ours
-Dana Gioia, “Maze without a Minotaur”
A very tall man is arguing over something with a bouncy-haired lady.
He sits on a bed and watches, not daring to interrupt. What they're talking about doesn't make sense to him. The tall man gesticulates a lot, and he's rude to the woman. Maybe he should go over and tell him to leave her alone, but so far she seems to be holding her own, so he stays put.
It's. So. Boring.
There's a TV, and after a moment of looking around he spots the thingie with the buttons that should turn it on.
He takes it in his hand and then gets confused. What was he—what—
Maybe he was supposed to do something with this? He looks at the other two people in the room for guidance, but they're arguing with one another.
Looking down at the button-thingie in his hand, he chooses the biggest and most important looking one, and presses it.
Sudden light and sound make him flinch, but then, oh—cartoons!
Awesome.
Except then, the tall man comes over and takes the button-thingie out of his hand and shuts the cartoons off.
“Dean, listen. The witches are gone, and they've got the Grimoire. We're gonna do a spell to slow down the curse to buy some time, and then—”
The man cuts himself off and his serious expression turns into one of exasperation.
“You forgot again, didn't you?”
He opens his mouth, unsure whether to say yes or no—forgot what?—but the man is already holding up a hand, shaking his head.
“Gimme a sec, I'm just gonna—” The man takes a note off a note pad and scribbles on it, then comes over and grabs his left hand and puts the note on the back of it. It's sticky on one side and sticks to his skin. It says
Your name is Dean.
Sam is your brother.
You've been cursed to forget
everything and we're working
on fixing you.
While he reads, a sinking feeling spreads through his body, and his heart speeds up. He feels like he can't breathe quite right. This explains why he doesn't know where he is or how he got here, or who these people are. No, apparently that man is his brother, he needs to remember—Dean, Dean needs to remember that—but is he going to forget again? Is he—
“Here, look.”
His brother—Sam, Dean's brother Sam—has a sticky note on the front of his shirt now, and one on his right arm. It says
Sam
Your brother.
“Okay, we need to put the spell on you before you forget again. C'mon, Dean, get up.” Sam tugs on Dean's arm and Dean stands, feeling a little light-headed and a lot confused.
“Is, um... Is that gonna hurt?”
The bouncy-haired lady appears at his—at Dean's side, looking sympathetic. “I'm afraid so, deary.”
Oh. Dean feels briefly dismayed, but is then distracted by how the lady's movements make her locks bounce as she pulls stuff from out of her bag.
“I like your hair.”
That makes the woman smile, which makes Dean happy. His brother Sam looks annoyed, which makes Dean feel confused. What's wrong about nice hair?
The nice woman—Dean sees that she's got a sticky note on her shoulder that says, in elegant handwriting, “Rowena”. What a strange name, he thinks. She has Dean sit down on the bed again and puts a hand on top of his head.
“Close your eyes, sweetie.”
He does, and immediately, he starts feeling very hot, and then pain slices through his head, making him gasp. Instinctively, he tries to move his head away but Rowena's grip on him is incredibly strong. She says a strange word and a moment later, the pain stops. Dean's still trying to get his breath back when a glass is pressed to his mouth and he's ordered to swallow. At first it's not so bad, but then the bitter taste hits him and his stomach turns over. He chokes, his eyes water, but the grip on his head is relentless.
“You've got to swallow it all, deary. Come on, just a little bit more.”
He obeys, and finally, the glass is removed from his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and dry heaves. A delicate hand ruffles his hair, and slowly, the sick feeling goes away. When he opens his eyes, Rowena is looking at Sam, who is stuffing things into ugly duffel bags.
“It is not going to stop the curse completely from progressing, and it's also not going to last long. In twenty-four hours, the spell needs to be renewed again,” she says. She's got a funny accent that Dean likes almost as much as her hair.
The man's—no, Sam, Sam's—face hardens. He shoves a jacket into a bag and zips it. Dean'd kind of like a jacket. He feels a bit cold.
“Tell me the spell, I'll do it.”
Rowena snort-laughs, which makes Dean smile, because it's endearing.
“That is far too powerful magic for you, Samuel. It'll fizzle out, and this bonny lad will choke on his own spit once he forgets how to swallow.”
Dean stops smiling and blinks at her.
“What?”
They ignore him and continue to argue, so he sits down on the bed again, and oh hey, there's a doll. It looks misshapen and kinda sad. He aimlessly braids its poor excuse for hair. There's something sticking to his hand that's in the way, and he's about to take it off when he realizes there's writing on it. He reads it, and—oh.
Oh.
He—Dean looks up. The man, that must be his brother... Dean wonders if they look alike. Dean has no idea what he looks like.
Suddenly, he needs to know.
There are none of those things where you can look at yourself in the room, but he finds one in the bathroom.
He stares at himself.
Dean. That's his name.
His eyes are green.
Dean.
His hair is a light brown.
Dean.
That's his—
“Dean! What are you doing?”
A man is standing in the doorway, frowning at him.
“Sam?” He asks, unsure and scared. He knows Sam is his brother, but he doesn't know what he looks like. Dean knows what he looks like now, and this man looks nothing like him.
The man sighs.
“Yes, Dean. It says it right he—damn it, it fell off.” The man—Sam, his brother, glares at his chest for some reason. Then he shakes his head, “Nevermind. C'mon, we're leaving.”
Dean tentatively follows him out of the bathroom.
“Where are we going?”
“To the—home, Dean.”
Oh. That sounds nice actually. He hopes it's warm and comfortable there. And clean. That bathroom he was in wasn't very clean.
Outside, a red-haired lady is standing next to a big black car.
His brother Sam opens the car's trunk and puts a couple of bags inside, and… oh, wow!
“This—this is our car?”
His brother Sam sighs.
“Wow…” He smoothes a hand over the car's roof. “Beautiful.”
His brother slams the trunk shut, then nudges him away from the driver's side.
“Yeah, and you're not driving it.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“'Cause you've forgotten how, Dean.”
Oh.
“Oh…” He feels immensely sad at the news.
“After we've fixed you, you can drive as much as you want, I promise. Now get in the car.”
The red-haired lady is already in the backseat. He hesitates, and then joins her. He doesn't want her to feel lonely.
“Is- um... Is it okay if I sit here?”
She smiles at him. “Why, of course deary!”
Her hair is all bouncy and pretty.
His brother is just starting the car when he realizes—“Uh... I'm kinda cold.”
The car is shut off again. His brother walks around to the trunk and then shoves a jacket at him.
“Um... Do we have blankets?”
He's given a blanket and then the car starts and they're driving away.
He puts on the jacket and then huddles into the blanket. It smells strangely like salt and it's not very soft.
“This isn't very soft.”
The driver says, “Stop complaining, Dean.”
He looks up, confused.
“Who?”
>
He's in a comfortable state, somewhere between asleep and awake… when suddenly his chest feels too tight and he wakes with a gasp, his heart hammering away in panic.
He's in a room, lying on a bed, and there's no threat he can see. But he's got no idea where he is or how he got here. A second wave of panic crashes over him when he tries to remember the last thing he did and comes up blank.
He sits up warily. The sheets on the bed are nice and soft and smell clean. He's not wearing shoes and there aren't any windows. The door is closed but he can't see if it's locked as well.
He's about to get up and check when he notices a sheet of paper on the... thing... beside his bed… He can't remember what's it called and that's. That's not normal, right?
There's writing on the paper in big, red letters. He mouthes the words as he reads them.
Your name is Dean and you're
in your room at home.
Go outside and follow the arrows
on the walls until you find your
brother Sam.
“Your name is Dean,” he repeats to himself. “Dean.”
He looks around the room once more. His room. Dean's room.
There are weapons mounted on one wall and they make him flinch. But the lighting is nice and soft, and this mattress is awesome. Maybe he has good taste after all, beside the guns and knives?
He's dressed already—did he go to sleep in his clothes? Why?—and so only needs to put on the boots he finds at the end of the—his, bed. Behind the door, Dean's confronted with a hallway without windows. Arrows with words on them are taped to the opposite wall. Looking at the arrow that says “kitchen”, Dean realizes he's starving. He decides to follow that one.
The hallways all look the same and he gets a bit scared he might get lost. He has no idea which direction he came from.
Finally, there's a doorway and a room behind it. There's even someone in it, someone who might be able to tell him where he is.
It's a man, and he looks very tall, even hunched over a laptop and drinking coffee.
He doesn't want to intrude, but the man has already noticed him. He gets up from the table and smiles. It looks a bit strained.
“Hey, Dean. Did you sleep well?”
He turns around, but there's no one else behind him. He looks at the man in confusion, who blows out a breath and runs his hands through his hair.
“Right… Your name is Dean. I'm Sam, your brother. You've been cursed, that's why you don't know.”
He sounds weary, like he's already had to explain this several times. Dean—since apparently that's his name—feels kind of bad for the guy.
“Okay. Uh... Sorry, I guess.”
Sam's features soften a bit.
This is his brother?
Awkward.
“It's not your fault, Dean. Hey, how do you feel about breakfast?”
That makes him perk up. He's starving.
“Waffles?” He asks, hopeful.
For some reason, the guy that's Dean's brother looks exasperated at that.
“Dude, what is it with you and—” He drags a hand down his face and abruptly appears to change his mind.
“You know what? If you can make them yourself, you can have waffles.”
Dean frowns. “Of course I can make—” He stops himself when his mind stays stubbornly blank on how to do that.
Okay, this—this sucks.
Sam looks at him weird, so his disappointment must be obvious.
“Can't you make them?” Dean whines.
How hard can it be after all.
Sam opens his mouth, then shuts it and sits down and draws a book close. He doesn't look at Dean.
“No.”
Dean sits down opposite him.
“Why?”
His brother looks annoyed now, which Dean didn't want to happen. He wants to understand though.
“I don't like them,” Sam is saying. Then his expression turns a bit sheepish. “And you usually make them so...”
Wait.
“I never taught you?”
Sam looks taken aback.
“Uh... No? I mean, maybe you offered, but… I don't know, I've never really been interested in cooking. Before we moved here, I didn't even know you knew what a kitchen was!”
Sam chuckles.
Dean smiles, even though he feels increasingly confused. And a bit disappointed that apparently he can't cook well either. Scrambling to find common ground with this brother he doesn't know, he says, “I bet our mom cooked for us all the time when we were kids, huh?”
Sam tries to hide it but his face falls. “Uh—right.” He clears his throat, and then starts shoving some stuff that's on the table towards Dean. “Hey, why don't you make yourself a sandwich? Maybe a PB&J, you like those.”
Dean looks at him.
“Peebee what now?”
He's never heard that word before.
His brother sighs, and then picks up some jars from further down the table and puts them in front of him.
“Put this—” He points at a jar that says Skippy on the side, “On some bread, and then this—” He holds up another jar that has red jelly in it, “On top of it. Trust me.”
He does.
His brother turns out to be right.
It's delicious.
He moans around his first bite, and tries to say “This is really good,” before he's even finished chewing. His brother makes a face but looks kind of happy.
“Thanks, Sa—S—. Uh…”
He stops eating, his heart pounding and his cheeks heating when he realizes he doesn't know his brother's name. How can he not know?!
He rubs his eyes, feeling dizzy. His sight gets blurry.
“Sam. My name is Sam,” he hears. It sounds far away.
He blinks, and the blurry spots start going away.
“Oh,” he says, trying to sound friendly and not confused. “Uh... Nice to, um... Meet you. I'm—my name is... Is, uh… Um...” He flounders for a moment and then gives up, looking up at the man for help.
The man—Sam—rubs his temples and mutters what sounds like “I need a drink.”
>
Cold.
He's so cold.
He's dripping wet all over like he fell into a river. But he also smells faintly like vanilla, so maybe he just took a bath?
But now he's cold. He's only wearing a gray robe and boxer shorts and thin slippers.
He's in a big room with a big table, and there are hallways leading away from the room, but he hasn't tried them because he's scared to get lost. Also, checking them out would mean moving, and he'd rather stay huddled into the robe and try and preserve warmth.
He's tried the door at the end of the staircase, but it's locked. He's tried calling for help but no one came.
Staring at the tabletop and shivering, he tries to remember where he is and why he's drenched, but it makes his head hurt.
Suddenly there's a noise from somewhere above him, and when he looks up, someone enters and shuts the door behind themselves again, then starts walking down the staircase.
He gets up and draws the robe tighter around himself.
The person reaches the bottom of the stairs.
“Hello, Dean."
It's a man in one of those—one of those big coats. He's got very blue eyes.
And apparently he knows him. Okay, that's... that's good. He can do this, it's gonna be okay.
“Um… Hi?” He waves a little, then quickly crosses his arms in front of his chest again and shivers. “Sorry, can you tell me where we are?”
Coat guy frowns at him and steps closer.
“Where we—Dean, what's wrong? Are you concussed?”
Coat guy lays a hand on his shoulder and his frown deepens.
“You're freezing. And wet. What happened?”
“Um... I, I don't know.”
Coat guy opens his mouth when a shout of “Dean!” interrupts him.
A tall, frantic looking man is rushing towards them.
“Jesus, Dean, I looked everywhere for you. Why didn't you follow the arrows back to your room?”
He looks at the unknown man's frustrated expression and swallows, feeling incredibly lost.
“Nevermind,” the man says, seeming to take pity on him. The man then turns to look at coat guy. “Cas, hey. What are you doing here?”
“That's not important now. Sam, what the hell is going on?” Coat guy—Cas?—demands.
The man named Sam rakes a hand through his hair. He's got dark bags under his eyes.
“We were on a hunt, and Dean—that's you,” Sam says, pointing at him, “Got cursed. He's losing his memory. Or more like, he's lost it. Right now, everything you tell him, he won't remember anymore in about three minutes.”
He—Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean—stares at Sam, feeling himself grow even colder.
Dean will forget all this again in three minutes?
No.
No, no, no. He doesn't want that.
The other two are talking, arguing really, but he interrupts them, desperate.
“I will forget this?” A lump forms in his throat. He twists the thing that's holding his robe closed between his fingers and unsuccessfully tries to suppress his shivers.
“Dean—”
“No, no. I don't want that. Can't you stop it?”
Sam holds up both his hands.
“Dean, calm down. We're working on it, okay? We'll fix you.”
“Fix me how? What's wrong with me?!”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Dean, please. Please just shut up. I know you don't mean to, but I've explained this to you like thirty times already. And that's just the last couple of hours. Please just—” He cuts himself off and frowns. “Why are you wet all over? Didn't you see the towels? Jesus, Dean.”
He's lead back to the showers and told to warm up under the stream while they wait outside and make sure he's toweled himself dry this time.
He's never been in a shower with water pressure this amazing. But he can't appreciate it, because right now he just feels incredibly small, and like he's being treated like an idiot by people he's told he knows but whose faces he can't remember.
His eyes itch under his closed lids. He leans forward to rest his head against the wall and breathes in the steam.
>
He can't stop smiling.
He knows now that his name is Dean, and he's warm, and comfortable, and there's an incredibly soft blanket draped around his shoulders, and his best friend is rubbing warmth into his, for some reason, cold hands.
Also they're watching a movie and there's a fish that keeps forgetting everything. It's kind of funny and kind of sad.
Well, Dean is watching the movie. His best friend is mostly talking to some other guy Dean doesn't know.
“Sam, you can't keep going on like this. I can assist you in finding those witches and their book, but we need someone to watch Dean at all times and care for him. It's too dangerous to leave him alone at this point.”
“...Fine, okay. I'm gonna call Jody, I think she's still got a couple days of vacation left.”
The fish and her friend the octopus are hiding in a baby stroller for some reason, and it goes well until someone steps on one of the octopus' arms and he shrieks, and Dean giggles. He turns towards his friend, who is watching him with a soft look in his eyes.
The attention makes Dean a bit bashful, and he looks down at where his friend still has his hand loosely wrapped around Dean's.
Dean picks it up and inspects it.
“You've got big hands,” he says with a smile. He likes them.
“Oh... Um… thank you, Dean.”
His best friend turns back to speak with the boring man, but he lets Dean play with his hands. Dean does that for a while until he's distracted by a movie playing on the TV. He watches but doesn't understand what's going on.
“Hey, you know what's going on there?” He asks the other two guys in the room without looking at them, squinting at the screen.
The man who's sitting farther away sighs.
“You're watching Dory, Dean. It's a fish, he forgets everything.”
“She,” the man sitting next to him corrects.
“She, yeah.”
“Oh, okay.” Dory Dean. That sounds funny. “Sucks for her.”
The man not sitting next to him clears his throat, “Yeah.”
The other two keep talking but he only pays attention to Dory Dean. It's fun, and happy, and it looks like she's about to find her parents, but then suddenly other fish tell her they've been dead for years. No, that's—that can't be right… He stares at Dory Dean panicking, a lump in his throat that keeps getting tighter as she's separated from her friends and suddenly all alone. Then there are hands on his shoulders, gently urging him to turn away from the TV. Through blurry vision, he sees the guy next to him looking at him all soft and confused.
“Her parents are dead,” he blurts out, and his voice is croaky. It hurts to speak, but he says it again, “Her parents are dead.” He can feel tears on his face now.
“Okay, Dean.” The man sounds lost but draws him close, hugs him. “Okay.”
He rests his head on the man's shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut and sniffs. He doesn't want to watch that movie anymore, it's too sad.
There's the sound of the door opening and closing, but he doesn't look up. The man puts a hesitant hand on top of his head, and then starts stroking his hair. It's nice, and calming. Everything is almost okay again.
With his other hand, the man fishes something out of his coat. A moment later, he says, “Dean, her parents aren't dead. She's reunited with them later in the movie.”
He leans back to look at the man and sniffs, rubbing at his eyes.
“Whose parents?”
The man blinks at him.
“Um… No ones. It's not important. Are you feeling better?”
He thinks about it. He doesn't remember not feeling well, but his eyes itch and his nose is running. Maybe it's this—this thing he can't remember what it's called when your stupid body doesn't like something, like flowers, or cats.
“Yeah. Uh, you got anything, for, um…” He gestures at his face.
The nice man sighs and hands him a tissue. He only realizes now that there's three whole packs of them lying on the bed, one almost empty. He eyes them curiously while he wipes at his face, “Is it the cat?”
“What cat?” The man sounds confused, which is confusing.
“There is no cat? Then why is my nose running? Is it the carpet?” He looks at the floor, only to realize there isn't any carpet to be seen.
The man sighs.
“Dean, you're not allergic. I mean you are, but you're not having an allergic reaction at the moment. You've just, um... Had a very emotional day so far. We made the mistake of letting you watch a soap opera earlier.”
He doesn't know what to say to that, so he just blows his nose again.
The man fiddles with the TV button thingie, and a moment later cartoons are on.
He's not sure he feels like watching something, but this isn't his home, and he wants to be polite.
“Dean, will you be okay if I leave you for a moment to talk to Sa—someone outside?”
He nods. “Sure.”
The nice man looks at him for a moment longer like he's about to say something else, then gets up and walks outside. He doesn't close the door all the way on his way out, and a moment later there's yelling.
“—because that's not my brother, Cas! My brother doesn't cry over cartoon fish! He—”
“Sam, we've been over this—”
“I'm getting Rowena.”
“It's not time yet! Sam!”
There's loud foot steps, and then silence.
He tries to watch the TV, but can't really follow what's going on. He's alone, and he doesn't like it. He rubs over his thighs, fidgets with his hands. It helps a little. There's a very soft blanket draped over his shoulders, but he's starting to feel a little warm, so he takes it off, folds it neatly, and then puts it on the bed he's sitting on.
The unmade, incredibly hard and uncomfortable bed. He really hopes he's not going to have to sleep here later.
Feeling inexplicably agitated, he rubs a hand over his face. It comes away feeling a bit sticky. Is his face dirty?
He looks around. There's a tiny sink in one corner and above it is one of those—not-window things. He gets up and looks at himself.
Okay, so... This is what he looks like. He studies his face. The skin around his eyes looks pink and his lashes stick together in places.
He turns the knob and cups some water in his hands. It's refreshingly cool on his face.
He's in the middle of scrubbing his hands clean when everything suddenly starts to swim before his eyes. His head pounds and he needs to cling to the sink for balance.
Slowly, it ebbs away, and he struggles upright. What—what was he doing just now?
There's a sink in front of him, and soap on his hands. Okay. Okay, so... He was washing his hands. He should—he needs to finish that first. And then everything else will come back to him. Yeah. Okay. Okay, he can do this. He—
The water is pink. There's blood on his hands and he could swear it wasn't there a moment ago. His heart is beating so hard it's like he can't breathe. He scrubs harder. He can't—he can't have this on him, needs it off.
He's grabbed around the shoulders and forcefully wrenched away from the sink. What was just ringing in his ears transforms into noise, into yelling.
“—doing?! Dean, stop!”
The grip on his shoulders is strong, and he goes lax in it. He doesn't want to fight, he just wants to be clean, to be calm.
A man with a serious looking frown on his face is inspecting his hands, turning them around, wiping at the pink foam.
He doesn't understand the confusion. “I just wanna—I wanna wash my hands,” he says, then clears his throat because it sounds weirdly croaky.
The guy in front of him doesn't react to him, and neither does the man holding him. Instead, the guy behind him tightens his grip on him and says, “No, Cas, wait! Don't heal him, you're just gonna freak him out even more. I'll just go grab some stuff and—”
Red is seeping from his nailbeds, and oh no, no, no—he needs to wash that off now.
“Jesus—Dean, would you just calm down!”
“Dean—!”
Then a third voice, that of a woman, “You incompetent—get out, both of you!”
“Rowena—”
“Do you want me to slow the curse down or not, Samuel?”
The grip on his shoulders eases, and the two men step away from him with obvious reluctance.
“Fine. But you're gonna patch up his hands.”
The petite lady that came in and saved him rolls her eyes, then makes a strange move with her hand and the door slams shut in the two men's faces. He flinches, and then looks at the lady in wonder.
“My god, they were getting on my every last nerve.” She makes a pained face, rubbing at her temples. Then suddenly she steps towards him, gently grasping his hands, cooing, “Poor bunny, what did you do?”
He swallows and looks down at his hands. They hurt. He vaguely remembers feeling very agitated about something, but doesn't remember why.
“I—I don't know.”
Saying it out loud feels terrible. But at least the nice lady is still holding his hands. It grounds him a little.
“Don't you worry, buttercup.” She walks him gently to a bed and sits him down, ruffling his hair. “Mummy is going to fix you up, and soon you'll be shipshape and Bristol fashion.”
He watches, curious, as the lady takes several things out of a pretty little bag and arranges them on the desk that's standing opposite the bed.
“Mommy?” He asks, hopeful.
The lady turns around and regards him with pity. “Not your actual Mummy, deary. Sorry.” She sighs. “Maybe that is for the best though. I make a horrible mother.”
She dabs something that looks purple and glitter-y onto a cloth, then comes over and starts to gently wash his hands with it. It tingles faintly, but the pain simmers down immediately. He lets her move his hands as she wants and looks on in wonder.
“Maybe being an aunt would suit me better? All the spoiling, none of that tricky responsibility. Aunt Rowena. Doesn't that sound nice, my rose blossom?”
He inspects his hands while the lady puts the cloth away. They barely hurt anymore. All that's left behind is a fine sheen of sparkling glitter, which he thinks is kind of weird to have on your hands but kind of pretty too.
“Um. Sure.”
He's about to get up from the bed when a wave of dizziness crashes over him. His hands go to his head and he sits back down with a groan, disoriented.
“Oh bunny, again?” He hears as if from far away. “Don't fret, Auntie Rowena is going to slow that nasty curse down again now.”
A delicate hand is put on top of his head and then suddenly everything gets hot and he hurts.
“Shhhh, almost done, little bun.”
Pain slices through his head, and then a brutal sounding word is said that he doesn't understand, and then it's over.
He's left gasping while the pain slowly recedes, his eyes squeezed shut. His hair is petted, and then one of his hands is gently drawn away from his head. A cup is placed in it and then pressed against his mouth.
“Drink this, little flower.” He swallows obediently, then almost chokes, because it tastes—
“Tastes awfully bitter, I know. That's the wormwood. But it's got to go down, every last drop of it, okay?”
He groans, muffled through the liquid in his mouth. Nausea rolls in his belly, but he keeps swallowing. Finally, his head is tipped back and the last droplets fall into his mouth. The cup is taken out of his hand and he shudders.
“Oh, you've done so well! Much better than the first time. You almost threw it back up then!”
He swallows, then swallows again. His mouth still tastes...not awesome.
“The first time?” He asks, confused.
The lady makes a tut tut kind of noise.
“Don't worry about it, bunny. Here, chew on this. I promise it tastes nice and sweet.”
She hands him some tiny, golden leaves. They're very soft. He hesitantly puts them in his mouth, then hums in surprise. They taste like honey and ease his aching stomach.
His joy over them doesn't last long when he watches the lady put her things in a bag and her hands shake. She looks pale and is swaying on her feet.
He quickly gets up and goes over to her, steadying her with a hand on her arm.
“Are you okay? Did—did I hurt you?”
The lady seems startled, then straightens and looks up at him with a smile. It looks strained but seems genuine.
“Ach bunny, you're so sweet. Nah, it's just the magic.” She continues putting what looks like powders and colored liquids in her bag while he hovers beside her protectively, a hand stretched out in case she stumbles. “That's a very powerful curse you're under. Pushing is back again and again while trying to find a cure—it's draining me.”
She sighs and tugs at the string on her bag, closing it.
“Oh,” he says, not really understanding. “I'm sorry.”
She smiles at him, looking pleased, and starts to say something else when there's a knock on the door, and an angry voice asking, “Are you done?”
The lady rolls her eyes, her expression souring.
“Yes, Samuel.”
She gestures at the door and the lock springs open.
A very tall, angry looking man enters.
Instinctively, he shifts closer to the lady, in case she needs protection.
The man notices the movement and frowns.
He hears a chuckle, and when he turns to look at the lady, she's smiling serenely at the tall man, a glint in her eyes.
“Don't worry, bunny. Samuel won't hurt me. He needs my help too bad.”
“Bun—” The man looks confused for a moment and then his expression becomes thunderous. “He's not your pet, Rowena. Stop using him for your twisted—”
“He is enjoying my presence. I enjoy his. In contrast to you, hypocritical lout, who can't even stand to be in the same room with him.”
“Quit acting like you care about him! I'm busy trying to find those witches and their book while you—”
Both their voices are getting increasingly louder. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, tries to get their attention. “Hey, um—”
“You're not only blind, you are also a fool, Samuel. You can't stand the thought that you don't know your own brother, not all—”
“If you don't shut your mouth right now, I swear—”
“Stop!” He steps between them, holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Stop it, stop yelling!”
To his surprise, they both fall silent. The lady looks at him in intrigue, the man in shock. It makes him feel self-conscious, and he quickly steps back, his shoulders hunched. “I hate yelling.” His eyes nervously dart between the two of them and he swallows, but he stands his ground despite the discomfort he's feeling.
Finally, the angry man sighs. “Okay, Dean. Sorry.”
He stops and looks at the man curiously. Is that his name?
The lady snags up her bag, steps closer to him and pats his cheek affectionately.
“See you later, flower child,” she chirps, smugly, and then saunters past the angry man and out the door.
The angry man scowls after her but then his face falls and he just looks tired. He turns halfway and motions to maybe-Dean to come with him. “C'mon, Dean, there's someone who wants to meet you.”
Oh, okay. That sounds nice.
He nods, then shifts his weight as he realizes what some of the discomfort he's feeling is.
“Um. Can I pee first?”
The angry man groans and rubs at his face with his hands.
“I don't get why you think you need to ask that every single—of course you can do that first.”
The angry man motions at him impatiently, and maybe-Dean follows him out of the room and down a hallway, and then another hallway. The angry man opens the bathroom door for him like he can't do that himself, then turns halfway away and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Go. I'm gonna—wait here.”
Maybe-Dean hesitates and enters. Quietly and carefully, he shuts the door behind himself, his chest tight, his shoulders heavy.
>
He doesn't know how he got here. He—no, Dean, the man calls him Dean—tries to ask the man who was waiting outside the bathroom, but the more he asks, the more quiet and grim looking the man becomes.
They enter a big room with big tables and a lot of books. It doesn't have windows.
A guy in an uncomfortable looking coat sits at one of the tables but gets up when they enter.
The quiet man asks, “Cas, where's Jody?”
“Outside, she forgot something in her car.” The guy's voice is very deep. Dean wants to ask his name, but maybe this guy doesn't like questions either.
“Okay. Keep an eye on Dean for a moment?”
The guy's intense blue eyes settle on Dean and Dean stills, staring back.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Um—”
Dean looks to the quiet man for help, who sighs and gestures between them.
“Dean, that's Cas. Your best friend,” he adds after a pause. He sounds a little annoyed, like he's said that before, but to Dean it's complete news.
“My best—”
Okay, that's. Okay. Woah.
He doesn't know this guy at all. He doesn't know anyone.
“Right. I'll be—” The man who brought him here strides past him and out of the room towards the staircase, his back tense.
Dean looks after him and then back to Cas, shifting his weight nervously. Has he done something to make the man leave?
“Please don't take it personally, Dean. Sam is just, um... He's just very stressed. Rowena is no longer helping us find those witches and is instead working on creating her own spell to cure you. Sam believes it will take too long or won't work, but he couldn't change her mind.”
Dean stares at him in incomprehension, and Cas' serious expression becomes one of dismay.
“I'm sorry, Dean. I thought that he—I forgot—damn it!”
Cas looks distraught and Dean doesn't even know why, he just wants the poor guy to feel better.
“Hey, how 'bout we—we sit down. Start over.”
Cas looks at him like he doesn't see what that's going to fix, but he does sit down.
Dean sits down beside him and angles his chair so he can see him better.
“So... you're my best friend.”
That brings a small, soft smile to Cas' face, which makes Dean smile as well.
“Yes.”
“How long have we known each other?”
Finally, Cas meets his eyes again.
“Nine years,” he says, solemnly.
Wow. Okay. Cas must know him very well, then. Which must be weird for him, since Dean doesn't know him at all.
“How did we meet?”
Cas' content expression falls away, replaced by tension. He hesitates.
“I'd rather—I'd rather not talk about that right now, Dean. I don't want to upset you.”
Cas says the words softly, but they still hit Dean hard. He vaguely remembers someone walking past and away from him, and he curls over his chest and nervously fidgets with his hands.
“Is it—did I do something bad?”
Cas shakes his head. “No, it's just—” Then he looks at Dean and frowns.
“Dean, what's wrong?”
Dean swallows and wrings his hands until Cas lays one of his over them and stills them. He has very nice, big hands.
“Dean—”
He blurts out, “Cas, am I a burden?”
“What—Dean, why would you think that?” Cas sounds alarmed. It doesn't make Dean feel better. Cas seems like a really nice person, even though there's something a little off about him and he looks at Dean kind of intensely. He might lie to make Dean feel better, but what Dean needs is the truth.
“Cas, listen—something is wrong, I can feel it. I remember... people... someone... walking away from me. Leaving me…” Dean licks his lips, forces out the words even though they're scary. “I know I asked you how long we've known each other and I can't remember the answer anymore. I feel like I know this place but I can't remember walking through that door. There's no one else here like me. There's no—there's no windows. Is this. Is this a—a, a—”
He flounders, frantically searching for the word he wants in his mind and not finding it. His breathing shudders, his hands curl into fists, tears spring to his eyes. Just a moment ago he knew that word, knew what he wanted to say and now he can't, can't—
“Dean! Dean, calm down! Please.”
A warm, broad hand is put on his shoulder and Dean forces in a deeper breath, lets the contact ground him.
“...A prison? Is that what you meant?”
His eyes closed, struggling to calm down, Dean nods frantically.
“Dean, listen to me. You are not a burden, and this is not a prison. This is your home, you just can't remem—Dean?”
Everything is blurry and far away. He can feel his mind go blank, things slipping away and out of his grasp. For a moment, he thinks, this is it, I'm dying.
But then he becomes aware of his own uneven breathing in his ears, of hands on his shoulders, gripping tight, of someone's name being called.
“-ean? Dean!"
He blinks, and blinks again. There's a guy sitting across from him, looking kind of panicked.
“Huh?”
The guy sucks in a breath and stares at him all weird.
“Dean, do you know who I am?”
Dean—because apparently that's his name—stares at the guy. Man, his eyes are blue.
“Um. Sorry, no.”
The guy slumps in his seat at that, looking anguished.
“Is—is that bad?”
He tries to be gentle and careful about asking, but the guy takes his hands off Dean's shoulders and looks like he's about to cry.
“What—”
Suddenly, there's a loud noise like a heavy door opening, and then footsteps and voices. The guy flinches at the noise and gives Dean another anguished look. “I—I'm sorry, Dean.” Then he bolts upright and is gone from the room before Dean can ask him what he's sorry for.
Dean is still staring after him when someone behind him says, “Hey, kiddo, how's it going?”
He turns around, only to look up at two strangers.
“Dean, this is Jody,” a tall man says. “She's a friend. She's gonna take care of you for a bit, okay?”
Jody is a lady with short hair that's a bit gray in places. She's smiling at him, and he does his best to smile back. She looks nice. He gets up quickly to greet her, and the moment he stands, Jody draws him into a hug. He doesn't know her at all, but hey, if she wants a hug, he can give her a hug. So he hugs her back, and in response, she briefly squeezes him tighter. She smells real nice.
When the hug ends, the man is frowning at him.
“Dean, where's Cas? He wasn't supposed to leave you alone.”
“Um—” Who?
Jody claps her hands together.
“Right. Sam, why don't you go look for Castiel, and then get some rest, like we talked about? Me'n Dean'll be just fine.”
She's still smiling, but it looks a bit tense now. Sam looks chastised. Dean looks between the two of them in confusion.
Sam sighs, “Fine,” claps Dean on the shoulder, and then walks out of the room.
Jody waits until Sam is gone, then puts a hand on Dean's arm and smiles at him gently.
“Hey, Dean, how're you feeling?”
Dean blinks at her and thinks about it. No one's asked him that before.
“Um… Confused.”
Jody nods like she expected that. She looks sympathetic but calm. It's encouraging.
“Uh—a little hungry?”
Jody smiles brightly at that and Dean finds himself helplessly smiling back.
“Now that's what I wanna hear! I got some leftover chicken, some mashed potatoes—just needs reheating. C'mon, let's check if you guys got a microwave in this place.”
>
“Have you guys considered putting labels on stuff ? He's starting to forget more words.”
“We did that. But then we stopped because he can't read anymore.”
“Damn it.”
Dean is doing a puzzle. A woman named Jody gave it to him. She's very nice. The picture on the puzzle box is that of a big koala. Dean has the box propped up beside him on the kitchen table, and after every puzzle piece that he connects to the others, he checks if it looks like it does on the picture. Some of the puzzle pieces are bent or damaged, and that makes it hard to tell if they fit or not.
“You are very good at this, Jody.”
“Pffft, are you kidding me? I don't have any more idea what I'm doing than you two!”
There are three voices coming from the hallway. Dean doesn't know or care what they're talking about. One of the voices is Jody, and that's all that matters.
“Do you think that—”
“...What?”
“That this is what Dean would be like if it weren't for all the—the crap that's happened to him over the years?”
There's only a few pieces left. The koala's right ear isn't complete yet, and half of the sky is missing.
“Like what?”
“You know—unassuming. Happy.”
“You think your brother is happy?”
There's still a hole in the koala, but only three bent pieces of sky are left. Dean frantically looks around on the table and then searches the box, but they aren't there.
“I just think—”
Dean decides to call for Jody. Maybe she knows where the missing pieces are. He opens his mouth but all that happens is that he exhales air and a choked kind of noise. He tries again, and this time the noise is louder, but it still doesn't sound like words.
“...Dean?”
He panics and tries again, but now it's like someone's holding his throat closed and nothing happens at all, there's no sound except his own loud breathing.
“Dean, are you okay?”
Jody is there, and the other two voices. Dean looks up at her in despair and tries again, and again nothing happens. He can't say any words. He can't ask for the missing pieces, can't tell her what's wrong.
“Dean, what's wrong?”
From behind Jody's back, the graver of the two voices says, “He has forgotten how to speak.”
Dean tries again, and it doesn't work, and tears spring to his eyes. He's scared. He can't ask them to explain what's happening, can't ask them to stop talking like he's not even there anymore, like he doesn't—like he's—
“Paper, a pen?”
“Jody, he can't write.”
“Damn it !”
Dean's face is hot and he can't see right and his heart feels like it's stuck in his throat with all the words he can't get out. A sob comes out of his mouth instead, and then another, and then he puts his face in his hands and cries.
“Dean—”
“Oh, kiddo. Come here.”
Gentle hands draw him close, and then his head is resting on Jody's shoulder and he's sobbing onto her pretty shirt, her hands rubbing circles into his back.
“It's gonna be okay, shhhh, it's gonna be okay.”
Muffled through the sound of his own crying, the other two voices are talking.
“Where are you going?”
“To tell Rowena she better work faster, or—”
“Sam, you know she's doing all she can already.”
“Well it's not fucking enough!”
Dean flinches and Jody says, quiet but firm, “Guys, take this outside?”
The other two voices go away at that. Dean slumps against Jody, and she rocks them back and forth a bit. It's wet under Dean's cheek from the hot tears that still haven't stopped. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He's trapped inside himself with all of his words and he can't even tell Jody how scared he is.
Finally he doesn't seem to have any tears anymore. He still feels sad, but the reasons for the sadness are starting to get muddled and confusing. Jody lets him breathe wetly and unevenly against her neck a moment longer, her hands gentle on his back, then she draws back with her hands on his shoulders, ducking her head a bit to try and catch his eyes.
“Dean, this ain't a permanent thing. You'll be able to speak again. You just need to have a little patience. And until then, you're not gonna be alone. Okay?”
Dean isn't sure it's okay, but he's not sure he really knows what's going on either. He swallows and nods, and Jody gives him a soft, sad smile.
Dean leans back, and then catches sight of a puzzle that's spread over the table. It's of an animal, but he doesn't know what it's called. There's a hole in its right ear. Apparently whoever did the puzzle never finished it, or wasn't able to. He doesn't understand why, but the thought fills him with sadness again. Staring at the hole, he can feel a single tear trail down his left cheek. Jody is quick to wipe it away, her thumb stroking over his cheekbone.
“Hey, hey, shhhh. None of that. You'll be okay, Dean. I promise.” Jody stands, but keeps a warm hand on Dean's back. “How about we put that puzzle away now. My neighbor's dog ate like half the pieces and chewed on the rest. Don't know why it was even in my car, I was gonna throw it away.”
Jody starts gathering the pieces together, throwing them into a box. The fall all over each other in heaps, disconnected and bent and twisted. The picture they were making disappears.
Dean doesn't help. He has to look away. Jody throws him worried looks but lets him be.
>
“Jody, do you really think it's wise to let him watch so much TV? I've read that—”
“He freaked out on me three times in a row while we made dinner because he wanted to tell me something and then discovered he didn't know how! I need a break, guys. And at least, like this, he can have a break too.”
Dean can hear people talking, and then the moving pictures are back and there's the sound of animals coming through the things over his ears. It was round, green things that live in the water, and now it's tiny ducks. They're cute, and they move funny, and Dean smiles. His hand is squeezed. The woman, Jo-... Jo-something. She smiles at him, and squeezes his hand again when he smiles back. Then she turns back to the other woman and the two men she's talking to. They're all sitting at a big table in a big room full of books. There are a lot of big books on the table between them as well.
Dean looks at the moving pictures again. The tiny ducks are gone. Now there are mi... me... mice. They are cute as well. It's calming to watch them eat with their tiny little... those things they got instead of hands... but Dean finds himself looking away from the pictures and watching the people with their books while the tiny mice squeak in his head.
The people all look unhappy and keep closing books and opening new ones. Like they're looking for something but can't find it. It feels unfair to Dean that he's the only one getting to look at tiny cute mice while everyone else works. He wants to help.
And he's curious. He looks at one of the open book pages and nothing that's scribbled on it means anything to him, but he can see that on some of the other pages are very weird pictures that look like nothing he knows, and he wants to look at them.
Dean takes the things that make him able to hear the mice off his head. The other people don't notice. They seem to be arguing about something.
“Okay, but Robert Graves said—”
“He is a poet, Samuel, not a historian. For god's sake, he couldn't even tell the Uillend and the Iphin glyph apart!”
A man who looks like a big, angry bird is scowling while a tired looking woman with very red hair rubs at her head above her eyes.
“Rowena, what did you say the... Uillend stood for again?”
Dean spots a piece of paper near him with one of the strange looking pictures on it. It doesn't look like animals or anything else he knows. It's just a lot of crooked lines.
“This,” the red haired woman sighs but holds up a picture that looks just like the one Dean is looking at, and points at the line that looks a bit like a very funny nose, “represents the foundation needed in order to discover the true self, the greatest hidden secret of all—”
“Okay, but what if we're going about this all wrong?” Big angry bird says. “I mean, it also simply represents honeysuckle. And this other one stands for gooseberry, and this one for fir. I mean it's called the language of the trees. What if that's what's really important about finding a cure?”
Dean looks at the lines again. Man, whoever made these must have had some weird ideas about trees. But then again, Dean himself only knows trees from the moving pictures.
“If you think you know better than an actual witch, Samuel—”
“Guys, this isn't helping,” a very deep voice says. “We need to find the right combination of glyphs to reverse the spell. Like Rowena said, we won't find the original spell in here because we don't have the Grimoire, so we need to—to find something that fits to those glyphs.”
“So... like something that's the complete opposite? But what does that mean? I mean what's the opposite of honeysuckle?”
“I just told you it's not about the trees, it's about—”
Dean looks back down at the lines. He picks the piece of paper with the picture on it up and moves it around in his hands. He thinks he's starting to understand.
“Dean? Hey kid, the playlist already over?”
Dean looks around on the table. He needs something to... to make some lines.
“Look, there are bunnies on now!"
Dean looks at the woman next to him. She's smiling at him, but she doesn't have one of those things to make lines either. He looks at her and then back at the table and then back down at the piece of paper in his hands because he doesn't know how to make her understand what he needs.
“Dean?” The deep voice asks. “Do you want a pen?”
Dean looks up. One of the men further down the table is leaning forward, holding something out to him. It's a thing to make lines. A—a pen. Dean smiles, and takes it from him, and then once he's figured out that he needs to push on the top of it, he grabs a piece of paper with nothing on it and starts on his lines.
The woman next to him leans over to watch.
“What are you—”
Dean moves the pen very carefully. Each one of the weird tree lines, he puts at the opposite of where they are on the picture he found and that the red haired, tired woman held up for the others to see. The one that looks like a weird nose is on the left and on top of a straight line, so he puts it on the right and underneath a straight line, upside down.
“Dean?”
He finishes the last line, then checks the picture again. If someone put the two pictures on top of one another now, every one of the tree things would be there twice but opposite. It looks whole that way. Satisfied, he shows it to the woman who watched him make lines.
“What—"
“Jody?”
The two men lean closer to Jody to look at Dean's tree lines. Big angry bird make a weird face. “Okay. That's... nice. Dean, why did you—you know what, stupid question.”
The tired lady hasn't looked up from her book and sighs in an angry sort of way. “We do not have time for silly—”
“No, wait, look at this!”
The tired lady snatches Dean's tree lines from Jody's outstretched hand, then stops moving and stares first at the lines, and then at Dean. Dean's not sure what the look on her face means, and he shifts uncomfortably. Did he... did he do something wrong?
Then suddenly the lady smiles brightly and her shoulders sag in relief, “Bunny, you're so smart! You got it!”
“I told you to stop calling him—what?!”
“Obviously I still need to tweak this a little, but—painted onto his skin with ash, it should work!”
“What?! Let me see that again. This is just the whole thing in reverse... isn't that, like, too easy?”
“No, no, you need to put them on top of each other, Sam. See?”
“It makes sense. The counter spell doesn't have to be complicated if the victim can't remember what they've been hit by, or that they were hexed at all.”
“I need wormwood. A lot of wormwood.”
“Dean, you did it!” Jody turns around in her chair and hugs him tightly. Dean is surprised but he carefully hugs her back. He doesn't really get what it is he did, but he could help, and everyone looks a lot happier now, and that's all he wanted.
>
“So—how much longer?”
“Rowena said she needs some more time to get her strength back before she can do such a powerful spell. An hour, maybe two.”
“Can we really wait that long? He keeps getting dizzy. The intervals are much shorter now. What if he forgets how to breathe!”
His head hurts. He wishes it would stop.
“His body knows how to breathe, Sam. And we can't risk Rowena collapsing during the spell.”
He's wearing a soft gray hoodie. A nice woman helped him put it on. But he's still cold.
“Did you get a bucket? Rowena said we might need one. Wormwood is... unpleasant to consume in large quantities, even when it's part of a spell.”
It hurts so bad. He keeps losing what he thinks. His heart goes fast and then slow and then fast again. He wishes the people would stop talking. It's so loud. He tried going away to go where it's quiet but they wouldn't let him.
“At least it's almost over, right? Geez, this is why I don't envy you guys your job. You try to solve the murder of one poor schmuck and this is what—”
It hurts so bad. He can't, he... He... He tries to stand but then falls back into the chair—he can't see right and it hurts.
“Dean?”
“Dean, what's wrong?”
He doesn't understand.
He... he is-he…
He-
“See, that's what I meant! It's happening again, he's forgetting again.”
“Dean? Hey, hey, look at me, kiddo. It's gonna be okay. I know this is scary, but you're safe...Dean?”
“Jody, what's wrong?”
“It's not working. Dean, can you look at me? Are you in pain?”
“Maybe it's, um... Urination?”
“Jesus Christ, Cas.”
“No, we took care of that like twenty minutes ago. Dean? Can you show me what's wrong? Please?”
“...Jody, I think he doesn't understand English anymore.”
“Fuck. Fuck damn it.”
“It's probably his head that hurts. Can you go over there and hold his hand? Maybe I can block his nerves from registering the pain.”
“Cas, if you use your grace on him you'll just freak him out.”
“He is already freaked out, Sam.”
“Okay, kiddo, let's just—oh okay, you don't want to be touched, that's okay. Hey, hey, it's okay, I'm not gonna touch you if you don't want to. See?”
“Cas, can you do this without—”
“Of course.”
“...And?”
“It's not working. It's the spell that's hurting him, and until that's lifted there's nothing I can do. No, even after it's lifted there's nothing I can do. The spell has put a great strain on his mind and it will need to heal on its own.”
“...Cas, don't—it's not your fault, buddy.”
“I know. I just...I feel so helpless. And I hate it.”
“Yeah...yeah, I get it.”
“Dean? Look, I've got some ice. If you'd let me hold that to your head, it might help—I know, I know, no touching. I'm not going to touch you, I just want—Dean? Dean?”
>
“But—”
“We cannot care about that now, Samuel. If you don't restrain him so he holds still while I perform the spell, it will not work. Is that clear?”
“I can't do this. Guys, I'm sorry, but I can't—”
“It's okay, Jody. I get it. Just keep the bucket and the ice ready, me and Cas can handle the rest.”
“...Ready?”
“I'm very sorry, Dean.”
“...I said hold him down!”
“He's in pain—”
“And if you don't hold his head still and his mouth closed, he will die within the hour, now hold him down!”
“Rowena—"
“Cuihmhne!”
Pain.
Pain, and everything is so hot. It burns. He's burning. His head is splitting in two. He tries to scream but his mouth is full of bitter water and someone is holding it closed with an iron grip.
“Guys, did it work?”
His stomach turns over and then his throat is full and he can't breathe at all. He tries to struggle, but he's panicking and weak.
“He's choking on his vomit. Let him go, curl him over. Bucket, Jody, get the—”
He can't throw up fast enough. His nose burns. His eyes burn hot with tears. Hands are on his back, rubbing, holding him up. People talk all over each other and each word is a stab to his aching head.
“Dean? Dean, can you breathe for me?”
Soft fingers stroke the hair back from his forehead and he recoils, swallows wrong, coughs and splutters.
“Dean, just breathe. C'mon, buddy, you can do it.”
His head hurts so bad. He can't open his eyes because the light is too bright.
“Dean? Do you—do you remember?”
Dean gets a breath in, and another one, and—the last thing you remember? I-I got ice? Wrong answer, you're do—know what always works? Nothing. Just—Mom, it's okay. You're home now. No, I'm not. I miss—all going away forever. But not you, Dean. Dean. Dean.
“Dean? Dean! Hey, hey, don't do that buddy, stay with me!”
Dean, this is exactly how we screw ourselves, we—new hell has Dean Winchester unleashed upon this wo—that you're living my life in reverse? Turn you into as much as a savage as it—if your daddy could see you now—are you, Dean? How are you, Dean? That's not—that's not true.
“If it worked then why is he screaming?!”
“He's remembering. Everything. Poor bunny. If I were you, I'd put him somewhere dark and quiet until he's figured himself out.”
My little boy Dean—I forgive you, Dean—confessed in there? every time I let you down—remembered it like you needed to—Dean, it's not broken. It's not broken.
“Cas, what are you doing?!”
“Sam, stop talking!”
He's lifted into someone's arms, his head falls against their chest—Cas? Cas. He turns his face into Cas' chest, away from the light. Pain stabs into his eyes, and the pictures won't stop moving, the voices won't shut up. Stop. He needs it to just stop.
“Shh, Dean, we're almost there. Almost there.”
And you couldn't been more than five, you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom? So if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna—was Hell, Dean? How was, how was Hell, Dean? How was Hell, Dean?
“Sam, would you turn off the light?”
He's laid down on a bed, the covers are drawn up over his legs. He immediately curls up on his side, presses his hands into his eyes. It hurts. It won't stop hurting.
Who are you, really? And don't tell me—my job, right? Saving people—I didn't mean to hurt you, Dean. Hurt you, Dean. We deserve some answers. This is our family we're talking abou—family, we're talking about, family, we're talking about, family.
Something very cold is pressed against his forehead and he gasps, leans into it and clasps it harder against himself. The hand that was holding it starts to let go, the weight that made the mattress dip behind him shifts away, and his panic spikes. He wants quiet and stillness, but the thought of being alone in it is too much—he grabs desperately at the retreating hand and the body stops shifting away.
Very quietly, Cas says, “It's okay, I won't go.”
Outside as fast as you can, Dean. Take your brother outside, Dean. Your brother, Dean. Dean.
Cas keeps holding the ice for him, and then the door is shut and it's finally completely dark. There's only his own harsh and uneven breathing, and slowly the pictures stop—the memories stop—and the voices fall away one by one, and Dean sleeps.
>
Sam says it's been a day. He keeps trying to get Dean to eat.
Very quietly, he's saying, “Dean, you threw up like everything you've ever eaten yesterday. You gotta get your strength back.”
But Dean can't eat. Not yet. He can't—he just can't put anything inside him right now. There's so much there already. He can barely stand it as it is. He shakes his head against the pillow.
Sam makes a frustrated noise.
Dean stays silent. Every word, every action drags up some memory in him. The memories aren't new to him. That's not it. Dean knows who he is. He knows where he is, he knows who Sam is, he knows who Cas and Jody are. He doesn't re-live those memories—they just pop up, and they feel new and known at the same time. He can push them away, most of the time, but it costs him.
I want Lucky Charms! There's only enough for one bo—D'you want the prize?
He hasn't told them. He's afraid that if he does, they'll stop talking to him until it's over.
It hurt when Sam came in earlier, a little light had fallen into Dean's dark room, and he’d asked if Dean needed more water.
Polluted water—and a great star fell from Heaven, and it fell upon the river, and the name of the star was Wormwood, and many men di—one rides the red horse?
It hurt when Jody sat with him and stroked his back and quietly told him about how Claire and Alex are doing while he shivered with pain and breathed harshly against his pillow, eyes squeezed shut. But he still asked her to talk, because anything is better than being alone with nothing but the stuff in his head. Dean's been there, he's done that.
Cas had left Dean's room at some point while he slept, so when Dean woke up, he was alone. Dean lay in the dark and tried not to think, but finally his bladder forced him out of his room. The light in the hallway was unbearably bright, and so he stumbled, feeling along the wall with one hand while he kept the other one pressed over his eyes. They watered when he was forced to open them in the bathroom and turn the light on.
Even just being in the bathroom stressed Dean out. He knew this place, and he remembered knowing it, and he remembered not knowing it. It made his temples throb with pain, and his shaky legs almost collapsed under him on his way back to his room.
“Jody made you some French toast. Her vacation ends today, she's gonna leave soon.”
This time, the words not only stab at Dean's brain but somewhere closer to his heart. He blindly reaches out a hand behind himself.
There's shuffling, and Sam’s saying, “Jody, I think he wants you to come in.”
More shuffling, and more light, and Dean winces. Then his door is closed, and it's dark again. Dean tenses, afraid—but then there's footsteps, and the rustle of clothing, and the bed dips behind Dean with Jody's weight. Dean rolls over, struggles up on his elbows—he wants to see Jody, be at eye level. His arms shake and his head pounds.
“Hey, kiddo, you don't need to—”
Dean manages to get one leg under him and is finally sitting upright. He reaches behind himself with uncertain fingers and switches his bedside lamp on.
“Dean—” Jody sounds alarmed.
Dean turns his head away from the light, then blinks his eyes open. They immediately water, even the soft glow of the lamp is almost too much to bear.
Well, fuck them.
Dean needs to see Jody's face. Needs to see everyone—in person, not just in memory.
Needs them to see him.
Dean blinks until his eyes focus. He's still got to squint, but it's better than nothing. Better than imagining, and not being seen.
He smiles tentatively at Jody, and Jody returns it, visibly relaxing.
“Hey, kid. Good to see you.”
Same, Dean thinks.
“Listen, I'd love to stay, but work's gonna start early again tomorrow. I gotta get going.”
Dean nods, finally unable to keep his eyes open any longer. He knows Jody means it, and he hates that he's been keeping her from her life for days.
He draws her into a hug, even though it's more her holding him up than the other way around. Dean swallows, and clears his throat, and then draws in a deep breath.
“Thank you,” he croaks out. It's the first words he's spoken since he remembered how to speak, since he pleaded with Jody to talk, please just talk.
He still needs to find a way to thank Rowena as well.
It hurts to speak, but at the same time, it also feels good to speak. It feels good to be heard.
Jody startles at his voice, then briefly squeezes him tighter. “You don't need to thank me, Dean.”
Dean forces his eyes open again when Jody draws back. He can see a little better now. Jody looks exhausted and worried, but also fond and warm and relieved.
She gets up and squeezes Dean's shoulder, “Take care, kid.” Then she turns around once more and adds, in her mom-voice, “Eat your toast!”
Dean smirks, and mock-salutes, and she chuckles and rolls her eyes. Then she's gone, but through the not quite closed door, Dean can hear her, Sam and Cas speaking further down the hallway.
Dean reaches for the tray with his toast and tries to keep his eyes open while he eats it, piece by little piece. Memories try to drag themselves up and consume him, but it's duller now, not as overwhelming.
At some point a couple of hours ago, he'd managed to get out of his vomit-stained hoodie and jeans and into the more comfortable attire of sweatpants and a soft flannel. He still makes a face when he sniffs tentatively at his armpits—he needs a shower, but that feels like a little too much light and excitement yet. The last time he was in there, he freaked out so much when he realized he didn't recognize his own face that he just threw on his robe and ran out of there, trying to find someone who could tell him who he was.
Dean slowly, carefully, gets up from his bed and limps over to the sink in the corner. It's strange how little time he'd spent in his room while he was hexed. Except for that first night when he slept and woke up here, he spent most of the time either in Sam's room where the TV was, or the kitchen, or the library.
It's still disorienting to look at the mirror and remember not knowing his own face, so he focuses on washing up a bit, on shaving and on trying to stop his hair from standing up in all directions.
My name is Dean Winchester, he'd told himself. Sam is my brother. Mary Winchester is my mom. Cas is my best friend.
Dean is careful about washing his hands, and about not doing it too roughly or for too long. His hands are clean, he can see that they're clean. He's clean, and he's whole.
By the time he's exchanged his t-shirt for a fresh one and is shrugging back into his flannel, Dean's exhausted. He sits back down on his bed and just breathes for a moment.
Stupid curse. That thing fucking kicked his ass.
Dean looks around his room, and is struck by how much he wants Sam and Cas in here with him, right now. Maybe he should be feeling the opposite—he's been constantly violently exposed against his will over the last couple of days. The last thing he should want would be to let people into his room, his safe space. But this stupid curse hurt him, and it hurt his family, and everything just sucked all around. He can still remember them talking about him, arguing, Sam yelling that's not my brother.
He gets that he's got every right to lie low and recover, hide himself. But he's done that for well over a day now, and it's just not what he wants right now. Maybe it's selfish but he doesn't give a fuck.
This is his family.
He wants to see them, and he wants them to see him.
Dean gets up again and shuffles out the door, into the hallway. He needs to shield his eyes again, but they're not watering as much anymore, and the pain has let up. He finds Sam and Cas in the library. They startle as they see him and stop talking, immediately moving towards him like they expect him to topple over at any second. Dean decides to steam roll past the awkwardness and the embarrassment on his part and just asks, “Hey, you guys wanna watch a movie?”
He still sounds hoarse. Sam and Cas stare at him like he's asked them to river dance. Dean tries not to shift his weight and be obvious about how just standing there is exhausting him.
“Uh. Sure,” Sam says at length, looking dubious. “But, Dean, don't you think that's gonna strain your eyes too much?”
“I've seen like half of it already. I'll just keep'em closed during that part.”
Sam still looks unconvinced, but he nods, “Okay.”
Dean looks at Cas, who looks back at him like he can't decide if he wants to crush Dean to his chest or turn around and flee. And hey, Dean knows that feeling. Cas looks rumpled, and he sounds hesitant when he says, “I should—I should really go back to looking for Kelly Kline.”
The notion that he is being selfish tries to rise up within Dean again, and again he chooses to ignore it. It's just one more day. One more day is not too much to ask.
“Cas, c'mon. You can take a night off, you're doing enough. And—” Dean hesitates, almost loses his courage. It's so fucking hard just to ask for this one thing that he wants. He nervously licks his lips, shifts his weight onto his other foot and blinks against the light. “And I'd kind of—I'd like to spend some time with you guys. Do something nice.”
Cas' tense expression melts at that. He even smiles a little. “Okay, Dean.”
>
Sam doesn't get why they can't go to his room and watch on his big TV instead of Dean's laptop, but Dean is stubborn about it. He wins Sam over with the argument that with the tinier screen, his eyes will hurt less. But really Dean just wants them in his room. Yeah, it's his safe space, but the last night and half the day he spent in there he was being crushed under the weight of what he remembered. So many things in his room only brought up bad stuff. He wants some new, some good memories in here.
Sam drags a chair next to his bed, and Cas sits down beside Dean on the left side of Dean's bed, which gives him a secret little thrill that he pretends to himself he's too tired to examine closely.
“So, what're we watching?”
Dean squints at his screen and scrolls through Netflix until he finds Finding Dory.
He clicks on it and puts the laptop near the foot end of his bed.
He doesn't let the confused looks he gets from Sam and Cas stop him as he settles back against the headboard, and when the movie starts and Dory is there, he allows himself to smile.
