Lethe, for Moose

[summergen_mod]

Title: Lethe
Author: claudiapriscus
Recipient: Moose
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: disturbing imagery, violence
Word-Count: ~6,500
Author's Notes: My deepest thanks to Tari-Roo and Moonshayde for the emergency last-minute betas. More talented or more gracious souls you will not find. Any flaws in this story are solely my fault.  I should also probably confess that I ended up taking great liberty with the prompts. I swear this story started out as something fluffy, but the muse was feeling a tad perverse.

Summary: Dean learns the hard way to avoid strange rivers and the creatures lurking therein.

A man steps into the river. The stones are slippery but his footing is solid. He leans down, cups his hands, and splashes water on his face before refilling his hands and drinking deeply. The river is swift-moving and it cascades over rocks and rushes ever onwards, but the man stands on the edge of a deep, still pool. His reflection stares back at him.

There’s a man, standing in the river. He is not alone.

* * *
Dean, tell me a story.
I don't know any stories.
Sure you do. Tell me the one about the hunter who was lost in the woods.
I've already told you that one.
I don't remember how it ends.
You should listen better. And anyway, he wasn't lost.
What was he doing, then?
Same thing as us: looking for someone.

* * *

The light that filtered down through the trees was the muted gray of a foggy day, but instead of cool damp air, the redwoods towering overhead baked in dry desert heat. Dean leaned against a tree with a knuckle to his forehead and tried to ignore his parched throat. His mind conjured the image of a river, water cascading over giant boulders into cool, serene pools, but it did no good. There were no rivers here, just an overactive imagination.

“No,” said his companion, a lanky, slouching boy caught somewhere in that awkward stage between childhood and late adolescence, “You're not imagining that. That's a memory.”

Dean looked up and over at the kid. “I thought you said I didn't have those.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “You don't, doofus. The river- that's not from before.”

“Oh, really.” Dean gave the kid a look. “And you know this how?”

The kid waved a hand vaguely. “I just do. And I'm telling you, that's a new memory. From after.”

“After what?”

The kid shrugged. “After a river? There's no guarantee that just because you remember a river that there wasn't some earlier “after” before that you don't remember.”

Dean gave him his best unimpressed look. “Now you're just talking nonsense, Sammy.”

The kid huffed. “It's Sam, all right?” he said. Dean rolled his eyes, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but the kid was still looking thoughtful. “I mean, what if you got like, roofied or concussed or something-” he continued.

“Yeah, except one-” Dean held up a finger to illustrate his point, “One, trust me, you cannot get more sober than I am right now.”

“But-” Sam began again. Dean cut him off by holding out another finger, “And two, no headache, no head injury, nothing.”

Sam waved a hand. “Yeah, now, but then? If you'd been drugged or concussed or something, you might have been wandering around impaired for who knows long before you started forming long term memories again.”

Dean leaned back against a tree. “Well that's just peachy,” he said. “Honestly, Sam, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

The kid pulled his coat around him tighter. “Add it to the pile, I guess.”

Dean threw his hands up. “You know, by the time I get any of this figured out, the dementia will set in. Jesus. Would it kill you to give me something useful for once? Like, I don't know, a straight answer. And seriously, aren't you roasting in that?”

Sam held his arms out wide, fingers spread. “I'm giving you everything I can.” He ignored the question about the jacket.

“Yeah, yeah, very helpful. What the hell are we doing here in this freaky forest, anyway?”

Sam shrugged. “You tell me.”

“I'm asking you,” Dean shot back, because he didn’t have the answer but he knew he should. It was right at the tip of his tongue- they were- they were- searching... Searching for someone. The thought fled before he could finish it.

“I dunno.” Sam chewed on his thumb nail. “But we should probably keep moving. Back to the river?”

Dean glanced back over his shoulder, then shook his head. “We need to keep going.” He leaned down and grabbed the homemade, wilderness edition machete he'd been carrying around for god knows how long and for god knew what reason. He tried not to look at it too closely, because disturbing didn't even begin to cover it, but having it at hand offered a degree of comfort he wasn't yet up to examining. Good thing he didn't have any memories to examine. As such.

Plus, there was the fact that someone or something had been stealthily tailing them for miles. That was the kind of situation where a big scary homemade machete that screamed “serial killer” being comforting made sense.

“Which way?”

Sam spun around in a circle, pointing in an apparently random direction.

Dean shrugged. “Works for me.”

It wasn't exactly the best system, he knew. Or really even a system, if he was going to get technical but everything about this place was bizarre. Dean had found a compass in one of his pockets, at one point, and had pulled it out. Not that he'd had a destination in mind, but it couldn't hurt, right? Except the damn thing had just spun around and around, so that was a bust, and with whatever was still lurking in the woods, a little randomness was probably just what they needed.

Dean got a better grip on the machete and set off in the direction Sam had indicated. He glanced back over his shoulder. He still didn't see anything other than odd shadows, but he increased his pace regardless. Sam was forced to take a little half-running step every other stride in order to keep up, but he didn't complain or comment. At seemingly random intervals, Sam would stop and point in a new direction, and Dean would follow. As did whatever was following them, but to Dean's relief, it never seemed to draw any closer.

That didn't stop anything else from getting a little too close for comfort, though. Dean discovered the point of the serial-killer machete the next time they stopped for a breather, when a creature with far too many teeth and glowing red eyes jumped out at them. Sam made himself scarce, and Dean felt oddly grateful for it, as if he'd been half expecting the opposite. But c'mon, giant thing with teeth and red eyes, what else did he think the kid was going to do?

He didn't have a lot of time to probe the feeling, because half a second later, the thing was on him. Dean swiped at it, dodged one of its long, paw-like hands, and ducked under its arm, bringing the machete up as he did so and swinging it hard at the thing's neck. He only got about a third of the way through before the thing managed to rip away from him, oozing oily, too-dark blood as it did so. Dean tore out the machete as it turned away, and brushed the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his other hand.

He felt himself grinning as the thing turned back to him, growling. “C'mon,” he said. “You want a piece of me? Come and get it.”

The thing rushed him. Dean stood his ground, machete held high.

At the last minute, just as the thing loomed over him, Dean pulled the knife he’d found in his boot and plunged it deep into the thing's heart.

It toppled over, and Dean just managed to dodge out of the way before it could pin him to the earth in its fall. He waited a minute, then gave the thing a hard kick in its side.

Satisfied that the thing was actually dead - or getting there soon, Dean pulled out a cloth, wiped down his weapons, and sheathed the knife.

Sam's head peeked out from behind a tree. He surveyed the damage, and then walked back out into the clearing. “Damn, Dean. How did you know how to do that?”

Dean shrugged. “I'm awesome, bitch, that's how.”

“No, seriously, you have no memories - how did you...?” Sam shook his head, as if to clear it.

“Muscle memory? Hell if I know. Don't question it, squirt.”

That earned him a scowl, which oddly just further improved Dean's good mood. It didn't last for long. The further they walked, the more Dean's hopes of finding water or a ranger's station or even just a road faded. Not that they'd been all that high to begin with, but considering the shitty hand he'd been dealt, he kind of felt the universe owed him one. The forest just went on and on and on, the trees all inexplicably same-y, birds and bugs and and even rodents all mysteriously absent. They walked through three clearings over the course of the day, each a near-copy of the last, like the nature version of cookie-cutter housing- each clearing built around the same frame, with minor decorative tweaks. Eventually, some half-assed approximation of night began to fall, and even the darkness managed to keep the dull quality that had so diminished the daylight. At least the psuedo-twilight seemed to help put some distance between them and their mystery pursuer.

“Yeah, or they're just blending into the shadows better,” was Sam's response to that piece of wishful thinking. Dean shot him a disgusted look.

“Either way,” Dean said, choosing to ignore Sam's descent into pessimism, “I'm thinking we should stop and set up camp for the night. I don't know about you, but I can't see for shit, and if I trip over another tree root, I'll probably end up with a concussion.”

“Another concussion,” Sam corrected.

Dean waved a hand at his head. “It wasn't a concussion.”

Sam shrugged. It wasn't a particularly confidence-inspiring shrug.

Dean glanced around. “I've seen that group of trees- well, similar trees- before the last couple clearings. We go a little further, maybe we'll get lucky, find another one.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You think?”

Dean struggled not to roll his eyes in response. Insolent didn't even begin to cover it, no wonder Dad.... the thought trailed off, as if someone had blotted the rest of it out. Dean considered mentioning it, considered saying, 'Well, you can add “has or had a father” to the pile,' but on the scale of useful memories, it ranked somewhere way, way, way below the fact that he'd once seen a river. Dean shook his head and muttered, “Unless you've got a better suggestion.”

Sam shrugged, and fiddled with the cuffs of his too-big jacket.

Dean decided to take this as a victory, and turned towards the familiar-ish trees. And yup, there were three together, branches intertwined, and here was one with a large hollow, and yeah, a dead one one gently rotting into the forest floor. Dean climbed over a fallen tree and turned left at the three, and walked into a clearing.

Unlike the last three clearings, there was a creek bisecting this one. Dean punched the hand holding the machete up in the air in victory, then hurried forward.

“Wait,” said Sam, “What if it's, you know, not safe to drink?”

Dean stopped long enough to give the kid a long stare. “As opposed to what, all the other water sources we've seen lying around? Sam, I don't even remember the last time I had anything to drink. Whatever's in the water, it can't be worse than keeling over of dehydration.”

Sam pursued his lips. “I'm not thirsty,” he said at last.

“Well, suck it up,” Dean said before falling to his knees and then plunging his head directly in the water. He came up for air a few seconds later, broadly grinning. “Awesome. That's what I'm talking about!” He brought cupped hands forward and drank deeply.

After a minute, he sat back on his heels.“Well, I'm not dead yet,” he concluded. “I think we can safely say it's clean enough for even your delicate digestive system, Sam.”

Sam pulled his jacket tighter around himself. “I'll pass.”

“Seriously, Sam,” Dean said, leaning forward. “Have some. You've got to be at least as dehydrated as me.”

Sam shook his head, his shaggy hair momentarily falling into his eyes. “I'm not thirsty. I think I must have had enough to drink at the river.”

“The river I don't remember,” Dean said meaningfully. Sam shrugged.

“Fine. But I don't want to hear any bitching about it if you change your mind tomorrow.”

“We're staying here for a while, right?”

“Yeah, that was the plan, anyway.”

“Then I'll wait,” Sam said, or tried to, anyway. A huge yawn interrupted him halfway through.

“Fine, but at least go catch some z's. I'll take first watch.”

Sam rubbed at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve. “Yeah, okay.” He walked over to the tree with the hollow- a tall, ancient redwood. The hollow was at the very base of the tree, and put Dean in mind of a wooden cave. Sam curled up there, and taking that as his cue, Dean placed himself directly in front of the tree, his back towards Sam. He held the home-made machete in front of him, and tried to find a more comfortable grip.

There really wasn't one.

The night wore on. It was still damn hot. Dean listened to the soft breathing of his brother, and tried to ignore the feeling of sweat dripping down his back. Exhaustion, long held at bay, suddenly caught up with him, his limbs and eyes growing leaden. He blinked, and forced himself to sit up straighter. No falling asleep on watch. It wasn't exactly a memory- more like a compulsion carved with deep, deep grooves.

He heard a sigh behind him. Dean looked back over his shoulder, to where Sam squirmed on the ground in a futile attempt to get comfortable. After a minute, he huffed, gave up, and looked over at Dean ruefully. “Shouldn't we be telling campfire stories, or something?”

“Don't have a campfire,” Dean pointed out.

Sam shrugged one shoulder. “Don't be so literal, jerk.”

“Besides, as you keep reminding me, I don't have any memories. No memories, no stories, QED.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You don't know any stories, but you know QED?”

Dean gave him a look in return. “Of course I do. It means, shut up, bitch, and get some sleep.”

“Deaan,” Sam said, injecting just the right level of whine into his tone.

“Fine,” Dean said. He picked up a stick and vengefully prodded at a pebble with it. “There once was a woodsman,” he started, then paused. That didn't sound...right, but he wasn't sure why. There was an image in his mind, that of a tall, imposing man wearing a suit and flashing a badge, of leaning over a book, of arguing with an older, grizzled man in a rumpled shirt and a stained hat-

Sam made an impatient noise, and Dean lost his train of thought.

“Dean, focus. C’mon, tell the story. So this woodsman- tell it right. Tell me the rest. He's the youngest of three sons, or maybe he was a foundling...” Sam suggests, his tone persuasive.

Dean yawned. “You tell it, then. I told you I don't know any stories.”

“I can't,” Sam says. “It's your story, Dean.” There's an undertone in his voice that Dean can't quite place, but that sets something in the back of his brain slightly on edge. Dean licks his lips, then reluctantly continues,“So there's a woodman. The oldest of three sons, how about that.” Sam made a hmmphf noise, before asking, “....and an orphan?”

Dean shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not.” He dragged the edge of the stick in the dirt, sketching out odd, angular doodles, not sure what should come next. There was something comfortable and familiar in the lines in the dirt, though it was just yet another mystery why abstract doodles would seem so familiar or feel so incomplete.

“And what are his goals, what keeps him from them?” Sam prompted.

“He's lost,” Dean said, without hesitation. Something itched at the back of Dean's mind, but it eluded him. He rubbed a hand against his forehead, but it didn't help. “He's lost in the woods,” he supplied at last.

That did not quite suit Sam. “The woodsman is lost in the woods?” he said, the weird tone gone and his usual skepticism back.

“They're haunted woods, dork. He's been- whammied.”

“Does he know?”

Dean craned his neck around to look at Sam. “Does he know what? That he's lost? Of course he's gonna know that.”

“Not that. I mean, does he know he's...whammied?” Sam asked.

Dean considered it for a second. “Guess not, that's kind of the point of the whammy, right?” Sam didn't seem to like that answer, either, so Dean moved on. “So he's wandering lost in haunted woods. Which he could totally leave, being a woodsman and all, okay? But he can't find what he's looking for, because he keeps getting turned around and trapped, and there are dark, hungry eyes that follow him everywhere.” Dean yawned again, ten times as tired as he was an hour ago, but he turned away, once again facing forward, on watch and all clear. He tried to sit up straighter, to will the tiredness away.

“Next you'll tell me he's looking for a princess,” Sam said, but the sarcasm's missing.

Dean turned back around to stare at Sam. “Dude, a princess? Why would a woodsman be looking for a princess in a haunted forest?”

Sam brushed shaggy hair out of his eyes and raised an extremely sardonic eyebrow. “There's always a princess.”

Dean threw his hands in the air. “Okay, fine, he's looking for a princess, who was...uh...kidnapped by a dragon, alright?”

“The woodsman is going to fight a dragon. How does that even work?” Again, there’s a note of dark curiosity here, where there should be only sarcasm.

“How the hell should I know? Maybe he's just good at what he does.”

“Which is...what, exactly?”

Dean waved an arm vaguely. “Woodsy things. Including, in this story, killing monsters.”

“But how's he gonna kill the dragon, Dean, if he's wandering, lost and alone and whammied?” It’s a genuine question, full of delight, but somewhere in the back of his head Dean heard the mirror universe version, where it was delivered in a mocking sing-song and ended with a crooked, teasing smile. Dean brushed at a phantom itch crawling up his arm, then wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “It's already dead,” he said. “That's not the point of the story.” He peered into the darkness, as if his eyes could penetrate the gloom. There'd been a shadow- a deeper shadow- had it moved? Something fluttered at the edge of his vision.

Distantly, Dean heard Sam say, “Then tell me the story of the brothers that beat fate,” and the thing in the shadows was upon them.

Dean shot up to his feet, brandishing the machete. The thing- little more than a shadow in the false twilight- darted toward him. Dean swung the machete, but the thing ducked under the blade like it was expecting it before heading straight for Sam.

And that was something different, and that was something new, and Dean had no time to think before a hidden store of compressed rage exploded through him and all thoughts fled.  Dean dove after their attacker with the fury of a berserker. Sam had squeezed as far back against the tree as he could, huddled down, his hands held beseechingly in front of him. Dean grabbed the thing and spun it around, careless of whatever threat it might offer.

Unlike the last thing, this one looked like a man, nothing more, one with a broad, friendly face and a torn blue jacket.  His face was familiar in some vague way, and that more than anything shocked Dean into a half second of stillness.

“Brother,” the man said, “you’ve fallen in with some bad company.” And then he elbowed Dean in the face and broke away.  Dean fell back, wiping the blood from the bloody nose the stranger had just given him off his face with the back of his hand. He didn’t fail to note the way the man’s eyes followed the hand before wrenching his gaze back up to Dean’s face.

They circled each other, Sam still huddled back against the tree. Dean readjusted his grip on the machete. The little voice of instinct that had thus far served him well argued for immediate decapitation, but something else held him back. Maybe it was the way the weirdly familiar stranger held up his hands in a pacifying gesture.

“Dean,” the man said, “You’re in it deep, here. You don’t know what you’re protecting.”

“Shut your mouth,” Dean said, voice tight. He tightened his grip on the machete. “I sure as hell don’t know who you are.”  Dean sneaked a glance at Sam, who blinked up at him through teary eyes  and said, “Dean, please-”

“Brother,” the man began.

“You aren’t my brother,” Dean spat in reply.

“Ah.” The man gave Sam a thoughtful glance. “So that’s it. Of course. ” He shook his head and breathed deeply, then looked Dean directly in the eye. “That ain’t him,” he said, his tone almost gentle. “I may not be your brother, but neither is that thing.”

The rage, briefly thwarted, swept back in. “I told you to shut up,” Dean snarled.

The stranger ignored Dean. He shook his head. “Only you,” the man said, with a tone that was half bemusement and half aggravation,  “could manage to drag one of the Lethe from its stream.”

And that sent a frisson coursing down Dean’s spine, and dumped a bucket of ice water over the rage that just a second before had been burning so brightly. Dean blinked, and wiped another trickle of blood off his face. It had already gone sticky, half dried in the heat. Everything seemed to slow down.

“It’s draining you dry, brother,” said the man, still not moving. “Can’t you feel it?”

“Shut up,” Dean tried again, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Dean,” Sam said, voice high and scared,”He wants to kill me, I can see it in his mind, you have to save me.”

A twinge of disquiet went through Dean, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It’s not the threat to Sam, it’s- it’s.... The thought trailed off, never to be completed. Dean licked his lips, and the taste of blood bloomed across his tongue. Unbidden, the image of a man rose before Dean’s inner eye- a large man, his mouth covered in blood, his hand held out, his face fierce and determined. And with the image, a tidal wave of sick, dismayed horror.

“No,” said Sam sharply, standing up. And then the memory or vision or whatever was gone, excised completely. It left a ragged hole in his memory, torn and flapping, even next to the brimming emptiness that represented his life before the river. But if the image was gone, the feelings that accompanied it were not. Dean staggered back under the weight of desperate, gnawing horror. Exhausted, he swayed on his feet. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes. “Sam?” he said, turning his gaze to the boy where he stood, staring back. He didn’t know why he expected him to be taller, older. His youthful face and puppy-like gangliness seemed....seemed....goddamn, why couldn’t he think?

The stranger took advantage of Dean’s distraction and darted towards Sam, far faster than anything human. But as fast as he was, Dean was closer. Before the stranger could do more than touch Sam, Dean charged forward, his full weight hitting the man square in the middle and bearing him down to the ground. Dean reared up an instant later, machete held high above the man’s neck, a heartbeat from bringing it down- and hesitated.

The man stayed very, very still, his hands stretched out wide. “Easy,” he said. “Easy now.”

Dean breathed heavily through his nose, his heart racing. His arm trembled from the effort of holding back the blade. A drop of blood fell from his nose and splattered against the other man’s cheek. The man sucked in a breath. They stayed there for a moment, not moving. Dean felt the trickle of sweat down his shoulder blades.

“Finish it,” said Sam from somewhere behind Dean.

Quietly the man said, “How many stories has he asked you for? How many have you given?”

Dean didn’t move, and said nothing. Behind him, Sam said, “Dean.”

The man licked his lips. “How many could you remember how they ended?”

Dean leaned forward, pressing his free forearm against the man’s neck and putting his weight on it. The man never broke his gaze. “Go,” Dean said at last. He rocked back on his heels and stood, still looming over the stranger. “Don’t come back.”

The man sat up and edged backwards on his elbows, then got to his feet, careful not to move too quickly. He walked backwards into the forest, hands still held up.

“Watch your back, brother,” he said, then vanished into the gloom. Dean waited a minute, listening for the sound of footsteps retreating deeper into the forest, and when he was satisfied, he sagged to his knees like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly cut. He rubbed his hand against his face, then allowed himself to collapse further, down to his hands and knees. Against his bloody palm, he felt something sizzle. He looked down, too tired to be surprised at the sight of the angular scribble he’d drawn in the dirt sparking and flashing. There was the whisper of something in his ears, a rising crescendo against the eerie silence of the forest. He looked up to see Sam standing before him, hair pushed out of his face, dark eyes calculating.

“We need to get back to the river,” Sam said. “We’ll be safe there. No more searching.” He didn’t seem to notice the symbol in the dirt. “Didja see that, Sammy,” Dean murmured. Sam just stared down at him, puzzled. He said something, but Dean hardly heard it. The whispering has grown to a roar, and Sam seemed a long way off.

Dean fell forward, forehead to earth. The forest retreated.

Instead, Dean found himself standing in the ruined courtyard of a fire-ravaged castle. The bones of some gargantuan creature blocked the gate out, but despite the ruin and the bones, the place had none of the menace of the forest. So this is a dream, he thought. It was a novel experience- he couldn’t remember any others.He was dimly aware of the urgency of waking up, of being on watch, but it felt distant, like a memory. In front of him lay the shattered basin of a fountain. He walked around it carefully, and when he peered over its lip, his own reflection was hazy in the few puddles remaining at the bottom. At last he came to the castle’s entrance, where the doors hung broken and gaping open. Dean stood in front of them, and noted the gouges across the thick, iron-banded wood.

There was a fluttering noise above him, like a flock of birds coming into roost. Dean ducked under the doors and into the still-smokey interior. He was moving on instinct alone, propelled forward by a sense of inevitability. To his right, a staircase loomed. He started climbing it: there were answers waiting at the top. He knew it like he knew his name, or the right way to wield the machete: it felt like some base part of him, unfathomable but undeniable all the same. The stairway was dark and claustrophobic, but when he reached the top and pushed open the door, he found himself on top of a turret.

There was a man in a filthy, ragged trench coat waiting for him.. The man was staring out over the courtyard, and his back was to Dean, but in that same unfathomable way, Dean knew him, like the way he’d know a word that had been lingering on the tip of his tongue.

“Don’t tell me I’m supposed to rescue you,” Dean said.

The man turned to face him. His face was tired and wan, but his gaze was intense. “No,” the man said. “That’s a feat beyond your reach.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Dean said, but the man ignored him.

“You’re under attack,” said the man, utterly without pretense.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know, I’ve already gotten that memo.”

“No,” the man said, and his eyes bored into Dean’s, “You haven’t.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Great, I’m under more attack. So why don’t you stop it with the cryptic shit and do me a solid and actually- oh, I don’t know- give me something I can use.”

“I am,” the man said, his tone even but his frustration evident. “But I can’t help you.”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Dean said, suddenly angry. He couldn’t keep the accusing note out of his voice, although the reason for it remained distant and vague. But as soon as he’d said it, he knew it was true.  He’d been looking for this man. He’d dragged Sam into the forest- away from that damn river- because for some reason, it’d been important and it had been necessary and it was the search that couldn’t be dropped. And for the life of him, he didn’t know why. It belonged to the black hole of “before,” and that just made him angrier.

“I know,” the man says, turning to face him. His face was tired and wan.  “Then why-” Dean trailed off. He was not even sure what he meant to ask. Why am I looking for you or maybe why are you running or why are you here.

“It’s too dangerous. Even being enthralled to one of the Lethe is- safer,” said the man,  but he looked away when he did so.

Dean thought back over the short amount of time he could remember and concluded that that was bullshit. “Everything here is dangerous.”

“Nonetheless.”

“Screw you, then,” Dean said. He picked up a piece of broken masonry and chucked it out over the courtyard. It bounced off the large skull lying in the very far corner. From up here, Dean couldn’t help but notice, the bones resembled something that might have been a dragon. “And what the hell is with the friggin’ castle?!”

The man gave him a dry, amused glance. “It’s your dream, Dean.”

“I suck at dreams, then.”

The man dipped his head slightly in a way that suggested to Dean that on anyone else, it would have been a shrug. “I find them restful.” For a moment, Dean wondered if everyone just had access to his head as a matter of course, but figured there were more pressing problems. He said, “So tell me, if you can’t help - and I’m assuming you mean the whole amnesia thing- what the hell are you doing here? Actually, no, more importantly, what the hell am I doing here?”

The man reaches over and brushes his fingers against Dean’s forehead, and the dream shifts. They’re standing next to a wide, swift river, on the very edge of a deep, deceptively still pool. “You used the summoning ward. You were fighting the drain.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “One day, someone will give me a straight answer, and I’ll die a happy man.”

The man ignored him. “You’ve been fighting the Lethe, but it won’t be enough. You have to kill it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said, but the man continued on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Any water but that of their own rivers can harm them. When you wake,” the man said, “its hold will have lessened. You won’t have long, but it’s everything I can do.”

Around them, the dream began to crumple in on itself, the river folding up and fading, until there was nothing left but Dean and the man. They were almost out of time.“I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Dean said, throwing his hands up. “It’s just Sammy, and me- and I guess there was that one weird dude-”

“Dean,” the man said, interrupting him, “You know that isn’t Sam.”

“No-” Dean shook his head. “No, I remember-”

Dean woke.

It was still night, it was still sweltering, and he was lying in the dirt. Sam’s worried face loomed over him. “Dean,” he said. “We need to go.”

Dean squinted at him. Dean remembered him, when he remembered nothing else. Sam, his brother. Floppy brown hair, too-big jacket, the gangliness he got after hitting that first big growth spurt, that summer before Dad started letting Dean drive the Impala-
- before.

Dean allowed himself to be tugged to his feet, but waved Sam off immediately after. He walked back over to the creek, and stared into the water there, stared at the blur that might be a reflection in better light. Add it to the pile. Dean glanced down at Sam. Sam. My brother. My younger brother. My little brother- who’s taller than me. Sam’s look of concern was growing deeper. “Tell me a story,” Sam said at last. “Tell me how the woodsman defeated the dragon.”

Dean found himself transfixed on the little stream, and in his head it was overlaid with the vision of wide, serene pools and the roar of a waterfall. He was vaguely aware of Sam watching him expectantly. “With the help of his brother,” he said, his mind still elsewhere. “Who- who stayed behind.” He realized it as he said it, a piece of the puzzle slotting into place.

That wasn’t enough. Sam shook his head. “You should tell me how,” he said. “if you don’t, how will I be safe?”

Dean glanced back at Sam. He remembered Sam, he did. Sam was the only solid thing in this bizarre world of flat light and shadows. He remembered-

There was a hospital room, and a man- tired and wan and bloodied- whispering something hurried into his ear.

There was blood on the floor, pooling into unnatural lines.

And the notion of a river, swiftly raging, falling into deep, still waters. He didn’t  remember that.  He only remembered Sam. Sam, following behind and peppering him with questions about stories Dean doesn’t know. Sam, in his too big jacket and with his puppyish gait.

”You’ll have to kill him,”. The man’s breath had been hot against his ear and the room had smelled of antiseptic.

Nothing was right about this place. Not the trees, not the weather, not the light, not the shadows or the things lurking in them.

“Dean,” Sam said when Dean didn’t respond. “Tell me about the dragon.” His tone turned petulant. “You’re supposed to keep me safe.”

Dean shook his head and swallowed. “No, I was supposed to save you.”

“Then why won’t you?”

Deep inside, Dean felt something click into place. “Fine,” Dean said. “Come here and I’ll show you how.”

Sam slouched closer, huddling up close to Dean, but giving the creek as wide a berth as he could. “See?” Dean asked.

Their reflections wavered on the water. “See what?” Sam glanced at the creek, but edged backwards.

“This,” Dean said, and then he grabbed Sam and dragged him into the water.

Sam screamed and thrashed but Dean held on, keeping him in the creek and holding him down. It wasn’t hard. He was just a kid, after all. Sam pleaded and gasped. “Dean! Dean!”

But Sam was tall and Sam was grown and Sam was the one whom he could never save. So Dean held on and held on and held on until the body under his hands stopped thrashing. Dean stared down at Sam, lifeless under the water.

Dean sat back on his heels and cradled his face in one hand. “Shit,” he said. “Shit.”

Something snapped a stick on the ground. Dean looked up and grabbed for the machete. But when a figure stepped out into the gloom, it was one he recognized.

“Benny.”

“You got all your marbles again? Just asking, you understand.”

“I won’t try to kill you again, if that’s what you mean,” Dean said, wiping his face with the crook of his arm.

“It’s a start,” Benny agreed, crouching down beside Dean.

“What the hell was that thing?”

“One of the Lethe,” Benny said. “They’re a kind of siren. You don’t see them much, outside of Greece- back in the World, anyway. They prey on the lonely and the lost, steal their memories, and offer oblivion in some comfortable, familiar guise.” There’s a question buried under the simple answer, but it’s one Dean is unwilling to discuss.

“They must feed well, here.” Dean said. “Can’t get more lost than Purgatory.”

Benny regarded him thoughtfully, then seemed to come to a conclusion. “That they do.” They stared off into the darkness.

“Can’t believe you gave up that easily,” Dean remarked, after a moment.

Benny smiles. “Oh no,” he said, “I had a cunning plan.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wait until you forgot again, and then give it another shot.”

Dean laughed. It carried an edge, but Benny refrained from comment. Instead he said, “How the hell did you get it away from its home river? Anyone who falls in their thrall tends to sit on the river bank, staring into nothing until they starve to death.”

Dean shook his head and wiped his eyes. “I guess even whammied, I was still determined to go looking for Cas.”

This time, Benny laughed. “Well, you are one stubborn, single-minded son of a bitch, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. It’s quieter now, with none of of his previous humor. “Yeah.”

“You broke its hold,” Benny remarks, almost conversationally, but there’s a sharp question lurking underneath.

“The elbow to the face really helped clarify things,” Dean said, sarcastic.

“Anything I can do to help.’ Benny stared out into the water for another minute, then rose to his feet. “Let’s get out of here, brother. This ain’t a place I want to stay.” He held a hand out to Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He took the offered hand and let the man pull him up. “Let’s go.”

The End.