Questhaven 8/12 (SPN Fic)
And on it goes... latest chapter of Questhaven.
Previous Chapters:
7/12
6/12
5/12
4/12
3/12
2/12
1/12
Chapter 8
December 25th, 2003
Palomar Hospital
Escondido, CA
Dean.
Dean.
Dean Winchester.
He rolled the name around his brain a few times. It didn’t spark any memories, just as it hadn’t since the day his overly tall, floppy-haired brother had walked in and revealed the name to him. Dean sighed and scratched at the short hairs on the back of his neck.
He looked down at the necklace he’d taken from his Patient’s Belongings bag. For a guy he sure had a lot of jewelry. The strange amulet stared up at him and he knew he should remember why this was important. The reason itched at the back of his brain, danced on the tip of his tongue. Every time he reached for it, though, it jumped back and danced away.
Though that wasn’t to say Dean didn’t remember stuff. Somehow, his brain had decided to wake him up with horribly realistic nightmares a few times each night. Nightmares that would give Friday the 13th or that Blair Witch shit a run for its money (and why his brain insisted on remembering bad horror movies and not his own family… well, that was a constant source of frustration). His nightmare self hunted ghosts, dug up graves, fired shot guns and got hurt a whole hell of a lot. In fact, the Dean Winchester in his dreams was a badass.
Dean shifted in the hospital bed. He was itching to get up and move around. The doctor was talking about taking the chest tube and catheter out today, which would mean some more mobility for Dean. Barring any complications, he could be released in the next few days- into Sam’s care of course. He wasn’t to be driving or doing anything other than resting for at least two weeks. Sam needed to get back to school, but had offered to let him rest up at his place in Palo Alto, which sounded good to Dean. His head was feeling much better, the blurry vision and headaches from the concussion gone since yesterday evening. The lacerations on his chest and torso were healing nicely, or so the doctor had proclaimed. His ribs were still sore, both to the touch and with every breath. He was sure that moving around would be very painful, but from the comfort of his hospital bed and with the steady flow of pain meds, it was tolerable now. He still had to remember to keep the breaths controlled and the monologue-ing to a minimum.
He cast a glance at Sam who was sleeping in the bedside chair. His long legs were stretched out onto the end of Dean’s bed, propped precariously and crossed at the ankles. Sam snored lightly, his arms crossed and head lolled to the side. It looked entirely uncomfortable. Dean had urged him to get a motel room or something, but Sam had just laughed- yeah, I’m gonna leave my injured brother in the hospital alone, he’d said. And he hadn’t left much at all since going to find the car that first day. Sam had stepped out once or twice to use the phone, and Dean had overheard him leaving a very angry message to their dad. The hospital staff had been more than lenient with the visiting rules. Sam had said he’d given them the dewy, puppy dog eyes and they were all rendered helpless. Plus, it was Christmas. Dean couldn’t argue with that.
This most recent nightmare, though, had Dean wanting to kick Sam’s precariously balanced feet right off the edge of the bed. He’d had enough of this ‘we’re bounty hunters’ b.s. Since Sam had arrived he’d been hiding the truth about Dean’s profession, insisting that the family business was bounty hunting, and Dean wasn’t going to buy that anymore. His dreams were telling him otherwise. Not to mention the whole bounty hunter thing was ridiculous and Sam needed to work on his dissembling skills. The kid couldn’t lie to save his life.
He inched his foot a little lower in the bed, preparing to make his move. He kicked out, catching Sam’s heel and sat back to smirk while the unexpected loss of balance jerked Sam awake. Sam dropped his feet to the ground suddenly, arms searching for purchase on the chair, his heels smacking the tile while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“What the hell was that for?” Sam asked. He smoothed his hair from his eyes and ran a hand down his face, wiping the last vestiges of sleep away.
“I was bored. Couldn’t sleep,” Dean said, still smirking. He took a controlled breath, wincing a bit at the pain it caused in his chest and watched as Sam made the most impressive face Dean could recall seeing: head tilt, eyebrows pinched together so far they almost touched and lips pressed and puckered out just slightly. Throw in the death glare followed by eye roll and it was a classic bitchface.
Since Sam had shown up almost two days ago, they had fallen into an easy rapport. It had seemed strange at first, but Dean had trusted Sam immediately. Even though he couldn’t remember Sam specifically, or recall any history, there was no doubt in his mind from the minute Sam stepped into his hospital room that they were brothers. And something else had been there. An almost visceral desire to reconnect and… protect, despite not knowing why.
As Dean collected his memory puzzle pieces, he knew Sam was the only one lining up to show him how they all fit. For his part, Sam had tried to fill in some gaps. He’d brought out a photo of he and Dean at Sam’s high school graduation. He said it was the most recent photo of them he had. They’d talked about their dad. Sam had wondered if he should be looking for him, but a call to a family friend (Bobby something or other) had given him some peace of mind that John wasn’t anywhere near California. Dean hadn’t known what to say when Sam had told him about their mom’s death twenty years ago. It triggered a feeling of loss and- strangely- purpose, but no specific memories. Dean wasn’t sure he’d gotten the whole story about her death, either. A house fire was all Sam had offered and Dean hadn’t pushed the subject. Yet.
The dreams had started the first night Sam had arrived. Dean guessed ‘dream’ wasn’t really the right word to use, since they weren’t fabrications. More like flashbacks, or something. Dreams sounded less new-agey, though, so he was going with that. Dean figured the dreams were his mind’s way of recalling his memories. His desire to trust Sam had been validated right away; multiple vivid dreams that first night depicting him and Sam, at various ages, hunting, driving, going to school. He’d asked Sam about them the next day and he’d confirmed the memories more or less.
“You were bored? Super. I’m glad my flailing could entertain you for a moment.”
“I had more dreams last night. I’m pretty sure I’m ready for you to drop the act.”
“What? What are you talking about?” asked Sam.
“The family business is bounty hunting? I’m not buying what you’re selling, Sam. Unless we’re collecting bounties on spirits and scary-looking dog… things.” Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam’s sudden silence. “C’mon, Sam. I know you think my memories are just going to spontaneously download into my brain, but it’s been days and that hasn’t happened. I need you to fill in some blanks.”
Sam’s sigh was resigned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, balanced his elbows on his knees and put his chin on top of his folded hands. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Dean. When I got here, I didn’t know how bad the memory loss was going to be. And then I didn’t want to scare you off. I wasn’t even sure you’d accept that I was your brother, you know, not without proof. And there’s… stuff. Bad stuff that I didn’t want to overwhelm you with. I just want you to be okay, Dean. I just want you to get better, and I wasn’t sure a trip down memory lane was going to help.”
“I get that. I do. I’m ready now, though,” Dean said. “Besides, my dreams are getting creepier and either I’ve seen too many horror flicks or I have a way cooler job than ‘bounty hunter’.”
Sam smirked. “Okay, as long as you’re sure. There’s some crazy stuff going on out there, and you and Dad are a big part of it, but you might think I’m nuts-“
“Listen, I’m getting the Technicolor version in my head. Stop being such a whiny bitch and get on with the story-telling, Sammy.”
Sam’s face split into a wide grin.
“What are you grinning at?”
“You called me Sammy. And bitch. You’re always calling me a bitch,” Sam said, still unable to hide his hopeful smile. “Maybe your memories are coming back.”
“I don’t know, man. I called the new doctor a sadistic asshole the other day. I think Dean Winchester just has a foul mouth,” Dean said, but he felt momentary satisfaction that his recollection had made Sam so optimistic.
“Okay, so for Christmas gift the first, 2003, could you please tell me what this is?” Dean displayed the necklace he’d been holding since he woke up that morning.
Sam’s smile widened further. “I gave that to you twelve years ago today. This has got to be the first time I’ve seen you not wearing it, too.” Sam paused, looking like he was lost in his own thoughts for a minute. Then he laughed and rolled his eyes. “I gave you that amulet after we had a conversation a lot like the one we’re about to have now… just reversed. That Christmas you… drew back the curtain, so to speak, and told me about the family business.
“I guess it’s my job this Christmas to return the favor.”
***
December 30th, 2003
Outside Palomar Hospital
Escondido, CA
Sam helped Dean into the passenger seat of the Impala, thanked the nurse who had wheeled Dean out and jumped in the driver’s seat. He carefully laid the medical release forms and instructions in the back near Dean’s duffel and pulled out of the hospital parking lot.
Dean groaned and Sam tossed a look in his direction. He was starting to sweat and his face was pinched in what was obviously pain. Dean had his right arm wrapped around his ribcage and the other, with its hard, white cast, held up to his chest, the fingers of his left hand splayed across his collar bone.
“Man, this was so much less painful when I had the hospital bed and constant drip of medication. Who thought riding around in the car was a good idea?”
“You did. You said ‘Get me out of here, Sam. I’m going to start taking hostages if I have to stay here another minute’,” Sam replied, parroting Dean impressively. “Besides, you’d stayed there long enough. We were already pushing it insurance-wise.”
“Whatever. Just take it easy on the pot-holes, alright?”
“You’re due for some more pain medication,” Sam said, indicating the prescription bottles that laid on the seat between them. Dean reached for them immediately and swallowed down the prescribed concoction.
They had turned onto West Valley Parkway and the sign ahead promised the 15 Freeway to be just a few miles more. From there they’d head North on the 15 to Palo Alto and Stanford University. Sam had called ahead and told Jessica his plans and she’d offered to make them both dinner tonight. She had a key to his place and had been keeping up with his mail while he was away.
He thought about the silver money clip in his back pocket and smiled. Jess had given it to him as an early Christmas gift. They were going to visit with her family on Christmas Eve, but Dean’s phone call from the hospital had caused a change of plans and so they’d hurriedly exchanged gifts in the parking lot. She’d had it engraved with a simple flowing script, his initials S.W. Sam had owned very little indulgences in his life, and he was pretty sure he’d never owned any with his name or initials engraved on it. His family spent most of their time trying to hide their identity, change their names, or just plain living under false guises. Jess’ gift was perfect, a last step in distancing himself from the family game of hide-and-seek. He had something now, a tangible possession with his name on it. He didn’t have to hide anymore and could live his own (real) life, and that was all he ever wanted.
Beside him, Dean seemed to have found a comfortable position. He was sitting quietly, watching the stores go by out the window as they neared the onramp for the 15 Freeway. He wasn’t humming or singing or fidgeting with the radio, or tapping his fingers to a beat. He hadn’t asked about his god-awful tape collection or his favorite leather jacket. He hadn’t even tried to drive (not that Sam would have let him).
Sam had given him as much information about their family and life as possible. Starting at the beginning with their mom’s death and continuing on through Sam’s admission to Stanford. He’d explained the family business with as much detail as possible. Dean had been entertained and curious, but Sam wondered how much his brother really believed. Sam had to admit it was a lot to take in. He’d explained how he and Dad butted heads and weren’t on speaking terms these days. In all fairness, Sam had gone pretty easy on their father when recounting the Winchester history. Dean and Sam didn’t see eye-to-eye on their dad or his parenting skills, and it seemed unfair to feed Dean only Sam’s biased side of the story (even though Sam knew his version was right); could have gotten away with it, too, since Dean didn’t remember much of anything about John Winchester.
Still, Dean was acting so not-Dean. Sam guessed that was the difference between hearing your life story and actually living and remembering it. Right now, most of the tales Sam had recreated for Dean were just stories and facts without any emotions attached. Dean was beginning to remember bits and pieces, though. He’d ask a random question (Hey, Sam? We ever go to South Dakota? Is that where that Bobby guy lives?) and Sam would smile and know that something had just triggered a memory for Dean. So he tried not to worry, tried to believe that everything that made his big brother Dean would come flowing back soon.
“That medicine kicking in yet, Dean?”
Dean grunted an affirmative, laying his head against the cool glass.
“So, we going to try and find Dad? Does he usually take off on… hunts for this long?” asked Dean.
They hadn’t been able to pin down just how long John Winchester had been gone. Dean’s memories of before his hospital stay, whatever it was that had injured him, weren’t showing signs of returning. Their dad could have been gone anywhere from ten days to three weeks.
“Well, Bobby said he’d heard indirectly that Dad was on something’s trail out in Clifton, New Jersey. A devil’s gate or something. He hadn’t seen or spoken to him, but whoever threw him the tip said he’d seen Dad within the last week. Bobby said “hi” by the way. Told you to stop hitting your head or you were gonna end up a vegetable someday.”
“So, you’re not worried? About our dad?”
Loaded question. “No, he can take care of himself,” Sam said. “Besides, you can’t do anything to help him right now. You’ve got to rest and heal up. Dad wouldn’t have taken off if he didn’t think he could handle it alone.” That was probably a bold faced lie, but a necessary one. He needed Dean to focus on getting better. Dad would show up, answer his phone. Eventually.
Although, Sam doubted he’d managed to ingratiate himself to their dad- not with the phone message he’d left for his dad a week ago. Sam had come back from picking up the Impala, given Dean the cheeseburger and fries (with strict instructions to hide them from the nurses) and stepped outside the room to try their dad’s cell one last time. Sam had been furious after hearing the EMT’s recounting of finding Dean on his lawn, near-death and torn up. He’d called his dad from Dean’s phone (‘cause he was pretty sure his dad wouldn’t answer a call from Sam’s own cell) and laid out all the ways in which John Winchester was a selfish bastard. Not the least of which was how John left his eldest son alone on a hunt where Dean nearly got killed and then refused to answer his phone when said amnesiac son was searching for someone who could tell him who he was.
“Yeah, I get it. Rest and relax and wait. Good times.”
Sam glanced over briefly, just long enough to catch his brother’s eyes drifting shut and his body relaxing against the door. He flicked the radio on, tuning it to something a little more Sam’s own style.
He figured Dean wouldn’t remember that he hated Sam’s music.
End Chapter 8
Part 9 begins here: Questhaven 9a/12
Thanks for reading! :)
Previous Chapters:
7/12
6/12
5/12
4/12
3/12
2/12
1/12
Chapter 8
December 25th, 2003
Palomar Hospital
Escondido, CA
Dean.
Dean.
Dean Winchester.
He rolled the name around his brain a few times. It didn’t spark any memories, just as it hadn’t since the day his overly tall, floppy-haired brother had walked in and revealed the name to him. Dean sighed and scratched at the short hairs on the back of his neck.
He looked down at the necklace he’d taken from his Patient’s Belongings bag. For a guy he sure had a lot of jewelry. The strange amulet stared up at him and he knew he should remember why this was important. The reason itched at the back of his brain, danced on the tip of his tongue. Every time he reached for it, though, it jumped back and danced away.
Though that wasn’t to say Dean didn’t remember stuff. Somehow, his brain had decided to wake him up with horribly realistic nightmares a few times each night. Nightmares that would give Friday the 13th or that Blair Witch shit a run for its money (and why his brain insisted on remembering bad horror movies and not his own family… well, that was a constant source of frustration). His nightmare self hunted ghosts, dug up graves, fired shot guns and got hurt a whole hell of a lot. In fact, the Dean Winchester in his dreams was a badass.
Dean shifted in the hospital bed. He was itching to get up and move around. The doctor was talking about taking the chest tube and catheter out today, which would mean some more mobility for Dean. Barring any complications, he could be released in the next few days- into Sam’s care of course. He wasn’t to be driving or doing anything other than resting for at least two weeks. Sam needed to get back to school, but had offered to let him rest up at his place in Palo Alto, which sounded good to Dean. His head was feeling much better, the blurry vision and headaches from the concussion gone since yesterday evening. The lacerations on his chest and torso were healing nicely, or so the doctor had proclaimed. His ribs were still sore, both to the touch and with every breath. He was sure that moving around would be very painful, but from the comfort of his hospital bed and with the steady flow of pain meds, it was tolerable now. He still had to remember to keep the breaths controlled and the monologue-ing to a minimum.
He cast a glance at Sam who was sleeping in the bedside chair. His long legs were stretched out onto the end of Dean’s bed, propped precariously and crossed at the ankles. Sam snored lightly, his arms crossed and head lolled to the side. It looked entirely uncomfortable. Dean had urged him to get a motel room or something, but Sam had just laughed- yeah, I’m gonna leave my injured brother in the hospital alone, he’d said. And he hadn’t left much at all since going to find the car that first day. Sam had stepped out once or twice to use the phone, and Dean had overheard him leaving a very angry message to their dad. The hospital staff had been more than lenient with the visiting rules. Sam had said he’d given them the dewy, puppy dog eyes and they were all rendered helpless. Plus, it was Christmas. Dean couldn’t argue with that.
This most recent nightmare, though, had Dean wanting to kick Sam’s precariously balanced feet right off the edge of the bed. He’d had enough of this ‘we’re bounty hunters’ b.s. Since Sam had arrived he’d been hiding the truth about Dean’s profession, insisting that the family business was bounty hunting, and Dean wasn’t going to buy that anymore. His dreams were telling him otherwise. Not to mention the whole bounty hunter thing was ridiculous and Sam needed to work on his dissembling skills. The kid couldn’t lie to save his life.
He inched his foot a little lower in the bed, preparing to make his move. He kicked out, catching Sam’s heel and sat back to smirk while the unexpected loss of balance jerked Sam awake. Sam dropped his feet to the ground suddenly, arms searching for purchase on the chair, his heels smacking the tile while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“What the hell was that for?” Sam asked. He smoothed his hair from his eyes and ran a hand down his face, wiping the last vestiges of sleep away.
“I was bored. Couldn’t sleep,” Dean said, still smirking. He took a controlled breath, wincing a bit at the pain it caused in his chest and watched as Sam made the most impressive face Dean could recall seeing: head tilt, eyebrows pinched together so far they almost touched and lips pressed and puckered out just slightly. Throw in the death glare followed by eye roll and it was a classic bitchface.
Since Sam had shown up almost two days ago, they had fallen into an easy rapport. It had seemed strange at first, but Dean had trusted Sam immediately. Even though he couldn’t remember Sam specifically, or recall any history, there was no doubt in his mind from the minute Sam stepped into his hospital room that they were brothers. And something else had been there. An almost visceral desire to reconnect and… protect, despite not knowing why.
As Dean collected his memory puzzle pieces, he knew Sam was the only one lining up to show him how they all fit. For his part, Sam had tried to fill in some gaps. He’d brought out a photo of he and Dean at Sam’s high school graduation. He said it was the most recent photo of them he had. They’d talked about their dad. Sam had wondered if he should be looking for him, but a call to a family friend (Bobby something or other) had given him some peace of mind that John wasn’t anywhere near California. Dean hadn’t known what to say when Sam had told him about their mom’s death twenty years ago. It triggered a feeling of loss and- strangely- purpose, but no specific memories. Dean wasn’t sure he’d gotten the whole story about her death, either. A house fire was all Sam had offered and Dean hadn’t pushed the subject. Yet.
The dreams had started the first night Sam had arrived. Dean guessed ‘dream’ wasn’t really the right word to use, since they weren’t fabrications. More like flashbacks, or something. Dreams sounded less new-agey, though, so he was going with that. Dean figured the dreams were his mind’s way of recalling his memories. His desire to trust Sam had been validated right away; multiple vivid dreams that first night depicting him and Sam, at various ages, hunting, driving, going to school. He’d asked Sam about them the next day and he’d confirmed the memories more or less.
“You were bored? Super. I’m glad my flailing could entertain you for a moment.”
“I had more dreams last night. I’m pretty sure I’m ready for you to drop the act.”
“What? What are you talking about?” asked Sam.
“The family business is bounty hunting? I’m not buying what you’re selling, Sam. Unless we’re collecting bounties on spirits and scary-looking dog… things.” Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam’s sudden silence. “C’mon, Sam. I know you think my memories are just going to spontaneously download into my brain, but it’s been days and that hasn’t happened. I need you to fill in some blanks.”
Sam’s sigh was resigned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, balanced his elbows on his knees and put his chin on top of his folded hands. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Dean. When I got here, I didn’t know how bad the memory loss was going to be. And then I didn’t want to scare you off. I wasn’t even sure you’d accept that I was your brother, you know, not without proof. And there’s… stuff. Bad stuff that I didn’t want to overwhelm you with. I just want you to be okay, Dean. I just want you to get better, and I wasn’t sure a trip down memory lane was going to help.”
“I get that. I do. I’m ready now, though,” Dean said. “Besides, my dreams are getting creepier and either I’ve seen too many horror flicks or I have a way cooler job than ‘bounty hunter’.”
Sam smirked. “Okay, as long as you’re sure. There’s some crazy stuff going on out there, and you and Dad are a big part of it, but you might think I’m nuts-“
“Listen, I’m getting the Technicolor version in my head. Stop being such a whiny bitch and get on with the story-telling, Sammy.”
Sam’s face split into a wide grin.
“What are you grinning at?”
“You called me Sammy. And bitch. You’re always calling me a bitch,” Sam said, still unable to hide his hopeful smile. “Maybe your memories are coming back.”
“I don’t know, man. I called the new doctor a sadistic asshole the other day. I think Dean Winchester just has a foul mouth,” Dean said, but he felt momentary satisfaction that his recollection had made Sam so optimistic.
“Okay, so for Christmas gift the first, 2003, could you please tell me what this is?” Dean displayed the necklace he’d been holding since he woke up that morning.
Sam’s smile widened further. “I gave that to you twelve years ago today. This has got to be the first time I’ve seen you not wearing it, too.” Sam paused, looking like he was lost in his own thoughts for a minute. Then he laughed and rolled his eyes. “I gave you that amulet after we had a conversation a lot like the one we’re about to have now… just reversed. That Christmas you… drew back the curtain, so to speak, and told me about the family business.
“I guess it’s my job this Christmas to return the favor.”
***
December 30th, 2003
Outside Palomar Hospital
Escondido, CA
Sam helped Dean into the passenger seat of the Impala, thanked the nurse who had wheeled Dean out and jumped in the driver’s seat. He carefully laid the medical release forms and instructions in the back near Dean’s duffel and pulled out of the hospital parking lot.
Dean groaned and Sam tossed a look in his direction. He was starting to sweat and his face was pinched in what was obviously pain. Dean had his right arm wrapped around his ribcage and the other, with its hard, white cast, held up to his chest, the fingers of his left hand splayed across his collar bone.
“Man, this was so much less painful when I had the hospital bed and constant drip of medication. Who thought riding around in the car was a good idea?”
“You did. You said ‘Get me out of here, Sam. I’m going to start taking hostages if I have to stay here another minute’,” Sam replied, parroting Dean impressively. “Besides, you’d stayed there long enough. We were already pushing it insurance-wise.”
“Whatever. Just take it easy on the pot-holes, alright?”
“You’re due for some more pain medication,” Sam said, indicating the prescription bottles that laid on the seat between them. Dean reached for them immediately and swallowed down the prescribed concoction.
They had turned onto West Valley Parkway and the sign ahead promised the 15 Freeway to be just a few miles more. From there they’d head North on the 15 to Palo Alto and Stanford University. Sam had called ahead and told Jessica his plans and she’d offered to make them both dinner tonight. She had a key to his place and had been keeping up with his mail while he was away.
He thought about the silver money clip in his back pocket and smiled. Jess had given it to him as an early Christmas gift. They were going to visit with her family on Christmas Eve, but Dean’s phone call from the hospital had caused a change of plans and so they’d hurriedly exchanged gifts in the parking lot. She’d had it engraved with a simple flowing script, his initials S.W. Sam had owned very little indulgences in his life, and he was pretty sure he’d never owned any with his name or initials engraved on it. His family spent most of their time trying to hide their identity, change their names, or just plain living under false guises. Jess’ gift was perfect, a last step in distancing himself from the family game of hide-and-seek. He had something now, a tangible possession with his name on it. He didn’t have to hide anymore and could live his own (real) life, and that was all he ever wanted.
Beside him, Dean seemed to have found a comfortable position. He was sitting quietly, watching the stores go by out the window as they neared the onramp for the 15 Freeway. He wasn’t humming or singing or fidgeting with the radio, or tapping his fingers to a beat. He hadn’t asked about his god-awful tape collection or his favorite leather jacket. He hadn’t even tried to drive (not that Sam would have let him).
Sam had given him as much information about their family and life as possible. Starting at the beginning with their mom’s death and continuing on through Sam’s admission to Stanford. He’d explained the family business with as much detail as possible. Dean had been entertained and curious, but Sam wondered how much his brother really believed. Sam had to admit it was a lot to take in. He’d explained how he and Dad butted heads and weren’t on speaking terms these days. In all fairness, Sam had gone pretty easy on their father when recounting the Winchester history. Dean and Sam didn’t see eye-to-eye on their dad or his parenting skills, and it seemed unfair to feed Dean only Sam’s biased side of the story (even though Sam knew his version was right); could have gotten away with it, too, since Dean didn’t remember much of anything about John Winchester.
Still, Dean was acting so not-Dean. Sam guessed that was the difference between hearing your life story and actually living and remembering it. Right now, most of the tales Sam had recreated for Dean were just stories and facts without any emotions attached. Dean was beginning to remember bits and pieces, though. He’d ask a random question (Hey, Sam? We ever go to South Dakota? Is that where that Bobby guy lives?) and Sam would smile and know that something had just triggered a memory for Dean. So he tried not to worry, tried to believe that everything that made his big brother Dean would come flowing back soon.
“That medicine kicking in yet, Dean?”
Dean grunted an affirmative, laying his head against the cool glass.
“So, we going to try and find Dad? Does he usually take off on… hunts for this long?” asked Dean.
They hadn’t been able to pin down just how long John Winchester had been gone. Dean’s memories of before his hospital stay, whatever it was that had injured him, weren’t showing signs of returning. Their dad could have been gone anywhere from ten days to three weeks.
“Well, Bobby said he’d heard indirectly that Dad was on something’s trail out in Clifton, New Jersey. A devil’s gate or something. He hadn’t seen or spoken to him, but whoever threw him the tip said he’d seen Dad within the last week. Bobby said “hi” by the way. Told you to stop hitting your head or you were gonna end up a vegetable someday.”
“So, you’re not worried? About our dad?”
Loaded question. “No, he can take care of himself,” Sam said. “Besides, you can’t do anything to help him right now. You’ve got to rest and heal up. Dad wouldn’t have taken off if he didn’t think he could handle it alone.” That was probably a bold faced lie, but a necessary one. He needed Dean to focus on getting better. Dad would show up, answer his phone. Eventually.
Although, Sam doubted he’d managed to ingratiate himself to their dad- not with the phone message he’d left for his dad a week ago. Sam had come back from picking up the Impala, given Dean the cheeseburger and fries (with strict instructions to hide them from the nurses) and stepped outside the room to try their dad’s cell one last time. Sam had been furious after hearing the EMT’s recounting of finding Dean on his lawn, near-death and torn up. He’d called his dad from Dean’s phone (‘cause he was pretty sure his dad wouldn’t answer a call from Sam’s own cell) and laid out all the ways in which John Winchester was a selfish bastard. Not the least of which was how John left his eldest son alone on a hunt where Dean nearly got killed and then refused to answer his phone when said amnesiac son was searching for someone who could tell him who he was.
“Yeah, I get it. Rest and relax and wait. Good times.”
Sam glanced over briefly, just long enough to catch his brother’s eyes drifting shut and his body relaxing against the door. He flicked the radio on, tuning it to something a little more Sam’s own style.
He figured Dean wouldn’t remember that he hated Sam’s music.
End Chapter 8
Part 9 begins here: Questhaven 9a/12
Thanks for reading! :)