SPN Fic: Smoke Drifting By - Chapter 1
See masterpost for summary and further information.
Chapter 1
Dean hated fire. He knew a lot of people didn’t, thought it was romantic and cosy and all that shit, but in his experience fire mostly destroyed. With fiery passion, so to speak. It had its practical uses, sure, and it wasn’t like he was sacred to use it or something, but he would never light one just for the heck of it.
Because he hated fire. But that was okay because as a fireman, it was his job to put them out.
There was a lot of satisfaction in that and the fact that people paid him to do so made it even more satisfactory. If you hate something, he always said, get a job in which you are a hero for killing it.
A lot of people gave him weird looks when he said that.
-
One of the reasons why Dean hated fire was that it killed. In the battle man against flames, with no weapons on either side, fire usually won. In the battle fire against furniture fire always won, and that further limited the chances of any human that might happen to fight on the same side as the furniture, because it had a habit of turning against them. As would the carpet and the ceiling.
For this reason, it was house fires Dean hated most. Fortunately, most fires he had to fight were small ones and everyone was out safely by the time the fire fighters arrived, but there had been one or two cases in which people lost everything they owned, sometimes even their lives.
On days like that, the job sucked pretty badly. He never again wanted to tell a hysteric woman that he would not send anyone into the burning, already collapsing building to get out her husband because he was likely dead anyway and the safety of his men came first. It was hardest not to go in himself, but if he had done that he would have gotten hurt or died and someone else would have come to get him and maybe would have gotten hurt as well. He had learned his lessons - not like they gave his job to just any reckless fool with a hero complex, mind you - but it still went against his nature and that night he’d gotten pretty damn drunk.
Fortunately, no one had expected him to be in top condition the next day.
-
There were times when being a hero was allowed and Dean revelled in them. Jumping into danger and flames he felt most alive, not that he ever told anyone. He didn’t ever tell them how hard it was for him to leave when reason demanded it if he hadn’t looked into every room yet, checked every wardrobe, even if they already told him there was no one inside anymore. He couldn’t stop looking, though sometimes he didn’t even know for what. With everything that was lost to the flames without having been found expendable by him beforehand he felt the possibility of loss like a stone in the pit of his stomach that had to be dumped into a pool of alcohol.
It was this weird, unhealthy obsession to keep looking that made him ignore the call back on what would turn out to be the most important day of his life. This part of the building was lost, it was no longer safe for him to be inside, but there was one more door at the end of this corridor and he kicked it in even as he spoke into his radio that he was coming back now.
Behind the door there was a ridiculously small apartment that was filled with smoke and already burning. The fire had started on the fourth floor, right above, and parts of the ceiling had collapsed. Dean could barely see a thing but he found the man anyway, this long-haired boy half-buried under rubble and not moving.
-
Dean saved a life that day which made him a hero, but he didn’t care because there was no certainty that the life was saved after all. The kid had inhaled too much smoke, his hands and arms and chest were badly burned and the collapsing ceiling had broken his bones. Dean had had no chance to take his injuries into consideration and made them worse when he carried him out draped across his shoulders. (The kid was tall but thin as a stick, though he had the frame of someone once strong.)
He went to the hospital later, to check up on him, following some strange emotional attachment to someone he had saved as part of his job that didn’t make all that much sense but no one mocked him for. He had never before felt the need to check on the involuntary clients of his fire fighting business with more than a phone call to the local hospital, but then, he’d never before had pulled out someone whose survival was not a certainty. (There had been a young woman once who got hurt in a gas explosion. Upon hearing she had lost her leg, Dean had felt compelled to visit her, but when he arrived at the hospital she was surrounded by her parents and siblings and he had walked away without making his presence known.)
The kid was out of surgery by the time the fire had been extinguished and all work was done in the early hours of the morning. He was in intensive care when Dean arrived and a doctor told him there would be more surgeries when he was stronger. He spoke of broken ribs and legs, of internal bleedings they had been able to stop and of clothes burned into his skin by the heat. He also said the boy was lucky, and that they didn’t yet know who he was or who to call.
He also said they needed that information for insurance matters, and that felt like a déjà-vu for no damn reason and made Dean walk into the kid’s room without another word to stand beside him look at the unconscious boy breathing through a tube down his throat and surrounded by beeping machines until another doctor came and chased him away.
At least his stupid hair got away, he thought, absurdly, as he walked home.
-
The next day, Dean only wanted to call the hospital, check if the kid had woken up yet, if they had a name, if his family had shown up. The answers were no, no, and no, but his friend Bob, who worked for the police, was able to at least tell Dean who the apartment he had found the boy in belonged to. While without papers or anyone to identify him they couldn’t be sure the guy in the hospital was indeed Samuel Jones, it was still a useful information for the hospital to have and Dean decided to give it to them. He’d meant to call, but spontaneously decided to drop in before going home, since the hospital was almost on his way.
The kid, who Dean decided to call Sam until anyone told him that was wrong, was still unconscious, but at least he was breathing on his own now, albeit though an oxygen mask that obscured most of his face. He’d live, the doctor said. He also needed help that went beyond medical attention.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor answered. “This is a matter of doctor-patient confidentiality. I am not allowed to tell you.”
In which case he shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, Dean thought, and nearly strangled him because now he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it until he found his answers. Which he would. So the doctor should just tell him, to save time and spare Dean a couple of restless nights.
The doctor did not agree with his logic. “It’s none of your business,” he said, “Rest assured that this is not something you could have saved him from with a bucket of water. So it shouldn’t concern you. You don’t even know him.”
“I’m just naturally curious,” Dean justified his interest and wondered how he could get rid of this unforthcoming medic so he could continue to stare brooding at that person he didn’t even know.
-
Bob from the police let Dean know the next day that they still didn’t know if their boy was Samuel Jones or not, because they couldn’t find a picture of Samuel Jones anywhere, and no dental information either. The only file they found on him, anywhere, didn’t tell them more than that Samuel Jones had been born in 1983, was an only-child and had lost his parents at an early age. No known family. Bob had asked the neighbours from the burned out building, but all he got was that the man who lived there didn’t talk to them and hardly ever left the room.
He never had visitors, but the old lady next door complained that he tended to yell into his phone in the middle of the night and disturb her sleep. And sometimes he just screamed. Two times already she had knocked on his door to see if he needed help but he always just yelled at her to go away. Another two times she nearly called the police to complain but in the end she never did. Poor boy was clearly deeply disturbed and didn’t need the extra trouble.
Interesting information that in the end did nothing to tell Dean who this guy was or why he had problems. Well, apparently he did have problems alright, but how the doctor could tell was beyond Dean - unless he’d lived in the same building and heard the boy scream at night. In which case he was a douchebag for not stepping in to help him before.
The grand total of Dean’s knowledge about the Sam Jones: The kid was an antisocial freak.
The apartment didn’t tell them anything beyond confirming that Sam was even more of a freak than his neighbour suspected. It wasn’t quite as tiny as Dean had thought at first: there were two more rooms that survived the fire mostly unharmed, but the doors to both of them were locked, closets had been placed in front of them and the rooms themselves were completely empty. For whatever reason, Sam’s life had been limited to the small living room with the build-in kitchen, a couch but no bed and just a couple of books on the shelves that were now burned to ashes and keeping their titles to themselves. The single window was blocked with a plastic plate now half-melted, the refrigerator was mostly empty. There was no television, no computer, and no phone.
Perhaps it was a cell phone Sam had been yelling into in the middle of the night. It was very possible, especially since half the ceiling of the room had collapsed so if there was a cell, it might have been crushed and they’d never find it.
It was an easy explanation that didn’t satisfy Dean in the least.
-
Because a secret had been thrown in Dean’s way and it would not let him go until he found all the answers, he kept gravitating towards the guy he saved from the fire, and honestly, that was the only reason he was there, in his hospital room, every day after work, no matter what his stupid colleagues thought. That was the only reason why he was there when the boy finally opened his eyes.
He immediately started flailing; struggling against the wires and tubes he was covered with as it they were tentacles trying to crush him. Then his eyes fell on Dean and he froze.
For one perfect moment their eyes met and everything was still.
“Sam?” Dean asked, unsure because that might not be his name after all.
Sam stared screaming.
-
Dean wasn’t allowed back with Sam for a day. When he managed to get past the doctors on Sunday morning, he found his boy on the bed, which was raised to allow him a half-sitting position. His wrists were covered in bandages for the burns and around those bandages they had fastened restraints that were padded and soft and still had to hurt him. His eyes were open but staring at nothing and he was very quiet. Dean knew at once that he had been drugged into submission.
Then the boy’s eyes focussed on him and Dean saw that he was wrong. The gaze that met his was very clear, and not at all crazy.
“Hey,” the boy said, his voice quiet and weak.
“Hey,” Dean said back. Then he asked “Sam Jones?” because that finally needed confirmation.
Sam nodded.
“I’m Dean Smith,” Dean introduced himself and Sam smiled a little, showing appreciation for the lame-ass names they both were blessed with. Dean’s heart became a little lighter. “How are you?”
Sam gave a vague shrug. “I am tied to a hospital bed.”
So yes, maybe that had been a stupid question. Sam didn’t seem to mind, though. He actually seemed to be pretty calm about his situation. “I’m sorry,” Dean said anyway, because it appeared the appropriate thing to say.
Sam didn’t seem to think so. He looked vaguely confused. “What for?”
“Uhm, you being tied to a bed?”
“And how is that your fault?”
Dean didn’t know what to reply to that, because “If I hadn’t saved your life you wouldn’t be in this situation” seemed somewhat idiotic. So he just shrugged vaguely. “Why are you tied up, anyway?”
“Apparently I’m a danger to myself.”
Again, Sam didn’t appear overly concerned with that.
“Why do they think that?”
“Because I’m too badly hurt to be a danger to anyone else.”
“It still comes down to the danger thing.”
“Yes, it’s kind of funny.” Sam smiled painfully and lifted his hands to tug playfully at his bonds. The movement made him flinch and Dean could imagine that it was quite painful considering the kid’s injuries, but he did it again right after for good measure.
Dean decided that he would have to talk to his doctor again. The unforthcoming ass.
So what he knew about his kid after a few minutes of talking to him and four days of staring at his unconscious form like some kind of creepy stalker was that he was a little crazy and that Dean really would have like to…
Well, what? He didn’t even know what he wanted to do, but he wanted it really badly and this boy had to be part of it. Which really helped, and it made a lot of sense, too.
“Is there anyone you want me to contact for you?” he asked, because that was one action that actually did make sense. But Sam shook his head.
“No.”
“No friends? Family?” Dean winched, because he already knew Sam had no family left. But Sam didn’t seem to mind, except that his gaze drifted off Dean and to something far away, just for a moment. Just long enough for Dean to want to give him a hug.
And then he fucking smiled. “Amnesia, actually,” he said. “I don’t remember a fucking thing about my past, so if there ever was someone who cared about me, I’ve forgotten about them.”
Oh yes, that was definitely something to smile about. But then, who was Dean to judge? He needed to overcome his surprise first, anyway. “Amnesia,” he echoed. “How did that happen? Did you hit your head or something? I don’t recall -”
“It didn’t happen now,” Sam interrupted him. “I remember the fire quite clearly.” Once again a shadow fell over his face and he shuddered. For a second it looked like he was gone completely, leaving only his body sitting there on the bed, but then he came back and explained, “I lost my memory about a year ago. Don’t know how. I just woke up with no injuries that could explain it.” He stopped for a second to cough and catch his breath. “Got my papers on me and there’s a bank account to my name that’s enough to get by, but no one knew me.”
His words hit a familiar cord inside Dean and made him squirm uncomfortably. “And you never regained your memory? Wow, that sucks.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s okay,” he managed to force out between coughs that reminded Dean that he shouldn’t make him talk that much - seriously, what was he thinking?
“Can’t imagine how that could possibly be okay,” he muttered, except that he kind of could.
Didn’t seem like anyone ever missed this kid, and that was what really sucked.
-
The next day at work, Dean asked around among the other firemen, but not one of them remembered anything about a boy without memories showing up out of nowhere. There was nothing about it in the papers, and that was pretty weird - until he went back to Sam and Sam told him that it wasn’t here he woke up, it was in Arizona, some four hundred thousand miles down the road.
“Why did you come here, then?”
“Why not? Does it matter where no one knows you?”
“Guess not. But… here?” Okay, so the town wasn’t that bad, but it was pretty far from anything interesting, and if Dean had all the world to choose from, the probably wouldn’t settle here. Except he’d totally done so, so that argument was invalid.
“Happened to be the closest place with affordable apartments when I… had to stop.”
Dean didn’t miss the second of hesitation, but decided not to ask - not yet, anyway. Not that he wasn’t going to. But Sam looked tired, like he would drop at any moment. He was pale, his cheeks hollow, his eyes looking like he’d smeared ink around them. Not a glorious sight, but then, he was recovering from serious injuries and actually quite lucky to be alive.
His breath was catching in his chest every now and then and his hands trembling, but at least he wasn’t restrained this time. Dean took it as a sign that he didn’t give the doctors any more reason for it.
-
Outside the room Dean met Sam’s doctor, who looked about as tired as Dean was feeling. The man nodded at him in when he saw him leave the room.
“How is Mr. Jones?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t you know? You’re the doctor here.” Dean shrugged. “Full with painkillers as he is, he’s doing pretty well. I mean, considering.”
“He didn’t want any painkillers,” the doctor said.
Dean thought he’d head that wrong. “Come again? You didn’t give him anything for the pain? Do you know his fucking list of injuries? I know his fucking list of injuries, so you should fucking do, too!” Ten months ago, when he had just started his job here, Dean had broken two bones in his hand during the evacuation of a building; a closet had fallen on it. And that had really fucking hurt, for ages. He’d been pretty happy about the painkillers then, and even with them it had hurt like a bitch. And now this guy was telling him that Sam with his shattered legs and broken rips and his goddamn burns didn’t get any.
The doctor held up his hands in defense. “I said he doesn’t want any. We still gave him some - believe me, if we hadn’t, you would’ve noticed. But those were only the ones we could get away with against his will. I would have given him much stronger stuff, but he refused.”
Dean thought about that and finally shook his head, beat. “Why?”
The doctor just shrugged. “I guess he simply likes the pain.”
-
Dean asked Sam about that the next day, but Sam had a fever and didn’t say anything except “Helps,” which didn’t really help at all. He fell asleep soon enough, but Dean stayed anyway - not like he never watched him sleep before, right? So he was there when Sam started to toss around and whimper and scream.
Dean tried to wake him, but there was no point. Instead, Sam started crying, and then he started speaking, but the words made no sense, Dean wasn’t even sure if they were words at all. It sure as Hell wasn’t English.
It was pretty disturbing, but what disturbed Dean most of all was that some of the sounds Sam made sounded disturbingly like his name.
Finally, after what felt like forever, a couple of doctors and nurses came in to pump Sammy full of tranquilizers. He fell silent after that (eventually) but the fact that he was still crying soundlessly made Dean wonder if he had really calmed down or if they merely took his ability to scream.
-
The next weeks Dean was working the night shift. Usually, he didn’t mind because he had no family and no social life that went beyond the occasional chick picked up in a bar, but in this case it was a bit of an inconvenience, because his shift ended long before visiting hour at the hospital started, so he couldn’t go to Sam after work. He went before, instead, but it wasn’t the same. There was a set time when he had to leave, and he hated that. Dean didn’t like being on a set schedule, never had.
He wanted to be able to stay if Sam had another nightmare or flipped out again.
But Sam was mostly just unconscious, and if he wasn’t, he was in so much pain the only thing he could contribute to their meetings was making Dean ache just from looking at him. He still refused to take any stronger painkillers - until the doctors decided that he was so miserable they were justified to drug him out of his mind even against his wishes.
When Dean came the next day, he was send away at the front desk with the explanation that Mr. Jones didn’t take any visitors right now.
Dean didn’t like that either. It made him wonder, and it ruined his mood.
His friends at the station noticed, of course - nothing escaped their attention that offered possible material for gossip. It was Jim who mentioned it first, with a wide gin on his face that made Dean want to punch him because Sam wasn’t well, and Sam wasn’t taking visitors and that could mean all kinds of things.
“It’s really not that much of a surprise you’re so smitten with the kid,” Jim said loud enough for everyone in the fucking building to hear him. “I mean, he’s exactly your type.”
And of course it had to be Jim, who thought he was so smart and had to let everyone know how smart he was, who had noticed even before Dean did that for all his proud and groomed heterosexuality, he had a habit of staring after guys every now and then. And that all those guys where very tall and had floppy brown hair.
Which was ridiculous. It was even more ridiculous that Dean had actually slept with one of those guys, heterosexuality be dammed. And it had been nice enough, okay, but it had also left him unsatisfied, as if something wasn’t right, so he put it down as getting the proof that he was really not into men, thank you very much. (Except that the women he slept with left him with the same feeling, all the time,)
Jim, thank Heaven, didn’t know that. And Dean fought down the urge to become violent and just shrugged, going with the joke. “Too skinny for my tastes,” he said. “Wasn’t it you who so cleverly observed that I seem to be into the strong guys?”
“True,” Jim admitted. “Well, I didn’t see him that closely - if you recall, not all of us sit by his bedside holding his hand every fucking day.” His grin returned. “Perhaps if you feed him he’ll gain some muscle. Poor abandoned orphan, I bet he’d be so grateful.”
“If you say one more word I’m gonna cut out your tongue.”
“Hey, don’t take it personally.” Jim lifted his hands and took a step back, as if he was actually taking Dean seriously - which was just ridiculous, wasn’t it? “I’m just saying he should really thank you for saving his life.”
Now that Dean thought about it, he didn’t think Sam had ever done that. Maybe he just wasn’t grateful.
-
When Dean got to see Sam next, the boy was tied to the bed again. He looked at Dean through bloodshot eyes and looked so miserable and hurting that Dean wanted to cut him loose and carry him out of the hospital because clearly, they were torturing him here.
“No,” Sam said when Dean came closer. “Go away. Go away. Please.”
“Sammy,” Dean said helplessly, reaching out for him, and Sam flinched at the sound of his voice.
“Don’t touch me,” he pleaded, tears leaking out of his eyes. “Don’t, please, don’t touch me!” He began struggling against his restraints, began throwing himself around. His broken legs were trapped in a contraption, rendering him mostly immobile, but it still had to hurt him. So Dean moved on instinct, placing his hands on Sam’s body to keep him still.
“No!” Sam screamed, his hoarse voice breaking. “No, please, no! Dean!”
Dean pulled his hands back as if burned. But Sam screamed his name again before he started to just scream, and it didn’t sound like he even meant him.
It sounded like he was hoping for someone called Dean to come and save him.
NEXT
Chapter 1
Dean hated fire. He knew a lot of people didn’t, thought it was romantic and cosy and all that shit, but in his experience fire mostly destroyed. With fiery passion, so to speak. It had its practical uses, sure, and it wasn’t like he was sacred to use it or something, but he would never light one just for the heck of it.
Because he hated fire. But that was okay because as a fireman, it was his job to put them out.
There was a lot of satisfaction in that and the fact that people paid him to do so made it even more satisfactory. If you hate something, he always said, get a job in which you are a hero for killing it.
A lot of people gave him weird looks when he said that.
-
One of the reasons why Dean hated fire was that it killed. In the battle man against flames, with no weapons on either side, fire usually won. In the battle fire against furniture fire always won, and that further limited the chances of any human that might happen to fight on the same side as the furniture, because it had a habit of turning against them. As would the carpet and the ceiling.
For this reason, it was house fires Dean hated most. Fortunately, most fires he had to fight were small ones and everyone was out safely by the time the fire fighters arrived, but there had been one or two cases in which people lost everything they owned, sometimes even their lives.
On days like that, the job sucked pretty badly. He never again wanted to tell a hysteric woman that he would not send anyone into the burning, already collapsing building to get out her husband because he was likely dead anyway and the safety of his men came first. It was hardest not to go in himself, but if he had done that he would have gotten hurt or died and someone else would have come to get him and maybe would have gotten hurt as well. He had learned his lessons - not like they gave his job to just any reckless fool with a hero complex, mind you - but it still went against his nature and that night he’d gotten pretty damn drunk.
Fortunately, no one had expected him to be in top condition the next day.
-
There were times when being a hero was allowed and Dean revelled in them. Jumping into danger and flames he felt most alive, not that he ever told anyone. He didn’t ever tell them how hard it was for him to leave when reason demanded it if he hadn’t looked into every room yet, checked every wardrobe, even if they already told him there was no one inside anymore. He couldn’t stop looking, though sometimes he didn’t even know for what. With everything that was lost to the flames without having been found expendable by him beforehand he felt the possibility of loss like a stone in the pit of his stomach that had to be dumped into a pool of alcohol.
It was this weird, unhealthy obsession to keep looking that made him ignore the call back on what would turn out to be the most important day of his life. This part of the building was lost, it was no longer safe for him to be inside, but there was one more door at the end of this corridor and he kicked it in even as he spoke into his radio that he was coming back now.
Behind the door there was a ridiculously small apartment that was filled with smoke and already burning. The fire had started on the fourth floor, right above, and parts of the ceiling had collapsed. Dean could barely see a thing but he found the man anyway, this long-haired boy half-buried under rubble and not moving.
-
Dean saved a life that day which made him a hero, but he didn’t care because there was no certainty that the life was saved after all. The kid had inhaled too much smoke, his hands and arms and chest were badly burned and the collapsing ceiling had broken his bones. Dean had had no chance to take his injuries into consideration and made them worse when he carried him out draped across his shoulders. (The kid was tall but thin as a stick, though he had the frame of someone once strong.)
He went to the hospital later, to check up on him, following some strange emotional attachment to someone he had saved as part of his job that didn’t make all that much sense but no one mocked him for. He had never before felt the need to check on the involuntary clients of his fire fighting business with more than a phone call to the local hospital, but then, he’d never before had pulled out someone whose survival was not a certainty. (There had been a young woman once who got hurt in a gas explosion. Upon hearing she had lost her leg, Dean had felt compelled to visit her, but when he arrived at the hospital she was surrounded by her parents and siblings and he had walked away without making his presence known.)
The kid was out of surgery by the time the fire had been extinguished and all work was done in the early hours of the morning. He was in intensive care when Dean arrived and a doctor told him there would be more surgeries when he was stronger. He spoke of broken ribs and legs, of internal bleedings they had been able to stop and of clothes burned into his skin by the heat. He also said the boy was lucky, and that they didn’t yet know who he was or who to call.
He also said they needed that information for insurance matters, and that felt like a déjà-vu for no damn reason and made Dean walk into the kid’s room without another word to stand beside him look at the unconscious boy breathing through a tube down his throat and surrounded by beeping machines until another doctor came and chased him away.
At least his stupid hair got away, he thought, absurdly, as he walked home.
-
The next day, Dean only wanted to call the hospital, check if the kid had woken up yet, if they had a name, if his family had shown up. The answers were no, no, and no, but his friend Bob, who worked for the police, was able to at least tell Dean who the apartment he had found the boy in belonged to. While without papers or anyone to identify him they couldn’t be sure the guy in the hospital was indeed Samuel Jones, it was still a useful information for the hospital to have and Dean decided to give it to them. He’d meant to call, but spontaneously decided to drop in before going home, since the hospital was almost on his way.
The kid, who Dean decided to call Sam until anyone told him that was wrong, was still unconscious, but at least he was breathing on his own now, albeit though an oxygen mask that obscured most of his face. He’d live, the doctor said. He also needed help that went beyond medical attention.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor answered. “This is a matter of doctor-patient confidentiality. I am not allowed to tell you.”
In which case he shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, Dean thought, and nearly strangled him because now he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it until he found his answers. Which he would. So the doctor should just tell him, to save time and spare Dean a couple of restless nights.
The doctor did not agree with his logic. “It’s none of your business,” he said, “Rest assured that this is not something you could have saved him from with a bucket of water. So it shouldn’t concern you. You don’t even know him.”
“I’m just naturally curious,” Dean justified his interest and wondered how he could get rid of this unforthcoming medic so he could continue to stare brooding at that person he didn’t even know.
-
Bob from the police let Dean know the next day that they still didn’t know if their boy was Samuel Jones or not, because they couldn’t find a picture of Samuel Jones anywhere, and no dental information either. The only file they found on him, anywhere, didn’t tell them more than that Samuel Jones had been born in 1983, was an only-child and had lost his parents at an early age. No known family. Bob had asked the neighbours from the burned out building, but all he got was that the man who lived there didn’t talk to them and hardly ever left the room.
He never had visitors, but the old lady next door complained that he tended to yell into his phone in the middle of the night and disturb her sleep. And sometimes he just screamed. Two times already she had knocked on his door to see if he needed help but he always just yelled at her to go away. Another two times she nearly called the police to complain but in the end she never did. Poor boy was clearly deeply disturbed and didn’t need the extra trouble.
Interesting information that in the end did nothing to tell Dean who this guy was or why he had problems. Well, apparently he did have problems alright, but how the doctor could tell was beyond Dean - unless he’d lived in the same building and heard the boy scream at night. In which case he was a douchebag for not stepping in to help him before.
The grand total of Dean’s knowledge about the Sam Jones: The kid was an antisocial freak.
The apartment didn’t tell them anything beyond confirming that Sam was even more of a freak than his neighbour suspected. It wasn’t quite as tiny as Dean had thought at first: there were two more rooms that survived the fire mostly unharmed, but the doors to both of them were locked, closets had been placed in front of them and the rooms themselves were completely empty. For whatever reason, Sam’s life had been limited to the small living room with the build-in kitchen, a couch but no bed and just a couple of books on the shelves that were now burned to ashes and keeping their titles to themselves. The single window was blocked with a plastic plate now half-melted, the refrigerator was mostly empty. There was no television, no computer, and no phone.
Perhaps it was a cell phone Sam had been yelling into in the middle of the night. It was very possible, especially since half the ceiling of the room had collapsed so if there was a cell, it might have been crushed and they’d never find it.
It was an easy explanation that didn’t satisfy Dean in the least.
-
Because a secret had been thrown in Dean’s way and it would not let him go until he found all the answers, he kept gravitating towards the guy he saved from the fire, and honestly, that was the only reason he was there, in his hospital room, every day after work, no matter what his stupid colleagues thought. That was the only reason why he was there when the boy finally opened his eyes.
He immediately started flailing; struggling against the wires and tubes he was covered with as it they were tentacles trying to crush him. Then his eyes fell on Dean and he froze.
For one perfect moment their eyes met and everything was still.
“Sam?” Dean asked, unsure because that might not be his name after all.
Sam stared screaming.
-
Dean wasn’t allowed back with Sam for a day. When he managed to get past the doctors on Sunday morning, he found his boy on the bed, which was raised to allow him a half-sitting position. His wrists were covered in bandages for the burns and around those bandages they had fastened restraints that were padded and soft and still had to hurt him. His eyes were open but staring at nothing and he was very quiet. Dean knew at once that he had been drugged into submission.
Then the boy’s eyes focussed on him and Dean saw that he was wrong. The gaze that met his was very clear, and not at all crazy.
“Hey,” the boy said, his voice quiet and weak.
“Hey,” Dean said back. Then he asked “Sam Jones?” because that finally needed confirmation.
Sam nodded.
“I’m Dean Smith,” Dean introduced himself and Sam smiled a little, showing appreciation for the lame-ass names they both were blessed with. Dean’s heart became a little lighter. “How are you?”
Sam gave a vague shrug. “I am tied to a hospital bed.”
So yes, maybe that had been a stupid question. Sam didn’t seem to mind, though. He actually seemed to be pretty calm about his situation. “I’m sorry,” Dean said anyway, because it appeared the appropriate thing to say.
Sam didn’t seem to think so. He looked vaguely confused. “What for?”
“Uhm, you being tied to a bed?”
“And how is that your fault?”
Dean didn’t know what to reply to that, because “If I hadn’t saved your life you wouldn’t be in this situation” seemed somewhat idiotic. So he just shrugged vaguely. “Why are you tied up, anyway?”
“Apparently I’m a danger to myself.”
Again, Sam didn’t appear overly concerned with that.
“Why do they think that?”
“Because I’m too badly hurt to be a danger to anyone else.”
“It still comes down to the danger thing.”
“Yes, it’s kind of funny.” Sam smiled painfully and lifted his hands to tug playfully at his bonds. The movement made him flinch and Dean could imagine that it was quite painful considering the kid’s injuries, but he did it again right after for good measure.
Dean decided that he would have to talk to his doctor again. The unforthcoming ass.
So what he knew about his kid after a few minutes of talking to him and four days of staring at his unconscious form like some kind of creepy stalker was that he was a little crazy and that Dean really would have like to…
Well, what? He didn’t even know what he wanted to do, but he wanted it really badly and this boy had to be part of it. Which really helped, and it made a lot of sense, too.
“Is there anyone you want me to contact for you?” he asked, because that was one action that actually did make sense. But Sam shook his head.
“No.”
“No friends? Family?” Dean winched, because he already knew Sam had no family left. But Sam didn’t seem to mind, except that his gaze drifted off Dean and to something far away, just for a moment. Just long enough for Dean to want to give him a hug.
And then he fucking smiled. “Amnesia, actually,” he said. “I don’t remember a fucking thing about my past, so if there ever was someone who cared about me, I’ve forgotten about them.”
Oh yes, that was definitely something to smile about. But then, who was Dean to judge? He needed to overcome his surprise first, anyway. “Amnesia,” he echoed. “How did that happen? Did you hit your head or something? I don’t recall -”
“It didn’t happen now,” Sam interrupted him. “I remember the fire quite clearly.” Once again a shadow fell over his face and he shuddered. For a second it looked like he was gone completely, leaving only his body sitting there on the bed, but then he came back and explained, “I lost my memory about a year ago. Don’t know how. I just woke up with no injuries that could explain it.” He stopped for a second to cough and catch his breath. “Got my papers on me and there’s a bank account to my name that’s enough to get by, but no one knew me.”
His words hit a familiar cord inside Dean and made him squirm uncomfortably. “And you never regained your memory? Wow, that sucks.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s okay,” he managed to force out between coughs that reminded Dean that he shouldn’t make him talk that much - seriously, what was he thinking?
“Can’t imagine how that could possibly be okay,” he muttered, except that he kind of could.
Didn’t seem like anyone ever missed this kid, and that was what really sucked.
-
The next day at work, Dean asked around among the other firemen, but not one of them remembered anything about a boy without memories showing up out of nowhere. There was nothing about it in the papers, and that was pretty weird - until he went back to Sam and Sam told him that it wasn’t here he woke up, it was in Arizona, some four hundred thousand miles down the road.
“Why did you come here, then?”
“Why not? Does it matter where no one knows you?”
“Guess not. But… here?” Okay, so the town wasn’t that bad, but it was pretty far from anything interesting, and if Dean had all the world to choose from, the probably wouldn’t settle here. Except he’d totally done so, so that argument was invalid.
“Happened to be the closest place with affordable apartments when I… had to stop.”
Dean didn’t miss the second of hesitation, but decided not to ask - not yet, anyway. Not that he wasn’t going to. But Sam looked tired, like he would drop at any moment. He was pale, his cheeks hollow, his eyes looking like he’d smeared ink around them. Not a glorious sight, but then, he was recovering from serious injuries and actually quite lucky to be alive.
His breath was catching in his chest every now and then and his hands trembling, but at least he wasn’t restrained this time. Dean took it as a sign that he didn’t give the doctors any more reason for it.
-
Outside the room Dean met Sam’s doctor, who looked about as tired as Dean was feeling. The man nodded at him in when he saw him leave the room.
“How is Mr. Jones?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t you know? You’re the doctor here.” Dean shrugged. “Full with painkillers as he is, he’s doing pretty well. I mean, considering.”
“He didn’t want any painkillers,” the doctor said.
Dean thought he’d head that wrong. “Come again? You didn’t give him anything for the pain? Do you know his fucking list of injuries? I know his fucking list of injuries, so you should fucking do, too!” Ten months ago, when he had just started his job here, Dean had broken two bones in his hand during the evacuation of a building; a closet had fallen on it. And that had really fucking hurt, for ages. He’d been pretty happy about the painkillers then, and even with them it had hurt like a bitch. And now this guy was telling him that Sam with his shattered legs and broken rips and his goddamn burns didn’t get any.
The doctor held up his hands in defense. “I said he doesn’t want any. We still gave him some - believe me, if we hadn’t, you would’ve noticed. But those were only the ones we could get away with against his will. I would have given him much stronger stuff, but he refused.”
Dean thought about that and finally shook his head, beat. “Why?”
The doctor just shrugged. “I guess he simply likes the pain.”
-
Dean asked Sam about that the next day, but Sam had a fever and didn’t say anything except “Helps,” which didn’t really help at all. He fell asleep soon enough, but Dean stayed anyway - not like he never watched him sleep before, right? So he was there when Sam started to toss around and whimper and scream.
Dean tried to wake him, but there was no point. Instead, Sam started crying, and then he started speaking, but the words made no sense, Dean wasn’t even sure if they were words at all. It sure as Hell wasn’t English.
It was pretty disturbing, but what disturbed Dean most of all was that some of the sounds Sam made sounded disturbingly like his name.
Finally, after what felt like forever, a couple of doctors and nurses came in to pump Sammy full of tranquilizers. He fell silent after that (eventually) but the fact that he was still crying soundlessly made Dean wonder if he had really calmed down or if they merely took his ability to scream.
-
The next weeks Dean was working the night shift. Usually, he didn’t mind because he had no family and no social life that went beyond the occasional chick picked up in a bar, but in this case it was a bit of an inconvenience, because his shift ended long before visiting hour at the hospital started, so he couldn’t go to Sam after work. He went before, instead, but it wasn’t the same. There was a set time when he had to leave, and he hated that. Dean didn’t like being on a set schedule, never had.
He wanted to be able to stay if Sam had another nightmare or flipped out again.
But Sam was mostly just unconscious, and if he wasn’t, he was in so much pain the only thing he could contribute to their meetings was making Dean ache just from looking at him. He still refused to take any stronger painkillers - until the doctors decided that he was so miserable they were justified to drug him out of his mind even against his wishes.
When Dean came the next day, he was send away at the front desk with the explanation that Mr. Jones didn’t take any visitors right now.
Dean didn’t like that either. It made him wonder, and it ruined his mood.
His friends at the station noticed, of course - nothing escaped their attention that offered possible material for gossip. It was Jim who mentioned it first, with a wide gin on his face that made Dean want to punch him because Sam wasn’t well, and Sam wasn’t taking visitors and that could mean all kinds of things.
“It’s really not that much of a surprise you’re so smitten with the kid,” Jim said loud enough for everyone in the fucking building to hear him. “I mean, he’s exactly your type.”
And of course it had to be Jim, who thought he was so smart and had to let everyone know how smart he was, who had noticed even before Dean did that for all his proud and groomed heterosexuality, he had a habit of staring after guys every now and then. And that all those guys where very tall and had floppy brown hair.
Which was ridiculous. It was even more ridiculous that Dean had actually slept with one of those guys, heterosexuality be dammed. And it had been nice enough, okay, but it had also left him unsatisfied, as if something wasn’t right, so he put it down as getting the proof that he was really not into men, thank you very much. (Except that the women he slept with left him with the same feeling, all the time,)
Jim, thank Heaven, didn’t know that. And Dean fought down the urge to become violent and just shrugged, going with the joke. “Too skinny for my tastes,” he said. “Wasn’t it you who so cleverly observed that I seem to be into the strong guys?”
“True,” Jim admitted. “Well, I didn’t see him that closely - if you recall, not all of us sit by his bedside holding his hand every fucking day.” His grin returned. “Perhaps if you feed him he’ll gain some muscle. Poor abandoned orphan, I bet he’d be so grateful.”
“If you say one more word I’m gonna cut out your tongue.”
“Hey, don’t take it personally.” Jim lifted his hands and took a step back, as if he was actually taking Dean seriously - which was just ridiculous, wasn’t it? “I’m just saying he should really thank you for saving his life.”
Now that Dean thought about it, he didn’t think Sam had ever done that. Maybe he just wasn’t grateful.
-
When Dean got to see Sam next, the boy was tied to the bed again. He looked at Dean through bloodshot eyes and looked so miserable and hurting that Dean wanted to cut him loose and carry him out of the hospital because clearly, they were torturing him here.
“No,” Sam said when Dean came closer. “Go away. Go away. Please.”
“Sammy,” Dean said helplessly, reaching out for him, and Sam flinched at the sound of his voice.
“Don’t touch me,” he pleaded, tears leaking out of his eyes. “Don’t, please, don’t touch me!” He began struggling against his restraints, began throwing himself around. His broken legs were trapped in a contraption, rendering him mostly immobile, but it still had to hurt him. So Dean moved on instinct, placing his hands on Sam’s body to keep him still.
“No!” Sam screamed, his hoarse voice breaking. “No, please, no! Dean!”
Dean pulled his hands back as if burned. But Sam screamed his name again before he started to just scream, and it didn’t sound like he even meant him.
It sounded like he was hoping for someone called Dean to come and save him.
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