Fic: Like Fruit Rusting on the Vine
Title: Like Fruit Rusting on the Vine
Author: Me
Artist: inanna-maat
Art Master Post: http://inanna-maat.livejournal.com/83217.html
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: About 7,000
Warnings: Unbetaed
Summary: "I looked everywhere. I collected hundreds of books, trying to find anything to bust you out." - Dean, 6.01 Exile on Main Street. Written for spn_reversebang A pre-S6 amnesia fic.
Author's Note: I really cannot thank my artist enough for providing such a fun prompt, and even though we both had real life try to knock us down, she was an absolute joy to work with.
He woke up flat on his back, blinking up at a cloudless blue sky and knowing two things. One, he had a headache that was powerful enough to cause concern, and two, that was all he knew at the moment. Not where he was or when it was. Or even who he was.
The brief flash of alarm was stamped out by the absolute surety that while this wasn’t normal, it was expected. He wished he knew why.
His head swam as he sat up, and he shot one hand out to brace himself while he pressed the other against his aching temple. Once steady, he took in his surroundings. Sun-dried grass snapped under his palm, the ground beneath it hard and cracked from lack of water. A vast field spread around him, empty, unkept and entirely too quiet. No bird song, no sounds of traffic, nothing. At his feet lay a small cauldron, its ashy contents still smoldering and giving off a not entirely unpleasant aroma, something earthy yet metallic.
He dragged his hand down his face, from his temple and over a sharp jaw covered in stubble to the back of his neck, where he felt the brush of short buzzed hair. He looked down, took in the ratty jeans and plaid flannel shirt he was wearing and noticed the point of paper sticking out of the breast pocket. A car key dropped into his lap as he unfolded what turned out to be a handwritten note, but he ignored it as he read, aloud just to break the silence.
If you're actually reading this, the truck is parked east of where you're sitting, standing or whatever. Drive until you find Sam. He'll figure out what to do.
He stood and patted himself down, feeling around for a wallet, some ID, anything to tell him who he was, but came up empty. Only a key and some cryptic instructions.
Find Sam.
He shoved the note back into his pocket and picked up the key and, on second thought, the cauldron. Then he turned east and started walking.
He had just seen the glint of sunlight off a metal something when the screaming started, sharp and terrible, and he knew without a doubt that someone was dying. Nothing could make that kind of sound unless it was on the verge of death. Without thought for himself, he dropped the cauldron, shoved the key into his pocket and took off toward the sound.
A few hundred yards away, he found the source of the cries. A young man was on the ground, thrashing, his screams now muffled as he tried to bury his face in the dirt. Tatters of clothing hung from his limbs, as if it had all been clawed to shreds, and bits of it fell away the more the man flailed and dug deeper. A wall of dirt kept growing as the would-be rescuer watched, slowly encasing the other man's head. He was going to suffocate himself if he kept it up.
There was something clearly wrong with the man, some sort of sickness or insanity, or maybe both. Approaching any closer could be the stupidest thing he'd ever done.
Of course, he wouldn't know that, now would he?
When he was close enough, he kneeled next to the screaming man. "Hey, stop," he said, reaching out a hand to grab the nearest shoulder, then hissing as he drew it back sharply. The skin and cloth under his fingertips had been freezing, and when he looked closer, he could see a thin sheen of ice slowly melting off the man's entire being. But at his touch, the man had stopped thrashing and went completely silent.
He reached out again, braced this time against the cold, and slowly rolled the stranger over. The moment the sun hit the man's face, he began screaming again, his voice turning harsh and rough from the strain. The man's limbs shot out in panic, his fists narrowly missing the other's face, and he struggled against the hold on his shoulder, trying to roll back into the face-down position.
He had his flannel shirt off in between the first cry and the next, rolled it into a long strip and placed it over the man's eyes like a blindfold. The screaming died down instantly, turning into harsh panting and small whimpers while he tied the fabric into place.
Crisis temporarily averted, he let himself take a good look at the man curled up in front of him. Beneath the blindfold and under the layer of dirt on his face, the man looked young, maybe mid- to late-twenties, with a firm jaw-line and fair features. Dark, unwashed hair lay tangled around his face. With the clothing torn in so many places, he could make out well-defined muscles and a strong build. By all accounts, the man looked healthy and whole, if only a little unkept.
"So what are you doing out here?" he asked.
In response, the man whimpered again and rolled toward the sound of his voice. There was a brief moment of panic as a strong hand gripped his undershirt and tugged him to the ground as well, then the man burrowed his head closer to his chest, using him as another shield against the sun, and sighed.
There was something reassuring about the puff of breath against his collarbone, and he calmed as well. "Yeah, buddy, I got ya."
He wasn't sure how long they stayed there, curled up on the ground in the middle of nowhere, but the day was getting cooler by the time the other man began to stir again. He watched as the shirt was shifted away from his face, as the man gingerly opened his eyes and blinked against the afternoon light.
"Hey," he said, quiet and soothing, and he was rewarded when the man didn't flinch away, just blinked back at him with surprisingly clear hazel eyes. Neither of them moved, despite the fact that it should be an awkward moment, huddled in the arms of a stranger.
"What's your name?" he asked, but the other man didn't offer an answer, just kept blinking at him. "Do you know who you are?" he tried again.
"No." It was quiet, with a voice so broken and jagged that it didn't sound entirely real for a moment. "Who are you?"
"I'm in the same boat, buddy. No clue." He wanted to laugh, it was so absurd. "Mind if I ask why were you doing your best impression of an ostrich?"
"It hurt. The light hurt so badly." The way the man was squinting, he believed it. "This helped," the guy said as he lifted the make-shift blindfold. "Thank you."
"Yeah, it was that or watch you dig your way to China face-first, but you're welcome." Slowly, he untangled the man's fingers from his shirt and climbed to his feet, extending his hand to help the other man up. "Did you have a note too?" he asked, pulling the paper from his pocket again. Even as he asked, he realized the man didn't have a single intact pocket, with nowhere to place such an item. The man still patted himself down then shook his head.
"Right. Well, according to mine, I've got a truck waiting for me just that way," he said while hitching his thumb over his shoulder. "We should probably stick together, at least until we can figure out what’s wrong with us.”
The hike to the truck took longer than he expected. His new-found companion was unsteady on his feet, tripping on rocks and rabbit holes as they tread across the field, and an arm under the guy’s shoulders seemed to be the only way to steady him.
It was only when the vehicle came back into view that he realized that he’d left the cauldron lying somewhere in the grass. He didn’t want to go back for it.
The key unlocked the driver’s side door, which creaked as he pulled it open. Sitting on the seat was another note, this one more extensive than the brief missive he’d found in his pocket. He read it aloud, catching in his peripheral vision as his companion hobbled around the truck and opened the other door.
Find Sam:
Crossroad deal (wouldn’t even answer)
Dad’s storage shed
Mirror of Erised (dumbass, quit trusting the internet for ideas)
The Crochan
Eden sword
Dubh-sgoilear’s harp
“That sounds helpful,” the other guy said as he popped open the glove box, and then he suddenly went still and silent.
"What?" he asked, leaning into the car in an attempt to see what spooked the other guy.
"You sure you don't remember anything about yourself?"
"Told you, completely blank slate."
"So you wouldn't possibly know why you have a large handgun sitting in your truck." The man reached in and drew out the weapon, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger like it was filthy. He gingerly placed it on the seat in front of him and then reached back into the glove box. "Hey, found a wallet."
Flipping the wallet open, the man kept glancing from him to the ID inside. Then finally, "Yeah, it's you. Dean Winchester."
Dean. It felt...right. Like it was something he'd been used to hearing all of his life. When the man tossed the wallet his way, Dean caught it and glanced inside for himself. An expressionless driver's license photo stared back at him, and he though, so that's what I look like.
He tucked the wallet into his back pocket and looked back. His companion was rooting through the compartment some more, pushing and lifting debris. "Anything else? I mean, about you, maybe?"
The guy sighed. "Nothing. Just a couple of maps, a small box of tissues, and some candy wrappers. Guess I'm not that lucky."
Dean looked around the cab of the truck for his own hints, but came up blank. In the bed, however, was a duffel bag which ended up being packed with extra clothing that he willingly tossed the guy's way. The sweatpants ended up being a little too short, but the shirt at least fit him properly.
Once the guy was settled, Dean told him, "Well, pick a name."
That got him a blank stare. "What?"
"Just pick one. I need something to call you until we figure this all out. Can't keep saying, 'Hey, you' and expect you to answer."
"Why not?"
Dean smirked. "You really want me to call you, 'Hey, you.'"
"How about 'Hey' for short?" The man smiled, and it was small but genuine from what Dean could tell. "It's probably better than anything I could come up with, and definitely more original than John Doe."
"You're insane," Dean said, but answered with his own smile. "Alright, Hey. Get in the truck and we'll see if we can figure out what half the stuff on this list means." With that, he crumpled the list into his pocket and climbed into the truck. Hey hid the gun again and did the same.
They drove for far too long before they saw any signs of civilization, even longer still before they reached anything that seemed large enough to be called a city. Once trees and grass made way for pavement and tall buildings, Hey seemed to calm down a bit. "See if you can find an internet cafe or something," he told Dean as they weaved their ways through the city streets.
"How is it that you can't remember one single detail about yourself but you know what the hell an internet cafe is?"
Hey shrugged.
They eventually turned down the correct side road and found a cafe, a little one-window joint that boasted free wi-fi as well as computers for rent. After they parked, Hey secured them a PC while Dean strode to the counter, brandishing the one credit card he had in his wallet. He didn't try to guess why it didn't have his name on it.
Hey was pulling up a search browser by the time Dean sat down. "I guess we start with the uncrossed items," Dean said. "Find out what the hell a crochan is."
"The Crochan," Hey corrected him.
"Fine, Mr. Picky. Just find it."
They found their answer in the third search result they clicked on. "The Crochan," Hey read out, his voice low in a way that Dean thought was an attempt not to disturb the other patrons. "A highly sought-after relic from the Dark Ages, as all hints and traces of its location vanished during the second World War. Scholars believe this mystical cauldron possessed several magical properties, including the ability to resurrect the dead. Though no one is certain of how the object would achieve said feats or what rituals would involve, all accounts agree that such results require a price from the cauldron's user."
"A price," Dean said. "Why do I have a feeling they're not talking cold, hard cash here?"
Hey huffed. "Chances are it was something a little more personal than that. Not sure why this cauldron would help you find a missing person though, or how we're supposed to track down an object that hasn't been seen for over sixty-five years."
Dean winced and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that..."
If Dean had known how angry and loud Hey could get, he would have waited until they'd found a place to stay for the night before telling him about the cauldron in the field.
As it was, Hey's outburst was pretty epic, complete with a lot of this is your faults and and you left it theres. Finally, the clerk kicked them out of the cafe, and they were back to square one.
And for someone who could be so incredibly loud, Hey could shut up just as violently. Dean kept opening his mouth, apologies on his lips, but something in his gut told him it would only make things worse. The resulting silence in the truck on their way to find a place for the night was deafening.
They were still not talking when Dean pulled into a motel parking lot that was displaying a Vacancy sign in bright pink neon, so when Dean walked into the front office, he realized he had no clue if Hey wanted his own room or not.
Then he remembered Hey barely had decent clothing on, nevermind his own means to pay for a room. Fuck it.
"Two queens, please."
Hey was still sitting quietly and staring out his window when Dean came back, tossing the room key from one hand to the next. Without stopping, Dean reached into the bed of the truck and lifted the duffel, then headed toward their assigned room. It didn't take long for him to hear the slam of the truck's door behind him.
The room wasn't anything spectacular, plain walls with cheap wall art. Two queen beds with lightly patterned tan bedding. A TV, dresser, nightstand, and a far door that most likely led to the bathroom. Dean claimed the bed closest to the front door for himself and threw his bag onto it.
"Sorry," Hey muttered behind him. Dean turned, and the guy was staring at the floor, long hair hiding his face, but nothing hid the remorse in his voice when he continued. "I shouldn't have blown up like that. I forgot that you're stuck like this too. It wasn't like I was the only one affected, even though judging by your note to yourself, you had an idea what might happen. Plus. we don't know. Maybe I was helping you out with whatever crazy thing you were trying to pull off in that field."
Hey looked up, straight at Dean, eyes wide and guilty. "Point is that you really don't know me from Jack right now, and yet from the moment we met, you've been nothing but nice and helpful to me, even giving me your own freaking clothes. And I thank you by screaming in your face. So, sorry."
Dean hoped his smile looked a little comforting. "Hey, don't worry about it, man. We're both insanely stressed right now. I'm surprised it wasn't me that snapped first." When Hey smiled back at him, small but reassured, Dean sat down on his bed and pointed toward the bathroom. "Why don't you take a shower or something? No offense, dude, but I'm surprised we got kicked out for noise instead of the fact that you currently look like Pigpen from the Charlie Brown cartoons."
"How do you remember--"
"Yeah, yeah. The great mystery. Get going, before I change my mind and steal first shower for myself."
Hey hightailed it for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, and Dean laughed.
When he came out about 10 minutes later, Hey looked like an entirely different person. The hot water had obviously done some good, because he seemed more relaxed, his muscles less tense. Of course, Dean might have been noticing that more because Hey came out with only a towel wrapped around his waist.
And Dean couldn't stop staring.
"Sorry," Hey said, his skin still flushed pink from his shower. "But do you mind if I keep wearing the other clothes? I think my own are very much a lost cause."
"Sure, no problem."
The first scream was worse than an alarm, and Dean shot up in his bed, flailing the covers away in panic. A brief look at the bedside clock told him it wasn't any later than 3am, and Hey was in the next bed, screaming like someone was tearing out all of his internal organs.
Dean was up and across the divide between their beds in a blink, shook Hey's shoulder violently to try to wake him. Hey's cries were getting messy, sharp screams that were only broken by harsh sobs. Even asleep, he had fat tear tracks streaming from his eyes, running down his face and soaking into the pillow beneath him.
Dean placed both hands on Hey's shoulders and shook harder. "Come on, man, wake up. Just a nightmare."
Between one word and the next, Hey's eyes shot open, and there was such pain in them that Dean knew that this wasn't a nightmare. He remember something, he thought, then Hey's fist was curling into his sleep shirt and tugging him closer.
Just like in the field, Hey curled into Dean's warmth, his head tucked against Dean's stomach where he stood next to the bed. They stayed like that for a moment, then carefully, Dean drew back a little. Hey blinked up at him with weary, red-rimmed eyes, and Dean made a decision. "Move over a bit, okay?"
The queen bed should have been enough large enough for the two of them to have their own space, but the moment Dean was settled, Hey curled back over into Dean, his body heat like a furnace against Dean's entire right side.
Dean fell asleep with his arm slung over Hey's torso, rubbing soothing circles onto his back.
It was much later in the day when Dean's eyes fluttered open to find Hey already awake and staring at him with so much gratitude that it was hard for Dean to swallow.
"Don't mention it," Dean cut him off as he stretched out along the mattress. "Looked like you needed someone there for you." He didn't mention how soundly he'd slept as well.
Once they were dressed and full of the complementary instant coffee they'd had in their room, they hopped in the truck again, this time with an address in hand for the local library. The motel clerk assured them they could find public access computers there, so they headed out, Dean's list in hand.
All further inquiries into the cauldron repeatedly told them the same things - Dean had dropped a priceless and critical historical artifact in the middle of some field they have no idea how to get back to. So, whatever Dean had been trying that had cost them both the price of their memories, they'd never figure it out now.
A quick search of Eden sword didn't bring up any specific item information, but there were a lot of hits linking them to information about the Bible and the Garden of Eden.
"Here," Hey pointed to a paragraph in their first article. "Looks like once God made Adam and Eve leave, he stationed an angel with a fiery sword at the entrance of the Garden to make sure neither of them could reenter. You actually think that's what you were talking about on your list?"
"Could be. I mean, it's not any weirder than a giant pot that brings back the dead."
"Yeah, but," Hey rolled his eyes. "An angel? Really?"
"Really, I guess. Come on, Doubting Thomas." He clapped Hey on the back. "What more can you find about this sword?"
Two hours later, they weren't pulling up anything new, more reference and conjecture, but nothing that indicated the sword actually existed.
Dean was skimming through an article about the metaphors in the Eden allegory, when, at a nearby table, Hey sighed and slammed his book shut.
"Nothing?" Dean asked.
Hey pushed the book away, watching as it slid across the library table. "Nothing. I think we need to consider this is a dead end. I mean, judging by your list, it's not the first one you've hit."
Dean scrubbed his hand through his hair, then closed his browser window. "No, you're right. Plus, even if this thing actually existed, it's not like we'd know how to use it." He pulled the list from his pocket and used a nearby pen to scratch through the sword. While he was at it, he crossed off the cauldron as well. "Okay, next and last item on the list, and I can't even pronounce it." He typed Dubh-sgoilear’s harp into his computer's search feature, and as they waited for the results to pop up, Hey dragged his chair to sit at Dean's side again. With Hey's proximity, something in Dean calmed a little bit, something he hadn't even noticed was unsettled until then.
"What?" Hey asked, and Dean realized Hey was staring at him, or rather his mouth and the smile he hadn't even realized he was giving. Dean wiped the smile from his face, forced his lips to behave and act like having Hey nearby wasn't making him feel about a million times better about this whole situation.
He was saved from explaining by the computer beeping with its results. "I'll tell you later," he said, then trained his eyes to the screen. There wasn't much information, a few links here and there about a Scottish harp. The accounts differed a lot, but with one similarity.
"It grants wishes," Dean and Hey said together.
Dean scrolled down the list of links, ready to click to the next page, when Hey's hand over his on the computer's mouse stopped him. He looked over, but Hey was focused on the screen, moving the cursor to a link that Dean had skipped over.
"Dude, it's a museum homepage," Dean said. "Not like it's going to have anything new."
But it did. In bright, bold letters on the front page, the website announced the new exhibit of Scottish artifacts. "Including what is believed to be the famed Harp of the Isles, the Dubh-sgoilear’s harp," Hey read aloud.
"Where is the museum?" Dean asked.
"Two states over." Hey paused. "I think."
"So we're taking a road trip."
The whole time, Hey never moved his hand away, and Dean didn't make him.
They started the drive that afternoon, paused only briefly at a Wal*Mart to find new clothing for Hey ("I can't keep wearing the same sweatpants day in and day out, Dean."), and they're halfway there when Dean realized he was about to fall asleep at the wheel. Hey was already out cold in the seat beside him. He pulled into the parking lot of the first motel he could find, and sleepily half-carried his friend into their room.
Hey's nightmares came back almost as soon as he hit the sheets. Dean was still tossing and turning when he heard the first whimper, and he was out of his bed before the screams left Hey's lips.
He didn't hesitate this time, just crawled into the bed and pulled Hey close to him. The effect was almost instantaneous: as he watched, Hey calmed then settled completely, and when Hey actually awoke, his gaze was steady instead of panicked.
"What do you keep dreaming about?" Dean asked, but didn't move away. If anything, he shifted closer, adjusted his arm so that he could lay comfortably on the second pillow.
Hey shakes his head. "I don't know. Can't remember much of it once I wake up, just pain and cold." He looked down, saw where his hands were once again fisted in Dean's shirt. "It's weird, how much safer I feel when you're around. I don't actually know you, but you feel...familiar."
Dean gulped. "So, it's not just me, right? That feels something. Some kind of -"
"Connection," Hey finished for him.
The ride the next day started quietly. They'd packed and hit the road bright and early, anticipation notching up a little higher each mile they gain toward the museum.
Then the questions started.
"So, who is Sam anyway?" Hey asked, and Dean had been dreading this conversation because he already knew his answer.
"I have no clue."
"None whatsoever?"
"No. All I know is I have to find him."
"Why? Because you have a note in your pocket that told you to."
"Exactly."
They were silent for a while, with only the rushing wind making a sound.
"What if he's some kind of shady, back-alley criminal or something? We're supposed to just trust him?"
"I guess so, man. Why are you questioning this? You've been happy to just come along up until now."
"I don't know," Hey mumbled. "Maybe I'm worried he's something a little more important to you, like a -" He cut himself off, but Dean had already realized what he was trying to say.
"Like my boyfriend or something?" Hey huffed and turned away to look out the mirror, but Dean had him now. "You jealous of someone you've never met?"
Hey mumbled again, softer this time. "Sorry, what was that?" Dean asked, and Hey turned back around.
"Yeah, maybe."
Dean chuckled a little, but he took one hand off the wheel and hesitantly placed it next to Hey's on the seat. Hey looked down, and the pursed look on his face faded into a tiny smile. Slowly, he slid his hand closer until their pinky fingers were brushing one another.
Dean grinned, wide and guileless, and gunned the accelerator.
There was a different type of anxiety curling in Dean's gut when they stopped that night. He was standing in front of the motel clerk, stunned as he tried to answer the man's simple question.
"Single or double?"
He looked over his shoulder, back through the office window, where Hey was still seated in the truck. He thought about the nightmares the previous two nights, how the screaming had ceased almost the instant Dean had crawled in close to him. Maybe it would better to cut the dreams off at the pass.
"Single. A king, please."
When they got to the room, Hey's eyes widened for an moment, then they warmed with understanding and gratitude. And Dean finally let out the breath he had been holding.
They got ready for bed quietly, neither saying a word until they'd both crawled under the covers and turned to face one another. Even in the dark, Dean could make out Hey's features, the small smile on his face, his heavy lidded gaze. I wish I knew your real name, he thought.
"Hey," he started, but he was interrupted by the light brush of fingertips across his lips.
"Yeah, I know," Hey told him, then leaned in for the sweetest kiss Dean was certain he'd ever received in his life.
Dean was happy when he woke up. He was sore in good places, a little messy from when they'd been too worn out to even clean up, but Hey was a warm ball curled against his side, and he was smiling while he slept on.
There hadn't been a single nightmare.
It only figured that Dean's good mood didn't last.
When they got to the museum, they beelined straight for the harp's display, where it was surrounded by patrons and children. Dean and Hey stood back and watched as folks walked up to harp's case and wished aloud for the most ridiculous items. As they waited, no magical ponies showed, no one won a million dollars.
"Maybe you have to touch it when you make the wish," Hey said.
Dean took in the thick glass case and the velvet rope surrounding the display. "Great."
They stayed there all day, and Dean never took his eyes off the harp. There were moments when Hey stood up and stretched, walked around the rest of the museum, tried to get Dean to look at something different with him, but Dean never moved. This harp was supposed to help him, damn it, and now he was stuck with the problem of how to actually get to it.
Even when the guard told them the museum was closing for the night, Dean still didn't want to leave.
It was the same the next day. Dean stared at the harp for hours, memorizing every detail about it, its carvings and curves, took in everything about the security system in place. It was so close. That damned harp was supposed to help him fix everything, and it was just out of reach.
"Damn it," he yelled at one point, making everyone in his vicinity start from shock. Someone shushed him, and he glared in their direction.
"Come on, man," Hey said, stirring from his spot on the bench beside Dean. "You need a break."
"What I need is that harp," Dean corrected him, then stopped talking again until the museum closed for the night.
They still had their same motel room with the one bed, but Dean curled up on the far side, lying awake for hours, thinking about the harp some more.
By the third day, Dean could tell Hey's patience is wearing thin. He was huffing a lot more, leaving Dean to his own devices while he left to explore the town as a whole. But Dean didn't care. Hey could huff and sulk all he wanted to. The only thing Dean cared about at that point was the harp.
So it was that Dean decided to hang around the area when the museum closed once again, and he found it was rather easy to pop the basement window open just enough for him to crawl inside. Night security was light, and Dean was able to knock the single security guard out with the butt of the gun he'd smuggled from the truck's glove compartment.
He was staring at the harp's case again when he felt another presence beside him.
"I can't believe it," Hey said from somewhere behind him. "I knew you'd be here when you weren't back at the motel, but I still can't believe it. You broke into a museum, Dean. Hell, I broke in to come claim you. We could both be arrested for this."
"You don't get it," Dean told him, glancing over his shoulder so he didn't have to take his attention away from the harp completely. "This thing's the solution to it all. I'm supposed to find Sam, and the harp's supposed to help me do so."
"What I get is the fact that you're scaring the living hell out of me with how obsessed you are over this harp! What is it going to take to get you to admit that this is another fucking dead end?"
Between one blink and the next, there was a man standing between them. He was shorter than them both, but sleek, with slicked back hair and a suit that screamed money.
“This… I was not expecting,” the stranger said with a thick accent.
Dean reached behind him for the gun tucked into his waistband. “Who the hell are you, and how’d you get in here?”
“Who--” the man started. “Oh, this is rich. You really have no clue.” He chuckled. “Name’s Crowley. Ring any bells?” At Dean’s and Hey’s shrugs, his chuckle turned into a laugh, loud and braying. He wiped a stray tear away with a brush of his fingertip. “Right. So, tell me, young man, why are you so interested with my harp over here?”
Dean knew he could lie, he didn’t know the guy, but something told him that keeping back information right now might be counterproductive. He decided to go for broke and tell the truth. “It’s supposed to help my find someone named Sam.”
Bad decision. Crowley all-out howled, doubling over as he shook with laughter and gasping out words when he could. “Find-Sam- there’s no way I’m this damned lucky.”
“You know, it may not be the best idea to openly mock the guy with weapons.” Dean proved his point by drawing the gun from its hiding spot.
Crowley sobered, but the mirth was still evident in his eyes. “You’re right. My apologies.” He straightened up, brushed his suit back into place. “Here’s the deal, boys. I will offer you” and he spun and pointed at Hey, “the same standard choice attached to that particular instrument.”
Hey looked apprehensive. “What’s the choice?”
Crowley’s glee seemed to intensify at the question. “Usually it’s quite simple. I’m sure you’ve read all about it thanks to these lovely placards around the room.” He gestured around them and to the museum displays. “The first lady who was offered the choice had a son who loved that harp, to the point where he wouldn’t put the thing down. Couldn’t play a single note though. So, one of my predecessors gave her the choice: he’d cure her son’s obsession if she gave up her body for the night, or he’d give the boy the gift of music for the teensy price of her soul. Let me tell you, she didn’t even miss it.”
“Her soul?” Dean asked.
“Absolutely. Said she’d never felt so free in her life. So here’s your choice to make. I can take you both to Sam for the price of your soul,” he pointed at Dean. “Or, I can give you both back the memories you’re missing for the price of yours.” His finger shifted around to point at Hey. “One time only offer, and as an added bonus, I’ll even make sure you live to tell the tale.”
Dean didn't say a word, instead adjusted his grip on the gun, terrified of the fact that he wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between this slimy fucker's eyes. He was just about to tell the guy to shove it, when Hey spoke up.
"I'll do it."
Crowley was smiling before Dean could even turn to look Hey right in the eyes. "Are you insane? We're not giving this guy so much as bus fare home. Definitely not your soul."
Hey grimaced, but kept his eyes locked with Dean's. "Look, I get it. I'm scared like hell, but I have to do this. This guy obviously has answers." Crowley tipped an imaginary hat their way. "And that's the price we have to pay. You've been taking care of me all this time, and now it's my turn."
"Let me, man. He'll take us to Sam, and -"
"And we don't know what good it will do. You can't even remember why you're looking for Sam. This way, you'll know, and maybe you'll be able to find him on your own once you remember who he actually is." He smiled ruefully. "I'm doing this."
"Well, isn't this touching?" Crowley interrupted. "But I do have a schedule, boys, so if we could hurry this along, I'd appreciate it."
Dean started to raise the gun, but Hey's hand on his wrist stopped him. "Okay."
"Wonderful," Crowley said. "Now, usually we’d seal deals with a kiss, but I know where your mouth has been. So, unfortunately, we have to do this the old-fashioned way. Now, don't worry, this won't hurt me a bit."
And then he shoved his hand into Hey's chest.
If Hey's nightmare screams were bad, these were so much worse. It sounded like he was bring pulled apart from the inside out. His grip on Dean's wrist turned crushing, and it took Dean a moment to realize he was screaming right alongside him, begging Crowley to stop.
Then he did. When he pulled his hand free, something soft and shimmering lay in his fist. He shoved it into his pocket before Dean could get a good look at it, giving them a wink while saying, "Don't worry, I'll put it in a safe place."
Dean turned his attention to Hey. There wasn't a mark on him, no gaping wound to indicate he'd just had another man's hand through his chest. But something was different. When he looked back at Dean, a light was gone from his eyes, something that Dean had come to appreciate over their short time together. He already missed it.
Crowley coughed, and it sounded suspiciously like a choked back laugh. "And now for my part of the deal. You're going to love this." He snapped his fingers.
It all came rushing back with the force of a freight train, and only Sam's - Sam, it was Sam the whole time, damn it - arms around his torso kept him from physically ripping into Crowley with his bare hands. "You demonic son of a bitch! You give him back his soul, or I'm going to exorcise your ass so hard, they won't be able tell you from the brimstone itself."
The fucker was chuckling. "I don't think you're going to do anything at this point. See, you two always forget that you should read the fine print, and that's where I'm lucky." He moved away a couple steps, easy and carefree as he could be. "I said I’d give you the memories you were missing. Didn’t say anything about keeping the one’s you’ve made since then. Oh and Dean? Future reference: when you use a resurrection spell, you have to be really specific. There are more than one 'Sam Winchesters,' you know." And then he snapped his fingers again.
Dean woke up flat on his back, blinking up at a plain popcorn ceiling and feeling the relentless press of concrete under him. He registers the smell of wood and oil, exhaust over everything. The garage, then.
His head swam as he sat up, and he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. A quick brush over the back of his head told him that he wasn't injured. There was no knot on his scalp to indicate he'd been knocked out or that he hit his head on the concrete on the way down. It was like he'd just fallen asleep. His eyes tracked to the bottle of alcohol resting on the workbench above him. Passed out was more likely.
He stood and made his way into the house. It was quiet, with no sign of Lisa or Ben. Her keys were gone from the peg, and Ben's skateboard wasn't sitting in the middle of the hallway like he usually drops it. They weren't back from their trip to Lisa's folks' then.
As he made his way to the bathroom to access the damage in the mirror, the display on the cable box in the living room caught his eye - SUN 10:07. Last time he'd checked, it was Monday. He'd been out for all that time?
A cold sense of dread washed over him, and Dean spun around and sprinted back to the garage. His hand shook as he tried to jam his key into the Impala's trunk lock, and he let out a string of curses once he was able to get it open.
It was gone. The cauldron he'd found in Dad's storage locker, the one that was supposed to raise the dead or hopefully, bring someone back from Hell. Not just that, but the parchment with the ritual on it was missing, as well as the ingredients he'd spent all week gathering.
His list was gone too.
He picked up a nearby wrench and threw it as hard as he could, taking no delight in the shattering sound caused when it hit several glass jars on the other end of the garage.
It had been a month since Sam fell into the Pit, and Dean was back to square fucking one.
THE END
Author: Me
Artist: inanna-maat
Art Master Post: http://inanna-maat.livejournal.com/83217.html
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: About 7,000
Warnings: Unbetaed
Summary: "I looked everywhere. I collected hundreds of books, trying to find anything to bust you out." - Dean, 6.01 Exile on Main Street. Written for spn_reversebang A pre-S6 amnesia fic.
Author's Note: I really cannot thank my artist enough for providing such a fun prompt, and even though we both had real life try to knock us down, she was an absolute joy to work with.
He woke up flat on his back, blinking up at a cloudless blue sky and knowing two things. One, he had a headache that was powerful enough to cause concern, and two, that was all he knew at the moment. Not where he was or when it was. Or even who he was.
The brief flash of alarm was stamped out by the absolute surety that while this wasn’t normal, it was expected. He wished he knew why.
His head swam as he sat up, and he shot one hand out to brace himself while he pressed the other against his aching temple. Once steady, he took in his surroundings. Sun-dried grass snapped under his palm, the ground beneath it hard and cracked from lack of water. A vast field spread around him, empty, unkept and entirely too quiet. No bird song, no sounds of traffic, nothing. At his feet lay a small cauldron, its ashy contents still smoldering and giving off a not entirely unpleasant aroma, something earthy yet metallic.
He dragged his hand down his face, from his temple and over a sharp jaw covered in stubble to the back of his neck, where he felt the brush of short buzzed hair. He looked down, took in the ratty jeans and plaid flannel shirt he was wearing and noticed the point of paper sticking out of the breast pocket. A car key dropped into his lap as he unfolded what turned out to be a handwritten note, but he ignored it as he read, aloud just to break the silence.
If you're actually reading this, the truck is parked east of where you're sitting, standing or whatever. Drive until you find Sam. He'll figure out what to do.
He stood and patted himself down, feeling around for a wallet, some ID, anything to tell him who he was, but came up empty. Only a key and some cryptic instructions.
Find Sam.
He shoved the note back into his pocket and picked up the key and, on second thought, the cauldron. Then he turned east and started walking.
He had just seen the glint of sunlight off a metal something when the screaming started, sharp and terrible, and he knew without a doubt that someone was dying. Nothing could make that kind of sound unless it was on the verge of death. Without thought for himself, he dropped the cauldron, shoved the key into his pocket and took off toward the sound.
A few hundred yards away, he found the source of the cries. A young man was on the ground, thrashing, his screams now muffled as he tried to bury his face in the dirt. Tatters of clothing hung from his limbs, as if it had all been clawed to shreds, and bits of it fell away the more the man flailed and dug deeper. A wall of dirt kept growing as the would-be rescuer watched, slowly encasing the other man's head. He was going to suffocate himself if he kept it up.
There was something clearly wrong with the man, some sort of sickness or insanity, or maybe both. Approaching any closer could be the stupidest thing he'd ever done.
Of course, he wouldn't know that, now would he?
When he was close enough, he kneeled next to the screaming man. "Hey, stop," he said, reaching out a hand to grab the nearest shoulder, then hissing as he drew it back sharply. The skin and cloth under his fingertips had been freezing, and when he looked closer, he could see a thin sheen of ice slowly melting off the man's entire being. But at his touch, the man had stopped thrashing and went completely silent.
He reached out again, braced this time against the cold, and slowly rolled the stranger over. The moment the sun hit the man's face, he began screaming again, his voice turning harsh and rough from the strain. The man's limbs shot out in panic, his fists narrowly missing the other's face, and he struggled against the hold on his shoulder, trying to roll back into the face-down position.
He had his flannel shirt off in between the first cry and the next, rolled it into a long strip and placed it over the man's eyes like a blindfold. The screaming died down instantly, turning into harsh panting and small whimpers while he tied the fabric into place.
Crisis temporarily averted, he let himself take a good look at the man curled up in front of him. Beneath the blindfold and under the layer of dirt on his face, the man looked young, maybe mid- to late-twenties, with a firm jaw-line and fair features. Dark, unwashed hair lay tangled around his face. With the clothing torn in so many places, he could make out well-defined muscles and a strong build. By all accounts, the man looked healthy and whole, if only a little unkept.
"So what are you doing out here?" he asked.
In response, the man whimpered again and rolled toward the sound of his voice. There was a brief moment of panic as a strong hand gripped his undershirt and tugged him to the ground as well, then the man burrowed his head closer to his chest, using him as another shield against the sun, and sighed.
There was something reassuring about the puff of breath against his collarbone, and he calmed as well. "Yeah, buddy, I got ya."
He wasn't sure how long they stayed there, curled up on the ground in the middle of nowhere, but the day was getting cooler by the time the other man began to stir again. He watched as the shirt was shifted away from his face, as the man gingerly opened his eyes and blinked against the afternoon light.
"Hey," he said, quiet and soothing, and he was rewarded when the man didn't flinch away, just blinked back at him with surprisingly clear hazel eyes. Neither of them moved, despite the fact that it should be an awkward moment, huddled in the arms of a stranger.
"What's your name?" he asked, but the other man didn't offer an answer, just kept blinking at him. "Do you know who you are?" he tried again.
"No." It was quiet, with a voice so broken and jagged that it didn't sound entirely real for a moment. "Who are you?"
"I'm in the same boat, buddy. No clue." He wanted to laugh, it was so absurd. "Mind if I ask why were you doing your best impression of an ostrich?"
"It hurt. The light hurt so badly." The way the man was squinting, he believed it. "This helped," the guy said as he lifted the make-shift blindfold. "Thank you."
"Yeah, it was that or watch you dig your way to China face-first, but you're welcome." Slowly, he untangled the man's fingers from his shirt and climbed to his feet, extending his hand to help the other man up. "Did you have a note too?" he asked, pulling the paper from his pocket again. Even as he asked, he realized the man didn't have a single intact pocket, with nowhere to place such an item. The man still patted himself down then shook his head.
"Right. Well, according to mine, I've got a truck waiting for me just that way," he said while hitching his thumb over his shoulder. "We should probably stick together, at least until we can figure out what’s wrong with us.”
The hike to the truck took longer than he expected. His new-found companion was unsteady on his feet, tripping on rocks and rabbit holes as they tread across the field, and an arm under the guy’s shoulders seemed to be the only way to steady him.
It was only when the vehicle came back into view that he realized that he’d left the cauldron lying somewhere in the grass. He didn’t want to go back for it.
The key unlocked the driver’s side door, which creaked as he pulled it open. Sitting on the seat was another note, this one more extensive than the brief missive he’d found in his pocket. He read it aloud, catching in his peripheral vision as his companion hobbled around the truck and opened the other door.
Find Sam:
Crossroad deal (wouldn’t even answer)
Dad’s storage shed
Mirror of Erised (dumbass, quit trusting the internet for ideas)
The Crochan
Eden sword
Dubh-sgoilear’s harp
“That sounds helpful,” the other guy said as he popped open the glove box, and then he suddenly went still and silent.
"What?" he asked, leaning into the car in an attempt to see what spooked the other guy.
"You sure you don't remember anything about yourself?"
"Told you, completely blank slate."
"So you wouldn't possibly know why you have a large handgun sitting in your truck." The man reached in and drew out the weapon, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger like it was filthy. He gingerly placed it on the seat in front of him and then reached back into the glove box. "Hey, found a wallet."
Flipping the wallet open, the man kept glancing from him to the ID inside. Then finally, "Yeah, it's you. Dean Winchester."
Dean. It felt...right. Like it was something he'd been used to hearing all of his life. When the man tossed the wallet his way, Dean caught it and glanced inside for himself. An expressionless driver's license photo stared back at him, and he though, so that's what I look like.
He tucked the wallet into his back pocket and looked back. His companion was rooting through the compartment some more, pushing and lifting debris. "Anything else? I mean, about you, maybe?"
The guy sighed. "Nothing. Just a couple of maps, a small box of tissues, and some candy wrappers. Guess I'm not that lucky."
Dean looked around the cab of the truck for his own hints, but came up blank. In the bed, however, was a duffel bag which ended up being packed with extra clothing that he willingly tossed the guy's way. The sweatpants ended up being a little too short, but the shirt at least fit him properly.
Once the guy was settled, Dean told him, "Well, pick a name."
That got him a blank stare. "What?"
"Just pick one. I need something to call you until we figure this all out. Can't keep saying, 'Hey, you' and expect you to answer."
"Why not?"
Dean smirked. "You really want me to call you, 'Hey, you.'"
"How about 'Hey' for short?" The man smiled, and it was small but genuine from what Dean could tell. "It's probably better than anything I could come up with, and definitely more original than John Doe."
"You're insane," Dean said, but answered with his own smile. "Alright, Hey. Get in the truck and we'll see if we can figure out what half the stuff on this list means." With that, he crumpled the list into his pocket and climbed into the truck. Hey hid the gun again and did the same.
They drove for far too long before they saw any signs of civilization, even longer still before they reached anything that seemed large enough to be called a city. Once trees and grass made way for pavement and tall buildings, Hey seemed to calm down a bit. "See if you can find an internet cafe or something," he told Dean as they weaved their ways through the city streets.
"How is it that you can't remember one single detail about yourself but you know what the hell an internet cafe is?"
Hey shrugged.
They eventually turned down the correct side road and found a cafe, a little one-window joint that boasted free wi-fi as well as computers for rent. After they parked, Hey secured them a PC while Dean strode to the counter, brandishing the one credit card he had in his wallet. He didn't try to guess why it didn't have his name on it.
Hey was pulling up a search browser by the time Dean sat down. "I guess we start with the uncrossed items," Dean said. "Find out what the hell a crochan is."
"The Crochan," Hey corrected him.
"Fine, Mr. Picky. Just find it."
They found their answer in the third search result they clicked on. "The Crochan," Hey read out, his voice low in a way that Dean thought was an attempt not to disturb the other patrons. "A highly sought-after relic from the Dark Ages, as all hints and traces of its location vanished during the second World War. Scholars believe this mystical cauldron possessed several magical properties, including the ability to resurrect the dead. Though no one is certain of how the object would achieve said feats or what rituals would involve, all accounts agree that such results require a price from the cauldron's user."
"A price," Dean said. "Why do I have a feeling they're not talking cold, hard cash here?"
Hey huffed. "Chances are it was something a little more personal than that. Not sure why this cauldron would help you find a missing person though, or how we're supposed to track down an object that hasn't been seen for over sixty-five years."
Dean winced and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that..."
If Dean had known how angry and loud Hey could get, he would have waited until they'd found a place to stay for the night before telling him about the cauldron in the field.
As it was, Hey's outburst was pretty epic, complete with a lot of this is your faults and and you left it theres. Finally, the clerk kicked them out of the cafe, and they were back to square one.
And for someone who could be so incredibly loud, Hey could shut up just as violently. Dean kept opening his mouth, apologies on his lips, but something in his gut told him it would only make things worse. The resulting silence in the truck on their way to find a place for the night was deafening.
They were still not talking when Dean pulled into a motel parking lot that was displaying a Vacancy sign in bright pink neon, so when Dean walked into the front office, he realized he had no clue if Hey wanted his own room or not.
Then he remembered Hey barely had decent clothing on, nevermind his own means to pay for a room. Fuck it.
"Two queens, please."
Hey was still sitting quietly and staring out his window when Dean came back, tossing the room key from one hand to the next. Without stopping, Dean reached into the bed of the truck and lifted the duffel, then headed toward their assigned room. It didn't take long for him to hear the slam of the truck's door behind him.
The room wasn't anything spectacular, plain walls with cheap wall art. Two queen beds with lightly patterned tan bedding. A TV, dresser, nightstand, and a far door that most likely led to the bathroom. Dean claimed the bed closest to the front door for himself and threw his bag onto it.
"Sorry," Hey muttered behind him. Dean turned, and the guy was staring at the floor, long hair hiding his face, but nothing hid the remorse in his voice when he continued. "I shouldn't have blown up like that. I forgot that you're stuck like this too. It wasn't like I was the only one affected, even though judging by your note to yourself, you had an idea what might happen. Plus. we don't know. Maybe I was helping you out with whatever crazy thing you were trying to pull off in that field."
Hey looked up, straight at Dean, eyes wide and guilty. "Point is that you really don't know me from Jack right now, and yet from the moment we met, you've been nothing but nice and helpful to me, even giving me your own freaking clothes. And I thank you by screaming in your face. So, sorry."
Dean hoped his smile looked a little comforting. "Hey, don't worry about it, man. We're both insanely stressed right now. I'm surprised it wasn't me that snapped first." When Hey smiled back at him, small but reassured, Dean sat down on his bed and pointed toward the bathroom. "Why don't you take a shower or something? No offense, dude, but I'm surprised we got kicked out for noise instead of the fact that you currently look like Pigpen from the Charlie Brown cartoons."
"How do you remember--"
"Yeah, yeah. The great mystery. Get going, before I change my mind and steal first shower for myself."
Hey hightailed it for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, and Dean laughed.
When he came out about 10 minutes later, Hey looked like an entirely different person. The hot water had obviously done some good, because he seemed more relaxed, his muscles less tense. Of course, Dean might have been noticing that more because Hey came out with only a towel wrapped around his waist.
And Dean couldn't stop staring.
"Sorry," Hey said, his skin still flushed pink from his shower. "But do you mind if I keep wearing the other clothes? I think my own are very much a lost cause."
"Sure, no problem."
The first scream was worse than an alarm, and Dean shot up in his bed, flailing the covers away in panic. A brief look at the bedside clock told him it wasn't any later than 3am, and Hey was in the next bed, screaming like someone was tearing out all of his internal organs.
Dean was up and across the divide between their beds in a blink, shook Hey's shoulder violently to try to wake him. Hey's cries were getting messy, sharp screams that were only broken by harsh sobs. Even asleep, he had fat tear tracks streaming from his eyes, running down his face and soaking into the pillow beneath him.
Dean placed both hands on Hey's shoulders and shook harder. "Come on, man, wake up. Just a nightmare."
Between one word and the next, Hey's eyes shot open, and there was such pain in them that Dean knew that this wasn't a nightmare. He remember something, he thought, then Hey's fist was curling into his sleep shirt and tugging him closer.
Just like in the field, Hey curled into Dean's warmth, his head tucked against Dean's stomach where he stood next to the bed. They stayed like that for a moment, then carefully, Dean drew back a little. Hey blinked up at him with weary, red-rimmed eyes, and Dean made a decision. "Move over a bit, okay?"
The queen bed should have been enough large enough for the two of them to have their own space, but the moment Dean was settled, Hey curled back over into Dean, his body heat like a furnace against Dean's entire right side.
Dean fell asleep with his arm slung over Hey's torso, rubbing soothing circles onto his back.
It was much later in the day when Dean's eyes fluttered open to find Hey already awake and staring at him with so much gratitude that it was hard for Dean to swallow.
"Don't mention it," Dean cut him off as he stretched out along the mattress. "Looked like you needed someone there for you." He didn't mention how soundly he'd slept as well.
Once they were dressed and full of the complementary instant coffee they'd had in their room, they hopped in the truck again, this time with an address in hand for the local library. The motel clerk assured them they could find public access computers there, so they headed out, Dean's list in hand.
All further inquiries into the cauldron repeatedly told them the same things - Dean had dropped a priceless and critical historical artifact in the middle of some field they have no idea how to get back to. So, whatever Dean had been trying that had cost them both the price of their memories, they'd never figure it out now.
A quick search of Eden sword didn't bring up any specific item information, but there were a lot of hits linking them to information about the Bible and the Garden of Eden.
"Here," Hey pointed to a paragraph in their first article. "Looks like once God made Adam and Eve leave, he stationed an angel with a fiery sword at the entrance of the Garden to make sure neither of them could reenter. You actually think that's what you were talking about on your list?"
"Could be. I mean, it's not any weirder than a giant pot that brings back the dead."
"Yeah, but," Hey rolled his eyes. "An angel? Really?"
"Really, I guess. Come on, Doubting Thomas." He clapped Hey on the back. "What more can you find about this sword?"
Two hours later, they weren't pulling up anything new, more reference and conjecture, but nothing that indicated the sword actually existed.
Dean was skimming through an article about the metaphors in the Eden allegory, when, at a nearby table, Hey sighed and slammed his book shut.
"Nothing?" Dean asked.
Hey pushed the book away, watching as it slid across the library table. "Nothing. I think we need to consider this is a dead end. I mean, judging by your list, it's not the first one you've hit."
Dean scrubbed his hand through his hair, then closed his browser window. "No, you're right. Plus, even if this thing actually existed, it's not like we'd know how to use it." He pulled the list from his pocket and used a nearby pen to scratch through the sword. While he was at it, he crossed off the cauldron as well. "Okay, next and last item on the list, and I can't even pronounce it." He typed Dubh-sgoilear’s harp into his computer's search feature, and as they waited for the results to pop up, Hey dragged his chair to sit at Dean's side again. With Hey's proximity, something in Dean calmed a little bit, something he hadn't even noticed was unsettled until then.
"What?" Hey asked, and Dean realized Hey was staring at him, or rather his mouth and the smile he hadn't even realized he was giving. Dean wiped the smile from his face, forced his lips to behave and act like having Hey nearby wasn't making him feel about a million times better about this whole situation.
He was saved from explaining by the computer beeping with its results. "I'll tell you later," he said, then trained his eyes to the screen. There wasn't much information, a few links here and there about a Scottish harp. The accounts differed a lot, but with one similarity.
"It grants wishes," Dean and Hey said together.
Dean scrolled down the list of links, ready to click to the next page, when Hey's hand over his on the computer's mouse stopped him. He looked over, but Hey was focused on the screen, moving the cursor to a link that Dean had skipped over.
"Dude, it's a museum homepage," Dean said. "Not like it's going to have anything new."
But it did. In bright, bold letters on the front page, the website announced the new exhibit of Scottish artifacts. "Including what is believed to be the famed Harp of the Isles, the Dubh-sgoilear’s harp," Hey read aloud.
"Where is the museum?" Dean asked.
"Two states over." Hey paused. "I think."
"So we're taking a road trip."
The whole time, Hey never moved his hand away, and Dean didn't make him.
They started the drive that afternoon, paused only briefly at a Wal*Mart to find new clothing for Hey ("I can't keep wearing the same sweatpants day in and day out, Dean."), and they're halfway there when Dean realized he was about to fall asleep at the wheel. Hey was already out cold in the seat beside him. He pulled into the parking lot of the first motel he could find, and sleepily half-carried his friend into their room.
Hey's nightmares came back almost as soon as he hit the sheets. Dean was still tossing and turning when he heard the first whimper, and he was out of his bed before the screams left Hey's lips.
He didn't hesitate this time, just crawled into the bed and pulled Hey close to him. The effect was almost instantaneous: as he watched, Hey calmed then settled completely, and when Hey actually awoke, his gaze was steady instead of panicked.
"What do you keep dreaming about?" Dean asked, but didn't move away. If anything, he shifted closer, adjusted his arm so that he could lay comfortably on the second pillow.
Hey shakes his head. "I don't know. Can't remember much of it once I wake up, just pain and cold." He looked down, saw where his hands were once again fisted in Dean's shirt. "It's weird, how much safer I feel when you're around. I don't actually know you, but you feel...familiar."
Dean gulped. "So, it's not just me, right? That feels something. Some kind of -"
"Connection," Hey finished for him.
The ride the next day started quietly. They'd packed and hit the road bright and early, anticipation notching up a little higher each mile they gain toward the museum.
Then the questions started.
"So, who is Sam anyway?" Hey asked, and Dean had been dreading this conversation because he already knew his answer.
"I have no clue."
"None whatsoever?"
"No. All I know is I have to find him."
"Why? Because you have a note in your pocket that told you to."
"Exactly."
They were silent for a while, with only the rushing wind making a sound.
"What if he's some kind of shady, back-alley criminal or something? We're supposed to just trust him?"
"I guess so, man. Why are you questioning this? You've been happy to just come along up until now."
"I don't know," Hey mumbled. "Maybe I'm worried he's something a little more important to you, like a -" He cut himself off, but Dean had already realized what he was trying to say.
"Like my boyfriend or something?" Hey huffed and turned away to look out the mirror, but Dean had him now. "You jealous of someone you've never met?"
Hey mumbled again, softer this time. "Sorry, what was that?" Dean asked, and Hey turned back around.
"Yeah, maybe."
Dean chuckled a little, but he took one hand off the wheel and hesitantly placed it next to Hey's on the seat. Hey looked down, and the pursed look on his face faded into a tiny smile. Slowly, he slid his hand closer until their pinky fingers were brushing one another.
Dean grinned, wide and guileless, and gunned the accelerator.
There was a different type of anxiety curling in Dean's gut when they stopped that night. He was standing in front of the motel clerk, stunned as he tried to answer the man's simple question.
"Single or double?"
He looked over his shoulder, back through the office window, where Hey was still seated in the truck. He thought about the nightmares the previous two nights, how the screaming had ceased almost the instant Dean had crawled in close to him. Maybe it would better to cut the dreams off at the pass.
"Single. A king, please."
When they got to the room, Hey's eyes widened for an moment, then they warmed with understanding and gratitude. And Dean finally let out the breath he had been holding.
They got ready for bed quietly, neither saying a word until they'd both crawled under the covers and turned to face one another. Even in the dark, Dean could make out Hey's features, the small smile on his face, his heavy lidded gaze. I wish I knew your real name, he thought.
"Hey," he started, but he was interrupted by the light brush of fingertips across his lips.
"Yeah, I know," Hey told him, then leaned in for the sweetest kiss Dean was certain he'd ever received in his life.
Dean was happy when he woke up. He was sore in good places, a little messy from when they'd been too worn out to even clean up, but Hey was a warm ball curled against his side, and he was smiling while he slept on.
There hadn't been a single nightmare.
It only figured that Dean's good mood didn't last.
When they got to the museum, they beelined straight for the harp's display, where it was surrounded by patrons and children. Dean and Hey stood back and watched as folks walked up to harp's case and wished aloud for the most ridiculous items. As they waited, no magical ponies showed, no one won a million dollars.
"Maybe you have to touch it when you make the wish," Hey said.
Dean took in the thick glass case and the velvet rope surrounding the display. "Great."
They stayed there all day, and Dean never took his eyes off the harp. There were moments when Hey stood up and stretched, walked around the rest of the museum, tried to get Dean to look at something different with him, but Dean never moved. This harp was supposed to help him, damn it, and now he was stuck with the problem of how to actually get to it.
Even when the guard told them the museum was closing for the night, Dean still didn't want to leave.
It was the same the next day. Dean stared at the harp for hours, memorizing every detail about it, its carvings and curves, took in everything about the security system in place. It was so close. That damned harp was supposed to help him fix everything, and it was just out of reach.
"Damn it," he yelled at one point, making everyone in his vicinity start from shock. Someone shushed him, and he glared in their direction.
"Come on, man," Hey said, stirring from his spot on the bench beside Dean. "You need a break."
"What I need is that harp," Dean corrected him, then stopped talking again until the museum closed for the night.
They still had their same motel room with the one bed, but Dean curled up on the far side, lying awake for hours, thinking about the harp some more.
By the third day, Dean could tell Hey's patience is wearing thin. He was huffing a lot more, leaving Dean to his own devices while he left to explore the town as a whole. But Dean didn't care. Hey could huff and sulk all he wanted to. The only thing Dean cared about at that point was the harp.
So it was that Dean decided to hang around the area when the museum closed once again, and he found it was rather easy to pop the basement window open just enough for him to crawl inside. Night security was light, and Dean was able to knock the single security guard out with the butt of the gun he'd smuggled from the truck's glove compartment.
He was staring at the harp's case again when he felt another presence beside him.
"I can't believe it," Hey said from somewhere behind him. "I knew you'd be here when you weren't back at the motel, but I still can't believe it. You broke into a museum, Dean. Hell, I broke in to come claim you. We could both be arrested for this."
"You don't get it," Dean told him, glancing over his shoulder so he didn't have to take his attention away from the harp completely. "This thing's the solution to it all. I'm supposed to find Sam, and the harp's supposed to help me do so."
"What I get is the fact that you're scaring the living hell out of me with how obsessed you are over this harp! What is it going to take to get you to admit that this is another fucking dead end?"
Between one blink and the next, there was a man standing between them. He was shorter than them both, but sleek, with slicked back hair and a suit that screamed money.
“This… I was not expecting,” the stranger said with a thick accent.
Dean reached behind him for the gun tucked into his waistband. “Who the hell are you, and how’d you get in here?”
“Who--” the man started. “Oh, this is rich. You really have no clue.” He chuckled. “Name’s Crowley. Ring any bells?” At Dean’s and Hey’s shrugs, his chuckle turned into a laugh, loud and braying. He wiped a stray tear away with a brush of his fingertip. “Right. So, tell me, young man, why are you so interested with my harp over here?”
Dean knew he could lie, he didn’t know the guy, but something told him that keeping back information right now might be counterproductive. He decided to go for broke and tell the truth. “It’s supposed to help my find someone named Sam.”
Bad decision. Crowley all-out howled, doubling over as he shook with laughter and gasping out words when he could. “Find-Sam- there’s no way I’m this damned lucky.”
“You know, it may not be the best idea to openly mock the guy with weapons.” Dean proved his point by drawing the gun from its hiding spot.
Crowley sobered, but the mirth was still evident in his eyes. “You’re right. My apologies.” He straightened up, brushed his suit back into place. “Here’s the deal, boys. I will offer you” and he spun and pointed at Hey, “the same standard choice attached to that particular instrument.”
Hey looked apprehensive. “What’s the choice?”
Crowley’s glee seemed to intensify at the question. “Usually it’s quite simple. I’m sure you’ve read all about it thanks to these lovely placards around the room.” He gestured around them and to the museum displays. “The first lady who was offered the choice had a son who loved that harp, to the point where he wouldn’t put the thing down. Couldn’t play a single note though. So, one of my predecessors gave her the choice: he’d cure her son’s obsession if she gave up her body for the night, or he’d give the boy the gift of music for the teensy price of her soul. Let me tell you, she didn’t even miss it.”
“Her soul?” Dean asked.
“Absolutely. Said she’d never felt so free in her life. So here’s your choice to make. I can take you both to Sam for the price of your soul,” he pointed at Dean. “Or, I can give you both back the memories you’re missing for the price of yours.” His finger shifted around to point at Hey. “One time only offer, and as an added bonus, I’ll even make sure you live to tell the tale.”
Dean didn't say a word, instead adjusted his grip on the gun, terrified of the fact that he wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between this slimy fucker's eyes. He was just about to tell the guy to shove it, when Hey spoke up.
"I'll do it."
Crowley was smiling before Dean could even turn to look Hey right in the eyes. "Are you insane? We're not giving this guy so much as bus fare home. Definitely not your soul."
Hey grimaced, but kept his eyes locked with Dean's. "Look, I get it. I'm scared like hell, but I have to do this. This guy obviously has answers." Crowley tipped an imaginary hat their way. "And that's the price we have to pay. You've been taking care of me all this time, and now it's my turn."
"Let me, man. He'll take us to Sam, and -"
"And we don't know what good it will do. You can't even remember why you're looking for Sam. This way, you'll know, and maybe you'll be able to find him on your own once you remember who he actually is." He smiled ruefully. "I'm doing this."
"Well, isn't this touching?" Crowley interrupted. "But I do have a schedule, boys, so if we could hurry this along, I'd appreciate it."
Dean started to raise the gun, but Hey's hand on his wrist stopped him. "Okay."
"Wonderful," Crowley said. "Now, usually we’d seal deals with a kiss, but I know where your mouth has been. So, unfortunately, we have to do this the old-fashioned way. Now, don't worry, this won't hurt me a bit."
And then he shoved his hand into Hey's chest.
If Hey's nightmare screams were bad, these were so much worse. It sounded like he was bring pulled apart from the inside out. His grip on Dean's wrist turned crushing, and it took Dean a moment to realize he was screaming right alongside him, begging Crowley to stop.
Then he did. When he pulled his hand free, something soft and shimmering lay in his fist. He shoved it into his pocket before Dean could get a good look at it, giving them a wink while saying, "Don't worry, I'll put it in a safe place."
Dean turned his attention to Hey. There wasn't a mark on him, no gaping wound to indicate he'd just had another man's hand through his chest. But something was different. When he looked back at Dean, a light was gone from his eyes, something that Dean had come to appreciate over their short time together. He already missed it.
Crowley coughed, and it sounded suspiciously like a choked back laugh. "And now for my part of the deal. You're going to love this." He snapped his fingers.
It all came rushing back with the force of a freight train, and only Sam's - Sam, it was Sam the whole time, damn it - arms around his torso kept him from physically ripping into Crowley with his bare hands. "You demonic son of a bitch! You give him back his soul, or I'm going to exorcise your ass so hard, they won't be able tell you from the brimstone itself."
The fucker was chuckling. "I don't think you're going to do anything at this point. See, you two always forget that you should read the fine print, and that's where I'm lucky." He moved away a couple steps, easy and carefree as he could be. "I said I’d give you the memories you were missing. Didn’t say anything about keeping the one’s you’ve made since then. Oh and Dean? Future reference: when you use a resurrection spell, you have to be really specific. There are more than one 'Sam Winchesters,' you know." And then he snapped his fingers again.
Dean woke up flat on his back, blinking up at a plain popcorn ceiling and feeling the relentless press of concrete under him. He registers the smell of wood and oil, exhaust over everything. The garage, then.
His head swam as he sat up, and he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. A quick brush over the back of his head told him that he wasn't injured. There was no knot on his scalp to indicate he'd been knocked out or that he hit his head on the concrete on the way down. It was like he'd just fallen asleep. His eyes tracked to the bottle of alcohol resting on the workbench above him. Passed out was more likely.
He stood and made his way into the house. It was quiet, with no sign of Lisa or Ben. Her keys were gone from the peg, and Ben's skateboard wasn't sitting in the middle of the hallway like he usually drops it. They weren't back from their trip to Lisa's folks' then.
As he made his way to the bathroom to access the damage in the mirror, the display on the cable box in the living room caught his eye - SUN 10:07. Last time he'd checked, it was Monday. He'd been out for all that time?
A cold sense of dread washed over him, and Dean spun around and sprinted back to the garage. His hand shook as he tried to jam his key into the Impala's trunk lock, and he let out a string of curses once he was able to get it open.
It was gone. The cauldron he'd found in Dad's storage locker, the one that was supposed to raise the dead or hopefully, bring someone back from Hell. Not just that, but the parchment with the ritual on it was missing, as well as the ingredients he'd spent all week gathering.
His list was gone too.
He picked up a nearby wrench and threw it as hard as he could, taking no delight in the shattering sound caused when it hit several glass jars on the other end of the garage.
It had been a month since Sam fell into the Pit, and Dean was back to square fucking one.
THE END