Title: An important purpose

Author: unplugged32

Rating: K+

Category: Gen, angst, lots of it;)

Spoilers: None aside from a few lines from "Faith" used in the summary

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, no harm intended

Summary: Dean asked "What did you see in my heart?" Roy LeGrange replied that he saw a young man with an important purpose, a job to do and it wasn't finished. He wasn't sure if he believed him at the time, but later, much later, a series of chance encounters would make Dean wonder if it was true, would make him wonder if people really could see into his heart.

Author's note: This started as a 3x16 post ep but when I finished I realized that it was probably vague enough to fit in anywhere after "Faith" if you can ignore the one tiny mention of the tattoo. You'll have to read it to understand what I mean;) Also, please take the time to read the brief notes at the end. Thanks.

Heartfelt thanks to: nuit and serenitysangel for beta and input. Love you lots, ladies:)

The gravel beneath him is wet and jagged; it leaves damp grooves in his back that he barely feels. He blinks, his eyes trying to adjust to the murky light peeking through gray clouds, a tremor running down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold. It takes him a full minute to focus, much longer to drag himself to his feet which he realizes are bare. The road before him leads somewhere he's never heard of, but that's not as alarming as the fact that he has no idea who he is.

One foot in front of the other, the gravel painful and sharp on the soles of his feet, the thin t-shirt and frayed jeans offering no protection against the biting cold. He walks, dazed, following the signs that promise a town close by, the wetness on his face drying into salty lines on his cheeks. The landscape is as foreign as his identity, the damp, wintry afternoon chills him to his bones, and he shivers, hugging his arms around his waist for warmth.

At the edge of the town he sees a row of houses, further down a scattering of businesses, a church on the green, and he finds a charity shop with warm clothes and sturdy shoes in the dingy window. On instinct he reaches into his back pocket but there is nothing, not in any of his pockets, but he's cold and his feet are shredded so he goes inside. He smiles tentatively at the middle-aged woman at the register, wants so badly to open his mouth and ask for help but he can't. He thinks if he does a whole river of jumbled words will flow, words that might damn him, ruin his chances of getting a pair of warm socks, maybe a shirt with sleeves.

The woman takes a moment, looks at him like she can see straight inside of him and he's startled by the intensity of her gaze. The look fades from her chubby face and suddenly she's clucking over him like he's a lost child. She pushes him down into a chair, going on about the condition of his clothes, the gauntness of his face, the state of his feet. She is bustling around faster than her girth should allow, piling clothes on the counter for him to try on, pulling out a sparse first aid kit with gauze bandages for his feet. All the while he is silent, dresses his wounds efficiently as if he's done this a thousand times, accepts the clothes she presses into his cold hands. When he goes to change he comes face to face with a stranger in the cracked dressing room mirror, one trembling hand coming up to touch the dark-blond stubble on his face, runs his fingers through short, damp hair, traces the deep, dark grooves beneath his eyes. His hand travels lower, touching a puckered scar on his left shoulder, fingers skimming the tattoo over his heart, the pattern a mystery to him. This is me, he thinks dejectedly, but who am I supposed to be?

When he's dressed and wearing scuffed, sturdy work boots and a warm jacket he knows he has to speak, to negotiate some sort of payment. He has no money, nothing to give aside from his old clothes, which he offers tentatively to the kindly woman. She smiles the same sad smile she did when she first saw him and presses 20 dollars from her own purse into his hand, sends him on his way with a promise to have him in her prayers on Sunday.

The day wanes and dusk finds him roaming the streets with no real direction, hunger gnawing at his belly, and fear is slowly turning to panic. He knows there is someone waiting for him, he feels it deep in his gut but he doesn't know who or where. The twenty in his pocket might get him a meal or two but not a place to stay or a bus ticket to where he's supposed to be when the memory will come to him. He finds a small diner at the edge of Main Street, a huge map of Kansas on the wall in a place of honor, the town he's in marked with a red x somewhere up north. He orders some soup and a sandwich, careful to calculate the cost before pointing to the items he'd like to eat on the laminated menu. The teenage waitress isn't fazed by his silence, the look in her eye knowing, her face older than her years. She brings him his food and asks him in a gentle tone if he has a place to stay. When he shakes his head she tells him he can sleep in the church basement, that it's open for people who have no where else to go and he nods, thanking her with a hesitant smile.

He eats because he's starving but he cannot taste a thing he puts in his mouth. He pays the pretty waitress and frowns when she presses her meager tip back in his hand, folding his fingers over his palm. Her touch startles him, the dry warmth of her fingers like a jolt of lightning, and he leaves quickly, embarrassed, stumbling out onto the road like a blind man, nearly falling into the path of an old station wagon. The driver honks, pulls over to berate him by the look on his face and then seems to regret his intention, the anger fading away to something like surprise and then kindness. He asks him if he needs a ride somewhere, says he's going as far as Ogallala, Nebraska to pick up his mother-in-law, wouldn't mind the company if he needed a lift.

He nods, thanking him with a shaky smile and he gets in the car thinking that Ogallala sounds familiar, like it's in the right direction towards where he needs to go. He doesn't mean to be rude but within moments exhaustion sends him into an uneasy slumber.

It's deep into the night when they arrive in Ogallala and the driver shakes him awake gently, his tone apologetic when he tells him it's the end of the road. He nods and takes the remaining money from his pocket and offers it to his Good Samaritan but the older man just shakes his head and smiles, tells him there is a bus station just a few blocks down, maybe he can get a discount fare to where he needs to go.

It's cold here, he thinks, colder than it was in Kansas, and he's shivering despite his warm clothes. He trudges tiredly towards the bus station and looks at the dirty route map on the wall outside. There's a bus leaving for Central City, South Dakota in a few hours and there is something naggingly familiar about that. He wants to buy a ticket but when he sees the fare chart he realizes he is embarrassingly short of money. There is a young woman with kind eyes on line behind him and he's startled when she asks him where he's going. Eyeing her cautiously, he points to his destination on the price list and is shocked when she moves ahead of him and buys him a ticket, pressing it gently into his hand. He takes the fist full of bills he's holding and tries to give them to her but she shakes her head, wishes him well and hurries to catch her bus. Stunned but grateful he sinks down onto one of the wooden benches to wait and he immediately falls asleep.

A tentative hand on his shoulder wakes him; it's the clerk, he will miss his bus if he doesn't hurry. He nods gratefully and boards the bus, taking a seat towards the back, settling in with trepidation, his heart hammering in his chest. What will he find in Central City, he wonders, and what if he finds nothing at all? The missing part of him is like a phantom limb; he knows it was once there, he feels it, feels the ache of it, but it's gone, and he is broken without it.

The sun is high in the sky when the bus pulls into the terminal in Central City. He wakes slowly, confused, spends a few moments going over the events of the last 24 hours, his memory beyond that as blank as it was the day before. He lets out a tired sigh and disembarks, uses some of his precious money for a cup of steaming hot coffee from a street vendor, ignores the growling in his belly as he walks away. This is not where he's meant to end his journey, he thinks wearily and sinks onto a bench in a park a few streets from the terminal. He rubs his hand over the stubble on his face, runs it over the top of his head and tries to kick start his brain into gear. He feels achy and fatigued, like someone who's been wandering for ages, and he wonders, frightened, just how long he's been lost.

Dull eyes scan the four streets around the tiny park, searching for something familiar. A grocery store, a laundromat, a children's shop mean nothing; the store with the sewing machines makes him snap to attention. Singer the sign says, and he grabs his head like the name causes him pain, gasping as he curls forward, his breath coming in short spurts. A hand on his shoulder startles him and he jumps, eyes wild with panic. He calms when he sees an elderly lady with a compassionate smile on her face, and she asks him in soothing tones if he is alright. He tries to smile back, nods and hurries away from the park, looking for somewhere he might find a phone book.

A half hour later he finds a diner that has a payphone and a stack of phone books in its entrance way. He opens the white pages, scans for the name Singer, doesn't see first names or phone numbers that mean anything to him. Desperate, he tries the yellow pages and is assaulted with the same almost violent reaction when he finds an ad for a junk yard with the name Singer. Ripping the page from the book he hurries out of the diner onto the pavement and impulsively flags down the first car he sees, his breathing shallow as he shoves the ad into the driver's hand.

The kindly gentleman with skin the color of smooth chocolate and a wide smile takes a good look at him, carefully assessing, and then he tells him to get in, that he's driving out that way to see his daughter, dropping him off there wouldn't be a problem. He smiles gratefully and tries to open the passenger door, but he finds his hands are shaking so badly he can't get a grip on the handle.

"Here you go," the older man says, opening the door from the inside and he sinks into the comfortable warmth of the car with an overwhelming sense of relief.

There is no attempt at small talk, his companion preferring to listen to a soothing sounds of a gospel station, singing along quietly to the hymns he's probably known since he was a boy. There's a crucifix hanging from the mirror, a book called "The Chosen Path" on the dashboard and he finds all of this strangely comforting even if he can't recall ever being a person of any faith.

Singer Salvage is a hulking junkyard with a house smack in the middle of it that had seen better days. He's dropped off at the gate and he shakes the hand of the driver, thanks him with a faltering smile. The older man squeezes his hand and smiles back, tells him not to stray too far from the Lord's path before he drives away, leaving him alone and suddenly more afraid than he's been since he woke up lying on the road.

He looks around tentatively, sees rows and rows of battered cars, stacks of tires, tall piles of fenders and doors. Up near the house there is a rusted tow-truck, and beside it a dog is sleeping soundly, and he is surprised that his presence goes wholly unnoticed by the lazy canine. He now knows with certainty this is where he is supposed to be; it feels right, like he's been here a thousand times before but there is still no flash of memory, no great revelation, even as shaky legs take him closer to the house. He feels ill, chilled and dizzy, the effects of the cold, lack of sleep and an empty stomach, and he rubs his face with both hands as if can wipe away the exhaustion, the hunger, the fear that are all gnawing at him. He's on the porch when the door swings open and his dull green eyes go wide with recognition. He takes a step back, something in his chest squeezing the breath from him, his throat working furiously to say a name; a name that dies on his lips as he sways, one hand going out instinctively to grab the railing, the battered wood creaking as he clings to it for support.

"Jesus, Lord…" the man in the doorway breathes, a kaleidoscope of emotions flashing across his face; shock, alarm, relief, concern, and then finally softening into something like…love.

"Dean," the older man says, a single tear escaping damp eyes, running down his face into his scruffy beard. He takes two cautious steps forward, stops a few feet short and stares numbly, like he's seeing a ghost.

Dean feels his own eyes burn, feels the slow slide of wetness down his face when he shuffles closer, meeting the bearded man half way, his limbs trembling. Both men turn their gazes to the door when they hear a harsh gasp and Dean finds his voice, says the first word he's been able to speak since waking up in Kansas.

"Sam."

It comes out like a growl, his voice broken glass and gravel but he says it, his eyes going bright and hopeful before the light fades, the porch tilts and his knees buckle, and somehow he's sure someone will catch him before falls.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dean asked "What did you see in my heart?" Roy LeGrange replied that he saw a young man with an important purpose, a job to do and it wasn't finished. He wasn't sure if he believed him at the time, but later, much later, a series of chance encounters would make Dean wonder if it was true, would make him wonder if people really could see into his heart.

End

Additional Author's notes: I started writing this based on season 4 speculation (DON'T RUN!!) and then it just took off in a whole other direction, and I realized that this could be Dean coming home from a botched hunt or road accident just as easily as it could be Dean coming home from hell. I went with the whole 'Faith' reference because I don't believe that Dean's sole purpose in life is to 'take care of Sammy' but to save other lives as well, that along with Sam they're supposed to 'save the world' from the evil clown demon apocalypse;) So, as Roy could see into Dean's heart when he is in desperate need of help, see that he is 'special' and that he has a purpose, I have played around with the idea that others could see into his heart as well. Hope it worked, hope it was clear enough, hope you enjoyed the story:)

Last thing; Bobby's truck is registered to Lawrence County, South Dakota so I went with Central City as a location for Singer Salvage since I couldn't find any other information that it was located elsewhere.