Author notes: For the most part, I have no idea where this story came from, but I have to be honest and give credit where credit is due. Parts of this story are in honor of rageprufrock who wrote one of the best Supernatural (Dean/Cas) fics that I have ever read.
Second note: I am curious as to who you guys think is narrating. I gave hints, but I want to know what you think.
Third note: Fanfiction . net, WHY DO YOU MESS WITH MY SPACING? WHY CAN I NOT HAVE SEVERAL SPACES BEFORE THE WORD UP! WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?
Word
. . . . . . . up, across the room, and very quietly freaking out in the bathroom before he even realizes it was a bed he'd been sleeping in. In a room— a bedroom, at 3:47 am, when most of the world is happily dreaming.
He had been dreaming, he suddenly remembers. But he can't remember what it was about. The whole thing was a scramble of want and confusion that had driven him in front of the mirror. His face is damp with sweat. He is trembling, a bundle of nerves that clutches at the sink like a drowning man on wood.
And he feels like he is drowning. Like these emotions are going to rise up and suck him into this nameless torrent of want. He gasps for breath, loud sucking breaths that seem less like air and more like water.
"Darling?" There is a gentle knock on the door, and he remembers there had been another body in bed with him. It doesn't inspire any comfort. "Are you alright?"
Susan. The person on the other side of the door is a woman, and her name is Susan. She is his wife. She is supposed to sleep in the same bed as him. He takes a deep breath. "I'll be out in just a minute." The trembling is still in his hands and arms, although not as pronounced.
She pauses. He can hear her nightgown rustle as she clenches it in her hands. A part of him is concerned that he finds the noise as distressing as he does. A larger part wonders why he notices it at all. Mostly though, he just wants her to walk away.
Something, something about all of this is very, very wrong.
"Alright." She sighs, and he can hear her pad back to the bed. The sheets rustle as she climbs in.
He relaxes and stares at his reflection in the mirror. This is ridiculous. She is his wife for goodness sake. And he loves her. He married her after all. There is nothing to be afraid of.
With a determined splash of water on his face, he goes back to bed. He's going to make this work.
The alarm goes off at 6:17. He is already awake, has been since 3:47, awake and thinking. But he isn't sure what he was thinking about, isn't sure of anything really. Until he hears the buzzing of the alarm, and then he knows he is a doctor. Not just a doctor, but a pediatric surgeon. He rolls the words around on his tongue for a minute. They taste odd, but the more he thinks about them, the more natural they feel. Almost as if the words are adjusting themselves to fit him. Not that that makes any sense.
He gently eases out from under the bedding, extra careful not to disturb Susan. He doesn't want to wake her. Because he loves her? Because he loves her.
There is a certainty in that thought that he isn't certain of at all.
In the bathroom he urinates, showers, and brushes his teeth. Without looking in the mirror. He rubs his hand across his jaw and pauses at the doorway. He should probably shave, but he can't quite seem to face his reflection.
So instead he goes back into the bedroom. He doesn't really want to do that either, but it is better than facing the mirror. He is afraid of what he will see. Silently, he crosses over to his side of the closet and looks at the rows of scrubs. Eventually, he pulls out a blue pair, because he seems to recall someone saying that they matched his eyes. He's not really sure about that, about the color of his eyes or the person saying it. It seems like something he should remember.
It doesn't really matter though. It's a stupid reason that he really doesn't care about, but he still can't quite make up his mind and it's as good a reason as any.
He forgets to eat breakfast until he is in his car and driving to the hospital and his stomach growls. It catches him by surprise. He can't remember the last time he was hungry. He can't remember a lot of things.
On his way from the parking garage and into the hospital, he sees a man in a tan trench coat. There is something decidedly familiar about that, but he can't quite put his finger on in. He has the feeling that, unlike the blue scrubs, the trench coat will bother him all day.
The hospital is busy, which is a good thing because he doesn't have time to think about how strange it is that his hands seem to know exactly what to do even though he doesn't. There is a lull around ten thirty so he goes down to the emergency room to see if there is anything he can do there. One of the nurses points to a family with a clipboard. He takes the hint and goes over to the family to take down a history.
The mother answers each question slowly, as if she isn't sure of the answer, and in-between questions he has a brief flash of the whole family in tan trench coats. It doesn't seem quite right.
He does stop for a moment when he overhears the two boys arguing. It is the older brother who draws his attention. They are arguing about a toy, a strange looking deer with abnormally large ears. Eventually the older brother hands it over with a huff. There is something familiar about that.
He goes over to the nurses' station and trades the clipboard for the dinosaur toy he found the other day. The nurse hands it over without ever taking her eyes off the clipboard. He hopes she can make sense of the answers, because he can't seem to remember what any of them are.
When he offers it to the older brother, he looks up with the most startling green eyes. The little boy's hands touch his as he takes the toy and he leans forward.
"You don't belong here."
And then the nurse is calling the younger brother's name and the whole family stands up. As he watches the little boy go, he realizes he doesn't know which one of them spoke. He has the feeling that neither of them really belongs in this place.
There is that wave of want again, rushing towards him and crashing over his head. But this time he can name his want: home. He wants Home. But he can't remember exactly what home is. He isn't sure where that word came from either, except that he saw it in the tan trench coat and in the way the older brother handed over the toy. His mind tells him that Home is a house, the house he lives in with Susan.
But then he thinks 'Home is where the heart is' which makes no sense since his heart is in his chest, but somehow still seems to resonate throughout his body.
He wants…
He goes to a seminar that afternoon. The topic is on Caring for People with Addictions, and for some reason everything the speaker says seems desperately important. Like he needs to remember every word so that he can repeat the speech later. Like he knows someone who needs to hear it. He wishes that he had brought paper and a pen.
It doesn't make sense though, he realizes as he listens. He doesn't know anyone except Susan and a nurse he saw up in the Intensive Care Unit named Anna. He's not sure how he knows Anna, he's not even sure if he's ever spoken to her, but it's the only other name he can recall.
The feeling still doesn't leave and so he listens very carefully to every word.
Right up to the moment the little boy sits down next to him. He has his brother's toy deer now, and he seems to be listening to the speech as well. But that doesn't make sense, surely the vocabulary is far too large for an eight year old to understand? The boy looks up at him; his eyes are hazel now.
"You don't belong here."
There is something familiar about those eyes, about the way he can't quite decide what color they are, about the way such a trivial thing feels so important.
"I'll be taking questions now." The speaker says, and for a brief second, he looks away from the boy.
When he looks back, the boy is gone, but that's okay, because the speaker is taking questions. He has a whole pile of them he'd like to hand over.
Why am I here?
Who am I?
What is this?
When can I go home?
Where do I belong?
He sits in his office, looking over the paper work from the day. It is more questions that he must answer. And even though he doesn't know what the answers are, his hand is jotting them down seamlessly.
It leaves him with too much time to think.
He thinks about how he wants.
About how the want seems to start in a small corner of his chest and grow and grow, until it fills him from fingers to toes. And still it grows. Grows until all the words on the page are one word, until the air around him is saturated with it, until he can't tell if the want is a part of him or he is a part of the want.
The door is open and a man stands there with his hand stretched out. He is wearing the tan trench coat with the head of the little boy's deer sticking out of the pocket. It looks strange on him, like a piece of armor he's coated himself with to make it this far.
He has the little boy's eyes. But this man is not the little boy; he is much more.
The man stretches his hand out further. "You don't belong here."
He hesitates for a moment, looks down at his paperwork. There is still only the one word written across every line. He looks up at the man in the doorway and nods, once.
Dean.