"But listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness,
Like a heartbeat, drives you mad,
In the stillness of remembering
What you had,
And what you lost…
And what you had…
And what you lost."
It was raining so hard that he felt like he was swimming. His tangled, ratty brown hair was plastered to his head, face and the back of his neck. He could hardly see- it was so dark; the light from the stars and the full moon hidden behind a thick veil of clouds. He could tell where the moon was hiding, for the patch of clouds in front of it was lighter than the surrounding walls of gray.
He was running, back against where the moon should be. His bare, swollen feet splashed in mud and puddles, dirtying them and his long, gray sweatpants at the same time, but he didn't care. He didn't even remember why he was running, or when he had started, but he knew he was getting away from something dark, evil, and malicious.
A howl cut through the wet air and he gasped, slamming one of his feet down to stop himself. The soles of his feet were bleeding, but he hardly felt the pain. His head whipped around in all directions. He couldn't tell where the howling was coming from but he knew-
It was coming for him.
So he began to run even faster. The rain hit him hard, feeling like needles trying to pierce through his tanned skin. His lungs were burning from the lack of oxygen. His throat was dry and his eyes wide, but he didn't stop running. He couldn't stop running. He had to find his home.
He couldn't remember where home was, but he knew that he needed to find it.
He vaguely recalled the sound of metal clanking. The smell of gasoline and motor oil. Laughter.
He had to find the mechanic in town. Apparently there was only one shop in town, and it was owned by a family of mechanics, the Winchesters. That name felt like an abrupt kick in the gut. Winchester. Winchester... He knew that surname from somewhere. It was crying for him to recognize it. Begging him to remember, but he couldn't. It had been too long; far too long.
Suddenly, there was a light pointed at him, shining so abruptly bright in his eyes.
"Who are you?" A gruff, masculine voice demanded to know.
"I- I don't-" He began, words tumbling out his mouth. He had forgotten what words tasted like, forgotten what his own voice sounded like. "-I don't know!" He finished exasperatedly, panic set on his thin features.
The man grew closer, shining the invading light all over his body.
"What are ya? A Sav? You a freak?" He demanded, still drawing nearer.
"I don't know wh-what a 'Sav' is-"
"-A freak! You are then, aren't ya?"
He had no idea why this sudden, seemingly violent and potentially dangerous, appearance of a man was calling him a 'Sav,' a freak. He backed away, throwing his hands up in a placating manner.
"I'm n-not a freak!" He told him, voice quaking due to the nervousness that he felt, and the fact that he didn't have any recollection whatsoever to the last time he had eaten or, well, slept.
"Y'sure 'bout that?" The other male questioned, and he suddenly found himself thrown to the ground. His back popped thrice as he was manhandled, and then the guy was abruptly on top of him, straddling his stomach. Pain split into his cheekbone as he was punched. Hard. He cried out in pain; that was sure to leave a bruise.
He was faced with two options. Firstly: lay there and let this stranger wail on him until he was a bloody mess, because the stranger would probably get fed up and leave anyways. Secondly: to easily shove the stranger off of him, probably kick him a couple of times just to dish out just desserts, and then steal his flashlight and take off.
He opted for the latter option.
With strength he didn't recall having, he simply threw the other male off of him and rolled over, pushing himself to his feet. He whipped around to see the stranger unconscious on the ground and he groaned, sauntering over to him and kneeling, grabbing the flashlight. He pushed the switch to the 'On' position and shined it in the other male's face, now getting a better look at him. There was nothing recognizable about him, he had average features and no noticeable scars or marks.
He turned the flashlight off and resumed walking. His face was throbbing and smarting, and he had no idea what he had provoked in that man. However, he found it oddly sickening how… calmly that he threw the man off of him, and wasn't even bothered by the fact that he had knocked him out. He just took his flashlight and headed off in the same direction as before.
He began to near a lamp post, and he paused underneath it to look at the flashlight in his hands. He twirled the metal thing around and flipped on the switch before he began to run again, panting, lungs searing. But he wasn't going to stop until he found the mechanics. He passed a gas station and slowed after he past it. There was a building right next to it, looking abandoned. There was a rusted sign in front of the desolate building.
Winchester Auto Repair.
His hazel eyes widened, and he approached the place. As he got closer, it became evident that the place was not abandoned. That it just wasn't open yet. He walked to the front door and eyed the sign that was in the window that gave the days that the shop was open, and what hours. Unfortunately, he had no idea what day it was. He knew it was night time, but he couldn't remember if it was closer to afternoon or day. He had lost all sense of direction and time since he had been away.
Since the shop wasn't open, he turned on his heel and padded towards the gas station, realizing how ragged his breath was. He didn't want to head in there looking absolutely atrocious, but he did want to get out of the rain. Struggling for just a moment over the decision, he finally went to the door and pushed it open, glancing around the dimly lit gas station. There didn't seem to be anybody there.
"H-Hello..?" He whispered, before clearing his throat. This whole speaking thing was still new to him. "Hello?" He called again, this time much louder, his voice ringing.
"Jus' a minute." Came a deep, tired-sounding voice. He wasn't sure where it came from.
He approached the counter and paused, looking down at himself. He was absolutely soaked from the downpour outside. His feet were sore, stinging, and bleeding. His legs ached, his chest ached, his entire body ached with a horrible pain. His head felt like nails were being hammered into him.
Just then, a gruff looking man came from an open doorway, rubbing his greasy hands onto a handkerchief. The elder man eyed him, trying to get a look for who he was, in case there was a way that he knew this person. He usually only got some family and friends who came in this late at night, otherwise they were travelers who would never show up again.
He looked to him, and pushed his wet hair back out of his face to show his familiar hazel eyes.
"A-Are you..?" He started to ask, and the man stilled, his gaze going hard.
"Winchester." The man said cautiously. Hesitantly.
He turned fully to him, taking a step forward, and the elder man took a step back.
"What do you want?" The elder man asked, and he slowly shrugged.
"I… I'm not sure…" He admitted softly. "I jus'... jus' knew I was s'pposed to come here…"
"Who told ya to come here, boy?"
Once again, he shrugged.
"I remember… the name…" He whispered, voice getting quieter and quieter as he seemed to sink back into himself. To recceed into the shell of a man that he truly was. How he had always been since he could ever remember.
The man slowly nodded and held a hand out. "M'name's John Winchester. That ring a bell, kid?"
He looked up sharply. "Yeah." He answered, and stared at John's hand, unsure of what to do.
"Ya shake it, kid." John said, voice going soft as well.
He slowly extended his hand and gently took John's hand, shaking it up and down before he paused, not letting go. He stared at their hands, tilting them to the side. He saw a wedding band on John's ring finger. His gaze slowly lifted back up to his eyes.
"Mary…" He said quietly, and John suddenly got a hurt expression that spread across his face.
"Yeah. Mary was my wife."
For some reason, this made his chest sting with a sharp ache. He let go of John's hand.
"Was..?"
John nodded his head weakly.
"Died, lil' over twenty years ago." He said quietly.
That made his eyes go wide, and a spinning feeling occurred in his head. He thought he was going to throw up, and he wrapped his long arms around his middle. John's eyebrows raised.
"You alright, boy?" He asked, and the young man didn't answer. He continued to feel like he was falling.
"And- y-you lost a son!" He gasped, a hand going to his head and he stumbled back some, nearly slipping in the puddle of water that had dripped from him onto the linoleum floor.
John was now very much alarmed and cautious.
"Yeah. I did. Now answer me, kid. You alright?!" He demanded, advancing on him.
As he stepped back, this time he actually did slip and he fell right on his backside. He drew his knees up to his chest and dropped his head between them, clasping his hands onto the top of his head, hyperventilating. John dropped down beside him, putting a hand gently between his shoulder blades, rubbing.
"Hey, kid. It's alright. Yer alright." He murmured, and the kid started to shake.
Winchester. John and Mary Winchester. Mary Winchester had died twenty years ago. They had two sons. Dean. Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester would be twenty six years old.
"D-Dean."
"Yeah, that's my oldest. You a friend of Dean's?" John kept pressing, but the kid was too far gone.
Dean's little brother had been taken when Dean was four years old. Dean's birthday was in the beginning of the year. The little brother's birthday was in the middle of the year. He was only six months old. Six months old. He had been put through torture for nearly twenty-two years. He was twenty-two years old. Who was he? What was his name?
It suddenly exploded within his head. He gave a sharp cry of pain and the world began to spin as he slumped over, flopping to his side as he held his head, painful memories ripping through him, causing his entire body to convulse, gasping for air.
"Hey!" John called, but his voice was far off and warbled, like in a dream. John got up and ran to the telephone to call nine-one-one. The kid kept a tight hold of his head so it wouldn't explode.
He knew. He knew what they did to them. Him, and all the other kids that had went missing.
Cold Oak. He had been in Cold Oak. Doctor A. Who was Doctor A?
Max Miller.
Andrew Gallagher.
Ansem Weems.
Ava Wilson.
Lily Baker.
Scott Carey.
Jake - Jake. Jake Talley.
He threw his hand over his own mouth as sobs began to wrack through his body. John ran back over to him and dropped down again, rubbing his back. Soothing him. But no amount of soothing could help him from feeling safe from these horrific memories. Nothing could make him sane again. No amount of coddling or medicine could take away the pain.
Take the pain away from the injections. From the murders. The psychological trauma, along with the physical.
He was a monster.
A freak.
A demon.
A 'Sav'.