So another new story...what can i say, my mind can't stick to just one thing...hope everyone enjoys!! bambers;) As with all stories...any episode of Supernatural is fair game...

Your Mind Tricked You to Feel the Pain

Chapter One

Dean eased out of bed careful not to wake his sleeping brother, grabbed a journal from beneath his pillow, and took slow strides toward the bathroom. Quietly shutting the door behind him, he sunk to the cold tile floor, and set the writing tablet beside him. Bringing his knees up, he rested his aching head on folded arms.

As he sat there, he tried to recall their last hunt, but couldn't think of a single detail. The bruised ribs and deep cuts across his chest told him that it had been as recent as a few days ago, but his mind refused to see beyond the night before.

He didn't want to ask Sam about it, knowing his brother would start to worry that maybe he had some sort of concussion, but Dean was certain he hadn't hit his head. Well, as certain as he could be since he couldn't remember what had actually happened.

His mind raced to think of the last hunt he could remember and the only one he could clearly recall was the one after the Roosevelt Asylum. Yeah, that scarecrow was one fugly sonuvabitch. He chuckled, but as he thought back to that last memory, his smile quickly faded.

Scrubbing his open hand across his face, he glanced around the small bathroom. That couldn't have been the last hunt we were on. He picked up the journal and opened it to the first page. His normally legible handwriting seemed hurried and scrawled with deep looping letters. The only time it looked like something he would've written was when his own name appeared on the page. When the hell did I write this?

As he flipped through the pages, Dean noticed the handwriting changed drastically on each of them, and almost appeared as if someone else had written the notes. Again the only time it reminded him of his writing was when his own name was mentioned. I couldn't have wrote this? Hell, none of it even makes sense.

Dean turned back to the first page and reread what was written.

There is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way. I may not want to understand it, but as time goes on this journal will be my only way to recall what has happened and what has been lost along the way. I can't let Sammy know what is happening. Can't let him worry. So until I figure it out, I have to write it all down so as not to forget. Dean

The rest of the pages were filled with more of the same, but also spoke of hunts they'd been on and injuries Dean and Sam had received. Yet, no matter how many pages he flipped through, the notes to himself always began the same way.

Why don't I remember going back to Lawrence? I should at least recall going home? Seeing Mom? God, what the hell is happening to me?

Slowly, Dean made his way to his feet, tugged off shirtsweats and boxers, and stepped into the shower. Turning on the faucets, he swivelled around and rested his head against his arms as the hot water eased away the aches in his taut sore back muscles.

As he stood there, he thought of the three journals he had written. When did I start writing them? And how did I know I was gonna forget all these things?

Lathing the soap, he washed his lean muscular chest, careful not to reopen the four slashing wounds that ran vertically across it. His hand trailed down to his side and he winced. Glancing down, he noticed deep purplish bruises. These had to have hurt like a bitch when they happened. Maybe I did hit my head. Yeah, like that explains the journals.

A quiet knock on the door, startled Dean out of his thoughts.

"Dean, you okay?" came Sam's concerned voice.

"M'okay, Sammy, just finishin' up."

"All right . . . I'll go get some coffee."

"Thanks, Sam."

Dean poured some shampoo in his hand and vigorously scrubbed his scruffy hair, hoping that somehow if he scrubbed hard enough the memories would shake loose and he would feel normal again. Leaning under the steamy water, he brusquely raked his fingers through his hair to get all the suds out.

For several moments, he stood there letting the water soak through his hair, and wash down over his face and body. Eyes closed, he felt his taut muscles begin to relax and the aches to ease away.

Grabbing the soap off the shower ledge, he washed the rest of his lean muscular body, wincing again as his hand brushed past the bruises on his side. Standing under the water, he rinsed off, and then turned off the water.

Dean snatched the towel of the rack, and scrubbed it through his hair, then dried his arms and chest, before wrapping the towel around his waist. Stepping out of the shower, he trudged to the sink, and cleared away the mist from the mirror with his hand.

He stared at his reflection, and for a moment he almost didn't recognize himself. His eyes seemed more blue than green. Jaw more round than angular. Hair lighter than he recalled. But, in a blink his own familiar face returned to stare back at him. Okay, first not remembering things, and now seeing things . . . so not good.

Gathering his clothes and the journal off the floor, Dean opened the door, and strode to his duffel. He tucked the journal as close to the bottle of the bag as he could, not wanting his brother to stumbled across it on accident.

The front door opened, and Dean turned to see his brother standing there staring at him. Concern was clearly evident on the youngest Winchester's face as he watched Dean shuffling through his duffel.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam walked to the table and set down both cups of coffee, his gaze never straying from Dean's. "You've been acting strange for weeks now. I noticed you writing something last night, and when I asked you what it was, you almost acted as if you didn't know you were writing anything."

"Probably cause I wasn't, geekboy. When's the last time you saw me write anything down?" Dean said evasively.

"Dunno, but it's not only that, Dean. It was almost like you had no idea who I was either, and I gotta tell ya, it scared the hell outta me."

"You must've been dreaming, Sammy." Dean snatched a faded black t-shirt out of his bag, and slipped it on. Rummaging through his clothes, he found clean boxers and jeans and put them on.

"Wasn't dreamin' Dean." Sam pushed out a chair at the table, sat and stretched out his long lanky legs. "An' you've been doing the same thing on and off for about two months now."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about, dude. We go on a hunt, you forget where you parked the car. We're in a diner eating, you get up to go to the bathroom, and never return." Sam was quiet for a moment, watching Dean expectantly, waiting for some kind of response, that Dean didn't know how to answer. "Hell, Dean just the other night, you asked me three times what we were hunting. What the hell's going on?"

"Three times?"

"Yeah, Dean, three times." Grabbing his coffee off the table, Sam gulped some of it down, and then continued, "An' what really bothers me is that we've already had this conversation at least two times before now. M'okay, Sammy, just isn't gonna work this time, Dean."

Dean trudged to the chair opposite Sam, and sank down in the seat. Closing tired eyes, he rubbed them as he tried to recall ever having a conversation like this with his brother, but couldn't remember anything. "Not sure what to tell ya, Sammy."

"Start by telling me what you were writing. Seemed like it was real important to you at the time."

"Don't know what I was writing." He glanced over at his brother and saw the look of disbelief in his hazel eyes. "It's the truth, Sammy. You wanna know, go get the journal from my bag."

Sam stared at him for a moment, and then was on his feet, stalking over to Dean's duffel. Shuffling through Dean's clothes, he finally found it, and brought it back to the table. He sat down and opened the journal. Dean saw the puzzled look cross his younger brother's features as he flipped through page after page of the meaningless nonsense.

Finally pausing in his search for answers, Sam looked up at him. "Is it all like this?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"And you don't remember any of it?" Sam asked, scrubbing his hand across his face.

"No. I don't remember any of it. Not writing it, not living it. Nothing."

"How long has this been going on for?"

Dean shook his head, and shrugged, letting out a deep sigh. "Dunno. Have three journals filled with stuff like that."

"This one starts right after we were at the Roosevelt Asylum. God, Dean, that was months and months ago." Sam stared at him incredulously. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't this bad at first, Sammy. Forgot little things, but didn't think much of it."

"An' now?"

Dean hesitated in answering, knowing how his brother would reacted. Lowering his head, he finally replied in a quiet, shaky voice, "I can barely remember what happened yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Sam repeated, and Dean could tell he was having a difficult time accepting it and controlling his temper. "Yesterfreakinday, and you didn't think that was important enough to share."

"Thought it would all come back to me. Didn't think it would get worse."

Sam shuffled through the pages again searching for anything to explain Dean's memory loss. Every page was filled with frantic writing, but none of it made much sense. "What does, There is a cold dark place in my mind. It is where my soul seeks comfort, but finds none. From shallow graves and sleepless nights I have somehow lost my way. I may not want to understand it, but as time goes on this journal will be my only way to recall what has happened and what has been lost along the way, mean? It's written on every page."

"Been trying to figure that one out myself."

"Okay, it must mean something important." Sam tapped on the page of the journal for emphasis. "My best guess is something happened at the Roosevelt Asylum, an' so we gotta go back there."

"An' do what?"

"I dunno. Dig for answers. Something had to have happened there that you just don't remember."

"What if it has nothing to do with the asylum, Sammy?" Dean hesitated, not knowing if he wanted Sam to realize how much the thought of losing his memories terrified him. "What if it has nothing to do with anything supernatural?"

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it."

Dean stood abruptly, strode toward the bed, reached under the mattress, and yanked out two more journals. He brought them back to the table, threw them on it, and turned away before Sam could see his face. "Read the newest entry."

Sam flipped through the pages until he found the one Dean was talking about and read it to himself. The first lines were the same as in the book he'd already scanned through, but what came after nearly stole his breath away.

He has dark hair and a winning smile. Not sure why I should know him, but he seems to know me. He calls me Dean, and I am not sure how he knows my name. There is something about him that is familiar and if I think hard enough about it, I am sure I have seen him before. There is something in his hazel eyes that I can't quite understand. He wants something from me. I am almost sure of it. Dean

Sam swallowed hard as he reread the passage again. He glanced at his brother, but Dean refused to look in his direction."This is what you were writing last night? You didn't remember who I was?"

Dean gave a curt nod, afraid if he said anything at that moment he would totally lose any control he held over the situation.

"So last night when I thought you didn't know who I was, you really didn't." Sam was back on his feet, storming to his brother. Grabbing hold of Dean's arm, Sam swung his brother to face him. When Dean still refused to look at him, Sam's anger exploded. "Damn it, Dean! Look at me! How the hell could you let this happen?"

Dean shrugged free of Sam's grip, and pushed away from him. "Didn't let it happen, Sammy. It just happened." He stalked to the table, snatched the journals off of it, looked them over briefly, and then whipped them at the wall in aggravation. "You think I wanted you to know that I'm losing my mind? God, Sammy, I'm supposed to be watching out for you. What the hell am I supposed to do if I can't even remember who you are soon?"

"It's not gonna happen. We're gonna figure this out."

"What if there's nothing to figure out?"

"Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But for now we're heading back to the Roosevelt Asylum."