Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or the character Sam and Dean. They belong to Eric Kripke, the creator of the so-addictive television show 'Supernatural'. I do however own any character that is mentioned that is not in that of 'Supernatural' universe. And this story line is my own idea.

Summery: Dean wakes up on the floor of a motel room, bloody and beaten with no memory of the previous few days. Worst of all Sam is missing.


The Long Way Home
-Written by Faith Marquardt

-Chapter I-
'Blackout'

He was lying a pool of blood...his own? He did not know.

Dean's eyes snapped open. He let out a moan of pain. His head was throbbing. The pain was so intense that it made his vision slightly blurry. Dean slowly sat up, looking around him as he did. He did not know where he was. He was in bathroom—that part he knew. A cracked and grimy porcelain sink stood near him. A shower, a toilet and a bath also. Dean turned his head, causing his head to hurt even more. The bath was covered in blood. He knew it must have once been white, because a patch of the creamy colour was left. Everything else was covered almost entirely in smeared blood.

Dean eyes moved towards himself. He couldn't help but gasp. He too was covered in blood. His shirt was torn, bloody and his jeans were covered in much and dry blood. How did he get like this? He did not know, everything was a blur. Did you fall? Perhaps he had been taking a shower slipped on a bar of soap and then cracked his head on the bath's edge. He would have fell from there, collapsed onto the tiles. But that did not explain all the blood. He wasn't even sure all of this was his own. There was just too much.

"Oh my god, Sammy!" Dean muttered, a sudden thought occurring to him. Where was Sam?

Dean tried to stand, but his limbs seemed to be collapse under his weight. He tried again, this time he reached his bloody hand out for the edge of the sink, but once his hand reached he let out another shriek of pain. His wrist had been broken. He tried to stand again, using his other hand. This time he was successful. He moaned as he began to stand. The pain in his legs, arms and torso was unbearable. The pain was so intense, excruciating, causing tears to appear in his eyes.

When he finally stood on his feet, Dean was forced to grip the edge of the sink with one hand. His balance was terrible. How long had he been lying there for? It felt like he had not moved nor used even the smallest muscle in days at least.

Using his broken and now completely useless hand Dean wiped the tears away from his eyes. He wanted to call out for Sam, get his help. But every time he even attempted to speak once opening his mouth, the only sound that would come out would be that of moan. He was in too much pain. He wanted to scream. He wanted to die.

Dean stood, frozen in place. He tried to regain his balance. But that was proving difficult. The room seemed to spinning, his head felt like it was on fire and his eye sight was a blur. He shook his head, but that proved to be useless. If anything it only caused his head to hurt even more.

Dean glanced up towards the mirror. Blood was smeared on the glass, but he could still make out his reflection. He looked just as bad as he felt. He looked like crap—literally. Dean moved his hand towards his forehead where a large gash was. He then moved his hand down to the side of his face. He winced as soon as his hand touch the skin of his cheek. They were bruised on both sides. And one of his eyes was bloodshot, and blackened and painful looking bruise circled around the eye. His lip was swollen, and his hair was a mess—covered in dry blood and sweat. Dean moved his eyes away from his reflection, and towards his hands. They too—like almost everything else, were covered in blood. But who's were they? Were they his? Or were they someone else's?

Dean moved towards the bathroom door. He used the walls of the room to secure his balance. His head was still pounding and the room still felt like it was spinning. Dean outstretched his hand, reaching for the doorknob. He finally gripped his hand around it, opened it. His other hand—the broken one, was hanging limply by his side.

Dean entered the room—which he now recognized as a motel room. But he did not remember it. Many thoughts were swirling in his mind as to what had happened. Maybe he had got drunk, got into a fight at a bar. That sounded like something he would do. But that didn't explain why he would wake up in the bathroom of the motel room he was staying at. And where as Sam?

Dean looked around the room. The beds had not been made—even Sam's. And Sam always made his bed. It was always Dean who's bed was left a mess. All his younger brother's things were lying near his bed. Some of his clothes were scattered on the floor. Dean moved towards his own bags. Almost the entire contents of his duffel bags had been tossed all over the room. It appeared to Dean that some one had ransacked their motel room. But who would do that? Also the motel room itself was in no better condition. The curtains had been torn, and all the books had been torn apart. The sheets were too covered in blood, and also shredded. Someone had been looking for something. And Dean bet everything he owned that they would have found it too.

Dean's heart began to beat faster as he slowly, and limply made his way around the room. There was sign of Sam. Nothing. Just as Dean was about to call out his brother's name an odd ringing noise made him stop. He looked around, to see where the noise was coming from. He finally realized that the noise had been his cell phone, and it had been coming from inside his pocket.

Dean reached for his phone while taking a seat on one of the nearby beds. He moaned in pain as he was forced to sit down again.

"Hello" he said into the phone.

"Hello agent Finn this is Dr. Jill Wilkinson" a young women's voice spoke from the other end of the line.

"Who?" Dean asked. "Who this?"

"Jill" the women answered. "Dr. Jill Wilkinson. I work at the county morgue."

"Oh" Dean said.

"You asked me about traces of sulfur I found in a murder victims blood."

"I did?" Dean asked.

"Yes" the doctor replied. "You told me to give you a call when I found any new information. You said you were leaving today so I figured I better give you a cal--"

"Today!?" Dean asked.

"Yes, Friday."

"No" Dean said. His hand reached for the wound on his hand. "Today is Tuesday."

"No" she answered. "Today is Friday, October 27."

Dean's eyes widened. He had missed an entire three days. He dropped his phone, not even hearing it as it fell with a loud thud to the ground. He could hear the women on the other end still talking, asking him if he were alright. But Dean was so very far from alright. How could he have missed an entire three days? How could he not remember anything? And where the hell was Sam?


(to be continued...)