Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.
Lost
Chapter One
The moon cast a cold, white light over the hillside; the sharp edged shadows of pine trees like black stripes across the track. There was no sound, almost as though the moon had frozen the land into stillness. A small rodent moved cautiously at the edge of the shadows, creeping forwards towards a dark shape. A soft sound, a gasp for breath and the rodent was gone on lightning fast paws, disappearing with a rustle into the dry grass.
There was a small movement where the moonlight met the shadow... a finger first, sliding across the rough surface, crumbs of dirt lodging in the nail. Then a hand, stretching long fingers forwards slowly, as though its owner was trying to find something familiar.
The dark shape stirred; there was a moan of pain, bitten off sharply as the shadow grew upwards until a man staggered out into the moonlight. He stood there for a moment, swaying, the sound of his breath harsh in the silence of the night. He shook his head as though to clear it, seemed to become suddenly aware that he was illuminated in the white light and glanced quickly around, before shuffling up the track towards a cluster of lights a few hundred yards away.
It took him a while to reach the bottom of the wooden steps outside the motel reception. He stopped there for some time, hanging grimly onto the rail and breathing heavily before making his way slowly upwards. Each step was clearly an effort, his long jean clad legs as out of control as those of a new born colt, the sound of his boots echoing on the wooden steps.
Anyone looking outside would have seen him pass under the warm glow of the porch light. A tall man, the sharp planes of his face pale even in the yellow light; a thin trickle of blood had dried dark on his skin, running from the spiky hair and down past his right ear.
The reception was closed; the man sagged wearily against the wall, patting clumsily at his pockets.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, "Goddam cell phone!"
He found something in his jacket pocket and fumbled it out, surprise passing over his features as he turned a key over in his fingers. He peered at the fob and resumed his halting shuffle in the direction of Room 27.
The key went in the lock on the second attempt and he half fell into the room, peered around and slammed the door behind him. The room was empty and the man felt a wave of disappointment as he sank onto the bed. There was something missing, something important, maybe even really essential, but he couldn't remember what it was.
Another hunt through his pockets turned up a clip of cash and an identity card. His face stared out at him under the name 'Dean Street'.
"Dean..." he muttered, feeling a sense of familiarity as the word rolled off his tongue. His name must be Dean then. 'Street' seemed odd though and a tight little frown creased his forehead; he kneaded at it with his fingers, feeling the shaking in his bones against the skin.
In the relative safety of the motel room Dean let some of his earlier focus slip away, felt it replaced with a steadily growing panic. He gritted his teeth, forcing the panic down.
He ran his fingers cautiously through his hair, trying to find the source of the pounding headache. There was a shallow cut and an egg shaped lump on his scalp over his right ear. Even the light brush of his fingertips caused the pain to spike, his vision to white out. He grabbed hold of the edges of the bed, fighting to stay conscious and not vomit.
The room spun slowly and settled; Dean pushed himself upright and staggered to the bathroom where he sank to his knees in front of the toilet, heaving violently. The pain in his head intensified, shredding his grip on consciousness.
"Please..." he murmured hoarsely, not sure who would answer, but disappointed when the expected encouraging words and comforting hand did not materialise.
Eventually, he forced himself upright and lurched towards the bed. He managed only a few shaky steps before his knees gave way, dropping him face-first onto the tatty carpet. His eyelids fought a losing battle and slipped closed over his glazed green eyes as he lay, long limbs sprawling loosely, his face bloodless beneath the scattering of freckles.
.
Sam dropped the cell phone onto the seat beside him. Staring at it wasn't going to make it ring, wasn't going to make Dean answer his numerous messages and missed calls. He dragged his fingers through his hair, felt close to tears with frustration and fear.
It had been two days now and there no trace of his brother. He'd gone out, for pie of all things, not normally a dangerous gig even for a Winchester. Sam had found the Impala easily enough, parked tidily in the diner parking lot, but Dean had vanished off the face of the earth.
He was trying to be practical, use his skills to track his brother down; he was a hunter, not some helpless civilian. But the trouble was the longer he looked, the more helpless he felt.
.
Continued in chapter two, posted soon.
Please leave a review if you have time, they are always appreciated.