"Dean? Dean wake up! Dean, can you hear me? You have to wake up," White lights, beeps, blue faces, hands. Words breaking through a fog laying heavily on his mind.
Sam? Is that you? Who was Sam? Sam was his brother. Why was that name the first thought on his mind?
"He's awake! Get me the readings on the... Go and... I need..." Shouted instructions, chaos of movement, words jumbling together. His eyes began to focus, he was surrounded by people in blue surgical masks, in a white room, glaring lights and complicated machinery. Where was he? How did he get here? Why couldn't he remember anything? Sam. Why was Sam the only name he could remember? He heard a voice louder than the others, heard his name. He tried to focus on the sound.
"Dean? If you can understand me, please let me know. Can you speak?" The doctor's tone was calm and professional. Dean opened his mouth to respond, but his voice was a barely audible croak. "Dean, it's okay, don't strain your throat. Blink twice if you can understand me." He did as the doctor had said, and with each blink some of the cloudiness cleared from his vision. He could see the rest of the room now. One glass wall, blue curtains drawn across its length. White panelled ceiling, tiled floor, tangles of wires and tubes connecting him to a dozen different machines and devices. The doctors were scattering now, some holding clipboards, some holding folders, running out of the room, running back in, checking screens, making notes, unplugging tubes. Dean stared without seeing, one thought continually forcing itself to the front of his mind. Sam. He knew he should know who that was, but he didn't. Sam was his brother, but he couldn't recall his face, his voice, anything about him. Anything about anything. So he stared into space and tried to remember. The doctors were moving him now, onto a gurney, white corridors blurred past. A huddle of blue-clad medical staff surrounded him calling out meaningless statistics, passing each other clipboards as they hurried along the corridors. Dean lost track of where they were going, all that mattered was trying to remember, straining his mind to try and scrape the tiniest detail from the fog. When he finally broke focus and noticed where he was, they had come to a stop. He was sitting in another bed in another room, countless more machines attached to him but half as many doctors surrounding him. They weren't talking either, just studying the screens with a professional intensity. A middle-aged man in a white lab coat and a silvery name tag stepped forward and shone a pen light in Dean's eyes. The tag read Dr. Wilson, Head of Psychology.
"I'm going to ask you some questions, Dean. You don't have to try and speak, we just need you to picture the answer in your head. Okay, what is the last thing you remember before waking up?" Dr Wilson's voice was calming but not patronising, like he was talking to an injured animal. Dean struggled to remember something, anything from before he woke up, but nothing came. So he thought of Sam. His brother. His younger brother? His older brother? His twin? He didn't know. The team of doctors focusing on the screens frantically scribbled on their clipboards and whisper-shouted to Dr Wilson. Were they reading his brainwaves? "That's great, Dean. Now, do these names mean anything to you: Sam. John. Mary. Bobby...?" A flicker of memory lit up in Dean's mind. He knew these names, knew they were important. His family? His friends? He didn't know. The doctors scribbled away. The lights glared. "Okay, what about these: Azaezel. Michael. Lilith. Zacharia...?" Dr Wilson rolled off a fresh list of names, but this time none of them resonated in Dean's mind. "Okay Dean that's great. Now, try answering these questions. What job do you do?" He didn't know. Didn't remember. Didn't even remember ever having one. The doctors scribbled. Flashing hand signals. Whispering. Staring at the screens. "Can you remember where you live?" Vague images forced their way into Dean's mind: Fields, a house, family, a bedroom, fire. But stronger than that was an overwhelming feeling of emptiness, something was missing, something important. Home was missing. Sam. He tried to speak again, tried to get the words out. But all he could do was croak. "Dean, Dean, calm down Dean, you don't need to speak. Just rest your voice." Dr Wilson whispered something urgently to the team of doctors by the screens, his face never changing from the calm expression fixed across it. "Okay Dean, these next questions might sound a bit strange, but trust us, okay?" Dr Wilson's voice had gained an edge of apprehension, as if everything hung on these next few questions. "Do you believe in monsters?" Dean searched his mind, and found... Nothing. Whatever he'd known before wouldn't help him now. So he shook his head, slowly, his neck stiff from lack of movement. Some of the tension seemed to dissipate from the air. That seemed like the right answer. "That's great, Dean. Now, do you believe in angels?" He searched his mind again, looking for the smallest scrap of memory, but nothing came. He shook his head. "Last question, Dean. Is hell real?" The word was familiar. Like it had been said many times in his past. But he had no memories of it, so he shook his head again. In the corner of his vision the doctors were disconnecting wires and shutting down equipment. "Thanks, Dean. That went great. We're gonna let you rest now, so if you need anything at all you can press this button and we'll be there."
During the night Dean was plagued by snippets of dreams: people calling his name, the smell of salt and beer, blue eyes staring at him from the dark of sleep, low chants whispered in some dead language. When he awoke more memories were circling just beyond his reach, like shrivelled weeds whose roots crawled down below the surface, and he hadn't the strength to pull them up. Those names kept reappearing though, John and Mary and the others, they felt so familiar he hated it. He needed to know more. With one weak hand, he reached across to one of the monitors and pressed the button to bring the team of doctors running. It was his turn to ask the questions.
"Are you sure your throat is feeling up to talking, Dean? We wouldn't want you doing more damage by trying."
"I'm sure," his voice was faint and scrapey, and his throat did feel like he'd been swallowing sand, but he needed answers and he wasn't going to get them by sleeping. "I need to ask you some stuff."
"That's great Dean! Have you remembered anything?"
"Not exactly."
"Oh, that's okay then. If you feel like knowing some more about your past will help you, then we'd be happy to oblige."
"Okay, first: I want to know what those names mean. The ones you told me yesterday." Dr Wilson tensed, he seemed worried. Were the names dangerous? When he spoke, each word sounded careful, as if he were walking along the edge of a bottomless hole and one wrong step would send him tumbling in.
"Which names are you… interested in?"
"John. Mary. Bobby," the medical team relaxed. Apparently these names weren't the dangerous ones. "And Sam." Dr Wilson took a deep breath, his professional calm returned.
"Those are the names of your family, Dean. John is your father. Mary is your mother. Bobby isn't strictly related to you, but he's a very close family friend. And Sam wa- IS: Sam is your brother. Ringing any bells? Do you remember their faces, Dean?"
"I remember… Sam. I remember Sam. He's my brother. Yeah," worry flashed across the doctors' faces again, one of them made to write something on her clipboard but Dr Wilson stopped her with a hand. "and the others- they seem familiar too." What was it about Sam? And the other set of names? What did they mean?
"And nothing more? No other faces? No one else that you remember?"
"When you asked about where I live, yesterday, I remembered… fire. What happened there?" Again his words made the doctors seem anxious. Were they keeping something from him? Was there something they didn't want him to know? To remember?
"There was, an incident at the house, yes. But it was all a very long time ago, no casualties, no injuries. Things like that just happen to some families. Anything else you remember?"
"No- but there's more I need to ask. How did I get here? Where was I before? Where's my brother? And why the hell can't I remember anything? I can't even remember my goddamn last name… What happened-"
"-Dean!" Dr Wilson cut him off. "Dean I think that's more than enough questions for one day, you'll damage your throat, I really don't think you're feeling up to all this excitement! Let's just take a minute here," nervous laughter, the team began to edge slightly towards the door.
"Oh I'm feeling up to it alright. You can all just sit your asses down because I'm nowhere near finished yet." He had no idea where that had come from. Was that the person he used to be? The person he was supposed to be? Dr Wilson looked even more troubled, but he was serious this time. "So, are you going to answer my questions or are you just going to keep being as truthful as a presidential candidate?"
"I know you want the truth Dean, but there are some things we don't believe you're ready to handle yet especially with you in the condition that you are. I'm sorry, but those are the facts."
"Now, you keep mentioning my 'current condition' but the funny thing is, I feel fine,"
"We mean your mental condition, Dean!" Dr Wilson snapped; took a second to regain his composure. There was a hurried exchange of intense whispers between him and the team, then he turned back to Dean, the decision made. His face was set, he took a long breath before he spoke. "You're schizophrenic. You … have been for a very long time." Schizophrenia. He had schizophrenia. Mental illness. He was mad? Was that why the doctors were scared of certain names, certain memories? They were worried they would trigger him? If he was delusional, what little memories did he have that he could guarantee were real? This made everything a whole lot harder. Dr Wilson continued, "This is why we didn't want to answer your questions. Your mental state is very fragile, we needed to check how much of reality you remembered without possibly triggering a relapse." The doctor's face showed reserved sympathy. He'd delivered news like this a hundred times before and he knew every way in which a person could react, but Dean didn't find it annoying. He wasn't angry anymore. All the anger had drained away and left him empty.
"Is that why… Is that why I don't remember anything?"
"Yes, Dean. Your memories will return to you eventually, but we will have to monitor you very closely to make sure that the memories you do regain are real." his voice rose at the end, as if checking his statement was received and understood.
"How long have I been like this?"
"I wish I could tell you Dean, I really do, but you need to understand we can't do anything to risk your illness taking hold again- even telling you this is incredibly dangerous."
"Oh." His voice was small. Defeated. "What can I do? To help, I mean. What can I do to get better. To get my memories back."
"Well; we can tell you that you might get snippets of it when you're asleep: it will seem like dreams, but that's really your subconscious reminding you of your fantasies, trying to drag you back. We also know that your delusions are complex, consistent and incredibly realistic, altering only small details at a time and keeping things similar to reality to make it easier for you to accept. This is all we can tell you at this stage, but it should be enough to help you fight it for the time being, until we know more. I know it's hard for you Dean, and I know you want answers, but just… be patient. Once we have more information we'll be able to tell you so much more. Is that okay?" Dean nodded silently, the doctors filed slowly out of the door, and he stared into space. The door clicked shut behind them. He kept staring. He tried to focus on the names, tried to drag any memories he had to the surface. John. Mary. Bobby. Sam. His family. Sam was his brother… Younger brother. He remembered that. One small detail. What did he look like? He couldn't find anything, no matter how hard he tried. John. His father. What about him? What was he like? What was his job? Did he look after them? Did he love Mary? Something was there, definitely. Hiding at the back of his mind. He focused harder, on John. On his memories. Something drifted forward. Dean was young, very young, and small. He couldn't have been older than five. John was there, he was carrying him. A smile, Sam's name, a woman in a nightgown. Mary. That was his mother. More and more memories solidified: his house, his brother (only a baby, maybe a year old, tiny and fragile), his father's face, his mother's voice, the walls of their house, the smell of the warm night air, heat on his face, and fire. So much fire. His baby brother in his arms, his father shouting frantically, the house consumed in flames. Did his mother make it out alive? He couldn't remember. The doctors had said there were no casualties, but he couldn't trust them not to be hiding facts… Before he could notice, sleep had taken him, and he fell into darkness with the smell of burning faint in his nose.
"Dean! Dean! Oh my god, Bobby he's awake! He's awake! Cas, get over here! Oh my god, Dean are you okay? Can you hear me? Dean! Can you hear me?" Dark room, musty smell, people shouting, people running, electric lights flickering, piles of clutter. Dean wasn't in the hospital anymore: he was lying on top of the covers of a double bed, in a cluttered room flooded with cold grey light from the cloud-filled sky outside. He turned his head to the side and saw three people crowding through the door: a tall younger man with shaggy brown hair and a plaid shirt, an older guy with a beard and a baseball hat, and a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes, staring straight through him from across the room. The tall guy knelt in front of Dean, shining a miniature torch in his eyes.
"Hey! Would you get that thing out of my face? Jeez, gimme some space," the tall guy backed off when Dean snapped, towards the other two who were hovering by the foot of the bed. He blinked the after image of the light away.
"Sorry man, I was just checking— doesn't matter." The tall guy was smiling, he looked happy to see Dean awake. "Are you okay? Do you remember the fight? You were bashed up pretty bad; to be honest… well, we didn't know if you were gonna wake up or not."
"I don't— I don't remember a fight…" Dean's head was spinning. He had no idea what was going on or who these people were. "I was… in a hospital? Where am I?" Worry flashed across the tall guy's face.
"You're at Bobby's, Dean. You don't recognise it? You haven't got amnesia or something, have you?"
"Your head was hit pretty hard, boy," the hat guy spoke up in a gravelly voice, "it's possible you lost few hours. Days, maybe." Why did they keep mentioning a fight? And who even were these people? How did they know him? Where were the doctors, the hospital? He turned to the tall guy.
"Look, you all seem very eager to help and all that, but I don't understand— who are you? How do you know me?" All three of their faces fell. The man with the blue eyes — he was wearing a trench coat, Dean noticed— he looked hurt.
"Dean— what are you saying? We're your family. You don't … you don't remember?" the tall guy sounded incredulous. Dean didn't react. "It's me. I'm your brother. It's Sam."
Dean only remembered what happened next in patches. There was Sam, his face turned from vague concern to frightened worry, the hat guy and the man with the blue eyes crowded towards him, people were asking if he was okay, then there was blackness. It was almost an hour after he'd woken up back in the familiar hospital room before he'd realised this was what Dr Wilson had warned him about: the delusions in his sleep, his schizophrenia trying to drag him back. It hadn't seemed like a delusion. The people had seemed real. Sam. The hat guy. The man with those intense blue eyes. They didn't seem like something his mind had made up. What had they said again? Something about a fight? Injuries? Just like a dream, all the details were drifting away. Harder to hold onto. He needed to tell the doctors. This was the kind of thing they'd find important.
A few minutes later Dr Wilson and the team had crowded back into the room and were scribbling away notes as Dean recounted the fading details of his dream.
"And that's all you remember?"
"That's about the size of it, doc."
"You say Sam was there. And the other two— you didn't know their names?"
"Nope. Sam mentioned one though: something about Bobby, we were at Bobby's place, something like that. You said Bobby was a family friend?"
"Yes, Dean. He was in the same line of work as your parents. He was like an uncle to you and your brother."
"And what exactly is my parents'… 'line of work'?" Dr Wilson spent a while consulting with his team. Dean guessed they came to a consensus because Dr Wilson turned back to him and took a deep breath.
"I know you're probably sick of hearing this by now, but we really can't tell you. If we try and force too many facts on you too early, your mind might not accept them and would turn back to your delusions. This isn't an exact science; every case of schizophrenia is different, and with yours we still have barely any details—"
"Yeah well that's another thing I'm sick of hearing. You all seem very busy… collecting data or whatever, so how come you never seem to know anything? All you ever tell me is that you can't tell me anything. So why?"
Dr Wilson took a long breath. "Well, there is one thing we can tell you. Ready for some more earth-shattering news?" His voice was light and joking, his face was not. "As of yet we haven't been able to retrieve any information—we know nothing about your condition— because up until very recently you were in a coma." He waited then, gauging Dean's reaction. There wasn't much of one. He had no idea what he was supposed to think anymore, or what the old him would have thought, the one with the memories and the healthy mind.
"How long?" His voice was quiet.
"Around a year." Dr Wilson replied. "You were delusional for some time before that, though…" he trailed off. "Are you alright, Dean? If this is a bit too much for one day, we can leave for now if you need."
"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great." The team packed up and moved out, Dr Wilson cast a concerned glance his way as he closed the door, but Dean didn't take notice. He had what he needed now. Quiet. He needed to go over what he knew, see if he could remember anything else. It was familiar now, the process of dredging his mind for loose recollections. He went over the faces he'd seen; what he'd learned; about Sam, Bobby (who he'd assumed was the hat guy), the man with the blue eyes, his parents. Something was there, it was close, drifting at the edges. Something about his parents. What had Dr Wilson said about them? Something about their jobs? Their line of work. What was it? He focused on what little he did remember about his parents: his father carrying him to bed, his mother in her white nightdress. The something that was drifting on the edges of his mind was drifting closer. An image was forming, something familiar. What was it? Something small, square. A badge. An FBI badge. Were they cops? Was that it? No. Something instinctual told him the badge was fake. Why would it be fake? He didn't know. He just felt it was. What about his house? Was it destroyed in the fire? Definitely. That wasn't a memory, that was logic. The flames were too high, too thick. Nothing could have survived that. Did his family survive? Did they all get out in time? That's what the doctors had said. After more sifting, he reached more memories of that night. Piecing them together with what he already knew, he managed to form something that was as close to complete recollection as he could manage. His father was the first to realise the danger, he took Sam and gave him to Dean to carry, he told him to run and he ran so fast without looking back, because he didn't need to see to know the fire was at his back and it would take him and his brother and burn them till there was nothing left if he didn't do as his father said and run… His father went back, he was trying to get his mother out. She didn't make it. He did. His mother was dead? Yes. She had to be. The doctors must be lying. What else? What happened next? Where did they go now the house was gone? Dean tried to find anything he could that felt like home, but all he could come up with was seedy motel after seedy motel… And there was something else… The smell of leather. Sunlight glinting off chrome. Rock music, blasted from tinny speakers, stolen by the wind tearing past the open window. Stale beer and rock salt and gunpowder and gasoline. Home. Yes. A car? A black 1967 Chevy' Impala. Yes. That was home.
8