Digits

A/N: Alright, so I'm totally nervous in posting this little offering. I've been writing fanfiction, on this site, for awhile now, but never in this genre. Anytime you throw your hat into a new fandom, I think you kind of hold your breath and pray you don't get crucified by those who understand it better than you do. At least, that's what I do. All of that is just to say 'please be gentle - it's my first time.' Hope you Enjoy!

"Ah, man, what the hell?"

"What's wrong?"

Dean Winchester held his cell phone up for his brother, Sam's, perusal. "Memory's full," he pouted, his wide eyes flitting from the folded napkin in his hand, back to the phone, before finally settling on Sam's confused face. "What am I supposed to do now?"

With a huff, Sam shook his head and rested his elbows on his knees. "You're unbelievable, ya know that?" he scoffed, fighting to wrap his brain around just how his older brother's mind really worked. The man could build a car from nothing. He could McGyver a perfectly effective weapon at a moment's notice. He could run down pop culture references that even Sam didn't understand. But when it came to cell phones? Dean was completely oblivious.

The only response he received from Dean was a shrug as he went back to studying the waitress's number and his tiny phone. The day he had feared had finally arrived. After years of criss-crossing the country, collecting numbers from barflys, desk clerks, and waitresses, his contact list was finally full. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He supposed he could just stop collecting phone numbers, but that idea was just downright absurd. Stuff his collection in a little locked box at the bottom of his duffel bag? Maybe. It was definitely better than stopping all together.

Grabbing the phone from his brother's hand, Sam scrolled through the names. "Dude, you have seven Amandas in here," he said flatly. Raising his gaze to his smiling brother, Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back on the bed. "Dean, do you even know which one is which?"

"Course I do," Dean shot, his shoulders set defensively. Of course, he didn't. How the hell was he supposed to remember seven different Amandas, from seven different cities, quite possibly in seven different months, or years? He wasn't a friggin' genius. "Give me that," he pulled the phone back and scrolled through the list. "These numbers are very important to me, Sammy. Reminders of very special young ladies. Moments, if you will."

"Right," Sam nodded, his tone dripping with the acidity of sarcasm. "Dude, you've never even called ninety percent of the women you've gotten numbers from!" Sure, Dean could boast an inordinate amount of phone numbers. But that's all they were - bragging rights. They were status symbols. Sam knew for a fact that there were only three women in that phone that Dean ever called: Ellen, Jo, and Bela. The two former were too busy avoiding the Winchesters to take his calls anymore, though, and the latter? Well, she wasn't exactly in cell range these days. He suspected that two others might have gotten a call or two over the years, but with his dying day rapidly approaching, Dean had done everything he could to distance himself from both Cassie and Lisa.

No, they didn't realize it, but most of the women who gave him their numbers would never hear from Dean again. He either left with them right then and there, or he never spoke to them again. Too many women, too little time: That was Dean's motto. Collecting phone numbers was to the older Winchester as stamps or coins were to other, less charismatic, men.

With a groan, Dean tossed the phone onto the bed and stood from his chair, folding the napkin over and over between his fingers. There had to be some way. "Wait a second," he stopped pacing and turned back to Sam with a wide victory grin. "The last time we got phones," he stated, his hand on his forehead as he tried to remember what the cute chick at the store had told him. She had a great smile. And the perkiest little . . . Upstairs brain, Dean! "Didn't they say we could get more memory? Like we could buy it?" Snatching his jacket from his bed, nearest the door, he flipped his keys in the air and winked at his brother. "Come on."

Sam could do nothing more than shake his head and chuckle. "Dean," he called out as his brother slid his arms into his heavy leather jacket and cast a glance back over his shoulder. "Ya know, it's a lot cheaper to just delete one of those other names and enter that one," he nodded toward the napkin still twisted between Dean's fingers.

Stopping cold, Dean stared in abject horror at his brother. "Delete?" he mumbled under his breath, his face twisted in confusion at the suggestion. To delete a number was to erase it. Forever. To never be able to call one of the seven Amandas or four Briannas or the Shawnas, Rebeccas, or Jills ever again. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he didn't call most of them that often, but he liked knowing that he could. And in a world that seemed to spin further out of his control by the second, there was security in knowing that he had this one comfort still at his command.

Though his every instinct told him to mock and ridicule his brother, Sam swallowed back the insult on the tip of his tongue and considered Dean. He didn't have that much longer to live. What did it matter if they bought a little bit of cell phone memory to put a smile on his face? "Ya know what? Okay," he finally caved, standing from his spot on the bed to grab his own jacket.

The fact that Sam had given in too easily was not lost on his older brother, but Dean didn't care. He needed more memory. Except that, when they arrived, the cell store was closed.

"Dude, come on," Dean groaned, his fist meeting the thick glass of the front door. What the hell kinda town had they rolled into? It was 2008. Stores opened on Sundays now. "Dammit!"

"Dean," Sam rested his hand on his brother's shoulder, fighting the small grin at the desperation in his brother's voice. "Come on. We can find another town. Another store," he offered.

But Dean didn't want to find another store. He wanted this one to open up and sell him some friggin' memory. All he wanted was to input the waitress's phone number and tuck it away with the others. Was that so hard?

"Sammy," he sighed, turning to rest his back against the door, "I'm losin' it," he admitted. When Sam didn't say anything, Dean took offense. "Ya know, you can disagree."

Sam didn't. Disagree. Dean was losing it. The closer they got to D-Day, the more he seemed to freak out over the small stuff, and completely ignore the bigger picture. While Sam spent hours every day researching ways to save his older brother's soul from the Pit, Dean freaked out over gas prices, dirty laundry, and cell phone memory. Though Sam thought he understood it, he still thought it was kind of crazy.

Instead of an answer, he only gave his brother a shrug and stuffed his hands into his pockets, heading back to the passenger's side of the car. "Can we just head back to the motel now?" he asked, the faintest hint of a mirthful smile tweaking his lips. While Dean's reaction was somewhat amusing, Sam had a new lead from Bobby to reasearch. Something that might save Dean after all.

Dean slid into the driver's seat and started the engine of the Impala. It wasn't his style to travel in silence, but words wouldn't come. He wasn't completely off his nut. He knew that the phone numbers didn't matter. Hell, in a matter of weeks, he wouldn't be calling anybody anyway. Unless Sammy could find some magical cure. And, according to Ruby, he couldn't. Not that Dean was big on believing demons, but she wasn't exactly a typical demon. He knew that he was going to die and, whether Sam chose to believe it or not, he could do little more than bide his time until his number was up.

Oh, he still did the job. Still saved the lives. And he still did it with his trademark smirks and smart-ass quips. But he knew that he wouldn't be remembered for it. There were a hundred hunters out there, doing the exact same thing he'd spent his life doing. And a lot of them did it better, more efficiently, than he did. They did it without opening the gates of hell or nearly getting themselves killed on a regular basis. They did it without making deals with demons and thieves. So what if he'd traded his life for his little brother's? The only one that semi-appreciated that was Sam, and even he was more tormented by the decision than grateful. Dean's legacy as a hunter would be that of a colossal fuck up who couldn't see enough of the big picture to know better than to keep his soul to himself.

He thought about his father, about John Winchester's legend. The man had burned bridges with nearly everyone he met. Crazy with the prospect of avenging his wife's death, he'd raised his own kids to share in the madness. Nothing mattered more to John than his hunt. Revenge gave way to obsession, and made him dangerous to everyone. Even those who tried to help him.

There had been a news report on the television when Dean was fifteen. He remembered watching it while Sammy slept in one of the twin beds behind him. Images of small children, ages seven to twelve, touting rifles and ammunition. Trained to fight in a war that had stolen their mothers and fathers while they slept. None of them had asked for it, the human interest reporter asserted in her narrative, but they simply knew nothing else. Nothing beyond being soldiers in a war that was not theirs to fight. The jungles and blazing sun hinted to Dean that these kids lived somewhere a million miles away from them. But in that motel room, he knew that they were not isolated. Hell, he'd learned to shoot that same rifle when he was nine.

"You comin' in?" Sam asked when Dean parked the car in front of their home of the last week. When Dean shook his head, Sam just sighed and pushed the door open with his shoulder. "Dean," he started. His brother didn't turn at the sound of his name. If Dean was being this quiet, he needed some time. It was the least Sam could do to give him that much courtesy.

Dean watched the lights inside the room flicker to life and then let his eyes follow Sam's lanky form. Sinking to his bed, Sam flipped his laptop open and started punching buttons, as though he knew exactly what he was looking for. Dean knew exactly what he was looking for. Because Sam wasn't exactly unpredictable. He was the antithesis of Dean, and exactly like him all at the same time. Stubborn as all hell. Tenacious as a pit bull. And loyal to a fault. Especially when it came to his brother.

Throwing the car into reverse, Dean swallowed back the emotion threatening to spill forth. He made his way to a bar the next town over and pushed through the front door easily. Sam could sit at home and search for answers to a problem that had no solution. He could lose sleep over it and worry for the next three weeks. Dean was working on his own issue. Though Sammy and Bobby would never admit it out loud, he could see in their eyes that they saw him like the other hunters did. The kid who buckled under the pressure of John Winchester's expectations. He would be remembered as the kid who never understood the concept of 'sacrifice one to save millions.' The circle he ran in would remember him with a sad shake of their head and a 'he had so much potential, but . . .'

"Hey," a soft voice spoke at his elbow.

Turning on his stool, Dean smiled at the pretty brunette. "Hey yourself," he smiled, nodding toward the seat at his left. "Whatcha drinkin', Sweetheart?"

A soft pink blush flooded her cheeks as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned her elbows on the bar. "Um, a vodka tonic," she finally managed.

The bartender overheard her and Dean nodded at the young man, the universal symbol for 'put it on my tab.' When his whiskey had been delivered along with her drink, the pair toasted silently and then drank before speaking.

"I'm Dean," he introduced himself, watching the way she averted her eyes shyly and then met his gaze once more. 'Shy' wasn't a trait Dean often found attractive. But there was a subtle difference between that and 'coy.' This one, he realized as her hand found his aganist the bar, was definitely falling into the latter category. And 'coy' went a long way with Dean Winchester.

"Amanda." After another sip, she settled into her stool and swiveled her body in his direction. "You're new around here," she told him, the blush diluted by liquid courage. When he only raised an eyebrow in response, she rolled her eyes. "Trust me. Guys like you don't just blow through here every day." She caught her lower lip between her teeth and swept her eyes over his mouth. "A girl would definitely remember you."

He felt her finger trailing a soft path from the back of his thumb to his wrist and then back again. He smelled the faintest hint of expensive perfume when she flipped her hair over her shoulder and took another drink. And he could see the invitation in her eyes. "Ya think so, huh?" His voice came out fuzzy, drunken on something far more powerful than alcohol.

"Oh, absolutely," she nodded, resting her hand on his thigh and leaning forward. "Something tells me you're not stickin' around for long."

Dean merely shrugged, his brain fighting for words when all it really wanted to do was enjoy the way her fingers were definitively making their way toward his lap. "Amanda," he spoke in a low, lucid tone as he trapped her fingers against the warmth of his inner thigh. "You wanna get outta here?" She leaned back and took another drink, her smile cracking just slightly at the suggestion.

Though she said nothing else, Amanda stood and offered her hand to the handsome stranger. Dean threw a couple of bills onto the bar to cover the tab and followed her out of the bar. In the parking lot, he motioned toward his car. "I'll follow you," he said, fishing his keys from his pocket. He'd had his fair share of one night stands over time, but he wasn't reckless. The kind of girl who would willingly get into a car with a stranger wasn't the kind of girl he was looking for. And he wasn't interested in getting tied to some Kathy Bates's bed with no chance of making his own getaway, either.

Amanda's house was modest. Pretty standard-issue, as far as Dean could tell. Of course, past the front entry, he didn't really remember much about the decor. Not with the way Amanda's ass swayed in her jeans as she led him through the living room and into her bedroom. And even when she flipped the light switch and pushed him back against her mattress, he hadn't cared to cast an inquisitive glance around the lavender-scented room. Everything he cared to see was standing before him, pulling her sweater over her head and unbuttoning her pants in what seemed like one fluid motion.

Even as the morning light poured through the window, Dean couldn't be bothered with the color of her carpet or the wallpaper pattern. He only knew that the sheets were white, with an intricate flower pattern because he saw it pressed against her bare flesh as she rested her head on his chest. Dipping his face, he dropped a kiss on the sleeping brunette's head and fought his way out from under her grasp. On wobbling legs that hadn't recovered fully, Dean stumbled to the foot of the bed and struggled to clothe himself once more.

Pulling his tee shirt over his head, he withdrew the cell phone from his pocket and noticed that Sammy hadn't bothered to leave him a message. Well, that was new. Either his brother had given up caring what the hell happened to him, or he had finally learned that there were certain things Dean had to do for himself. Though he told himself it didn't matter either way, Dean couldn't help hoping that it was the latter. He could live with the fact that his deal was airtight and he couldn't fight his way out of it. What he couldn't live with was the idea that Sammy had given up on him. Not now. Not when he was so close.

"Wow," Amanda's voice interrupted his thoughts as Dean tied his shoe and turned to smile at her over his shoulder. "He's a 'sneak out before she wakes up' guy. Who knew?" The knowing grin on her sleep-swollen lips, coupled with the way she moaned softly as her arms and legs stretched against the crisp sheets, warmed Dean's chest.

"You looked so peaceful," he shrugged, standing and smoothing his jeans over his thighs. Rounding the bed, he dropped a kiss to the top of Amanda's rumpled hair. This was the part he always hated. One would think that, after years of one night stands, he would have found a way to escape the awkward morning after. The right words, or action, should have come to him over time. Yet, every time was . . . well, it was weird.

Blinking up into his face, Amanda shoveled her dissheveled locks from her face and held out her hand. "I know you gotta go." Her wide eyes flitted to the phone in his hand. "You ever stop back through, though," she smiled, grabbing the phone and flipping to the contact list. "Call me up, Dean."

Embarrassment flooded his cheeks as he waited for her inevitable reaction. Dammit. He never let any woman enter her own number into his phone. Even knowing that their 'relationship,' as it were, was nothing more than a fling, most of them got somewhat offended by the sheer size of his conquest list. "Amanda," he started to explain the whole 'full memory' situation. But much to his surprise, she entered some numbers and handed it back to him. "What did you do?" he asked, his eyes bulging.

"Oh," she shrugged, stuggling to sit and affix the sheet to her chest. "Your phone memory was full," she explained, pointing to the object in his hand and stifling a giggle at the expression of awe on his handsome face, "So I just saved my number to your SIM card."

His what card? Dean didn't know what that meant. And he didn't really care. All he knew was that a quick look at his contact list boasted seven Amandas. And one Amanda INF. "INF?" Dean asked, his eyebrow shooting up as he cast a glance in her direction.

Leaning back against her headboard, she raked her fingers through her hair again. Her blue eyes danced mischievously. "I'll never forget." With a wink, she watched the realization sweep over his features. "That goes both ways, Dean," she added softly, the blush creeping back into her soft cheeks.

I'll never forget. Even as he headed back to the hotel, blasting AC/DC and singing along obnoxiously, he let the memory of Amanda's words flood his brain. It was his secret desire. The one that Sammy didn't understand. That Bobby and Ruby and the unholy host of others would never get. His quest. His dying wish. To be remembered. For something completely unrelated to the fucked up life he'd had thrust upon him. By someone who'd never seen him bust a ghost with rock salt, or recite a Latin incantation.

By the time he arrived back in front of the motel room, he couldn't wipe the smile off of his face. Amanda had given him something so much better than a killer blow job and some toe-curling sex. She'd given him hope that a totally hot chick in Wherever, Iowa was going to remember him when he was gone. He had lied to virtually every girl on that list. Some knew his name, but fewer than a handful of them knew what he really did, where he came from. They just knew he was a charming guy who took an interest in them, gave them a night to remember, and left them with a smile on their pretty, pretty faces.

To them, his legacy wasn't a head shake and a disappointment. It was a 'greatest night of my life' giggle that would play out a thousand times for their friends as they sat around, drinking cosmos, and reliving their wild, glory days. So maybe Sam thought his number collection was some pitiful attempt to boost his own ego when times got a little lonely. As far as Dean was concerned, his little brother didn't need to know just how desparate Dean really was to remember the scope of the names. Nobody needed to know just how much comfort he took in knowing he'd left some sort of impression on each and every one of the women represented by that list. That there was a legion of people in the world who would remember him, not as a hunter, but as a man.

Stepping through the door, he slid his coat from his shoulders and noted that Sam was asleep, slumped against the headboard of his bed. Without a second thought, Dean moved to his brother's side and lifted the laptop from Sam's legs.

Sam awoke with a start. Though he threw one gangly arm in his brother's direction, Dean side-stepped it easily and then rested his hands on his waist. "That all you got, Sammy?" He shook his head and laughed at the pouty expression on his little brother's lips. It was so reminiscent of all those years spent in rooms not completely unlike this one.

With a growl, Sam fell to his side on the bed and covered his face with his hands. "Good night?" he grumbled incoherently.

All Dean could do was nod as he gave his brother's overhanging foot a nudge and rounded the bed. "Great night," he corrected, pulling the phone back out of his pocket. After pulling the napkin out of his coat pocket, he went about entering the waitress's number from the day before. "Figured out how to get a whole new set of numbers in this puppy," he wiggled his eyebrows and grinned like a Cheshire cat in his brother's direction. When one of Sam's eyes opened, Dean nodded. "It's called a SIM card," he revealed just before Sam grabbed the pillow behind him and shoved it over his face.

Content with the newly-updated contact list, Dean tossed his phone onto the coffee table and sank to the couch, reaching for the television remote. He'd let his brother sleep for a couple of hours, and then they could pack up and head out. There had to be another case awaiting them somewhere. And he knew damn well there was another phone number out there, just waiting to be added to his memory.