Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, not me. Any lyrics posted, are not owned by me either.

There's someone in my head, but it's not me,
And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear,
You shout and no one seems to hear and if the
band you're in starts playing different tunes,
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

"Brain Damage" by Pink Floyd

His pupils appeared constricted, the green irises barely seen, eyelids flickering. His skin glistened with sweat, heavy panting ripping through his throat. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, beginning to feel dizzy as the forest floor spun wildly below. The 14-year-old whimpered aloud and his frame shivered. He glanced upwards, chin pressed to his chest, up to his father. His face was etched into a snarl, fury radiating from his face. The grip on both of his ankles was tight enough, that his feet felt numb. His father raised his voice above the howling wind, bellowing down at his son. "DO YOU FEEL IT NOW, DEAN?!"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, raising his own voice hysterically. "P-Please, D-Dad, I-I-"

"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION! DO YOU FEEL IT NOW?!"

"D-DADDY, PLEASE! I-I DON'T K-KNOW W-WHAT Y-YOU'RE T-T-T-T-T-!" He cut himself off this time, tears beginning to seep from his eyes. He hadn't called his father "daddy", since he was four-years-old. Dean was 14-years-old now, a big boy, so it wasn't necessary for him do so anymore. He was frightened though, feeling as he were four-years-old all over again, openly sobbing as he would at that age.

The hands shook his ankles, causing his back to smack into the railing of the watertower, that his own father had him hung upside from. "JUST ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION!"

Dean wasn't hanging from his father's hands though. No, he was now right side up, hanging on desperately to the railing with one hand. His shoulder throbbed, pulled out of it's socket, gun shots heard from the ledge above. A round of gunfire was heard, his father calling out to his younger brother. His grip was loosening, the 14-year-old feeling faint. He heard his father's voice bellow out, above a roar, and Sam's scream of agony. "SAM!"

"S-Shit..." Dean groaned, voice barely heard above the howling wind. The sweat on his hands was causing his finger to slowly slip from the railing. His was going to fall and his family wouldn't even know where he had went. His hand wasn't slipping though. In fact, he wasn't moving an inch. He found himself standing on top of the railing, tennis shoes slick with mud. They were beginning to slide forward, he was moving himself to slide forward. The tears openly rolled down his face, snot oozing from his nose. He raised his arms outwards, wind rippling across his face, panting wildly. He full leaned his entire body weight forward, body beginning to tumble through the air. He went head-over-heels and his heart thudded loudly. The ground rushed up to Dean, faster, and faster, and he didn't scream. He smacked into the underbrush, fallen at least a hundred feet, pain radi-

The underbrush was missing, replaced by a hallway. He breathed thickly, gazing about. There were numbered doors on either side of the hallway and a wheel chair to his right. The walls were a peeling, mint color. The white tilted floor appeared to have permanent scuff marks scattered across it. Dean was thoroughly confused. He realized he wasn't 14-years-old, but in fact 34-years-old. He also realized he was wearing something new as well. A white v-neck and baggy, mint sweatpants. His feet were clad in a pair a thin grey slippers. Dean cautiously turned around, taking in his surroundings.

"Hello, John, how are you this fine evening?" Dean jolted at the sudden voice from behind, whirling around. The professional smile that had spread across his lips, immediately melted into concern. "Did I frighten you?"

The 34-year-old narrowed his eyes, seizing up the figure before him. He appeared to around his mid-50's, hair grayed, yet shades of brunet were visible as well. His dark green eyes were honest and concerned. The horn-rimmed glasses framed his face. His white coat had a white button-up underneath and a sky blue tie. His slacks were dark, shoes spotless. The tag on his coat caught his eye. "DR. R. GREEN, PSYCHIATRIST" and include a photograph of the man's face, younger though, by at least a decade. "...No...you didn't..."

"I sure hope not. Where you heading somewhere this afternoon?"

"Yeah, uh...yeah..." He knew he was in a mental hospital by this point, judging from the doctor's badge, but he wasn't confident as to why. Was he on a hunt again with Sam? Speaking of Sam, where was he? What did they hunt last time they had been to one? He couldn't quite recall. He stared at the doctor for a moment, before asking. "I'm, uh, looking for the super tall guy. With the long hair, you know which one he is?"

Doctor Green frowned. "Are you talking about Sam?"

His brother used his real name. "Uh, yeah, you know where he is?"

"John? Are you feeling alright at the moment?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Look, do you know where he is or not?" The doctor stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dean's eyebrows furrowed, feeling uncomfortable from the stranger's touch. He was ushered to a seat on the opposite of the hallway. Dean had complied, not even thinking about why he had done so, though he did jerk the hand off his shoulder. This didn't feel right. "What?"

"Are you seeing any bright lights, John? Hearing any ringing in your ears, again?"

Dean appeared bewildered. "No? And, why the hell you keep calling me John?"

"Do you know were you are?" He questioned, eyes wide, as he squatted down beside him. He voice came out softer, explaining carefully to him. "You're in Belleville, Illinois, at Oak Acres Mental Hospital."

"Am I here to...did you ask me and Sam to come here for a...reason?"

"No, no, I didn't ask for you to come here. About a year ago you were discovered by a young couple taking a walk through Jefferson Park. They took you to Jefferson Memorial Hospital, where you were tended to. The doctors there tried to get your name, but you had a series of severe panic attack in response to these efforts. They sedated you, but each time you woke up, you were hysterical. After about of week of this you became violent. You were sent hereafter a particular episode...Does any of this make you recall this past year?"

"...no, it doesn't...w-who are you?" Dean felt as though he didn't want to remember. This wasn't right. He pulled himself up to his full height, the seat clattering loudly beneath him. The doctor startled at the sudden movement, beginning to stand as well. When he was to his full height as well, the blond grasped the collar of the doctor, slamming him up against the wall, snarling. "Where the fuck is my brother?!

Doctor Green remained calm and collected during the event, despite the fact that a threatening face was inches from his own. He obviously had experience with patients attacking him. "John, you need to release me immediately. Security will alert the orderlies to sedate you, if you do not. If you calm down I can properly explain everything, alright?"

Dean thought about the amount of orderlies they could send out and how easily it would it be to take him down. This was a battle he would most diffidently lose. His fists loosened their grip, though his glare didn't lessen. The doctor adjusted his collar, smoothing out the wrinkles that had formed in his button-up, before nodding to him. "Thank you, John."

"Stop calling me that." He grounded out.

"What would you like me to call you then?" Dean didn't answer, wary of the situation. He didn't trust this doctor for a second. "Well, I suppose I can explain what I know, until you decide I'm trustworthy enough to reveal what you remember your name to be. After you became my patient here, I discovered you had an unusual case of amnesia. While you couldn't quite recall who you were or where you had came from, you recalled other, strangely specific details of your past. You had a younger brother named Sam and you had been traveling with for several years now, on what you described to be a hunt. While you could recall certain events, where you would hunt...'monster', you couldn't recall much else. Before I continue an further, I would like to to know...do you believe in monsters?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Look, doc, I already think you know that answer and it's pretty damn well clear that I do."

"While I did already know the answer, I wanted to know if you still do, after clearly recalling more about your past. I, and much of humanity, don't believe in any of that and due to your beliefs, you've been labeled as delusional in those aspects."

The doctor received a glare at that, the voice answering coming out low. "I ain't crazy."

"Being delusional doesn't automatically make one 'crazy' though. In fact, many people live day to day lives with delusions. Whenever they're of delusions of grandeur or of fairy tale creatures, everyone has them. And those that do imagine hearing or seeing things that aren't there, don't always see monsters. Perhaps someone imagines those around them don't care, or any other examples, would explain such delusions one has about themselves. You may be delusional in the sense that you believe monsters are real, but that doesn't mean you're 'crazy' by any means."

That sounded...right. He shook his head immediately though, aware that the doctor was attempting to force Dean to feel comfortable around him. He couldn't allow himself to being dragged into such a situation. His voice came out steady, though a hint of rage being barely concealed was evident in his voice. "...do you know where Sam is, yes, or no?"

"We have no idea where he is or if he's been searching for you. Your phone had a number, under the contact name, 'Sam'. When we asked you if that was his name, you confirmed it was, but when we tried the number, it appeared to be disconnected. We never found any other leads to him."

"Well, you wouldn't. And, there's more than one number I'm gonna try out. Where's the phone?" Dean needed to remove himself from this mental hospital as soon as possible. He wasn't going to be forced to take any crazy pills and be told that monsters aren't real all damn day long. He knew better than anyone else that wasn't true.

"You are more than welcome to use it. It's right down the hall here, to the left. Once you make your phone calls though, I believe we should have a session to discuss what you remember at the moment."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean headed down the hallway, briefly glaring at the doctor. He distantly heard hysterical sounded shouted, from a hallway he passed by, frowning at it. He continued his approach to the phone, the wall at the end of the hall. Crazy people were always yelling about some shit in places such as these. He plucked up the public phone from the jack, dialing the number he usually used on his phone. After the women's voice intoned that the phone had been disconnected, he realized the doctor was telling the truth. He preceded to call another one, discovering that one was connected as well. When he tried the third number though, he received a voicemail. "Sam, it's Dean. No, I'm not dead, or been fucking around with you this past year. I apparently had amnesia or some shit, until now. I'm at some mental hospital. It's called Oak Acres or some shit like that. Um, it's in...Belleville, Illinois, I think one of the doctors said. I'll explain more, but can you just call this place back and ask for a Doctor Green? I'll wait a few days for you to call back. If you don't I guess I'll have to leave myself and find your ass on my own. Bye."

He hung up the phone, thinking about other options. He could attempt to pray to Ca-Dean's eyes flickered over to the doctor on the opposite end of the hallway. Dr. Green held a clipboard, scribbling onto it, who knows what. He had a feeling it was about him though, especially considering the fact, that the doctor kept glancing up briefly at him. No, he would pray to Cas in private, if he was going to, without the watchful gaze of the doctor. He decided to dial Kevin's phone number, knowing he was in the bunker last time he saw him. After a moment, a feminine voice came to his ears. "Hello?"

The 34-year-old frowned. "You know a Kevin?"

"Um, no? Who is this?" He hung up, wondering why the young adult would change his number. He sighed, shaking his head, as he headed back down the hallway. He could attempt to call a few other numbers later. Though South Dakota was a few states away, he was confident Jody wouldn't have a problem driving to Illinois for him. He froze in mid-step. Jody Mills. The last time he heard anything about her, Crowley had nearly made her choke on her own blood. For what? Why was the King of Hell attempting to kill her? A demon tablet. He wanted the demon tablet and wanted them to stop the...the trials.

"John?" He was in front of the doctor now, frozen in place. Sam. Sam had undertaken the trials...or at least attempted to. What had happened the last time? His brother was attempting to undertake the final trial, to cure a demon...which demon? He couldn't remember. Did his brother succeed? Was he now dead? Dean gulped thickly, shaking his head slowly. A hand was placed upon his shoulder. "Are you alright? Did your brother answer."

"No..." The blond felt himself distantly reply. He didn't feel as though he were in the room. His brother might be dead. He might be dead. No, not he wasn't dead. He began to feel himself once more, as soon as he told himself that. He shook his head, brushing aside the shoulder. "I'm fine. No, he didn't answer. I can try some...friends later on. Kinda tired right now. Can I go to my room?"

"Yes, you can. We can talk, after you wake up, alright?" Dean allowed himself to be led away, down two different hallways, before a door was opened to his left. 24. His room was number 24. The doctor ushered him in, leading him to the bed. Dean settled himself upon the bed, crossing his arms over his chest, before observing the room. The walls appeared to be the same exact shade as the hallways outside, though it wasn't peeling in this room. The window had white curtain framing it and was cracked open. A writing desk, with a chair in front of it was underneath it. On the writing desk with a radio, scattered papers, crayons, and various novels. A door beside his bed, made him curious. A closet perhaps? "I hope you feel better, when you wake up, John."

"Ok," He answered, shutting his eyes. After a pause of silence, he heard the doctor approach the window, and shutting the curtains. Then, he heard him retreat from the room, gently shutting the door behind him. Dean waited a minute or two, before he opened his eyes. He sat up, planting his feet on the floor beside him bed, speaking aloud. "Ok, Cas, you better be listening, because I really want outta this shithole. I'm stuck in some sort of mental hospital in Illois and it would be awesome if you came to get me right now."

He waited for the angel to appear, yet he didn't. "Alright, Cas, are you pissed off at me? I don't even know what the hell is going on and this is getting really weird...come on, Cas. You know I only pray to you, when I need some help...hello? Goddammit, are you even listening? Cas? Castiel? Please, I just want...I just want to know what happened to Sam...the trials...did he finish them? Is he...d-dead? Cas?"

Castiel never answered him though.

"What's your name?" Dr. Green asked him, as the pair sat in the private room, for their session. This was honestly the last place he wanted to be, especially after taking a refreshing nap, but Dean needed to play this game, until he had received an answer from someone that could help him. He had called Jody, but had only received a voicemail, just as he did with Sam. He even tried calling Castiel, but had found it was disconnected as well. That one didn't actually surprise him, considering the fact that the angel never paid for the phone. Dean had been responsible for that, but he was surprised Sam didn't take that over, once Dean left the situation. Yes, he only needed to play this came for a brief period of time.

"Dean." His eyelid twitched, when he noticed the doctor writing that down on his clipboard of his.

"Do you remember your last name?"

"Martin."

The writing briefly paused, as he glanced up from his writing, raising a eyebrow. "Dean Martin? As in the dead singer and actor?"

Dean smirked. "Well, it looks like I'm back from the dead, aren't I?"

The doctor removed his glasses, wiping them on his coat with a sigh. "Dean, if that is your real name, I would appreciate it, if you actually put forth the effort to truthfully answer me. You were never this difficult to work with before and I'm not sure why you are now."

"Look, Rog, can I call you Rog? Look, Rog, I don't belong here. We don't really need to do any of this Norman Bates shit, alright?"

"Why do you believe this is considered 'Norman Bates shit', if I may ask?"

"Well, I don't know, Doc. It might be that this is the loony bin and that Norman Bates was as crazy as they came."

"While I do agree that the behavior exhibited in the movie was quite unusual, real life isn't quite as dramatized as that. We could easily assist someone to come to terms with their Dissociative Identity disorder and be able to live a fairly normal life. Just as I good assist you now, with your issues you're experiencing."

"Let me guess: You think I have some 'headmates'. Got some friends up in my noggin, right?"

"No. While I do know John better than Dean, I know they are actually the same person. It's not uncommon for those with amnesia to act differently than who they were before it. You don't remember the past year, yet you do recall the rest of your past, so it's only natural John would completely disappear. Once you remember both sets of memories, your personalities should merge into one."

"Well, that's an interesting theory and all, but I think I've had enough of this for one day." Dean began to stand from the couch in the doctors' office, intending on leaving to his room.

"Dean, while I usually allow my patients the choice of leaving a session, I don't think I will this time. If you don't sit down, to listen to what I have to say, I will call the orderlies to make you. We still need to talk about what I've diagnosed you with."

The hunter plopped back down on the couch, rolling his eyes at the threat. "Jesus, you're really going to do this, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. While your cocky attitude may suggest you don't care, I believe you actually do. After all, you always cared what you father though of you, didn't he?"

Dean narrowed his eyes dangerously, crossing his arms over his chest, jaw twitching furiously at the words. "You don't know shit about my dad."

"Other than what you've told me, no. He expected you to always watch out for your brother, even though it was supposed to be his responsibility as a father's, and not your's. I know he was Marine, which may explain his need to have order, and why you had to always follow his rules, word-for-word. He never wanted to talk about your mother, even when you really wanted to. He was there during your mother's death, though you couldn't quite recall how she had passed. You do remember that was the first night your brother was placed into your care though."

"..."

Dr. Green sighed. "We're not here to speak about your father right now though. We're hear to discuss what you've been diagnosed with over the course of the past year. I suppose I should begin with the amnesia. You don't appear to have received it by physical means. When you were in the hospital, no injuries were found on your body. You were nearly starved to death and catatonic when they originally found you though. Such a state may suggest your amnesia is caused by a traumatic event, that your mind was, and still is attempting to avoid. You have Post Traumatic Stress disorder, which I have also linked back to the traumatic event. You've had a great deal of panic attacks over the past year due to this. They usually occur when we try to make you remember your past or when you have nightmares. You never quite recall the details of those either."

"Well, it sure seems like I'm having on right now, doesn't it?"

"...you weren't quite as sarcastic as John, I've noticed. I understand you're attempting to avoid this from unsettling you though. PTSD can be quite a disturbing topic to speak of."

Dean pursed his lips. "Ok, well, I think I'm done right now. I listened to you, so I can leave now?"

Dr. Green released a sigh, waving him out. "Alright, you may leave. This isn't over yet though, do you understand?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean strolled out of the office, leaving the door wide open behind him. He headed down the hallway, intending on heading to observe his surroundings. He needed a plan to escape, just in case no one came for him in a few days. All of the exits have warnings on them, that the doors were locked, and attempts to unlock them would set off alarms. He rarely saw orderlies, but that didn't mean they didn't see him. They probably even had a camera on him, as he stood there. It would be difficult to escape, but not impossible. Dean was going to continue exploring, yet he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. "Whose there?"

Whoever was down the hall to his right froze in place, as he turned to them. The short man, with neatly combed reddish hued hair didn't appear familiar. He seemed to be frightened of the attention he had at the moment though, eyes wide behind his crooked horn-rimmed glasses. He recognized him to be a patient, due to the similar clothes he wore. A bible was held tight in his grip, hands trembling. Dean rolled his eyes, approaching the man. "Dude, why're you staring at me?"

"I-I am n-not..." He mumbled in reply, avoiding eye contact with the hunter.

"Yeah, you were. I know you?"

He shook his head, freckled cheeks beginning to redden. "N-No."

"You know me?"

"I-I...know of y-you."

"What, that doctor talk about me?"

"N-No, there's j-just talk o-of you..."

"What the hell does that mean?" He questioned the patient, beginning to become frustrated. He also found himself wondering why his speech sounded familiar to his ears. The words sounded slightly hesitant though, as though he weren't certain the words were coming out right. Was English his second language?

"P-Please, I am just a-attempting to...I-I just want t-to m-move on...I d-do not want a-any trouble...p-please, j-just leave me a-alone."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Dude, what're you going on about?"

The man appeared confused, as Dean reopened his eyes.. "Y-You don't...k-know?"

"Know about what?!" The blond finally shouted, causing the man to cling to Bible tighter, biting his plump bottom lip. He sighed at the sight. "Look, O just want to know what's going on here, alright?"

"I-I do not want to b-be...i-involved anymore...j-just ask...ask him."

"Who?"

His eyes flickered to the hallway the opposite of direction of them, eyes appearing to glint brightly for a moment. Dean found the sight to be wholly be unnatural in appearance and he felt as though the man might not be entirely human. "...A-Aleister knows..."

The 34-year-old glanced over his shoulder with a frown, before turning back to the short man. He was bewildered to discover he had vanished though, leaving him alone in the hallway. Perhaps the man not being entirely human wasn't an untrue statement after all. Dean rolled his eyes though, frustated. "Why can't I get any straight answers around this damn place?"

"Oh, you wanted to speak to Aleister, again?" The elderly, petite nurse asked, beaming brightly at him. Dean wasn't confident as to why a mental hospital would allow someone as physically weak appearing to work at a place such as this, considering the fact that multiple patients tended to be violent. He had only being here (at least mentally) for nearly a day, but he had already seen three different ones attempt to either attack nurses or other patients. He could imagine someone easily overcoming and injuring her in their assault. He had more pressing matters to focus on at the moment though. "It's good that he's finally making friends!"

"Um, yeah, I guess."

"Oh, I'm sorry, John. You've only spoken to him one time, so perhaps I'm probably overstepping my boundaries." She answered, beginning to remove herself from the office chair, and lead him to Aleister Sheppard's room.

"Uh, no, it's fine. I'm just...remembering some things...and I think I might have known him before or something."

"Oh, that's great! That's odd though, that Aleister never said anything, when you ran into him with your lunch tray. Was it awhile back that you two knew each other? He might not completely remember you then."

"Uh, we used to work together."

"In what?"

"Um...hunting?"

"Oh, deer and such?"

"Sorta..."

The nurse, Linda, his mind randomly supplied, knocking upon the door. He frowned, wondering where the name had appeared in his memory. He was distracted by this train of thought though, when she spoke to the door, voice raised. "Aleister? You have a visitor. May we come in?"

There seemed to be no reply, though she nodded to herself, opening the door. The pair stepped in, Dean's eyes drawn to the back of the individual in mind. He seemed to be on a stool in front of an easel, brush steadily stroking across the painting displayed. Half of the picture seemed to be finished, the colors blurred together in a hellish portrait. Oranges, reds, yellows, dark colors, were present to the eyes. Dean felt a sense of familiar unease at the sight, swearing that souls of the damned screeched wildly at him from the fires depicted, just as they had been when he had been to Hell. His eyes shifted to the slightly plump figure, the frame of the person familiar to his mind. "Aleister, I don't know if you remember, but this is John. John ran into you with his tray the other day, do you recall?"

The hand paused, lowering back down, as he twisted around. He wore a loose-fitting black sweater and a pair of sweatpants to match. His neatly trimmed beard was thick and dark, though streaks of gray were visible to his eye. The man's bangs were unkempt, though the rest of the hair on top of his head was smooth appearing. His curved eyebrows rose slightly, chocolate brown eyes recognizing Dean. When he spoke, an extremely thick British accent was heard, thicker than it was the last time Dean had heard it. "Yes, Linda, darling, I do."

"Crowley?!"

End Chapter 1

Alright, to start off with, this is actually a reboot of the single chapter I posted of this fic, back in December of 2014. At the time, I actually had become distracted with my Gravity Falls fic, which I'm actually thankful for. I've improved my writing since then and I find this story will be much better due to this. While I do still watch Supernatural, I do so mostly out of loyalty at the moment. I'm finding that overall, that show seems to be going downhill, and I honestly think they should start to wrap up the show. They've announced and season 12, so there's obviously more episodes in the future (If any readers don't agree on my opinion, it's alright, since I won't do any bashing of the current plot line, other than what I've stated right now). The last time I actually really enjoyed the show, was around season 9, so I decided to mix in some plot lines of that season into this fic. Basically, everything until the end of season 8 has occurred, which includes the angels falling. While I don't quite recall what I originally had planned for this fic, I've recreated what it will be about, so that I could still write will be random at best, considering the fact that I have a another fic, school, and work in my schedule. I might be able to post a new chapter every two weeks, but that's not a guarantee. I'll try my best though, so I hope you all enjoy this first chapter.