Clearly he got hit by a baseball bat last night. He's groaning as he hauls himself up from the floor, head throbbing, the cold air raising goosebumps on his arms. When he prods gingerly over his own torso- it's pitch-dark, he's going by feel- there's a few sore spots, solid flesh, alien and unfamiliar.

He reaches back for what happened and draws a total blank.

The man presses his hands to his temples, getting slowly to his feet. When he stretches his arms out they connect with the iron bars of some sort of shelf, and he inches forward with his hands pressed to it, dust furring his fingertips as he goes.

Eventually he somehow finds a doorknob, and twists, and the square of darkness pushes outwards. He's looking out at a corridor; dim, with tiled walls. Maybe it's just spidey sense, but he reckons they're underground. Then he wonders why he thought they. He's the only person in sight- what is this, a nuclear bunker or something? Has the world ended?

It doesn't seem at all strange to him that he's wearing jeans; that he's broad with thick, stocky muscles under pale skin. He's probably pretty tall, and when he reaches up to touch his hair the bristly shortness isn't a surprise, but it's not familiar, either.

At the end of the corridor there's another door. He hesitates before pushing this one open; it creaks long and low, opening into what looks like a library. Lights are on, reflected in the wood of a mahogany table- and over that table's draped the facedown form of a guy, long hair pooling on the wood, arms over his head. He's snoring faintly, little snuffling noises, and there's a blanket draped over him. Protectively, the man thinks. He has no idea why.

For a second- the tiniest second- he's about to just cut and run. Then he realises no, wait, the dude probably knows something, and so he stands there for a second.

Then he goes up to the guy, yanks the blanket off him, and says, 'Okay, man, who roofied who?'

The guy twitches awake like he's been electrocuted. He looks round and lets out a long breath when he sees who it is. 'Oh. Dean.'

The man isn't sure what he's expecting of this guy, but it isn't for him to just flop back over the table and close his eyes.

And- also- 'Dean?'

The long-haired guy opens his eyes again. Then he pushes himself into a sitting position, yawning, and when his features settle again it turns out he's pretty. Goddamn beautiful.

Without looking round he says, 'Dean. Stop staring at me.'

'Is that my name? Dean?'

The other guy stops mid-stretch.

Dean- if that really is his name- says, 'Look, man, would you mind telling me what's going on here?'

The long-haired guy frowns. 'What d'you mean?' And it's like he doesn't know, like he has no idea that he- Dean?- woke up achy and cold and with an empty brain, but he has to know something, he has to, because he knows his name, right- so Dean just fists his hands in the front of the guy's shirt and drags him to his feet (and whoa is he tall) and says, 'Fucking tell me what I'm doing here or I'll fucking gut you.'

The guy just stares at him with these big shocked eyes. 'Dean,' he says.

'Where am I?'

'Th- the bunker, we- we live here-' he breaks off. 'You really have no idea?'

'And who the hell is we?'

'Us. You and me. Dean, what's g-'

'Okay- who are you?'

Dean actually feels kind of bad as soon as he says it. The guy looks scared and horrified and- ill, he realises. Pale, tired-eyed, nose faintly pink. He's delicate-featured, lean and tall as hell, and his hair's this funny silky mop.

Dean steps away, releases him, and the guy grips the edge of the table. 'I'm Sam,' he says quietly. 'Your brother.'

Looking him over, Dean says, 'Younger.'

Sam nods tentatively. 'D'you- remember at all now?'

'No,' says Dean. 'You just look younger than I feel.'

Sam nods again, clearly upset, biting his lip, and Dean turns away. The guy's basically a stranger. He doesn't want to watch a stranger crumble in front of him.

But Sam just takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the table. 'What happened?'

'How should I know? I woke up in the dark, came out here, that's it.'

The younger man digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing, leaving the fragile skin red and raw. Dean gets a random urge to swat his hands away. 'Okay. Uh. You were looking through the old Men Of Letters stuff, I think.'

Men Of what? Dean doesn't ask. 'Okay, and?'

'Come on,' says Sam tiredly. 'Let's go and see. Maybe you got hexed. Or something.' He moves towards the door.

'Sam,' Dean calls after him. 'If we're brothers, what are we doing living together? Where's our family?'

Sam hesitates, then says, 'If we don't get your memories back within twenty-four hours, I'll tell you.'

SPN SPN SPN

They spend hours hunting through files and boxes of strange things, wooden idols and antique guns and, once, a little pouch that Sam rips out of his hand immediately ('That's a curse, Dean!') There are stacks of paper everywhere, and dust flies up whenever they move anything.

After a few hours Sam starts sneezing.

'You got allergies or something, kid?' Dean asks after the fortysomethingth time. Sam sneezes into his wrist again. 'No. No, I think it's just- immune system down or something.'

Dean considers asking if he's ill, then decides against it. Hey, Sam wasn't the one waking up with no memories, was he?

Sam sneezes thirty-four more times before they stop looking.

Dean counts every single one.

SPN SPN SPN

They sit round the table in the library and Dean ignores his building hunger.

'Monsters are real,' says Sam tiredly.

Dean's not surprised. 'All of them, right?'

'Uh, pretty much, we think.' Sam debriefs him on hunting, and the knowledge settles inside Dean; it's not recognition, but it's close enough. These things Sam's saying, wendigos and spirits and demons, it fits.

When his brother hands him a gun, Dean dismembers it in five seconds.

From what Sam says- and it's not much- Dean puts together a picture. They've been hunting together for almost their whole lives, but the bunker's a new thing. He doesn't talk about their family, and Dean decides not to push it. For now.

He can't stop his gaze skating over Sam as he talks. Sam's long, nervous fingers tapping the desk. The satiny gleam of his unruly hair. Bare feet. Legs for days. Occasionally he scratches the pointed end of his nose.

Sam talks of monsters.

He never mentions lovers or nightmares or fear, but they all crawl into his words anyway.