Chapter One

Dean was kneeling in the dirt, hot tears throwing themselves at the back of his tightly shut eyes. One of his hands was buried in the soft earth, fisting against the soil; the other was pressed against the frigid carved stone, fingers splayed. Debilitating pain split something just behind his sternum, splintering and fraying and chafing. It was agony. Everything was now.

Seamus had been gone a month, and Dean was empty without him.

With a roar of pent-up anger and sadness and loss and despair, Dean curled in on himself, rocking back and forth. The tears pressed against his eyelids but wouldn't flow, wouldn't leave his eyes no matter how much he tried. His eyes flew open, and he sobbed, tracing the letters of his lover's name with his fingers.

"You promised him," came a gentle voice from behind Dean, startling him. "You promised him you wouldn't do this, Dean. He wouldn't be happy with you."

Dean leaned his forehead against the gravestone.

"I know," he whispered. "I know, I know, I know, but...I...but I can't. How did he expect me to just up and move on? How?"

He leapt to his feet and whirled around, glaring.

"I don't know," replied Luna calmly, "but I do know he wouldn't want you to pout. He'd laugh at you and hit you over the head."

Dean buried his face in his grimy hands.

"And then he'd hug me," he continued, his voice broken, "and I'd...I'd kiss him, and then he'd inevitably trip over something and fall on his bum and blame it on me."

He tried to laugh, but it came out flat and hollow. Luna fixed him with her solemn gaze, coming nearer and placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't force it, either, Dean. It's too soon. If you smother the sadness entirely, you will break. If you sit there and dwell, you will break. The one thing you can do is try to get on with your life. Yes, you will always be sad, and you will never forget him. You can heal if you don't keep ripping open the wound, but you will always have a scar. It is inevitable. When it comes down to it, though, Dean, would you want to forget about him?" asked Luna quietly.

"Yes," blurted out Dean, narrowing his eyes and jerking away from Luna's hand. "Yes, I need to forget. Thank you."

He turned away and sprinted, ignoring Luna as she called after him. The painful shard behind his sternum dug deeper, and he doubled over, clutching at his chest, tearing at his shirt and at his hair. Dean shut his eyes, gripping his hair, and sucked in a deep breath. The pain expanded, leaving a terrible numbness in its wake, and Dean straightened, only just barely able to function.

In a move very unlike himself, Dean scoured the area for a pub and found himself in one before he even registered the decision. He sucked in a shuddering breath and dug around in his pocket for his wallet. It was unusually well-stocked, Dean having just stopped by the bank to pick up money for something or the other; it didn't matter at this point.

Nothing mattered, nothing but forgetting.

"What can I get you, sir?" asked the bartender, leaning forward with a friendly grin. "We've a good set of options."

"Strongest you have," replied Dean resolutely.

The bartender looked surprised at first, but then he met Dean's eyes. A flicker of understanding registered on his face.

"Very well, sir," the bartender responded, filling up a glass of a vile-looking drink.

The part of Dean that was still alive, still just barely alive because it was in denial, fluttered wildly and screamed at him that this was a terrible idea, but he ignored it.

"Right," muttered Dean, pulling out the money due and sliding it forward.

He was determined to forget, and he did, a few drinks later. His mind was enveloped in a comfortable fog, his head feeling vaguely stuffed with cotton, and he couldn't remember precisely where he was, nor could he remember why. All he knew was the sense of accomplishment he felt. Very drunk, Dean stumbled out of the pub.

"Have a nice evening," called the bartender.

The cold air was a shock to Dean's senses, and for one awful moment, he could remember everything. Fortunately, the fog returned, and Dean was utterly relieved. He looked around, his head spinning, and attempted in vain to orient himself. With a little giggle, Dean shrugged and stumbled through London. Clearly, his feet knew where to go, because the scenery began to look vaguely familiar. His glazed eyes settled on one particular building, and something behind his sternum tugged painfully.

"Y'know somethin' I don'," he hiccupped at his feet bemusedly, grinning and beginning to laugh hysterically. "Funny."

Dean stumbled across the street, greeting whatever strangers he happened across warmly and wondering vaguely why they looked at him with mixed pity, disgust, and fear. He tripped up the stairs leading to the building and hauled the door open, bracing himself against it so he didn't fall onto his bum. The thought got him giggling again. Dean lurched through the doorway, finding himself in a warm space between two doors, and squinted at a panel lined with buttons, and he pressed one he knew. There was an eventual buzz, and the second door unlocked with a loud click. Dean giggled at the click and moved on, searching for the room and eventually finding it. He pressed the button, slowly remembering why the place was familiar.

It was Seamus's flat.

What a brilliant idea it had been to come here! He could see Seamus and they could have laughs and kisses and so much fun. Dean grinned at his feet, thanking them for their fantastic knowledge of the streets of London. A strange thought came to him, and he briefly wondered why he hadn't seen Seamus in so long. Perhaps they were angry at one another. Hm. Peculiar.

These strange thoughts were abandoned when the door swung open and it wasn't Seamus. Dean goggled at the person in the doorway.

"Can I help you?" the young lady asked him politely.

"Er," blurted out Dean, suddenly uncomfortable, "Do you know where Seamus is?"

The lady scrunched up her nose, and Dean almost laughed. He didn't, though. He needed to know where Seamus was so they could stop being mad at each other.

"I...I don't think so," she began, frowning. "Why? Are you a friend of his?"

"Yes, 'n I know he lives here," replied Dean, anger rising in his throat. "Where's he? Where's Seamus?"

Suddenly, the lady's eyes widened, and she looked at him with sympathy.

"I remember you now. You were the gentleman who sold me this place just a month ago," she told him. "I do believe you're quite drunk, however. Seamus...he doesn't live here any longer."

Confused and concerned, Dean leaned against the wall.

"I don't...I don't..." he mumbled.

"Perhaps it would be best if you came inside for a bit of tea or something. Lucky for you I can fix you up. It's not a good idea to roam the streets so inebriated," she advised him. "Oh, and you might want to hide your wand in your pocket. There are Muggles about, see."

Dean stumbled inside after her and sat down heavily in a chair when she gestured for him to do so.

"But...Seamus..." he whispered.

The young lady hurried around the kitchen, placing a teabag in a mug and filling it with boiling water.

"Careful, it's hot," she told him, setting it down in front of him. "Do you take your tea with sugar?"

Dean's forehead creased.

"Can't remember," he hiccupped.

The lady pulled out a wand and flicked it at the mug. Instantly, the steam rising from it stopped doing so, and its color changed from a brown color to green.

"Drink up," she prompted him.

Dean did so hesitantly, sipping at the tea and grimacing. It was horrid, but some small voice in his head told him it was rude to say so. Dean listened to this voice, knowing it was not nice to be rude, and finished his tea. Suddenly and cruelly, the pleasant fog in his brain was ripped away, leaving him to remember.

He didn't want to. It was better when he'd forgotten.

"Merlin," he breathed out, his eyes widening.

Abruptly, Dean passed out.