Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.
Lost
Chapter Three
The soft beeping of machinery filtered through into the grey haze. Dean blinked slowly, knowing instinctively that he was in a medical facility. The knowledge brought with it a feeling of dread, of needing to escape. He hunted through his thoughts but couldn't find any reason for his reaction. He blinked slowly, focussing gradually on a strip light that was humming on the cracked ceiling above him.
There were voices in the room; he tuned into them, sorting speech from the background noises.
"…really needs to go get checked out in hospital?" A woman's voice, concerned and vaguely familiar.
"I've run all the tests I can here, Sheryl. Our equipment ain't the best, but it's not bad for a local clinic." A man's voice, deeper, calm.
"I trust ya, Jim. Y'know that. I'm just worried about him is all, if you coulda seen him, I thought he was gonna up and die on me." There was a hint of a shake in the kindly voice and Dean frowned a little, wondering who she was talking about, thinking that they were kind of lucky to have someone worry about them like that.
"He's taken a nasty knock and no mistake. But he's a strong young fella, no reason why he shouldn't make a full recovery. Just needs to take it easy for a while, that's all. Hey now, looks like he's waking up…"
The voice approached. Dean blinked again as a face swam into view over him, the pinkish cheeks and fluffy grey moustache matching the voice perfectly. He felt the warm pressure of a hand on his shoulder.
"Easy there now. Take it nice and slow. You're okay… I'm Jim and you're in the Miner's Trail medical facility. Had a bit of a blow on the head so you've been out for a while, but you're back with us now."
The face, Jim, smiled at him encouragingly. Dean licked his dry lips and swallowed painfully. "Uhh…" he managed.
"There now. I'm just gonna raise the bed up a little, get you somethin' to drink."
The bed trembled and whirred beneath him and the room tilted slowly into view. His head pounded savagely; for a second he thought he might vomit but swallowed the feeling away until the hammer blows behind his eyes eased off. A plastic cup and straw were being held out.
"Just a sip or two now. See how that goes down."
He reached out shakily, took the straw and pulled at the cool water. It tasted cold, refreshing, better than any beer he could remember. He let it slide down his throat. It churned for a moment and then settled in his stomach.
"Thanks," he murmured as the straw was withdrawn. He could see a woman hovering at the end of the bed; she had long grey curly hair pinned haphazardly back, escaped tendrils sticking out every which way. From the motel, he realised. Obviously the 'Sheryl' the doctor was talking to as he came round. She stepped forwards, smiling a little anxiously. Dean had a fleeting memory of her concerned face as she supported him in the chair in the motel reception… and then nothing but darkness and pain.
"You got me here," he rasped, his eyes meeting her deep brown ones. "Thanks."
"No need for thanks." She flapped a hand dismissively. "It's good to see ya'll awake. You just stay there an' do what Jim here says and he'll have ya back on y'feet in no time at all."
Dean frowned, thinking suddenly of the woefully small clip of money and the ID card; no insurance card that he could recall. She seemed to read his mind.
"Don't you be frettin' about no insurance. Me an' the Doc here, we go back a long ways, an' he owes me, there'll be no bills for y'to pay. Just concentrate on getting better, y'hear?"
Dean's eyes widened with surprise; gratitude and relief fought with amazement that anyone would do that for him, a stranger.
Sheryl graced him with another smile. "I'm gonna get goin' Jim. Motel don't run itself. I'll be back later." A quick wave and she was gone.
"Well now…" Jim held out the cup again. "Sheryl has been tellin' me you were kinda confused earlier?"
-o-
There were no clues on Dean's cell phone. The call logs were deleted, no unexpected contacts or texts. Another dead end. Sam was tired, his thoughts swinging wildly from 'save Dean' to 'he's just had enough, walked off' to 'no way would Dean ever do that, not without a reason'.
He spread the map across the hood of the Impala. Three towns lay within reasonably easy reach. Blue River Forks... his finger hovered over the name, then moved on to Two Horse Pass: his gaze shifted further north to Miner's Trail. Small towns all of them, nothing much to distinguish one from the other apart from the relative remoteness of Miner's Trail.
"Agent! Hey there, Agent!" The call broke into his thoughts and Sam straightened up; he turned to see the waitress from the diner trotting across to him, a young boy in close pursuit.
"Jake here, he might've seen the man you're looking for…" She was a little out of breath, maybe more from excitement than jogging across the parking lot. She'd done her best to help him in the last couple of days, almost as though she'd sensed how important it was to him to find the man in the crumpled photograph. Sam turned eagerly to the boy, who looked embarrassed.
"It's prob'ly nothing," he mumbled to the floor, shifting his feet awkwardly.
"Hey." Sam smiled kindly, trying to keep the tension out of his tone. "Anything would be a real help. Did you see this man?" He held the photograph of Dean, folded carefully so Sam was out of sight.
"Yeah I think so. Uhh, no, I did see him, recognise the leather jacket, it's kinda cool. He was driving this car too." The boy pointed at the Impala, lifted his chin as though daring Sam to argue with him.
Sam felt swoop of excitement in his chest. "When did you see him?" The crucial question. He held his breath.
"Coupla nights ago. He parked it here, got into a blue pick-up, smart new lookin' one, I ain't sure of the type, one of them city type pick-ups, all pretty. It drove off…" He pointed at the road out of town. "Didn't see him again. Next morning, saw you, you come and got the car."
Sam swallowed. "Was he okay? Not hurt or anything?"
The boy looked confused. "Nah, he was fine, just got in and they drove off."
"Did you see who was in the pick-up with him?"
"Nah, sun was on the windshield… Can I go now?" Jake looked hopefully at the waitress.
"Sure, honey. If the agent's all done?"
Sam nodded, dug in his pocket and pulled out some dollars. "Thanks dude." Jake grinned hugely, took hold of the cash and set off across the parking lot in the direction of the small store.
It wasn't much, but it was something. No real answers but Dean had gone willingly, or at least on his own two feet.
-o-
Sheryl put the stack of laundered and folded clothes on the chair.
"It's nothin'" She waved his thanks off firmly. "There wasn't nothing else in the room. Least you've got somethin' to put on now when Jim lets you go. You could be out of here by tomorrow." She paused, "Amnesia then?"
Dean sighed, "Yeah." By the time Jim had put some questions to him in the late afternoon he'd already reached the conclusion by himself. He was called Dean, he'd been at the motel, he'd hurt his head. Pretty much everything else was a blank. It would come back, Jim had assured him, just give it some time, concentrate on getting better and taking care of that head wound.
He bit down on the panic, refusing to give into it, although the thought nagged at him. There was something important to do, something urgent. It was just so hard to think through the ripping pain in his skull; he let his gaze drift, afraid that he was being rude but too tired to have a conversation.
-o-
Sheryl left soon after, sensing his exhaustion, seeing the discomfort tight around his eyes. He was reaching for the pile of clothes as she turned in the doorway, no longer aware of her presence. He pulled the leather jacket off the top of the pile, tugged it across the bed cover and clasped it to him. He lowered his face to the leather, seemed to inhale. For a moment something chased across his expression, then he dropped his head back to the pillow. There was something about the set of his lips, the white pinch by his nostrils, that made her sure he was near to tears. She was even more sure he wouldn't want her to witness them so she slipped quietly away down the corridor.
-o-
Smells… they bring memories back like nothing else. The laundered clothes were a bright, clean fragrance. The smell of the leather jacket on top of the pile was different; it tugged at him, made him pull it towards him.
Dean dipped his face into the jacket, breathing in the smells deeply engrained into the old leather. Smoke, but not the nicotine smell of a smoker, more the leftover flavor of a thousand bars mixed with a sharper tang of something akin to wood smoke. A little tinge of beer and whisky in there too, overlaid with the unmistakeable aromas of gun oil, aftershave and an unexpected hint of copper. It brought a wave of nostalgia, a flicker of a memory of a dark beard that wasn't his own. Dean dug his fingers into the leather, pulling in the smells of his life, a life he couldn't remember. He dropped his head back onto the pillow, hugging the jacket to his chest, afraid to let it go, fighting against the surge of misery that rose up and threatened to overwhelm him.
He was concentrating on breathing slowly, keeping himself in check, when he first heard the noise. A little swish, as though the curtain around the second, unoccupied bed was being moved. Then bare feet on linoleum, approaching.
Dean turned his head slowly, fighting against the vertigo brought on by the movement and stared in the direction of the noises. There was nothing there, although the air in the room seemed suddenly colder. For some reason that set off alarm bells in his brain although he didn't know why. Tense, he held his position as long as he could, until the pain behind his eyes began to unscramble his vision. Moaning a little, he dropped his head back to the pillow, sure as his eyes slid closed that he caught a glimpse of something whisking out of the open doorway. He tried to open them again, but was too tired, sleep dragging him down into a dream of a faceless, tall man leaning against a shiny black car.
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