This chapter, I would like to quickly say, is one of those chapters I need to clairafiy a bit. I decided a while ago how I was going to write this, but I never really said it. When ever the chapter starts out where both boys are together, actively talking, I will be flashing back and forth between perspectives so it becomes dynamic. It is the chapters where it starts off without one or one leaves for great portions of time that I remain on one person's perspectives. Oh ya guys, I found a solution to the time in between my posts. I am going to post these rsf and remove them right before my next posts, so the wc is not driven up by them too bad.
Finally, yes this is a shorter chapter. But none the less important. Because it is setting up for something you guys will be looking forward to hearing about. The boys' first hunt for answers and something else plaguing a small town...but more on that later. Don't want to drop too much of the plot on your laps right now. Having dessert too early can spoil your appetite. So...
As is my trade mark for this story:Disclaimer: Let's make a list of all the things I do not own in this story and my intentions. I do not own Sam or Dean. I do not own any of the names and have nothing against or for the ones I picked. I do not own the personality types. I do not own plot types or the idea of Dean and Sam not knowing each other. I do not intend to offend, insult or hurt anyone by writing this. I do not own any of the plotlines of season one, two, three, or four of Supernatural. This is a non-profit story, not meant to do anything but entertain those few golden souls who read it and use massive spurts of inspiration a sixteen-year old mind gets so they do not drive her insane. The one thing I do own, in fact, is combining these elements in the way I do. So please, don't sue.
Why the heck were there always little dots on the ceilings? Were they there just to put you out of your misery when you were truly and painfully bored?
These were Dean's first thoughts as he woke and his eyes adjusted to the light. He couldn't help but count a few, just as he vaguely remembered doing in grade school when he got in trouble. For while the big things in his past were destroyed, leaving a massive hole in their wake, those little tiny details, the things he did as punishments, the smell of branished leather and gun powder, even details to how his car ran stuck with him.
But as Dean surveyed his surroundings, he found this second major thought of the day…
Where the fuck am I?
The walls around him were shaded an off white. Off in the sense that some idiot decided to throw in a little red at the last second to make the glowy pink color around him. Dean's mind went straight to last time he'd thrown Jake's red socks in with his white shirt. He hadn't trusted himself with the laundry since.
Cabinets hung across the walls along with a few pictures he couldn't really decern in the lighting framed them. There was a deep mahogany dresser with tinged brass handles and typical ornaite designs. But there was no tv or clock in sight.
As a matter of fact, no bed either he realized as he looked down at the coach, shaded the same pinky color as the walls. He was a little embarrassed, as there was a purple stain right where his mouth had been minutes ago. Plus judging by all the evidence either this was some sick joke or he'd slept at some random chick's house last night. He was guessing the latter, because the first made no sense. Not to mention the thick stack of girly-smelling blankets piled atop him attested to someone worrying over him. Only a girl could fuss this much.
He eyed him watch. 5:23 am…which was really weird. Dean had never been able to sleep more than four hours. It was one of the things that got him kicked out, but he never could. He'd tried. Couldn't even on the weekends most often. So either he was up ultra late, a fact he probably would have liked but truly didn't feel like it was right, or there was something wrong.
A second later, as he went to get up, he got his answer. His head was swimming, throbbing as if someone stuck Woody the Woodpecker on it and set him to jack hammer. He could see his cloths, the same ones he wore yesterday. Really no surprise. But what was was the massive sweat stains and the vague smell of bile wafting to his nose.
What the hell happened to me?
Was his next really coherent thought as he stumbled forward, his legs shakey as Pop Eye's after a long run at sea.
"Man I really need some spinach." He mused aloud, cracking a little laugh at his own private joke. He stood by the window, peeling back the thick lavander curtains to see a familiar road at an angle he had never seen before.
For just across the road maybe a block down toward the right was Hank's, Jake's stepdad's bar. Having begun paying more attention to the younger boy, Dean knew based on this that this was Sam's house. He gave the room another quick glance.
"Well you sure know how to pick um Sammy." He murmured. This had officially gotten weird. Why was he even here? Did he get drunk or something last night and Sam just had him sleep it off here? How had Sam even been involved in the first place?
Then he remembered the project, him being supposed to meet Sam at the library. He quickly came up with the most logical idea about what happened. Sam was young rapist who came to town and saw him. Then he drugged him and brought him back here.
He couldn't help back smile at the idea. Of course, there was just no way, but it was still a funny theory.
Having finally regained his sea legs, he realized what he wanted now more than ever was just to get out of here and sort this all out. There were too many questions, not enough answers for this. Not to mention he really needed a drink.
He moved quietly, not wanting to wake Sam or his parents. The house was still fairly dark but Dean had had good eyesight for as long as he could remember. He was at the kitchen door, ready to walk right out and go to Jake's or a bar. Any where.
But before he could pull the knob, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was so quiet, even his normally alert senses hadn't caught that anyone was there. Hense the fact that he nearly jumped half way across the floor.
But for some reason, Dean did not have to look to know who it was. "Jesus Sam."
He turned toward the younger boy as he flicked on the lights. "Dean what the heck do you think you are doing? I mean, you wake up somewhere strange and you just leave? Don't you even wonder what happened?"
Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. "No offense Sam, as strange as your house is, it ain't exactly the weirdest place I have ever woken up in without knowing how I got there or even where I was."
"Well this time you should…because this time, even I don't know who's fault it is. But I don't think it was yours…"
Dean took a look at Sam's face for the first time. Like a serious look. He hadn't slept well, Dean could tell. And he was worried about something, obviously by the younger boy's rapid runs through his hair. Dean really didn't know why, but he knew it meant he was nervious or deep in thought or frusterated every time he did that.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked, turning away from the door.
"I mean, last night I drove you to my place, thinking you were just drunk. But then you went spastic and you were cooking. And then this weird random guy rushes up, jabs you with a needle, tells me not to take you to a hospital, and leaves with you unconscious and me thouroughly freaked to hell. You ain't leaving here till I have an answer man. What the hell happened to you?"
"What does it matter to you anyway, Sammy." He pulled out a small canister, desperate for at least a little alcohol. "Mr. Perfect needs to be a know-it-all too?"
He let out a fake laugh, hoping to hide the fact that Sam's revelations freaked him out. "Dean…I think you know why I care. " he turned away. "I mean, it can't just be me who sees the connections. You came here a year ago and went right into foster care. Same with me. You don't remember much about before then, and neither do I. Then there's the fact that I really really wanna hate you but I can't."
"Thanks."
"All I am saying is, don't you gotta know something is off?"
Dean hesitated. "I don't know…." He let Sam's words sink in and the more they did the more he realized Sam was right… "Yes…"
Sam and Dean spent most of the rest of the morning talking. Now that the cat was out of the bag for both of them, everything was suddenly easier. Although they had been assigned with each other on a project on famous writers and their motivations and possible personal connections, the boys at the moment were more concerned with learning as much as they could about each other.
"So, who's room was that anyways?" Dean took another bite of his reesespuffs before continuing. "Don't tell me its your room. Cuz if it is, that is just sad."
"Uh no actually. That's my adopted sister, Liz's room. She is really their kid, but she's grown up and gone to college. That's why they decided to foster me…it was empty around here."
"Guess they liked you huh? Well, no surprise there. Mine got ticked at me in the first week and gladly kicked me out just after my 18th. Not like I didn't deserve it." He dribbled a little of his mouth as he said this, speaking as casually as one would of the weather.
"Why do you always do that?" Sam asked after a moment.
Dean shrugged, truly not even paying much attention on the current conversation. "Do what?"
"Put yourself down like that…" Dean looked at him. "I'm serious. You don't need to be like this…"
Dean cut him off. "Don't start that whole 'You're better than you think,' shit. You don't know me." But deep down, a part of him knew that wasn't as true as he would like to think.
But it got the desired effect. Sam dropped the subject and the room went quiet for a while as he stirred his oatmeal in an absent fashion.
"That's it." He said softly, such that Dean was unsure if he was meant to hear it. He snatched his bag off the counter behind him. After a bit of rifling he produced a notebook and a pencil.
Dean groaned. "Oh don't tell me you seriously wanna work on the project right now..I just woke up man. I can't stomach school till 2:10."
"That's when school gets out." Sam cocked his brow at Dean.
"Exactly…" Dean gave a smug smile.
Sam just looked at him for a minute, wondering if he really was for real. Then he shook his head. "No, I actually wasn't planning on working on THAT project. There's a different one I have in mind…" He scribbled something onto the sheet.
"And what's that?"
"Well," he looked up from his printing. "we both know there has to be something going on here. There's too much coincidence. So I say we make a list. Maybe if we think enough, one of us can figure out the truth of this all."
"Sounds cool to me…" He paused and then got a massive grin on his face. "How bout this. You and I were kidnapped by Amazons and for some unforunate reason we lost them and our memories."
Sam couldn't help but chuckle. "I don't know Dean. Pretty sure those are just from the comic books." He suddenly averted eye contact. This was just so weird. Here was this kid who almost got him pulverized and now Sam was talking to him civilly. More than that, he never realized hidden in all those idiots there could be someone as funny and fun to be around. And even though he could be a pain in the ass, Sam found himself befriending him. Which was just scary.
Sam continued jotting down ideas. Then all of the sudden, an idea occurred to him. "Dean?" he tapped his lip with his pencial, almost wondering if he should even start.
"Huh?" The elder's green eyes looked into his. There was something so painfully familiar about them. It felt impossible that he'd be able to see so much in someone's eyes. He was laid out, plain as written word in them. And Sam did not see what everyone else did when they looked at the same sight. He saw warmth, protection, love beyond his years that was alluring and fastenating. He saw fear, confusion, and insercity so strong he wanted to look away. He saw power, passion, obessesion even. But above all he saw through Dean's mask.
All of this was so distinctly written, Sam knew for sure his next words had just cause. But how could he say it. "Do you remember your parents or anything else?"
Dean squinted slightly. "It's all fuzzy. You know, it's weird. I remember waking up in the hospital remembering my first name, but not my last. I remember weird things. Like never really having much of a home. I mean, it's not like I forgot it. I just know I never had one. And then there's just different things…like it's funny. I remember what my mom used to say to me before I went to sleep, but I don't remember her name or her face. My father's the same way. But then there's…" Dean hesitated.
"What Dean? What is it?" Sam pursued in an encouraging tone.
"Well…" He began, seeming almost embarrassed. "There's this dream…I've had it every night since I got here. I was in this house. And it was burning down. Smoke was everywhere and pieces of the building were constantly falling. Its kinda fuzzy, but I got trapped somehow underneath a pillar…I always keep feeling like the reason why was important but I can never remember it. Anyway, I started to gag and felt as though I was going to die for sure. Then something hot struck me in the shoulder, probly a piece of the house. Then there was this sound and this face…" he seemed reluctant to go on. "Everything kinda fades. Not like the dream though…I mean my life fades after that."
"But it was just a dream, right?" Sam asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Dean shook his head. "I don't know, but…" he raised his shirt and there, plain as day, was a deep red burn. Sam couldn't stop himself from leaning in. It seemed to match a little too well with Dean's dreams. Sam had never been one to believe in coincidence…
Sam glanced at his watch. Unfortunately, really figuring out anymore about what was going on was going to have to wait. "We better go…if we want to be on time for school…"
Dean rolled his eyes at Sam. For some reason, school wasn't really his top priority right now…
