Chapter 10

It was early, and John shifted his truck into park across the street from the garage. He took a tentative sip of coffee and looked sideways at Sam who drank a sugar-free vanilla latte filled with ice. They were different in a lot of ways, but John saw a lot of himself in his son. They were both stubborn, determined, tenacious, and independent. They both were pensive about things they weren't familiar with, and both relied on research to make decisions. John wondered how both his sons would be different had Mary survived. He thought about her, and absently twisted the ring on his finger. She had helped him be a better man, talking him down when things didn't go his way, encouraging him when he second guessed himself.

He missed her balance.

He missed the way she looked at him when he had done something foolish. The way she laughed when she found humor in his actions. Her strength when he was weak. He missed the way she made him feel about himself. The way she smelled of lavender and honey. The way her makeup drawer was organized chaos, and the fact she only used a few select pieces.

"There he is," Sam said, and pointed toward the old Ford and smiled. If Dean was anything he was persistent.

The garage wasn't open yet, but Dean was poking around the engine again as the early morning sun peaked over the mountains and reflected off surrounding windows. The country was beautiful. And with the early rays came the songs of birds, and the echoes of the living. The early spring was causing the trees to bud, grass was turning dark green, and the crocuses were blooming. A light layer of pollen dusted the cars parked along the street. The small-town community was warm, but weary of guests. John understood, small towns had way of creating a community of extended family. Everyone knew everyone else, and secrets were everybody's business.

John watched Dean walk to the driver's side door and grab his cup of coffee off the hood and take a sip. Memory or not, Dean's actions were all his own, and he felt comfortable within the lot of old cars, broken parts, and stalled engines. John chuckled.

"What?" Sam asked, glancing from Dean to his dad.

"Even when he was a kid he was taking shit apart and putting it back together — and while it may have been childproofed, it wasn't Dean-proof." John smiled and rubbed his chin as he pulled at the memories. "Your mom would get so frustrated — he took the camera apart, the phone, even the radios — couldn't leave anything in his reach — kid's hand-eye coordination was bullet proof." John paused and then dropped his smile as he looked toward Dean, and remembered teaching him how to clean weapons, how to salt the windows and doors, how to hide and protect Sammy from the unknown.

Sam looked toward the road as the owner of the garage drove up and parked next to the old Ford. He slipped out and handed Dean a bag and said something before heading to the garage office to flip on the open sign and roll up the garage door.

"Ready?" John said with a deep breath. He opened the door and stepped out. The cool morning air hit his skin and he closed his eyes for a moment as he played out his next moves. Were this anyone else, it would be easy, but for the first time in long while, John felt his nerves fray.

"Yeah," Sam replied and followed.

Hank looked up as the strangers opened the door and stepped to the desk. He smiled and finished pouring his cup of coffee. "What can I do for you?" he asked. He pulled a notepad and pen from the top drawer and tossed it to the counter.

"I'm here for my son," John said, and pulled an image from his wallet and handed it to Hank.

"Dean's your son?" Hank sighed and handed the picture back. "Sheriff said you'd be by — he also said for your son's sake to stay away... at least until he could figure somethin' out that could be done to help him."

John nodded and looked out the window as Dean continued to work on the engine. "We have."

Hank nodded and glanced out the window and then toward Sam who stood by the door. "Seen a lot of folks come through here that died because of what's out there." He held his cup by the handle and swished it enough to cool it. "Most of those folks had lived good lives, had families — never seen anyone come through as young as him." He turned toward his desk and grabbed his phone. "Sheriff is gonna want to be here for this."

John nodded and took a step back. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as Sam took a seat in the chair next to the door. The office was clean, the bulletin board organized with keys, names, and receipts. John looked toward the garage and found it just as tidy. He listened as Hank spoke on the phone. The shop smelled of grease, fuel, and rubber. John found comfort in his surroundings. He heard the click of the phone being replaced on the receiver and watched Hank take another pull from his coffee.

John turned and looked out the window as a tow truck pulled up with the Impala. He motioned for Sam to look as well and watched Hank leave the office. John swallowed and watched as the car was slowly lowered and unhooked from the tow. Hank met with the truck driver and they laughed. Papers were exchanged, more small talk ensued, before Hank returned to the office as the Sheriff parked his Bronco in the driveway.

Dressed in his small town, big county attire, Sheriff Taylor walked with Hank to the garage. Bill whistled and then laughed as he looked around the space. "Haven't seen it this clean since… shit, Hank, ever," he said as he entered the office. "Hell, even the calendar's set to the right day." He nodded toward Sam and John, and then rested his right elbow on the counter and relaxed his hips.

"It's never been unorganized," Hank said, and took a seat in his chair.

Bill raised his eyebrows and sighed. He ignored Hank and focused on John. "You sure about this?" he asked.

John sighed and took a deep breath. "No, but I have to try."

"So, what do you think's causin' this?" Bill asked.

John scratched his jaw and stood firm with his back to the door. "You know the things we hunt... I've seen things... killed things... and witnessed things that can't be explained," he raised his eyebrows and sighed, "this, is one of those things."

Bill raised his eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

John met Bill's eyes. "Actually," he cleared his throat, "I think it would be better if you went with us—"

"Dad?"

"Dean's down, Sam, we need someone else up there while we look for this thing — Sheriff has some training and can help us keep an eye on your brother while we find this thing." John looked from Sam to Bill. "You said you'd be open to anything... did you mean it?"

Bill clenched his jaw and nodded. "What do you need?" He glanced toward Hank who shook his head.

John took his jacket off, tossed it over the armrest of a chair, and rolled up the sleeves of shirt. He looked toward Sam. "Take the sheriff out and show him what we might be up against."

Sam stood and looked toward his father. "You sure about this?"

John frowned. "Wasn't asking permission."

Sam nodded, and not as responsive as Dean, he understood the soldiers duty to obey an order. "Sheriff?" He asked and tilted his head toward the door.

Bill nodded and looked from John to Hank. Bill hooked his left thumb into his belt and took a step forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with John. "I hope you know what the hell you're doin'."

John sighed and caught his eyes. "Me too."

Bill nodded and followed Sam toward the Impala.

John took a deep breath, opened the door, and headed toward the old Ford.

John paused at the edge of the pavement and looked toward the truck. Dean was still elbow deep in the engine, pulling parts and getting the engine prepped to be pulled. His jeans were covered in grease, dirt, grime, and oil. His flannel shirt was torn near the hem on the left side, and his tee-shirt was tucked into the waistband of his pants and belt. Despite not having seen him for several years, Dean looked good.

"Dean?" John said and stepped beside the front wheel-well.

Dean looked up, paused what he was doing, and wiped his hands on a rag he'd pulled from his back pocket.

"I'm John." He shook Dean's hand and smiled as he glanced at the engine. John winced and felt his chest tighten. There was no recognition in Dean's eyes, no acknowledgement of familiarity. "You, ah, rebuilding the entire engine, or are you gonna replace it?" He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the rim and watched Dean shrug. "Looks like the header's cracked."

Dean nodded and pulled a notepad and pencil from his back pocket and wrote, rebuild — custom, on the top sheet and showed it to John who read it and smiled.

"My stepdad had a truck like this — taught me to drive in it." John stood and ran his hand along the curve of the frame. He glanced toward Dean who kept a suspicious eye on John as he walked around the back of the truck and toward the passenger side. Memory or not, there was more than just his affinity with vehicles that Dean instinctively understood. "Had terrible gas mileage," John chuckled as he approached the front. "I was always partial to Chevys."

Dean turned and pointed toward the truck across the street and then looked back at John.

"Yeah," John said. "Rebuilt her from the ground up… my son helped me." He swallowed and looked at Dean. While Mary had always said Dean had taken after his father, John always swore Dean had his mother's eyes, expressive, mischievous, and sorrowful in moments of misunderstandings.

Dean nodded, clenched his jaw, and took a step back as John stepped toward the front bumper of the truck, arms crossed over his chest. When John pointed toward the Impala, the sheriff and the young man standing beside him, Dean turned to look and then turned back toward John. Dean swallowed and felt his blood race through his veins as confusion clouded his mind. Unfocused, Dean glanced from the truck to John and back toward the sheriff before searching for Hank. Dean caught site of Abby, laying on the ground by the front wheel of the truck, ears perked forward, eyes wide open.

"That's your car," John said, and glanced toward Dean and watched him frown. "I gave it to you when you turned 16." He paused, tilted his head slightly to the left as he waited for a response. "You helped me rebuild that old truck — even made the modifications to the fuel line to improve mileage."

Dean took a step back, clenched his jaw, and frowned. He felt dizzy, uncertain, confused, and afraid.

"I know what happened, Dean, I know you went up to the old hospital looking for something — I know it took from you." John lowered his hands. "I'm your father, and that tall kid standing by the sheriff is your brother Sam — we've been looking for you." He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He flipped though the billfold and pulled a picture and handed it to Dean who was slow to take it.

Dean looked at John before he glanced at the picture. He exhaled as ran his thumb over the image of himself, Sam, and the Impala. He didn't remember any of it. He didn't remember John, Sam, the car, or going to a hospital to look for anything. He looked up and met John's eyes before glancing back at the picture. Dean turned and looked toward Sam, clenched his jaw, and sighed before handing the picture back with a shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders.

John took the picture and returned it to his wallet. "It's okay," he said. "I know you're confused." He took a step forward and was relieved when Dean didn't take a step back. "You need to come with us, with your brother and me." John sighed when Dean met his eyes. "We need to take you back up to that hospital and find what did this to you — it's the only thing that might work—" John paused when Dean wrote on his writing pad and flipped it upright for him to see. John sighed: "No, I don't know for sure if it will work."

Dean pressed his lips and looked toward the garage and the old truck before writing on his pad again. He lifted it and waited for John to reply.

John glanced toward Sam and back toward Dean. "I don't know what happens if we can't find it — but we have to try."

Dean nodded but paused. He winced and then pressed the heel of his right hand to his temple as sharp pains erupted his head. He closed his eyes, eyelids tight as he tilted his head to the right. He glanced toward John and met worried eyes.

"You alright?" John asked and stepped forward.

Dean nodded and felt a sudden rush of blood from his nose. He pinched his nostrils and, in the process, smeared blood across his upper lip, chin, and across his hands. John pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and then forced his hand over Dean's nose.

"Tilt your head back, son," John said, and pressed his right hand to the back of Dean's neck. "Sam!" He looked toward his youngest.

Sam pushed himself away from where he had been leaning against the car and trotted toward them. Bill followed at a quick pace.

"Hey," Sam said, "everything okay?" He placed his hand on the back of Dean's left shoulder and smiled when Dean sent him a side glance.

John released his hold on Dean's neck and slowly pulled the handkerchief away from Dean's nose to check if the bleeding had slowed. Relieved that it had, he stepped back and watched Dean wipe his nose, check his fingers, and then looked toward Sam and Bill.

"You alright, son?" Bill asked and placed his hands on his hips.

Dean rubbed his upper lip again, nodded, and swallowed before he glanced toward Abby who was still seated but looked up at those around her.

"We need to get moving — I don't want to be hunting this thing at night," John said. He kept glancing toward Dean and noticed Sam hadn't taken his eyes off his brother.

"Keys to the Impala are gone," Sam said, "stuff's still there."

Dean reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He handed them to John before walking toward the camper to clean himself up. Abby followed at a trot, staying close to his side.

Sam watched him go and clenched his jaw. It looked like Dean, but a shadow of what Sam remembered before leaving for college. He glanced at his father and watched John speak momentarily with Bill, nod and then hand Sam the keys to the Impala.

"I want you to take Dean with you — hell, maybe something about that old car will trigger a memory... something. I'll take the lead," John said and glanced toward the camper. "I… I don't want to wait any longer to find this thing — I don't think Dean has that kind of time."

Sam nodded and squeezed the keys in the palm of his hand. He looked up as Dean exited the camper, face cleaned and wearing a clean shirt. He looked nervous, and looked to Bill for reassurance, but didn't find comfort in the sheriff's demeanor. Abby followed, alert, and ready to go.

"Ready?" John asked.

Hank whistled, and then squatted on his haunches before Abby could jump into the car. She paused, looked toward Dean and then looked toward Hank. "I'll watch her," Hank said, and pulled a bag of jerky from his pocket. He smiled when she trotted his way. He looked up and met Dean's eyes. "She'll be fine... she can help me with an oil change."

Dean nodded, clenched his jaw and looked toward Sam who smiled and motioned for him to follow. John turned and walked toward his truck. He could hear footfalls behind him. He opened the door in time to see Sam open the driver's side door of the Impala and Dean took the passenger side. Hank stood at the garage door, waved, and sent a last look toward John before falling into the shadows of his shop. Abby sat near the door, watched the cars drive away before she lowered herself to the cement, rested her head on her front legs, and waited.

Sam gripped the steering wheel and shot sidelong glances toward Dean who rubbed his thumbnails with his index fingers. His hands rested on his lap, and he looked out the passenger side window as they drove the two-lane highway. Evergreens, barbed wire fencing, a few cattle and horses could be seen from the road. Farmers and ranchers had claimed what land they could, the rest was left to the hands of nature.

"You call her, Baby," Sam said and looked toward Dean who met his eyes. "The car."

Dean nodded and flinched when he returned to look out the window.

Sam sighed, frowned, and took a deep breath. He paused a moment and thought about what he might say. What could he talk about that Dean would understand. Sam sighed when he realized what the conversation might be. Dean was hallow, a shell of his former self, and Sam watched Dean shift from rubbing his thumbs to pinching at the fabric of his jeans. He was nervous and probably terrified.

"Dad bought her back before you were born — said she was a classic, even back then." Sam glanced sideways.

Dean continued to look out the window.

Sam sighed. College had been a distraction, a place of escape. He spent his time in books, writing papers, planning his semester classes, attending events and meeting people. He had loved it. The late nights, early morning tests, the protests, student rallies, and the challenges of thinking outside of the box he grew up in. College enabled him the opportunity to ignore the problems back home, not dwell on his frustrations with his father, or spend his days researching their latest hunt, sleeping in rundown hotels or the back seat of the car. He'd missed Dean, missed the banter and pranks that evolved to dangerous levels, missed those conversations that touched on topics of intimacy and never evolved. Dean had never talked about his feelings — he avoided chick flick moments like the plague — but Sam missed those subtle moments that captured his brother in his entirety: bad pick-up lines, bad timed jokes, his dry sense of humor, his drive to right a wrong, or his ability to put himself aside for his brother.

Sam looked toward Dean again. "I know this isn't going to mean much to you right now, but when this all over," he cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck, "I just want you to know that I remember you taking care of me when we were younger." He glanced toward the road and looked back toward Dean. "I know you were there for me... when dad wasn't."

Dean frowned and shook his head. He didn't understand the context, the sorrow in Sam's voice, or his hesitancy to say the words. He looked back out the window toward the landscape and sighed.

Sam relented with a nod. He rested his elbow on the window well and relaxed his shoulders. He looked one more time toward Dean and wondered if he would remember anything about his life, or if the thing that took him would prevail.