Fractured

Summary: Dean Winchester knows who he is. He remembers it all, from the first time he fired a gun to his first kiss… his first kill. What he can't remember is the face in front of him claiming to be his brother. Dean-centric.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything associated with the show.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Suicide/Suicidal thoughts

AUTHOR NOTES: *nervous cough* Er, hi? I'm back with an update! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all the other festivities that have been and gone.

My apologies for how long it has taken to get this chapter to you. Family, work, life in general, plus a little extra something special that I'll get to in a moment... You know how it is. And given the subject matter of this story and the final chapters, I want to make sure I don't do a shoddy or rushed job of it, but give you all and the characters the story they deserve. I can say with a certainty that this story WILL be finished, it's just the timeframe that is a little tricky.

*IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT*

Supernatural is now officially over, but that doesn't mean I'm hanging up my fanfic writing pen - there will be more from me in due time. HOWEVER, for those wishing to start a new series and for those who enjoy my writing, I have some exciting news.

I HAVE PUBLISHED MY FIRST BOOK!

It is available now at Amazon (on most Amazon sites) on both paperback and Kindle and it is currently on offer (which is due to end 9th of January 2021 - originally December 31st but I wanted to extend it for you guys)! So please, go and check it out. It would mean the aboslute world to me, and if you enjoy it - leaving a rating or review will make it more visible to others.

The Occultus by Ray Morgan

Some demons are born to bring forth nightmares. Then there's Nate.

Nate Godwin is a laidback demon enjoying his laidback, boring life in the comfort of good-old rainy England, until he gets conned into babysitting a hapless hunter and young fugitive. On the run from angels and demons alike, Nate soon finds himself going up against his own personal nightmare—the high-level demon that owns his soul. Amon.

Whether he likes it or not, Nate is in deep, and the worst part? Amon has plans, and not just for Nate's charges. Their only hope is to seek out a mystical amulet said to have the power to conceal its wearer from anything and everything. The only problem is finding the damn thing, and with Heaven and Hell drawing ever closer, time is running out.

There'll be a snippet available at the end of this chapter.

As always, thank you so much to everyone for being so amazing! I hope you're doing well, and if not, don't be afraid to reach out to me. I might not be able to do much, but I can listen.

*ANNOUNCEMENT OVER*

Now, once more - a quick reminder: there are trigger warnings on this story for manipulation and for suicidal thoughts.

Set early Season 14.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I'll Haunt You

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"What was that?"

Sam paced back and forth, up and down the hallway, one hand resting against his cheek as he gently rubbed at his lower lip with his finger, as if the action would calm him.

"The spell," Cas began to answer, "it's burrowed too deep-"

"No, I – I know that." Sam stopped and turned to face Cas, feeling his shoulders rise as he breathed in deep. "You saw that, right?"

It was a moment before Castel answered, and when he did, it was careful – from the light bob of his head to the tight response in his words, suggesting he didn't truly believe them. "Perhaps it was the spell… or a memory?"

"A memory?" Sam raised an eyebrow, then shook his head, casting a glance toward Dean's room and the door that separated him from his brother on the other side. The older Winchester had passed out and still had yet to wake up, causing Sam's chest to ache with worry. "That was a ghost, Cas. That was her."

"But you burned her body."

"She must be connected to something else. Maybe it's the spell. I don't know."

"Rowena-"

Sam nodded, cutting Castiel off. "She's on her way. Said she should be arriving at the bus station in a couple of hours."

Letting go of a long breath, Sam settled his back against the wall, head falling back until it too rested on the cool surface. It was one thing to fight against dead memories that had never really existed when the one who had planted them was no longer on the scene, but to convince Dean of the truth whilst even now he was being haunted not just by false memories but by Abby's actual spirit? She hadn't shown herself for long, barely even more than a few seconds, but it was long enough for them to see. Long enough for Dean to see before passing out and falling away from Castiel's grip. Sam had barely managed to catch him before he completely fell from the chair.

From there, they had taken Dean to his room and Sam had used a damp cloth to wipe away the blood from Dean's nose.

"What did we do, Cas?" Sam asked, looking down at his hands, unable to meet the angel's gaze. He didn't want to lose Dean, but if it was a choice between Dean living or being able to remember Sam, his mind too broken to do much more… Sam knew it was no competition.

Cas didn't speak immediately, which Sam took to mean that the angel was thinking – no doubt mulling over Sam's words. But then, when he finally spoke, it was with a false determination that Sam recognised too well from having used it himself in the past.

"Our best," Castiel answered, "and we'll keep doing our best until this spell has been broken."

Sam just hung his head, feeling the heavy weight resting in his chest. It wasn't until the angel placed a hand on Sam's shoulder that he looked up once more.

"I'll head to the station and wait for Rowena, but Sam – you should rest. You need sleep. You're no good to Dean if you're too exhausted to think."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Dean found himself in that corridor once again. It was haunting him, he was sure of it. Or, perhaps, it was the half-memories that lingered amongst the shadows that were doing the haunting. The dank smell and the blood stained walls, the damp floor that felt like sludge beneath his feet.

The vampire in front of him slammed Dean into the wall, causing his head to smash hard into the surface. Combined with the loss of blood, it left him even dizzier than before as those hungry eyes stared into him, and the vampire's tongue snaked out across his teeth. Eager, but holding back, biding his time, just enough to relish the moment.

Dean had almost forgotten about the panicked voice from behind the figure that had called out to him. Almost… until a blade slashed into the vampire's neck and it howled in pain, pulling away. It snarled and spun to face the attacker – a wide eyed Abby – and made to lash out and catch her in his grasp. But he faltered and fell to one knee instead, one hand holding his neck as he used the other to steady himself.

"You bitch," the vampire spat. "What did you do?"

"Dean man's blood," she forced out, her voice weakened and as unsure as each unsteady step she took backwards.

Dean took a shuddery breath, his eyes falling closed on the scene in front of him as he felt the blood loss continuing to weaken him. His head pounded, feeling both thick and light at the same time. Concussion, most definitely. He knew the feeling, knew the confusion that came with it.

It was only the sound of metal clattering to the ground that made Dean open his eyes again. When he did, he saw Abby in front of him, blade discarded as she attempted to prop him up.

"You need a doctor," she breathed out, worry filling the lines of her face.

"Sam…" he tried to say in reply, attempting to motion down the hallway, but the edges of his vision were darkening and he wasn't sure he managed it.

"Dean!" Abby shouted, frantic and desperate. "Dean… please…"

But he was fading, disappearing. Falling away from the dark in the corridor and into a different kind of darkness.

"Dean! Wake up!"

And he did, with a start, his heart thudding in his chest.

He sat up right on his bed, his gaze unfocused ahead as he tried to settle his breathing and the racing of his heart in his chest. His head still ached, as if the injuries in his dream had been recent, the pounding in his skull feeling very much like a tight pressure pushing inward. He raised a hand to his temple, hoping something cool would ease the pain, but the warmth radiating out from his palm did little to help.

Ice. That was what he needed. And he swung his legs off the bed and made to stand up. Almost immediately, he was hit by a lightheaded feeling and forced to close his eyes against it as his hand shot out toward the wall to steady himself. Once it passed, he opened his eyes and took a breath, almost losing it again at the sight waiting for him in his doorway.

"Abby," he breathed out.

But the figure in the doorway remained silent and turned away, heading off into the bunker.

"Abby! Wait!" He was chasing after her before he even had chance to think about it, reaching the now empty hallway and looking left and right before seeing a flicker of a shadow down the way.

It wasn't long before he found himself back in the library of the bunker. When he did, he all but stalled at the sight of Abby reaching out toward the box on the table, her face sad. She didn't even look toward Dean. Keeping his pace slow, Dean swallowed at the lump in his throat as he moved closer to the table. To Abby. Could it be? Could it really be her?

"Abby?" he tried once more, tentatively, reaching out his hand slowly to lay upon her shoulder.

But just before he could make contact, she looked to him with sharp wide eyes and let go of the most piercing scream Dean had heard in a long time. His hands moved straight to his ears, eyes closed tight as he bowed his head, but even like that, he could see the flashes of lights throughout the bunker. Then darkness and silence, before the dimmed lights came on once more and Dean opened his eyes to see Abby was gone.

He stood staring at the empty air, wanting to reach out and touch it in hopes of feeling her there one last time. In hopes that if he could just touch her, she would be real. She would be alive.

He shook the thought from his mind, trying to force back the emotion to focus on the logic, allowing the hunter in him to take over. Abby had led him there, to that table, for a reason. Her ghost, or whatever she was, had wanted him to look through the contents of the box again. He knew it. It was the only thing that made sense.

Tentatively, he reached out and pulled the box toward him, staring down at what was inside before unceremoniously emptying it out onto the tabletop. He shifted through the bits and pieces, moving scraps of paper and photos from side to side, hoping for something to catch his eye.

"What did you want me to see?" he questioned the empty air, but even as he did, his hand hovered above one photo in particular and he stared down at it.

"Dean, now is not the time to be thinking about your stomach."

"Aw, come on, man. They have a special on ribs! And not just any ribs, but the best ribs in all of Oregon."

"We're here for vampires, Dean. Not ribs."

Pain sliced through his head once more, like lightning shooting straight through his brain, and he grimaced against it but pushed on. He picked the photo up and studied it. It was of him and a man he could only presume was Sam. It was hard to tell, what with the face being scratched off, but being that freakishly tall? Who else could it be?

Dean looked beyond the people in the image and focused instead on the background – the diner that was clear behind them. He had a vague memory of the place, of the sound of waiters rushing about and of plates and cutlery clashing about, the smell of barbeque and coffee, and the bright fluorescent lights overhead that reflected against the shine of the red leather seating.

His grip tightened on the photo as he thought, coming to a conclusion. The dreams, the faint memories and snippets of information, they all led him back there. Their last case before he had woken up in that hospital with memory loss. He had to go back there. To the source of it all. He had to remember. That's what Abby was trying to tell him. It had to be.

Why else would she lead him back there?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sam had never intended to fall asleep, regardless of what Castiel had said to him. Still, when he found himself pulling his head up from the book beneath him and wiping away drool from his chin and cheek, he knew he must have done. He blinked a few times before leaning back in his chair and stretching as his gaze wandered around his room. A yawn tugged at his jaw and broke free, his left hand moving up lazily to cover his mouth.

He was still very much unfocused until he heard the faint voices in the distance from elsewhere in the bunker. Cas and Rowena, he was sure of it. With another look at the book on his desk, which had provided him with no answers, he pushed up from his seat and out into the corridor to head toward the library.

His cast only a cursory glance down the hallway toward Dean's room before swallowing at the thick lump in his throat and trudging on. No, he wouldn't wake Dean just yet. Whatever had happened to him when Cas had tried to look inside his mind, it had wiped him out, and Sam knew he needed the rest. Besides, they needed to speak to Rowena first, without Dean there.

Sam pushed himself over the threshold and into the library just as Rowena plonked her bag down on one of the chairs and began freeing herself of her coat.

"Why is it you boys can never just call to say hello?" she questioned, voice taking on a bored drawl, but the glint in her eyes gave away the light warmth that lay beneath the surface. "I swear, even Fergus wasn't as troublesome, and those were some pretty dark times."

"Thanks for coming, Rowena," Sam answered, with a small and tired smile. "We appreciate it."

"We?" She looked between Sam and Cas. "And just who is we? You and the angel?"

Even without saying as much, Sam knew that was her way of asking about Dean – his absence clearly noticed by the witch.

"Dean's resting."

"Resting?" Suspicion lined her tone, head tilting as her eyes looked Sam up and down. When she continued on, it was to draw his name out in a low warning tone, and it had Sam flinching despite himself. "Samuel…"

"I may have attempted to look inside his mind," Cas supplied, shuffling from foot to foot, eyes moving up to meet Sam's gaze before falling back to the ground.

"We," Sam corrected. "And it was my idea."

Rowena breathed in deep, one hand clenching as her shoulders rose and she closed her eyes, head shaking. "I told you… I told you not to mess around with this. But no…" She took another breath, steadying herself and looked to Sam, expectant. "And?"

Whilst Sam explained everything that happened, from Dean going missing to Abigail, from the spell box to Dean's behaviour, Rowena looked through the contents of the box, studying each piece in turn. It was as she was turning a small locket from the box over in her hand that Sam mentioned the ghost – the way Abby had appeared just before Dean fell unconscious.

"That was no ghost, Samuel," Rowena said, holding up the broken locket for Sam to see and pushing the box toward him. "Judging by the deterioration of these contents, I would say what you witnessed was a manifestation of the spell."

Sam picked up one of the photographs, taking note of how it had darkened around the edges, a darkness that seemed to be creeping further and further into the subject of the photograph. Further toward Dean. "What does that mean?"

"It means you poked around in his head when I expressly told you not to." She shook her head. "This spell work… Your castor may have been an amateur, but whoever gave her this spell, they weren't messing around."

"How can you tell she was an amateur?"

Rowena held up the necklace. "Your girl put a piece of herself in the spell. That's not just dangerous, but reckless." She straightened her shoulders and puffed her chest out. "If the spell has started to manifest, which I fear it has, then we need to act quickly. This spell, it has one job, to keep Dean in its thrall. We need to find him before the spell does its job."

The mounting worry that built up inside of Sam dropped down into his stomach as Rowena's words wash over him, his mind pausing and heart practically stalling when her last words hit him fully. "Find…? He's resting. In his room."

"Not anymore, he isn't." With a raised eyebrow, Rowena tapped the notebook beside the closed laptop, and Sam could make out the torn paper at the top, as if a page had been ripped out. She pushed it across the table toward Sam, a small spell slipping past her lips to reveal the imprint of letters on the remaining paper. "Might I suggest we start here?"

Sam picked the notepad up and swallowed hard. Oregon. The place it all started.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Walking along the streets of that little nowhere town in Oregon felt like a dream to Dean. His feet led the way, down a path he didn't remember, and yet it felt so familiar. Déjà vu. Except Dean knew better. He knew the memories were there, just buried deep.

He paused outside a small café, taking in the bitter aroma that floated out through the open door. Looking inside, his gaze landed on the blonde barista working hard with the machines. The smile on her lips, the way she threw her hair over her shoulder…

"Dean, Dean! No!"

"I saw the way she looked at you, Sammy. I'm gonna ask her…"

"Dean! We're working a case?"

"Guess what, Sam? We're always working a case. Doesn't mean we can't have a little fun once in a while. Doesn't mean YOU can't have fun."

Pain spiked through his head and he closed his eyes, rubbing at his brow with his fingers. It did little to ease the ache, and it certainly didn't help with the confusion. When he opened his eyes again, his breath caught in his throat at the reflection in the café window. Abby. She was there, across the road behind him. But even as he spun to face her, heart thudding in his chest, he knew it would be too late. She would be gone, the vision of her faded.

Still, his eyes searched for her in the moving crowd, back and forth, back and forth, desperate, until he felt a gentle hand on his arm. It made him jump, taking a step away from the owner as he turned to look at the blonde barista.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her brow burrowed, worry lining her face. "Agent… er, sorry, what was it again?"

He swallowed, or at least attempted to, the lump sticking in his throat. He has no answer for her, to either question, and found himself opening and closing his mouth, unable to form a response.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she tried to joke, a forced smile flitting across her lips, but the crease of concern didn't leave her face. "Why don't you come in? You don't look so good."

Dean cast a quick glance into the window, taking in his own reflection, the pale skin and dark circles forming beneath his eyes. He cleared his throat and shook his head, unable to look her in the eye when he started to back away. "I… I have to go."

"Wait!" she called after him, but he forced himself to ignore her and continued on, shoving his hands into his pockets and driving himself forward, in search of a memory that didn't make his head hurt.

Why would Abby bring him back here?

He thought as soon as he climbed out from the Impala, it would hit him. Everything would slot into place and he would have the answers he was looking for. The truth about Sam, about Abby, about himself. He thought all the details from the case would come rushing back to him, not snippets of memories that didn't fit with the narrative he had inside his head.

Feeling his chest tighten as people pushed past him on the sidewalk, he forced himself into the nearest alleyway and leaned back against the wall, trying to steady himself. But even when he had his breathing under control, he stayed where he was, back firmly set against cold brick, and eyes ahead, unfocused and unseeing, looking toward the wall opposite.

It was filled with flyers – many ripped, and many covered over by newer ones. But amongst all the different coloured and varied pieces of paper that were stuck to the wall, only one caught his eye. It was partially covered by a dulled pink one for a dance school, but even then, Dean could make out its contents, but it was the clipart pictures he found himself focusing on.

He moved forward and reached out to pull the pink flyer away, giving him full view of the one his eyes had locked on. It was for an old Halloween party that had long since passed, with pictures of demons and witches, of bats and spiders, but also an old-style picture of Dracula, giving his best toothy grin.

"There's some old factories on the outskirts of town, that's got to be it."

"The nest? Are you sure?"

"It's the best we've got, Dean."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go Red Queen these bloodsuckers."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

A/N: More to follow soon... but in the meantime, I have a small preview of the first few paragraphs of my novel:

THE OCCULTUS by RAY MORGAN (Available at Amazon on paperback and Kindle)

When it comes to being a demon, I'd say I'm a pretty solid five—a high seven on a good day. I've lied. I've cheated. I've picked a pocket or two. It's not like we can all be harbingers of death or great Babylonic beasts. Ambitions like that got you noticed, and getting noticed got you dead. So, maybe I wasn't that good a demon, but hey—I was alive.

Alive and standing atop some shoddy office building, drinking in the view and solitude of the late evening. It helped that the building was closed for the night. That sort of thing tended to keep most people off of rooftops. It made my job easier.

Everyone had gone home for the night; only the cleaners remained inside, busy at work. The noise from their equipment lost to the sound of traffic from the street below. They wouldn't be coming up to the roof anytime soon. If they had heard anything or seen any shifting shadows, they weren't paid enough to deal with it. People had a habit of ignoring things that could land them in trouble.

The air was chilled, breeze light, but there was still enough autumn around to keep me from pulling my coat tighter, even though the clouds above threatened something far worse than rain. Just your average November in good old England.

Not too hot, not too cold. For me, it was perfect. I was like Goldilocks in her tale of breaking and entering. Granted, our preferences in temperature were similar and our morals were on par, but that was about all we had in common. Someone that short and sweet would probably get away with petty crime. Me? I was all six foot of sarcasm and sloth in the guise of your normal, average guy, with a glint in my eyes. No tail or horns for this demon. No fairytales either. That would mean there would have to be some kind of moral to the story, and like I said—my morals are lacking. Much like the morals of those I tended to do business with.

...

... ...Thank you for reading!