When Dean jolted awake the next morning for a panicked instant he thought he was underground. Frantic hands groped out into the dark but met only empty air. His eyes began to adjust to the dim light, and he realized that he had woken before sunrise. Not surprising, it couldn't have been much past six when the weight of yesterday's events had drug him down into a deep dreamless sleep.
He was grateful for that. He was having enough trouble sorting his head out without having to wonder about the importance or potential meaning of anything his brain had churned out while he had been asleep. Just as well it had decided to take the night off. He had his hands full enough with what it did while he was awake.
His sleep may have been restful, but apparently had not been untroubled. He must have done a fair amount of tossing and turning based on the fact that the towel that had served as his only available garment the evening before didn't seem to be anywhere he could locate at a glance.
He was relieved to have woken before it was light. He'd managed to drift off with the curtains wide open and had neglected to put out the "do not disturb" sign. His early wake up had probably prevented a maid, or passerby from getting an eye full. Not that Dean was particularly shy about his body, but he generally preferred to be awake and consenting for any full frontal.
His body was achy, and he considered the merits of rising versus rolling over, dragging the covers over himself and trying for a few more hours of downtime. His bladder cast the deciding vote. With a groan, he hoisted himself off the bed.
His body protested with stabs of pain as he stumbled in the near dark towards the bathroom. He hit the switch and immediately regretted it when the burst of light assaulted his dark adjusted eyes, causing him to wince.
Movement started to work some of the ache out of his sleep stiffened joints. He took care of what he'd come to do and turned to retrieve his clothes, hoping they would be at least dry enough to wear.
Man what had he done to his shoulder, he wondered. Had he slept on it wrong? Fallen asleep lying on something? Damn thing was hurting like a sonuvabitch. He rolled it hard, trying to alleviate the pain as he snatched his thankfully dry T and boxers from where they hung.
It was as he was shrugging into his shirt that he glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye, the discolored patch on his left shoulder. He went to the mirror to check the area. "What the fu..." he muttered, not believing what he was looking at. A handprint, a large handprint marked his skin. Was that a burn? Gingerly he touched the area, wincing with a hiss when he found it tender to the touch. No way that was there yesterday. No way he wouldn't have noticed. What the hell?
Lots of questions and no answers he barreled back into the main room and threw on the lights. He scanned the room quickly for anything that looked off, out of place. He half expected to see some flame handed, supernatural, who knows what lurking in a corner, but no, nothing seemed strange. Nothing looked moved from where it had been last night, with the exception of the notepad on the floor by the bed, which looked like it had fallen there.
He sat on the bed and picked it up to examine it. His own handwriting covered the page. My name is Dean Winchester, he read, I am a hunter.
A blurry image, a fresh memory, formed in his mind. He was fairly certain he had written this.
I died May 2nd earlier this year. Happy freaking birthday, Sammy. I'm sorry. God help me, I'm so freaking sorry, the text continued.
Yes, he was sure now. He remembered now. Worn beyond coherency he had written because...because Dad had told him to. He jerked his head up towards the table, but nothing was there. No John, no journal, nothing but a mostly empty pizza box sitting in a patch of dim light from a barely risen sun. Dad was dead he reminded himself.
He returned his attention to the pad in his hands, flipped through it and found almost every page filled. Some of it wasn't easily made out, and some just made no kind of sense, but as he scanned the pages the occasional phrase jumped out at him.
faith healers, what a load of crap
We found Sam in Cold Oak, too late.
lost the colt - Burn in hell, bitch!
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus. Had he written all this in his sleep? Just so close to sleep he didn't remember? Didn't really matter he decided. He had done it, and now he had at least a sketchy tangible record which, no matter how badly written, had to be better than his glitching memory.
He retrieved the pen from where it had fallen to the floor and found the last marked page. His eyes flicked over the last entry.
My last thought was, I was leaving Sam alone with that hell bitch. I failed him again.
Dean's blood ran cold. Lilith, they had been in the room with Lilith. The hellhound killed him, and Sam had been left alone with Lilith. Oh god, no! He couldn't be...
"no such number"
"NO!" he yelled, bolting to his feet, rage coursing through his frame like a roll of thunder. "I will kill her! I will slaughter everyone she ever knew! I will..."
He collapsed back on the bed in a crumpled heap. "Oh god, Sammy, no." he sobbed, the rage giving way to pain and fear. A hard shudder shook his body and he just surrendered to it. For a long time, he just sat, listening to the choked sounds of his own whispered pleas, letting the emotions run their course.
"OK Dean, knock it off." he eventually berated himself. You don't know anything for sure. Eighteen hours ago you didn't even know your own name for sure. You can't do anything for Sam if you keep breaking down like a little bitch every five minutes, so man up and get your crap together!" With one last deep breath, he shook off the errant emotion and resolved to carry on, move forward.
He picked up the pad and pen from where he had dropped them. Below the last entry he wrote:
attacked by something last night, hand shaped burn - left shoulder