I do not own the Winchester boys or their parents. I think I own all the other characters.
Just say it!" Dean snapped at the figures. The suspense was killing him. This dream was too surreal.
"Dean...you're paralyzed."
Dean laughed, his eyes jumping from one face to the next as he waited to see who would be the first to crack a smile. But their faces remained stoic, expressions unwavering. They weren't laughing.
Dean's smile faded, his face going completely blank. No, this is wrong. It was Sam. Sam was paralyzed; not me. But Sammy got better. He walked. He was healed. But then he– No. This doesn't make any sense!
The woman, his mother, reached her hand out to him first, laying it tenderly on his shoulder. Dean flinched. "You don't get to touch me," he hissed, resting his steely gaze on her. "I don't know who you are."
She couldn't hide the fact that his words had hurt her, but she wasn't about to let it stop her from getting through to her oldest son. Her hand remained steady on his shoulder, despite the fact that she was shaking inside. "Dean, I'm your mother," she insisted firmly. "Look at me. I know you recognize me. You have to recognize me."
Dean shook his head, steadfast in his knowledge. "My mother died when I was four. You're not my mother."
Tears filled the woman's eyes, and she found herself unable to hold them back any longer. Her husband stepped forward, pulling her to him and allowing her to cry openly into his chest. Her body convulsed as she shed tears of grief. "He's back, but he's not...back," she sobbed, voice muffled.
"It's alright," the man soothed, smoothing his hands down her hair. "It's going to be alright." He led her to the door, glancing to his younger son for confirmation. Sam nodded, the one move telling the man he would be alright if they left.
Dean watched the couple leave, relief washing over his features as the door clicked shut. If it was just Sam, maybe he could get some real answers. Facing his brother sternly, Dean spoke. "What's going on, Sammy? Who are those people? What do they want from us?"
Laughter played at the eyes of the younger brother. "You haven't called me Sammy since we were kids," he answered, pulling up a chair beside his brother. "What brought that on?"
Mild confusion registered in Dean. "I've always called you Sammy. Just yesterday when we–" He stopped, realizing how insane that would sound. Yesterday. Yesterday he was supposed to be deep in a coma. But that wasn't what actually happened yesterday, was it? Yesterday, he remembered, they were on their last leg of the road trip, on the way to Devils Elbow, Missouri.
Sam cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. "Yesterday what?" he prodded. "What happened yesterday?"
Turning his head away, Dean went quiet. Even he knew how crazy this whole thing sounded. But it just didn't make sense. And I'm not the crazy one, am I? They were dead. Mom and Sam died. I watched it happen. I held Sam in my arms; both times!
"Dean! What happened yesterday?" Sam demanded, jerking at his brother's shoulder so he would look at him.
Dean shook his head as he fought back a set of tears that threatened to shed themselves any second. Hold it strong, Dean. This isn't the time. "Forget it, Sam. Just forget it."
"What the hell is going on with you, Dean? Do you have any idea how much that hurt her feelings?"
"She's not my mother," Dean repeated, his voice level. "My mother died 22 years ago."
"No she didn't!" Sam snapped, exasperated. "She's very much alive and right now she's bawling out there in the hallway because her oldest son is being a jackass. What is with you and thinking everybody's dead? Talk to me, Dean."
"You wouldn't believe me even if I did talk to you," came the cursory reply as Dean, once again, turned his head away from the specter of his younger brother.
Instead of demanding that Dean look at him, Sam circled the bed to where Dean now faced and crouched to his eye level again. "Try me," he pleaded, shooting Dean that same puppy dog gaze that was never denied.
Dean relented, ignoring the tiny voice in his head as it began screaming at him to shut up, not to spill his guts to someone, or something, that he couldn't identify or explain. But that expression always got Sam what he wanted from his older brother, and this time would be no exception. Dean took a deep breath, holding it for a long time before he released it. "Mom was killed by a demon. You were just a baby, and it happened right over your crib. On the ceiling. Ever since then Dad had this vendetta for all things supernatural, especially the one that killed mom." Even as he said it, Dean began to doubt himself. Maybe it was just a dream; just the morphine. But it seemed so real. I have so many details. Everything is so well put together. But...
Sam remained still, never breaking eye contact, never blinking. He refused to allow the doubts and questions running through his mind to surface on his face. Dean needed to know he could trust him, and if that meant listening to the rambles of a mad man then he was going to do just that. For twenty minutes Dean went on and on about all the creatures they had encountered. Ghosts, demons, witches. According to Dean they were fluent in exorcism rituals, and potions, spells, chants. All things that went along with supernatural encounters, and Dean rattled them off as though he were reciting a grocery list. Sam listened patiently, ingesting every detail of his brother's convoluted story. He got the impression that Dean could have easily continued his stories for hours, but they were eventually interrupted by one of the nurses who had been caring from Dean since he'd arrived in the hospital.
She peeked her head in, speaking softly as she entered the room. "Knock knock, mind if I come in? I heard Rip Van Winkle finally decided to grace us with his presence."
Dean had stopped speaking the minute he'd heard the door open, and now he rolled his head across the pillow to get a good look at the intruder, ready to slap her with one of his trademark insults. But he stopped mid breath, his eyes growing wide in disbelief. "Laura?"
The young brunette nurse turned to him, surprised. "Yes, that's my name," she replied. "I'm one of your nurses. How on earth did you know my name?"
Dean stammered. "You and I... I mean, we knew..." he stopped, noticing her obvious confusion. What is she doing here? How do I explain to her how we know each other. How do I explain it to myself? What the hell is going on here? "I guess I just must have heard your name while I was...unconscious," Dean finally answered, deciding it best to just brush off the explanation for the time being.
Laura smiled, visibly relaxing. She'd already heard about his earlier conversation with his parents, and the fact that he already knew her name just minutes after waking from a coma had made her a bit uneasy. "How are you feeling?" Stepping forward, she began a visual analysis of her patient, noting his vitals and making notes on the chart. "Are you in any pain?"
Male instinct told Dean he should be fluffing himself, and he braced his arms as he tried to sit. That's when he remembered why he was in the bed in the first place. He'd glossed over the announcement of his paralysis, defining it as lies from the stand ins claiming to be his parents. But it was becoming all too real as Dean tried in vain to make the limbs move. They refused to cooperate.
Fear encompassed him, realizations swarmed around. Was this how Sam had felt? Did he feel so helpless? Wide eyes locked onto Sam's, desperate for help. "My legs," he whispered pleadingly. "I can't feel my legs."
Sam nodded sadly, confirming what Dean had just admitted. "That's what we were trying to tell you, Dean. You were in a car accident. You were paralyzed."
"No, that's not right, Sam. It's not me. It was you. You were paralyzed - in a fight with a demon. But then you got better. You fought and got better." Dean stared hard at his brother, insistent. He had to make the boy understand the situation, the real situation.
Instead of responding, Sam's eyes shot to the nurse who had stood silent through the exchange. "He's been like this ever since he woke up. It's like he's been living in another world."
She nodded, worry lines etched in her face. "I think maybe we should give him another sedative for now. Dr. Reynolds has a standing order for sedatives every four hours as needed." Reaching to the cart she'd brought with her, Laura opened a syringe and selected one of several bottles of medicine, drawing out the recommended dosage.
"I don't need a sedative!" Dean protested, flailing wildly as she neared him with the filled syringe. "I'm not crazy, Sam. I'm not crazy!" His voice took on a desperate tone as Sam leaned over him, strong hands holding Dean's arms at his sides, lips tight. "Please, Sammy. You have to believe me. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not cra–" Dean's voice faded to silence as the fast working sedative took effect.
With shaking hands, Sam released his bother's now limp body and righted himself. "What do you make of that?" he asked of Laura. "He doesn't know us. Or, at least, not the us that he's seeing. It's like he reinvented our whole family in his mind."
Laura shrugged apologetically. "I don't know. It is weird. I'll give you that. If I were you I'd ask Dr. Reynolds to get a psych consult on him. Whatever this is, you need to stop it before it escalates."
Sam nodded vaguely, already deep in thought as he debated on a solution. "Thanks. I'll tell my parents about your suggestion. We'll talk about it." He left the room, shaking his head roughly to clear the confusion.
They hadn't gone far; just down the hall to the waiting room. Sam's heart ached when he saw his mother leaning heavily against his father, her cheeks stained with tears and her eyes and nose red. He paused, composing himself before approaching his parents, sitting in a seat across from them and resting his elbows on his knees. Sam sighed. "They gave him something to help him sleep."
His mother nodded slowly, still desperate to understand what was happening to her oldest son. "What did he say to you?"
Sam shrugged. He didn't know where the feeling came from, but something told him to keep his mouth shut. Instinct told him Dean had only told him what he did because he trusted him. There was something weird going on, but until he had more facts Sam wasn't about to chalk it up to insanity. They needed to talk more later. "He didn't really say anything important. I think he's still delirious from the drugs. Give him some time, Mom. He'll come around." Sam leaned over and patted his mother's knee for reassurance, flashing her his megawatt smile as an added bonus.
"He'll be out for a while then?" John Winchester asked his son.
Sam nodded. "Few hours at least. I need to get out of here. Clear my head." What I need to do is go somewhere to think where I can be alone. I need to figure this out before Dean wakes up again.
His parents both shot him understanding smiles, slight nods accepting his need to leave. "I think we're going to get some lunch from the cafeteria," his father added, collecting his wife as he stood. "We'll meet you back here in a while."
Sam left, making a beeline directly to the elevators and punching the button to the main floor repeatedly. It couldn't get there fast enough. He ignored the odd glances the others in the elevator gave him as he jumped in place, trying to ease his anxiety. When the it finally landed at its destination Sam sprinted from the elevator, his long legs making fast tracks to the parking lot and his car. What the hell am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to talk to about this? Has my brother really gone crazy? Dean's always been so level headed, what if he's not making this up? God, what am I even saying? Demons? Ghosts? Am I seriously considering the possibility that there's any truth to this? As Sam drove aimlessly through town he replayed the conversation he'd had with Dean over and over in his head, agonizing over the validity of it. Dean had seemed so totally sane as he told Sam about his 'other' life. Their 'other' life. But what if he is telling the truth? That life seems so empty. Why would he even want to go back there? What the hell am I saying! There is no other life. This is our life.
Sam finally parked the car in front of their house, one lone tear sliding down his face as he thought about Dean. And he hadn't even heard the worst of the news. Not all of his friends had made it out of the wrecked car alive; one had died. But then, maybe he wouldn't even care. Maybe he wouldn't even know who the other boys were. Sam sprinted into the house, his mind set on the mission at hand. As he collected the various pictures and souvenirs and artifacts he smiled. If these didn't help Dean remember his life, he didn't know what would.