This is one of those things that A) Was supposed to be short and B) Started out good. But it ended up A) Much, much longer and B) Okay. I honestly lost inspiration a bit along the way, but I had already written so much that I just had to finish it. I still think it has some good parts though, otherwise I wouldn't have shared it.

The title is a quote by Jeanette Winterson.

Please enjoy!

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Chapter 1: Lost and Found

Cold.

It's cold. He shivers.

Why is it cold?

He pries his eyes open, only to find a flurry of colours dancing in front of him. He blinks a couple of times, and slowly the colours become clear, and start taking shape.

Trash. He's looking at trash. Empty cans, paper bags and to-go containers.

Why is he looking at trash?

He lifts his head. The trash spins again, and his head is pounding, but he resists putting his face back down on the cold asphalt. He doesn't know whether or not to be grateful that he is laying on the cold ground instead of in the trash.

Looking around, he identifies his current location as the far back of an alley. He carefully sits up, grunting and holding a hand to his pounding head. Had someone hit him? Or did he fall and hurt himself? He can't feel any bumps, and his skin doesn't feel sore. It's more… inside his head, but not quite a headache. It's a bit like when your stomach is so empty that it starts to hurt.

Speaking of, when was the last time he ate? According to his stomach, it has been way too long. But he can't remember exactly when.

Thinking about it, he can't remember… anything. Where he is, who he is… It's all blank.

He pulls at his clothes, as if the fabric can give him any information, but it doesn't give him anything to work with, except for a good whiff of alcohol. Damn, it must have been a rough night if he ended up here like this.

He starts checking his front jeans pockets, looking for any clue to who and where he is. He finds a wrinkled bundle of dollar notes and a phone. He stuffs the money back in the pocket and desperately starts pushing the phone buttons, but it's dead. Typical.

He pads his jacket for any more clues and feels something in the inner pocket. It must be a wallet, meaning he will know his name in just a second. Eagerly, he flips the leather open, just to be met by three blue letters. FBI. It's an FBI badge. FBI?! Is he FBI? Seriously? He removes the badge from the leather casing, reading all text on both sides of the card, looking for any signs that the ID is fake; 'Toy badge, only to be used at Halloween'. But he doesn't find any. It looks real. So, he must be an actual FBI agent. But why can't he remember? Why doesn't it resonate with anything in this empty head of his? He has to find out, and preferable very, very soon, but at least the badge gives him one crucial piece of information; His name is Phil Ehart.

Phil? Doesn't ring a bell. He doesn't feel like a 'Phil'. But it's what the badge says, so it must be right.

He starts feeling a rush of panic. One question repeating itself in his mind, over and over again; Why can't I remember anything?

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, holding it. He has to stop panicking. He is an FBI agent. He is trained to handle stressful situations. He has an entire bureau of other agents out there who can help him. He just needs to get to them.

Determined, he releases the air in his lungs, feeling his body relaxing with it. Even if he doesn't remember, his body does, and it is clearly used to staying calm even in distress.

He slowly stands up, looking around the alley for any clues while his hands automatically start checking the back pockets of his jeans as well. The pockets are empty, but the movement reveals something cold and metallic in the waist band against his lower back. He carefully pulls it out, already expecting what it is when the gun slowly appears from underneath the flannel. He has a gun! Well, of course he does. He's FBI. But it doesn't look like those standard black guns he associates with FBI, but what does he know about that right now?

He carefully places the gun back where it came from. He wants to hate having a weapon on him, not remembering how to safely use it right now, but for some reason he doesn't. He is probably used to having the weight there. He prays that the safety is on. Maybe he should have checked it. But he doesn't know what a safety looks like.

He looks down himself, trying to dust off the feeling of the alley and cold asphalt, which leads him to take in his own appearances. Jeans, T-shirt, flannel, jacket, practical shoes. Judging by his clothes, he must be undercover.

Maybe he was trying to find some bad guys, who found out who he was and then knocked him out? But if that were the case, why would they just leave him in an alley? There's no way that they could know that he would lose his memory. Maybe they drugged him? But why not just kill him? Well, he should probably be grateful that they didn't go with that option.

His head starts spinning again, and he supports himself against the brick wall.

He needs to find help. He's FBI, so he needs to get to the local cops or something, to find someone who can call his office and get some other agents here.

He slowly starts walking towards the opening of the alley. It leads to what looks like a quiet street in the early morning sun. He raises his head towards the golden rays to soak up the warmth.

When he enters the sidewalk, he is immediately stopped by the sight of the most beautiful car parked right in front of him. The paintwork is shining in the red morning sun, glossy and smooth. He almost lets his hand slide along the hood, but whoever own this car would probably not appreciate his greasy fingers staining the perfection that is this polishing. He doesn't know what model it is, but hot damn, it's gorgeous.

"Hello beautiful." It's the first time he hears his own voice. The voice of Phil. It sounds a bit rough and worn, but not in a bad way. But at least his voice feels right, unlike his name which still feels wrong.

He lets his eyes appreciate the car a moment longer. There's a parking ticket stuck in the windshield wiper, waiting for whoever the owner is. Poor bastard.

He finally looks away from the masterpiece of engineering to study the buildings around him. There's a bar to his right. That probably explains where he spent last night. It's closed now, of course, so no help to get there. On his left, however, there's a bakery. There doesn't seem to be any customers this early. His stomach makes itself known, rumbling at the sight of pastries. Surely, he can make a pitstop on his way to finding himself, right?

He walks into the shop and is overwhelmed by the amazing smell of freshly baked bread. He looks over the glass cases, but he has no idea what he likes. But then again, what's not to like in this place?

"Can I help you, hon?" An elderly woman in an apron asks. Judging by her accent, he must be in one of the Southern states.

"Yes, please, uh… what's good?" He feels likes he's drawn to everything inhere. He must really like food?

"Well, my son bakes everything, so I'm required to say that everything is good." The woman smiles. "But he is very proud of his brunch pastry puffs. Personally, I think that's a bit much. I prefer his muffins."

"You drive a hard bargain." He smiles back. The woman seems both very kind and proud, which is infectious. "Let me have one of each."

"Sure thing." She starts collecting his order. "Which kind of muffin? Cinnamon, blueberry, or pecan?"

He doesn't know. It all sounds good. "One of each." He repeats.

"Long night or just hungry?" She smiles at him. There's not an ounce of judgement in her voice, only a knowing look in her eyes. Or maybe she can just smell the stench of alcohol on his clothes. Thinking about it, the smell of alcohol and trash seems a lot stronger now that he is away from the alley. Yuck!

"A bit of both, I guess." He answers self-consciously. As he watches her packing the goods, he starts fumbling for the wrinkled notes he found earlier in his pocket. He almost drops them when he hears the price. The woman might act all old-fashion and innocent, but her son surely knows how to price his baked goods. When he hands over the money, he remembers to ask; "One more thing. Do you know where I can find a police station?"

"The police station?" The woman looks surprised. "Sure. Are you alright?"

He tries smiling reassuringly. "Yeah, I just… lost my wallet." He waves the wallet-less money around as proof. "Want to ask if anyone brought it in."

Apparently, his smile works because the woman smiles back at him empathetically. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. It's just two blocks down the street. My nephew is a police officer down there. I'm not sure if he is working today but ask for Alan Goode. He'll help you out."

"Thanks. Have a nice day." He winks to the kind woman who giggles at him.

When he exits the shop, he looks up at the sign. The Goode Bakery. Damn, he hopes that his home office is somewhere close by because he seriously needs to visit this place again. He might not have tasted the pastries yet, and it might be pricy, but it just feels like the kind of place that he likes.

It's a short walk, but he manages to taste all the baked goods on the way. He can't decide which one he prefers. The cinnamon is sweet, the blueberry is moist, the pecan is crunchy. Maybe it's best if he mixes all of them in his mouth at the same time and let all the flavours melt on his tongue? He takes a bite out of each.

"Agent Ehart!"

He almost chokes on the muffin mix when someone walks towards him, calling his name. Apparently, he obeys the name from the badge. Well, of course, it's his name. He just needs to re-discover it.

He lifts a hand in greeting, while trying to swallow the muffins as quickly as possible. The person approaching him is a young, uniformed officer, smiling brightly at him. "You're up early."

He finally swallows the last bit of muffin. "Yeah, well. The bad guys don't sleep, right?"

"Yes sir!" The officer answers enthusiastically. He eyes the bag of pastries and his face lights up even more. "I see you've visited my family's bakery."

"What?" He looks down on the bag and quickly connects the dots. "Oh, yes… Yes! Officer Goode. It's very good. The food, I mean."

"Thanks." Extreme smiling seems to run in the Goode family. "So, any updates on the case?"

"…The case?"

"Yes." The smile finally fades a bit. "The people who've lost their memory? You and your partner said that you were going to question the families?"

Partner? Of course, he's FBI. They always come in pairs, right? It would probably be better to talk to his partner than to this random cop. "Yes… Yes, we have been doing that and…" Come on, think, you are an agent, damnit! "And we split up… And now… my phone has run out of juice! I can't get a hold of him. Could I use your phone?"

Officer Goode is all smiles again. "Yes, of course, agent!"

Goode hands over his phone, and he eagerly accepts it. Only to remember… that he doesn't remember anything. Including his partner's number. "Uhm… You wouldn't happen to-"

"Yes, I saved both your numbers!" Goode eagerly interrupts him. "Not often we have the FBI out here, so I wanted to be sure that I could reach you. He's right there, under Agent Rich Williams."

Oh, please keep taking officer Goode. You have no idea how awesome you are right now. "Thanks, officer." He scrolls down to the contact and push the call button. He can't help the surge of nervousness and excitement he feels.

"Hello?" A deep, gravelly voice answers. It makes his heart drum an extra beat.

"Uhm, hello. Agent Williams?" He asks carefully, ignoring the strange look from officer Goode.

"Dean! Where are you? What number is this? Are you alright?"

Despite the amount of questions, he gets stuck on the first word; Dean. Who the hell is Dean? Did he get the wrong number? But Agent Williams sounds like he recognises his voice. He focuses on the last question, not knowing how to answer the other questions. "Uhm, yeah, I'm fine. Well, sort of."

"Dean, what's wrong?"

Well, Agent Williams really likes saying his name. Wait, no, his name is Phil. Maybe Dean is a nickname? Maybe they've been partners for a while and there's some great story behind it? He looks at the curious officer Goode, and suddenly every instinct tells him that this is not something that the young officer should hear about. "Uhm, maybe we should discuss this in private."

There is a moment of pause, but Agent Williams seems to understand. "Of course. Where are you now?"

A quick look around, and he sees the sign of the police station a few buildings down. "At the police station."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Great."

The phone disconnects, and he is once again faced with officer Goode. He clears his throat and says with as much authority as he can. "Agent Williams will be here shortly."

"Okay. Would you like to wait inside? Maybe have some coffee to go with those muffins?" Officer Goode smiles.

The smiles are getting annoying, but damn if the man isn't a saint. He eagerly accepts, and soon he finds himself in a warm office with a hot cup of fantastically awful coffee and the last of the muffins and pastry is somehow disappearing into his already full stomach.

Goode is chattering about this and that, and he zones out after Goode tells him about how he has been trying to get his boss to buy a better printer, because the current one makes a specific shadow on all the prints which is apparently a big issue.

Finally, the front door bursts open, and a dark-haired man in a suit and tan trench coat enters the station. He feels an odd swoop in his stomach when he sees him. Not a bad swoop. A butterfly swoop. It must be a sign of recognition, meaning that the man must be Agent Williams.

"Dea-uh-Agent Ehart." Agent Williams says, and it is definitely the same gravelly voice from the phone. Williams sends a quick nod at officer Goode in greeting, and then turns to him and looks him up and down, frowning with concern. Seemingly satisfied with what he sees, Agent Williams pulls him out of the chair and guides him away from the curious officer Goode, whispering. "Dean… Where have you been?"

"Uhm, well, that's the thing… I don't know." He laughs nervously while letting the agent drag him out of Goode's office. "Actually - And I know this will sound a bit weird, but hear me out - The thing is… I don't really remember… anything."

Agent Williams stops in his track and his eyes change from concerned to shocked. "Oh no… You've been affected too."

"Affected?"

Williams grabs him again and pulls him completely out of the police station before stopping in the empty street. Williams grabs both his biceps to keep him still and stares intensely at him. "Dean, do you really not remember anything?"

Instinctively, he pulls free from the grip. "No. And why do you keep calling me 'Dean'? My name's Phil." He pulls out his badge and points at the name that clearly proofs him right.

"Oh, dear father…" Williams sighs, rolling his eyes and turning away exasperatedly.

He ignores Williams and keeps asking questions, finally having someone he expects can answer him. "Is 'Dean' a nickname? Or a middle name, or something? I mean, I don't mind it. Actually, I kinda like it, I just don't see where you get it from, you know?"

"No. Yes. I mean..." Williams runs a tired hand down his face before he pulls himself together and looks very intensely as he continues. "Dean. I need you to listen to me, very carefully. Your name is not Phil Ehart. It is Dean Winchester. You are not an FBI agent, but a hunter. Do you understand?"

He stares at Williams. Blinks. And stares some more.

His first clear thought is that… he can… accept the name. 'Dean' just feels right.

But… what?

He isn't FBI? But he has a badge! So that would mean… He steps closer to Agent Williams and whispers. "Does that mean this badge is fake? That's illegal! And-and-and what do you mean, a hunter? Are you insane? Or-What-Hey-Are you even FBI?"

Williams rolls his eyes again. "No, I am not an agent of the FBI. My name is Castiel, and I am an Angel of the Lord."

Dean stares for a long moment, running the information through his brain repeatedly, trying to make sense of it. When he can't, he starts laughing. It starts out small, but quickly turns hysterical. It has to be a joke. There's no way that it can be true. He finally manages to catch his breath and stammers; "A-An Angel?"

"Yes." Willi-no, Castiel looks serious.

Dean immediately stops laughing. What the hell? What. The. Actual. Hell? Dean studies Castiel's face. There's something inside him that almost feels like it is pulling him towards Castiel, like he knows him. Even the name doesn't feel weird to him. It's just… There's no way! "Come on, there's no such thing as Angels, man."

Castiel huffs, almost looking offended. Then he seems to come to a decision with himself. He looks around, as if checking to see if they are alone, which of course they are this early in the morning. Then, he looks back at Dean, almost apologetically. "Please, don't be alarmed."

Dean instinctively leans away, concerned by Castiel's words.

Slowly, Castiel's eyes start burning bluer. First, Dean thinks it's a trick of the light, but soon they are burning white.

Dean instinctively takes a step back, but Castiel grabs his arm, holding him in place. His eyes go back to their normal shade of blue, and he looks at Dean pleadingly. "Dean, please. I understand that this must be confusing to you. But you have to trust me when I tell you that I am your friend, and I can help you."

Dean tries to pull his arm free, but Castiel has a damn firm grip. He swallows hard and tries to keep his voice steady. "Let me go."

"I don't think that would be wise." Castiel looks around nervously. "Dean, please, you have to-"

"No, stop, stop." Panic starts rising in Dean again. He doesn't care if this dude seems to know him or that he somehow seems familiar or that he knows his real name – if he can even trust that – he just knows that he needs to get away. He starts pulling at Castiel's grip, but it stays firms. He can tell that Castiel is not even using his full strength, that his hand is flexing to keep from hurting Dean, which only spurs on Dean's attempt to escape. Oh, wait, he's being an idiot. There's a police officer right in the building next to them! "Stop, just let me go. I don't know who the hell- Hey. Hey! Help! Officer Goo-"

But then everything goes black.