He wakes up on the floor of a deserted warehouse.

It is dark and dank; the stench overpowering. He cannot remember anything – even as he tries his mind is like fog, thick and cloudy – and he rolls over and tries to recall just who he is and what he might be doing there.

There is a figure lying prone next to him. The man has long hair and a grey flecked beard. He smells bad, worse than the warehouse and he is pale, his cheekbones sharp in his skin. He is wearing nothing but tattered jeans and one sneaker and he is breathing heavily, a healing wound in his throat dark red with old blood.

The fuzz in his head gets worse and he moans, his hands on his face, trying to feel for something, anything. He has a beard, his eye feels swollen and sore and his legs wobble as he gets to his feet.

"Buddy?" A voice he does not recognise and he turns, squinting through the darkness, seeing a torch, a blue uniform, "are you ok?"

"No," he shakes his head and it HURTS, "I'm not ok."

The prone figure moves suddenly and makes a noise that doesn't sound like anything. He lifts himself up on his hands and moans, whimpers. His hand snakes out and grabs, fingers biting into his tender flesh.

"Where am I?" He cannot shake the hand off and he doesn't try to. Instead something compels him to kneel down and stroke the other man's hair, greasy and long, a comforting gesture.

"You are in Detroit," the cop comes nearer now he knows there is nothing to fear.

The tall man on the floor lets out a cry; he shakes his head over and over, his mouth forming words that might be, "no, no, no, no."

"Hey," the cop shakes his head, "he sick?"

"I don't know – I don't know anything." Tears sting his eyes and he feels foolish and alone, confusion making his head spin.

"I'm going to take you both to the hospital," the cop sounds kind and he moves in a non threatening way, "come on."

He grabs the tall man's hand and heaves him up, putting his arm around his thin waist to hold him steady. It is the only thing in this fucked up situation that feels right and he holds on tightly, following the cop to safety.

****

They call him John Doe; he doesn't correct them and he doesn't know what else to say. His strange companion is called Jack – only because they can't both be John – and he seems a lot worse off.

They estimate him to be around 32 – from the US of course – in reasonable health. There are burns on the souls of his feet and a long but healing wound on his stomach. He is washed and shaved and shown a mirror but it means nothing to him and he just stares at his reflection.

He is handsome he guesses – he has nice features and his eyes are green and bright. He is in hospital scrubs and his clothes have been taken away. There is no ID on him, no money, nothing. They have run his description through the police files – nothing – nothing at all.

He sits in the waiting room listening to Jack scream. Jack is afraid, he keeps crying, shouting, gibbering. He doesn't hit the radar either and he doesn't have any ID. He is taller – much taller – than anyone John has seen.

They bring Jack out in a wheelchair; it is obvious he has been drugged and John feels a strange connection, the need to protect. Jack's head flops forward but he looks better without the beard. He has a nice face, strong jaw and a cleft chin. There are moles on his cheek and his hair is long and damp around his neck. He is wearing blue sweat pants that are too short for him and his tee-shirt rides up to show a flat stomach.

There is a wound on his throat that looks bad; it has stopped bleeding but it could have killed him – even John can see that. He gets up and puts his hand on Jack's wrist.

"Do you know him?" The orderly asks curiously.

"I – I don't remember," John says, honestly and the orderly frowns.

****

"We are going to have to put you both in an institution – you know that don't you?" The doctor tries to look kind but his smile is false, "I think you will be alright in one of our more – quiet – establishments – but Jack – his needs are greater."

"I'm not – I'm not going anywhere without Jack," he didn't know why he was saying that or what Jack was to him – if indeed he was anything – all he knew was that he wasn't leaving Jack and where Jack went, John would follow.

"We have several places in Detroit that might help you," the doctor chewed his pen and John's stomach clenched. He shouldn't be here in Detroit – he couldn't be here – it was wrong – it hurt and he didn't understand why.

****

Jack clung to him; long arms gripping him, holding him tight. Jack was scared, his eyes were wide and he made whimpering sounds as they moved down the corridor. Jack limped and he didn't seem to be able to speak much, his throat making odd rattling sounds. Jack kept him in his sight at all times and John wondered why he didn't find it cloying.

****

They were given a room together in a small but clean building that looked and smelled like a hospital. Jack lay down on the bed and curled into a ball, long fingers curling around the blankets, asleep before his head hit the pillow. John sat on his own bed and wished he had a TV. He was hungry – the sandwiches and coke they had given him hadn't really filled him up and he was sure that Jack hadn't eaten at all.

He must have dozed because he woke to hear Jack screaming and he shot up, swinging his legs over the bed.

"Dean!" Jack cried out, "No – Dean – Dean – Dean,"

John gulped and shot over to Jack, his hands on Jack's shoulders, his mouth close to Jack's ear.

"Hey – hey – calm down – you have to calm down."

"DEAN!" Jack was sobbing, "don't – don't – don't."

"Jack!" John knelt down, took Jack in his arms, "hush – come on now – hush."

"Sammy," Jack's voice was fading, tears drying on his cheeks, "Sammy."

John's guts churned and he knew he wouldn't sleep again.

Dean – Sammy – they meant something – they – they seemed familiar to John and it scared him.

Who were Dean and Sammy? And why was Jack so upset by them?

Maybe he might find out something in the morning….

TBC