This was a good thing, Dean reminded himself. Good. Rachel's grandfather was a professional, or whatever. Okay, maybe professional wasn't the word, but he knew what he was doing. Probably. According to Rachel's parents.

"My father is an excellent psychic and hypnotist," Maria, Rachel's mom, had assured Dean over and over. "He uses it all the time in his practice, and he's always had great success in helping his patients."

The fact Mr. Carmichael, Rachel's grandfather, was a shrink didn't endear him to Dean much, but he wasn't going to say that. Obviously, Maria bought all that Freud-shit; he wasn't going to start spouting against it or anything.

Besides, he didn't have a say in this. So, here they were, in Rachel's bedroom. Him, her parents, and her grandfather. All gathered around the bed like Rachel was about to perform something, and her dressed in her PJs, hair braided back, looking nervous.

Dean didn't blame her. Her grandfather was a stranger, after all. Okay, she'd told Dean that he seemed familiar somehow, too, but still a stranger. And he was about to put her into some kind of hypnotic trance and muck around in her mind somehow.

Dean would be nervous, too. If it was his mind. But it wasn't, so he wasn't nervous. Not at all. Not one bit.

"Comfortable, Rachel?" her grandfather—You call me Mr. Carmichael, young man—asked.

Rachel gave a nervous smile that Dean was very familiar with. Nodded and smoothed her hands down the comforter of her bed. "Yeah. I'm fine." She looked at Dean, blinking, face pale as she sought reassurance.

Dean sat on the bed next to her. Took her hand. "Look, babe. You don't have do this if you don't want to. There's got to be other ways to get your memory back."

"I've already explained to you, young man, that this is perfectly safe. There's no reason…"

"I'm sure that all this mumbo-jumbo bullshit is safe, but it's her mind, and I'm not sure she should be bullied into letting someone traipse around it," he retorted. "She's already had it messed up enough."

Mr. Carmichael pulled his glasses off. Narrowed his eyes at Dean. "Hypnosis is isn't mucking around in someone's mind, you ignorant fool."

"I…"

"Hey!" Rachel rose to her knees, putting herself between Dean and her grandfather. "Grandpa, don't talk to my husband that way."

"He's not your husband, Rachel. He's someone who's taking advantage of you and your money. If he was really serious about marrying you…"

"Hey, I'll marry her right now." Dean grabbed Rachel's hand and tugged her. "Come on. We can go to Vegas and seal the deal right now."

"Rachel is the daughter of an Adams and a Carmichael. My family came over on the Mayflower. The Adams fought in the Revolution. People like us do not elope in a twenty-four hour drive through chapel."

"Don't worry." Dean wrapped his arm around Rachel's waist. Hauled her off the bed and towards the door. "Nothing but the best for your precious princess. I was thinking the King could marry us."

His hand raised and he crossed the room menacingly. "You insolent little…"

"That's enough, Dad!" Maria snapped, grabbing her father's arm.

"Rachel has made her choice, and we respect it," Dr. Adams added from the foot of the bed. "Dean Winchester is a good man. And a good husband to Rachel. And no matter what the legal status is, they are married and committed, and you're just going to have to accept that."

"Even if he is acting like a Neanderthal right now," Rachel said. She'd grabbed the door frame as Dean had tried to pull her out of the room. Now, she wiggled from his grasp and turned to glare at him. "Play nice."

"I'm not the one who started it."

"You totally were!"

He thought back. Shrugged. Maybe she was right. But, still. "I don't like this."

"It's hypnosis, Dean. He'll just get me really relaxed. I'm still in control the entire time. Just relaxed and able to face things I might not be able to face when I'm awake. And he's my grandfather. He won't make me do or face anything I'm not ready for."

"You keep saying that, but…"

She touched his cheek, which made him shut up right away.

"I'll be fine. You'll be there the whole time, watching out for me." She flattened her hand against his cheek. Leaned in close, eyes fluttering close. "I'll be fine," she repeated in a whisper.

Dean slipped an arm around her waist. Kissed her on the forehead, then leaned against her. "Okay. Okay." He kissed her again, then pulled away. "Then let's do this thing."

Rachel gave him a small, nervous smile. Then turned and went back to the bed.

"All right, Rachel," Mr. Carmichael said as Rachel settled back down on the bed. "Now I want you to close your eyes." He adjusted his glasses, glaring at Dean over them as Dean climbed on the bed and sat next to Rachel. "Take a deep breath," he continued. "In, one, two, three, four. Hold. And out, two, three, four, five, six."

Rachel's lips pursed as she exhaled. Dean could see her pulse in the blue vein on her neck. Watched as her eyes tense and relaxed, fluttering her eyelashes very slightly.

"You're a safe place," Mr. Carmichael said, voice soft and soothing. "Comfortable. Warm. You are becoming relaxed. Sliding down in a deep pool of relaxation. Now, I want you to picture a door. Any kind of door. Maybe it's made of wood. Maybe it's blue or green. Can you see the door?"

She nodded.

"Picture the doorknob. Gold and metal against the wood. I want you to reach out and take the knob in your hand. Twist it. Open the door. Behind the door is a stairway. The stairs are leading down. There are ten of them. You're going to go down the stairs. By the time you reach the bottom, you'll be completely relaxed."

Rachel licked her lips. Took another deep breath.

"Step onto the first step. I want you to feel your toes. Feel how warm they are. Feel them tingled as they relax. That tingling moves up your feet, feel that? Your feet are growing warm. Soft." He reached out and put his fingers on the inside of Rachel's wrist. "As the warmth reaches your ankles, you step down onto the second step."

Dean kept his eyes on Rachel's face as her grandfather walked her down the imaginary stairs. A couple of times, he had to shake his head, fight off a growing sleepiness. The dude's voice was calming. He really was good at this shit.

It seemed like hours before Mr. Carmichael finally said, "As you step off the last stair, a feeling of absolute peace washes over you. Right here, you're safe. You're completely relaxed. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can touch you. If at any time you start feeling anxious, you can come back here and be safe. If at any point you get scared or uncomfortable, either you or I can say relax, and, immediately, you'll be back in this room. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Good. Now, Rachel. I want you to think back. Before you came to the room. Before you and Dean came to Hartford, before the hospital. Think back. What's the first thing you remember?

"I woke up."

"Where did you wake up?"

"A room. I don't recognize it."

"What does it look like?"

Her brow tightened. "Rustic. Wood walls. Wooden four post bed. Dresser with a mirror. Closet, doors closed. A night table. The comforter is thick and flannel and comfortable."

"How do you feel?"

"Ashy. Sore. Hurt." Her voice caught. Trembled. "Scared. I don't know where I am. Who I am."

"But you do know. You know who you are."

She licked her lips. "I'm Rachel. Rachel Adams. Winchester."

"Yes. Rachel. Now, I want you to go further back. As far back as you possibly can. Back, down a long, dark, deep tunnel. All the way back to when you were a little girl. Small and young and always, always safe." He reached out and put his fingers on her wrist. Feeling her pulse. "Can you go back for me, Rach?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Concentrate. You're a little girl. What do you see?"

Her brow creased and mouth puckered. "Nathan."

"Can you tell me more?"

"I'm at the hospital. Daddy's carrying me. He's excited, bouncing me. I stayed with you and Grandma. She let me eat ice cream at breakfast. And now, Daddy and I are in Mommy's room and she's holding Nathan. He's so small, but he looks at me. And he knows me."

"Good. Good, Rachel. Now, I want you step away from Nathan. Go back into the hall of the hospital. Are you there?"

"Yes."

"There are a lot of doors in this hall. I want you to open another one and see what's inside."

Rachel's eyes tightened.

"Are you at the door?"

"Yes."

"What do you see?"

"Dean. At a bed and breakfast." A blush colored her cheeks. "The first time we met. I was investigating a ghost murder, and he and his brother crashed. They helped me."

"All right." He shot a sour look at Dean, then turned his attention back to Rachel. "Back away from the scene. Go back into the hall of doors. Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Go to the next door. Open it. What do you see?"

Her eyes tightened. "Christmas morning. I got a doll and a toy piano. I'm in blue pajamas. My favorite. And a Santa cap. I thought I heard Santa the night before."

And on and on. Memories from her childhood. Memories from college and her life with Dean and Sam.

They all came pouring out of her. Her grandfather walked her from one door to the next and on and on. For what seemed like hours. Rachel talked and remembered and Dean listened, getting to know things Rachel had never told him. Things they done together, ways she thought about it.

It almost made him uncomfortable. Not, like, she was sharing anything embarrassing in front of her family; her grandfather made sure to lead her away from anything like that. Just… some of this stuff was Rachel's private thoughts. Dean didn't even read her journal. He wouldn't want Rachel prying into his mind. He wasn't sure what he was allowed to know and what she wanted to keep private.

But, they had to get her memory back. And, besides. He'd seen her drunk and in a heated argument with some guy in a bar about how Attack of the Clones was the best Star Wars movie ever. Considering how mortified she'd been the next day (and weeks after, since he and Sam hadn't let her forget and would randomly quote her), he was sure she'd survive him hearing all this.

And, anyway. It's what needed to be done, right?


Rachel was floating, more comfortable than she could ever remember being. Of course, the past few days were mostly what she could remember, and those days hadn't been relaxing. But, even as her world expanded, as her grandfather walked her through her mind and her past, there was no memory that had this level of comfort. Total and utter abandonment.

Being hypnotized was strange. She felt like she was drifting. Unconnected to her body, out of control. But, at the same time, she wasn't. She could feel her bed under her. Feel Dean holding her hand. Smell her grandfather's cologne and her mom's perfume. She knew if she got scared, she could stop what they were doing, but she felt so comfortable, she didn't need to.

"Rachel," her grandfather said. "You're doing very well. I think you've made good progress. But, right now, I want you to relax and return to the room at the bottom of the stairs."

She'd been at her fifteenth birthday party—ice skating with a friend from school—but the memory melted away. She found herself back in the dark, featureless room. A door in front of her, the stairs behind her. Nothing, but in a comforting way.

"When you open the door, you'll be back in the cabin. This time, though, you won't feel scared or sore or ashy. You will still feel calm and relaxed."

"All right."

"Open the door and step back into the cabin."

She did as he asked. The cabin formed around her. She was in the bedroom, although this time, the bed wasn't made. The sheets and blankets were askew. There were clothes scattered around the room, on the floor, on the dresser. A bra thrown over a lamp. Men's clothes, too: jeans, flannel shirt, tee shirt. Boxers.

"It's different," she said.

"How is it different?"

She moved further into the room. Went to the bed and touched it. "The bed's messed up. Clothes…" She stopped talking. Picked up a dress that was on the floor. "This isn't mine."

"What?"

"The dress. Red. Like sundress. Cute. It has little dots and stuff. I'd never pick this out for myself."

"You should. Bet you'd look hot." Dean.

Standing in the room in her mind, holding the dress Rachel rolled her eyes and smiled. "Right. This isn't mine, though."

"Did you wear it?" her grandfather asked, an edge to his voice.

The edge wasn't directed at her. She knew that even in this state. It was at Dean, but she didn't mind. Dean's comment, that was. She liked the idea that he found her attractive. Even having remembered things about them, about their lives together, she still couldn't quite believe that Dean Winchester, beautiful, gorgeous, sexy, sexual man, found her, geeky Rachel Adams, historian wanna-be, attractive.

She held the dress against her. "It's my size."

"Try to remember. Go back. Did you ever wear it?"

"Rachel?" someone called from the another room in the cabin.

She turned. The dress was on her suddenly. Her hair was wet, tangled down her back. Feet were bare.

"Rach?" The voice again. Concerned.

"Yeah?" she found herself calling back. She went to the dresser and grabbed a comb. Then, she exited the room.

Bacon was frying in the kitchen. It mingled with the smell of eggs. Pancakes. Coffee.

"You want cream for your coffee?" the man asked.

"Yeah. I take my coffee pretty much white." She was combing her hair, working out the tangles, as she approached the kitchen.

"Must drive Dean crazy."

"Naw, we're still at the stage where he thinks anything I do is adorably cute. Such as the fact I drink girly coffee. Anyway, lots of cream, lots of sugar." She was at the door. She leaned against the door jamb.

The man in the kitchen turned around.

Everything went completely black.


"Rachel. Rachel, open your eyes. It's time to take up. You need to open your eyes."

"I told you this was gonna happen. To told you this was a mistake!"

"Dean, calm down."

"Your father-in-law just killed Rachel, and you want me to relax?"

"'m not dead," Rachel croaked. Her throat hurt and her eyes felt heavy. Everything was heavy and hurting and painful.

"Rachel?"

The world shifted. Rocked.

She was pulled up in someone's arms. Held against a strong, familiar body. "Rach? You there?"

"Yeah." She licked her dry lips with her sticky tongue. Tried to force her eyes open. "Thirsty."

"Get her water."

"Do not tell me…"

"Just get water!"

"I'm getting it, Dean. Dad. Stop fighting."

"What happened?" She struggled to open her eyes. There wasn't much light in the room, but it hurt her eyes anyway. She squinted, eyes watering.

Dean was holding her. He wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb. "You gave us a scare, babe. One second, you were fine, the next, you just stopped breathing."

"I stopped breathing?"

"For a moment," he grandfather said. "You started up again on your own, but you've been lost for about fifteen minutes."

"Lost?"

Her grandfather gave her a half smile. "You weren't responding to anything. No commands or suggestions. Nothing."

She looked at Dean.

"Not even a kiss. You're no Sleeping Beauty." He said it with a crooked smile that didn't erase the worry from his face.

"I drool in my sleep. So, I know I'm not Sleeping Beauty."

Dean bent over her. Kissed her. "So," he whispered against her mouth. "Did it work? You remember… anything?"

Her mother sat on the bed next to her. Handed her a glass of water. "How do you feel, honey?"

She drained the glass in a few gulps. Licked her lips, feeling slightly better than before. Rubbed her eyes and leaned against Dean. "I'm okay. I guess." She sighed. Yawned.

"What do you remember?" Dean asked again.

Rachel frowned. Furrowed her brow as she though. "I, um. I don't know. I mean, I know who I am. I know, not like before." She reached up and put her hand on Dean's cheek. "I remember you. Us." She arched up and kissed the underside of his jaw.

"What about from when you were missing?"

She sighed. "Well. Uh." Her back ached, so she shifted and settled herself more comfortably against Dean. "Um. I remember looking for the troll. I was, um. Going to put a spell around the cave. Ward it off until Dean and Sam could get there. Help me kill it." She glanced at her grandfather, then down at her hand in Dean's. "There was a kid out in woods. Lost. I went to help him, and then something hit me in the head. Knocked me out." She looked up. "That's all I remember until I woke up in the cabin."

There was silence. Rachel watched as her parents exchanged glances, as her grandfather nodded. Rubbing his chin. They looked like they didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Rachel didn't know what to feel, either. For the first time in days, she felt like herself. She knew who she was. She knew who Dean was, and not just in an abstract way. Not just because he was an itch in the back of her mind, someone she knew she should know but couldn't place. Now she knew.

She just didn't know what had happened to her. Beyond what the doctors had told her. Beyond what the soreness and the pain and had let her know.

"Well," Dean said finally, breaking the silence. "It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," Rachel said, giving him a tentative smile.

And then, quite unexpectedly, she started to cry.