Disclaimer: I forgot to put one on the first chapter. But just in case any of you were in serious doubt, I really don't own anything to do with Supernatural.

Author's Notes: I just wanted to thank everyone so much for all the reviews. They really do help out a lot. Also, just as a warning, everything I've learned about amnesia, I've learned from television and bad movies, so I might have taken some liberties with how the process works.

VI.

The doctors said to give Dean stability, but what could Dean possibly recognize in stability? Their lives were transient, always where the wind, and the next hunt, took them, and Sam's scared that Dean will never remember if they're mired down in the same place.

So they move around from one motel to another, and try to figure out where to go from here.

They don't seek out hunts because Sam's not suicidal, but they manage to find one anyway because Sam's not lucky either. There's a vampire in Texas, and of all the motels it could choose to prey on, it picks the one that Dean and Sam are currently staying at.

Typical.

Sam takes care of the vampire with a quick stroke from a machete, but he forgets about the little girl the vamp was feeding on—only it's not really a little girl, not anymore. She knocks the machete out of Sam's hands and is at his throat before he can blink. He's stumbling for his cross but too slow, too late, and her teeth are already starting to break his skin.

Then the pressure around his neck is suddenly gone, and it takes Sam a few rapid blinks to see Dean standing above him. He's pulling the girl back by her long blonde hair as she reaches, snarling, clawing, for Sam.

Dean has the machete in his hand. All it takes is one good swing.

The little girl's head goes flying, and there's blood all over his brother.

Sam stands up quickly, staring at Dean as Dean stares at his hands like he's never seen them before. It takes Sam a second to realize that, for Dean, this is the first supernatural thing he's ever seen.

It takes Sam a second longer to realize that, for Dean, this is the first thing he's ever killed.

And it had to be a girl about seven years old.

Typical. Fucking typical.

Sam picks up the machete that Dean has dropped on the ground. "Dean," he says cautiously, "You okay, man?"

Dean shrugs, as usual, but it's after too long of a pause, like he has some kind of ten second time delay in his hearing. "Sure," he says, "sure." His voice is just wrong, and he's still staring at his hands where blood drips slowly from his fingers.

Sam moves towards him but then stops, a sound alerting him from the distance. "Sirens," he realizes. "Fuck. Come on, Dean, we gotta go."

Sam's already ten feet away before he realizes he's walking alone. He turns back to see Dean standing in the same place, staring at his fingers. "Dean," he says, walking back quickly. "Dean, we gotta go."

". . .what?"

Sam takes one long look at his brother and then takes him by the arm, pulling him towards the Impala and into the passenger seat. There's nothing even remotely resembling awareness or understanding in his brother's eyes, and it will take too long to try to explain why they couldn't be here when the cops showed up.

Sam puts the car into gear and gets them the fuck out of dodge.

It's not until they're back on the freeway, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes after they left, that Dean's eyes start moving again, signaling that somebody was back home. Sam wants to talk about this, wants to tell Dean he did nothing wrong, but he's not sure how Dean would react, so instead he keeps things loose. "Thanks for the rescue," he says lightly.

Dean shrugs. "You're my brother," he says, and then he slides his eyes over to Sam, too hesitant, too scared.

It completely freaks Sam out.

"Right?" Dean asks, and Jesus, it's just wrong. Because Dean's not reminding Sam he's his brother and would do anything to save him. Dean's asking for confirmation: You're my brother? Right? Right?

God, it's so fucked up. Dean shouldn't have to ask this.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says. His mouth is suddenly so dry.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm your brother."

VII.

Their pattern for the next few weeks is haphazard at best. They travel from place to place, heading towards towns they've stayed in before. This isn't exactly difficult; they've been almost everywhere in the country together, but some of the places evoke bad memories, if in Sam and not in Dean. Dean looks at every other place like he's never seen it before, and Sam keeps telling himself, Temporary. It's temporary.

At first, Dean is oddly reluctant to drive, as if he might have forgotten how amidst everything else that he has lost. But he tries it anyway and seems okay with it, although there's no passion or feeling like there normally is. When Dean had first been released from the hospital, Sam had walked him carefully up to his car.

"This is your baby," Sam had said. "I think you love it more than life itself."

Dean just looked at impassively. "It's nice," he had said.

Sam doesn't know what it feels like to have your heart break; Dean was the one who'd had a heart attack. Sam doesn't know anything about that. But watching Dean just look at the Impala, just look and feel nothing . . . it was a little like standing at Jessica's grave, thinking, She's gone. She's really gone.

He didn't tell Dean, but Dean had noticed. He refuses to talk about it, but Sam can see him, trying day by day to do the right thing, the appropriate thing, the Dean thing. Dean's trying so hard to act like he's supposed to that it makes Sam think of broken hearts again, because Dean's doing it to protect him. Dean's trying to be like Dean for Sam.

Sam wants to talk, but Dean seems to have remembered that he's not so huge on the whole gush fest thing, so instead they usually just banter about nothing at all, and it feels nice, too nice really. Sometimes, it's just so easy to pretend that this whole amnesia deal never happened. Sam likes to let himself be fooled, an illusion he indulges in too often.

They're driving down the freeway when Sam is forced to remember that things really have changed. Dean's sitting in the passenger seat, drumming his fingers to AC/DC, when he suddenly sits up straighter and flicks the music off without a sound. Sam's surprised, because Dean always insists on music, his passion for mullet rock apparently instinctual from birth, but Dean looks like he's listening to something else now, some other voice singing in his head.

There Dean goes again, freaking Sam out. Sam says, "Dean? Dean, you okay?"

Dean doesn't answer. He barely moves. Then, his eyes flick quickly to the road. "Dude," he says, "turn off here."

Sam is nonplussed. "What?"

"Here!"

Sam quickly turns off the Interstate, and they begin traveling back roads. Dean navigates, usually at the last minute, causing Sam to skid and make sharp curves. Normally, there would be a lecture, but Dean's not even feigning interest in his car right now. They're traveling in the woods for ten minutes before Sam finally figures out where they're headed.

Sam almost stops the car in the middle of the road. "Dean," he says quietly.

Dean doesn't want to listen. They travel up to the cabin in complete silence.

Dean gets out of the car without a word and takes slow, hesitating steps inside the building. Sam follows silently, not sure what to say; they really needed to come up with some kind of Amnesiac Brothers Handbook. Dean moves around, stopping in several places to stare at nothing in particular, and finally ends up touching the wall that he had been pinned to, bleeding so much blood from the center of his chest.

Dean's left fingers trail the wood, as if tracking the blood that had spilled down the wall. His broken wrist is cradled close to his chest. His eyes are open but he doesn't move.

Sam waits but Dean stays like this for over five minutes, and Sam just can't take doing nothing any longer. "Dean," he says tentatively, as if his brother's name encompassed everything.

"I . . . he . . ." Dean stops. "We were here, all of us. You, me, and . . . and Dad." Dean frowns. "That's . . . that's Dad, right? We were all here."

"Yeah," Sam says hoarsely, watching, waiting.

Dean closes his eyes. "There was something wrong with him," Dean whispers. "He . . . he was talking, and there was something . . . something wrong. He was wrong."

"He was possessed," Sam tells him. "The Yellow Eyed Demon, the Demon. Do you remember it? Do you remember what happened?

Dean licks his lips, as if his mouth has suddenly gone very dry. "No," he says finally, shaking his head, "but I remember bleeding and . . ." He trails off.

"Dean? Dean, what do you remember?"

Dean opens his eyes and steps back from the wall unsteadily. "Nothing," he says. "Just . . . nothing." But his fingers are still moving minutely, still trailing his blood in the air beside him, and Sam knows he's lying, just not how to get him to stop. "Let's get out of this place, huh? It's freaking freezing in here, and I'm hungry."

"Dean—"

But Dean won't allow it. "Now not, Sammy. Just . . .don't push right now, okay?"

Sam doesn't have much of a choice. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

VIII.

Dean's memory starts coming back, but it's in fits and jumps and inconsistent echoes that are impossible to hold on to, impossible to call real. Sam is frankly grateful for anything at this point, but Dean just seems more frustrated by the second.

"Yes, Sam," Dean says testily. "It's wonderful that I once made myself sick pulling a Cool Hand Luke. I mean, like, wow, I just feel so fulfilled as a person now, you know, having this vague recollection of eggs and a dirty motel toilet. I mean, really, who cares about those other, little insignificant memories, like you or Dad or anything to do with my life. I'm totally good now; just call me Cool Hand Dean."

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. Dean's been like this for the last few weeks, and it's starting to drive Sam up the wall. He opens his mouth to say something and Dean interrupts. "If the next words out of your mouth are, 'Give it time,' Sammy, I swear to God, I am going to beat you bloody."

Sam shuts up immediately and fiddles with his fingers, trying to act like that wasn't exactly what he'd been about to say. "Maybe you're trying too hard," he suggests instead. "Maybe you need to take a break from—"

"From what? Thinking? Sitting around all day doing nothing?" Dean snorts and flings himself down on the motel bed. "It's not like I'm breaking a sweat from all this massively hard work here, Sam."

Sam looks at him. "Is that what's wrong with you? You're bored?" Sam tries to think of something fun they could do. "We could take off a day early from here and, I don't know, find a batting cage or catch a movie or—"

"Hang around with our thumbs up our ass all day?"

"Dude, seriously," Sam says, more than a little aggravated. "What the hell is wrong with you? You've been bitching for two weeks straight and you're driving me freaking nuts. If you want to stay, we'll stay. If you want to go, we'll go. But we can't do anything until you figure out what you want."

"I want a life," Dean snaps back, and it makes Sam pause in the middle of the room. Dean looks away, taking a long, drawn out breath. "We're not doing anything here, Sam. This last month we've been driving around? We're just killing time until I remember something or one of us finally kicks the bucket. And what if I never remember—have you thought of that? What if I stay Amnesia Guy forever? We're going to be doing this, driving around, haunting old motel rooms and bars for the rest of our lives."

Sam isn't quite sure what to say to that. Dean likes driving around, bouncing from bar to bar, being on the open road, or, at least, he did. It's never occurred to Sam that Dean might want something else. "Dean," Sam says, "that's kind of what our life is. We go from place to place—"

"Saving people, hunting things, the family business, I know." Those are Dean's words and Sam can't remember ever saying them back to him. He wants to call Dean on it but Dean is still talking. "We were doing those things. We were hunting bad guys and helping people, but now? Now, we're just idling, and it's fruitless, man, it's like what's the point? We might as well find a garden with a bunch of freakin' daises to stare at for how much we're actually getting accomplished here."

Sam tries to interrupt again but Dean won't let him. "Look, man, I know you're not real big on this whole hunting lifestyle. I mean, I don't remember that, not really, but I get it from what you've told me. I get it, but Sam at least we were doing something. We had some kind of mission, some purpose, something. Now we don't have anything and I . . . I don't want to live like that, Sammy."

"You're not going to," Sam says, his voice sounding thick in his own ears. There's desperation there, and fear, when he says, "You're going to get your memory back, Dean. Hell, you already are, a little."

Dean tries to dismiss this but Sam doesn't let him. He clears his throat and takes the doubt out of his voice; Dean needs someone to be confident with him, for once. "I know it's taking more time than you want, and I get that you're running out of patience, but your memory is coming back, and I'm not willing to start hunting until it does. Instinct will only take you so far, Dean. You have to have experience, experience and training. We got lucky with that vampire a few weeks ago. We are not ready for this."

Dean looks away, closing himself off, and Sam moves to the edge of the bed opposite Dean. "This is not. Going to last. Forever. You have to give it time."

Dean doesn't say anything for awhile, and Sam doesn't push him, just waits. "Yeah, all right," Dean sighs finally and looks at his hands in front of him. Sam continues to wait, watching his brother until Dean says, "All right, Sam, I get it. Patience is a virtue, blah blah blah. I'll sit here and wait patiently until my memory comes back."

"Good," Sam says, smiling, and walks over to the table they call their "kitchen". "I'm going to make a sandwich," he says. "You want one?"

"Sure," Dean says.

Sam's pouring mustard on his sandwich when he hears his name from behind him. "So," Dean says, "I've been waiting about thirty seconds now for my memories." Sam can hear the grin in his voice. "Are we there yet?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Dean."

"Are we there yet?"

"We're not even in the car."

"Are we there yet?"

"Dean, shut up."

"Okay . . . hey, Sam? Are we there yet?"

Sam throws Dean's sandwich at him and flips him off while Dean laughs.

TBC: Thought I'd end this on a lighter note. Next (and should be last) chapter has a little more angst. Pleeeeease review and tell me what you think so far.