Where Are You
Chapter 3
He knelt over the toilet bowl and emptied the contents of his lunch into the unforgiving porcelain. He stayed there until the heaving had worn off and there was nothing left but bile. His mind was whirling and he wondered what he was going to do next. There was still a huge hole where his memory should be, but now he had knowledge of how he got this way – and that knowledge had nearly blown what was left of his fragile mind.
He sat in his apartment; work had given him a week off, telling him not to come back until he was better. He pondered on that, wondering if he would ever be better again. He had found his brother and, as well as being an alcoholic and maybe a drug addict, his brother – Sammy – had tried to murder him – tried to murder him and left him for dead. Dean groaned. He could still see Sam's face, pale, desperate and hear his voice, pleading – for forgiveness, for understanding. Dean shuddered; he just couldn't go back, couldn't face the sad-eyed, thin faced young man who meant absolutely nothing to him. Hell he wanted to feel something, he wanted to recognise his brother, to remember what they had together, but there was nothing, nothing but numbness and, now, a cold, creeping fear.
At least he had a name now. Armed with this knowledge he haunted the local library, spending hours on the computer's there, looking for information about him and his past.
He found notices of his birth. He had been born in Lawrence, Kansas in 1979 to John and Mary Winchester. Sam's birth – on May 2nd – four years later was also posted but after that, nothing.
He spent a long time trawling through local newspapers and found one article about how Mary Winchester had died tragically in a house fire which started in her baby's nursery. The article mentioned that her husband and sons had survived the accident but that was all.
Dean ground his fists into his eyes. It was as if, after his mother's death, a death he couldn't even remember, the Winchesters had dropped off the radar. There was nothing, absolutely nothing and Dean wanted to weep at the emptiness of it all. He had only one option, one he didn't want to take, but he had no choice – he had to go back to Sam.
"We are releasing him" if the doctor was surprised to see Dean he was too professional to show it "But we are recommending that he goes into rehab – his system is shot to hell – he tells me he drank almost constantly for six months and he has also started to drabble in other drugs" the doctor rubbed his face "He is young and strong and that will go in his favour – but he needs to get the poison out of his system and that is going to be hard for him – without professional help"
"Thanks" Dean shook the doctor's hand and made his way to Sam's room. He hadn't seen or spoken to his brother since Sam's confession and he couldn't help the way his stomach clenched or the way that nausea seeped into his throat.
Sam was sitting on the bed. He wore a checked shirt that seemed two sizes to big for him and faded, dirty jeans. His hair was greasy and unwashed and hung around his pale face. He turned his head when Dean entered and Dean saw his eyes light up, briefly, before he dropped his gaze again, his long fingers picking at an invisible thread on the denim of his jeans "You came back"
"Yeah – I came back – I need to know – I need to know about my past and you are the only one who can tell me"
"I can understand how you feel" Sam's voice was shaking and he pushed back his hair "I shouldn't have told you that" he swallowed "I guess any normal person would have freaked out"
"Look Sammy" Dean saw how his brother winced at his harsh use of his pet name "I need to know – so tell me – stop shitting with me and tell me the fucking truth"
And then it was if the flood gates had opened; Sam began to talk and it all came out, streams of consciousness that made Dean's head spin. Sam talked alright, he talked about the death of his mother, of demons, his dad's obsession, ghosts, possession, hunting evil. Sam talked about vampires and werewolves, of his girlfriend burning on the ceiling, of bleeding eyes, FBI agents, angels, spirits, demon virus's, a promise, a sacrifice and a trade. Once Sam had started it was as if he couldn't stop and Dean could only stand and listen, his heart pounding, his stomach turning, his whole world encompassed into one thing; Sam.
Dean sat heavily on the bed; he was forced to face facts; his brother was a possible alcoholic, a possible drug addict, a possible murderer and now, it seemed that he was clinically insane. He stared at Sam who stared back, their eyes locking and holding for a moment, before Sam looked away but not before Dean saw the tear that rolled down his pale cheek "I know what it sounds like" Sam hissed "I know you don't believe me, I know you don't trust me – but I can take you to someone who will help you – I can take you to friends who will help us both"
"Are they as mad as you?" Dean shook his head
"I'm not mad Dean" Sam's voice was hoarse "I'm not mad – I swear – please Dean – please – come with me – trust me – please"
Dean shrugged; his head was hurting and he wanted, desperately, to go back to his mundane and routine life; to go back to fixing cars, having sex with waitresses and eating his TV dinners. But he couldn't, he was embroiled in this – whatever it was – and he couldn't go back to how things were – he could only go in one direction – forward.
Sam led him to the lock-up garage; it was dark and cold and Dean wondered what else his 'brother' had in store for him. Dean watched as Sam fumbled with the bolt, his hands were shaking and Dean recognised the symptoms of withdrawal "Sam – hey – are you ok?"
"Yeah" it sounded like a lie and Dean put a hand on Sam's arm, trying to still the shaking
"Look Sam – we can still get you some help – I mean – I'm worried about you – what if you need drugs – a drink"
"I don't need it" Sam looked up at him, eyes bright "I don't need it Dean – not now – not now you're here – not now I have you" he pulled the bolt free and lifted up the garage door. It creaked and a light flickered on and Dean felt his breath catch in his throat.
The car was a 67 Chevy, just like the ones in his magazines and in his dreams. It was black, shiny and magnificent and Dean reached out – his fingers caressing the metal, cold and solid to his touch.
Again he was assailed by flashing images; load music, the road flashing by, a body next to him in the passenger seat, words running through his head 'Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole" "It's Sam – Sammy is a chubby twelve year old". He saw Sam, eyes closed, head resting against the window, he saw fire and heard screeching metal, he saw blood and fire and a truck heading towards them. He put a hand to his head and turned to Sam, heart pounding "This is my car"
White teeth flashed and Dean saw Sam smile, really smile, for the first time since they had met. Dimples deepened and Sam's eyes were bright and clear, the shaking in his hands and body suddenly stilled "You're remembering" long fingers closed around Dean's wrist "You're remembering"
And then he was in the driver's seat and Sam was beside him, riding shotgun. A tape played Led Zeppelin and his window was wound down, letting in the cold, damp night air. Dean watched the road ahead of him and wondered – where the hell was this leading?
TBC
