Chapter Two

Dean wasn't stupid.

He knew virtually nothing about who he was, or what his life had been before he woke up in that hospital bed, but he wasn't stupid. Sam was a damn smooth liar, and the tale he'd spun made perfect sense. Dean had been a soldier, he got hurt, they invalidated him out. He used to live on base and all of his belongings had to fit in his pack, so starting out as a civilian he didn't have much. All of his army buddies were still deployed overseas, which is why no one had come to visit him. The ring on his finger had been his mom's, and he kept it to remember her by.

It was plausible, and Sam delivered the lines without batting an eyelid. But he was lying.

Dean was certain of it, despite the fact that the guy had virtually no tells. He might have produced dog tags and Dean's military I.D to support his story, and the pearl-handled side-arm he'd handed over once Dean was out of the hospital had certainly felt familiar in his hands, and the older scars beneath his still-healing wounds could certainly count as evidence of a life lived on the battlefield. But Dean wasn't buying it.

Because Sam had said nothing about the mysterious man who had spent all of five minutes standing beside his hospital bed before he fled the scene. He seemed to think Dean had forgotten all about him.

But as faulty as his memory had proven to be, Dean could never forget the look on that man's face. He had seemed calm and composed, right up until the moment he turned to leave.

It had only been visible for half an instant, but Dean knew what he had seen.

Grief. Devastation. Heartbreak.

Maybe Dean couldn't remember anything about his past, but one thing was damn sure.

Dean needed to remember him. Because he wasn't just a 'friend' as he had claimed to be.

He was Dean's husband.

And Dean had the ring in his pocket to prove it.

ooOOoo

"I've got you an interview over at Ray's Mechanics next Tuesday," Sam said. He had brought in three large bags of shopping and was currently stuffing Dean's fridge with a horrendous quantity of fruit and vegetables.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Do you really think I'm going to eat all that rabbit food?"

Sam popped his head out from behind the fridge door, an expression of surprise on his face. "What are you talking about? You live off this stuff."

Dean was not at all convinced. "I think I'd prefer a burger. Extra bacon, extra grease."

Sam rolled his eyes, but there was a smile twitching at his lips. "Okay, you got me. Can't blame a guy for trying, though." He closed the door after snatching up an apple for himself and came to sit down next to Dean at the table. "You know you need to eat healthy if you're going to regain your previous weight and muscle tone."

Dean glanced down at his body. He couldn't remember what he used to look like. He liked to think that he had been handsome. But now his skin was riddled with scars and still-healing wounds that the doctor had told him to leave open to the air. His palms in particular were a mess of scar tissue and three of his fingers were still in splints because the doctor had been forced to re-break them so they would have a chance to heal properly. By far the worst were his knees, though; Dean couldn't look at them without feeling nauseous, even if he had regained some degree of mobility.

Wounded in action, my ass, Dean thought.

He doubted that regaining the lost weight would do much to improve his appearance, and a part of him wondered if that was the reason why Castiel had left.

"How are you doing?" Sam asked gently.

"I'm great," Dean said. Lying seemed to be the status quo between them. "So, a mechanics, huh?"

"You'll be great," Sam assured him, accepting the change in topic. "You have rebuilt the Impala from the ground up more times than I can remember." Almost immediately he winced at the poor choice of words. "Sorry."

Dean shrugged. "No guarantee that I'll still know how."

"You'll know. It's like learning how to ride a bike."

"Do I know how to ride a bike?"

Sam paused. "Possibly not. But you do know that car inside out. And you can make any engine sing for you. Do some tinkering over the weekend and I'm sure you'll get back into the swing of it."

Dean hoped so. He felt useless just sitting around this empty house. He felt restless, as though there was something important he was supposed to be doing. And he felt lonely. Like someone was missing.

"Sam? Who was the man who came by my hospital room?"

"What man? The psychiatrist? Or the physiotherapist?"

Dean frowned. Sam was hedging. He knew damn well which man he was talking about. "Castiel. He said he was a friend."

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "Oh. I'd forgotten he came by."

Dean didn't bother to call him out on the lie. He wasn't expecting any honest answers from this conversation. "He didn't stay long. Left in kind of a hurry."

"Well, he's busy," Sam said, looking anywhere but at Dean. He seemed to find a chip in the wood of the table particularly fascinating. "He has to do a lot of travelling for his job."

"Which is?"

There was a beat of hesitation as Sam invented an answer. "He's in marketing."

The suit and trenchcoat combo had made him look far more like a tax accountant than a sales rep, but Dean didn't think either profession fit. "How do I know him?"

"He, uh, helped you out of a tight spot once." Oddly enough, that had a ring of truth to it.

"Care to elaborate?"

Another pause. "You got into a bar fight. He talked the other guy out of beating you to death."

Dean thought that anyone trying to have a rational discussion with a drunkard would be far more likely to wind up with his teeth knocked out. But then again, Castiel had looked like the type of man who could hold his own.

"So is he likely to drop by again any time soon?" Dean asked. He tried to sound casual about it, as though the dark-haired man with stunning blue eyes wasn't practically all he could think about.

Sam's lips turned downward in an unhappy frown. "I doubt it. His work keeps him busy."

That was an excuse if Dean had ever heard one. Castiel had walked out on him and apparently had no intention of coming back.

Maybe he couldn't stand the sight of Dean anymore. Maybe he didn't want to be burdened with the chore of caring for an invalid. Maybe he was angry that Dean had forgotten him. Maybe their relationship had already been on the rocks and Castiel was glad to be rid of him.

But whatever the reason, it was too damn bad. Dean wasn't going to let the man just vanish without a trace. If nothing else, Castiel owed him an explanation.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I know this must be hard for you, not knowing anyone-" Sam's phone buzzed. He glanced down at the message and grimaced. "I know this is bad timing, but-"

"You're leaving," Dean said flatly.

"Something urgent has come up. If I could stay..."

Dean waved a hand. "No. It's fine."

Sam stood up and gave Dean's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'll see you next week, okay?"

"Sure."

"Try to get out of the house a bit. Meet some people. And don't forget the interview on Tuesday. Ray will be expecting you at 9."

Dean nodded. "See you around, Sam."

There was an awkward moment when Dean thought Sam might try to hug him, but he aborted the movement and headed for the door instead. "Eat your veggies," he called over his shoulder.

Then he was gone, and the house was silent.

Dean pulled the gold ring from his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, watching the metal gleam in the light from the window.

He had been married. He was pretty sure weddings usually involved vows of some sort.

He couldn't understand how Castiel could have just left him in that hospital room, when he was hurting and confused and needed someone. What kind of husband would do something like that?

Dean intended to ask him that very question. Just as soon as he worked out how to find him.

ooOOoo