He came to slowly. It was as if he was drifting in deep, dark water; he could hear sounds, but they were muffled, and he had trouble breathing, although not enough to freak out. But shouldn't he be freaking out about this?

Confused, he tried to move and groaned when pain shot through his head.

Almost immediately, someone grabbed his right hand.

"Dean?" Who was Dean? "Dean?"

He opened his eyes and was confronted with a giant looking at him with big eyes and grinning like a maniac.

Unusual sight to wake up to.

He would rather not be cuddled by someone he didn't know, so he pulled his hand away and asked, "Who are you?"

The man's face fell so quickly that he actually felt bad. He looked like someone had kicked his puppy. No, scratch that; with those eyes, he looked like a puppy that had been kicked.

"It's me, Sam" the man said. He was obviously trying to stay calm.

"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell."

"Dean –"

"And who's Dean, anyway?"

The man moved backwards as if he'd taken a swing at him. The door opened and a nurse appeared.

His visitor turned around and told her, "He doesn't remember anything" in a panicked voice.

The nurse studied Sam for a moment before stepping up to his bed and checking his vitals. She then asked, "Can you tell me your name, sir?"

He was amused that a woman who was clearly in her forties would call him "sir" when he was –

He realized he didn't know how old he was and started to panic.

Then he realized he didn't know his name and really started to panic.

If he hadn't been exhausted from a day that had begun with a lecture at seven am (that had escalated into a long-drawn discussion between a conservative Christian and a liberal student until Cas had put a stop to it) and had progressed steadily until midday when Bobby had called him, his voice shaking and he knowing right off that something had happened to Dean, he would have insisted on staying the night at the hospital.

But he had spent the afternoon alternating between worry, hope, anger at John Winchester and –

And Love for Dean.

He had long ago realized that he couldn't ignore how he was feeling towards his best friend, no matter that Dean would never reciprocate. Cas had acknowledged that he was in love with him shortly after they'd finished school and had been trying to move on since then, dating both men and women, but there had never been as strong a connection as with Dean.

He had barely been able to form a thought as he had told Balthazar, the professor he was closest to, that he had to leave and driven himself to the hospital. He didn't remember much of the drive. Dean was injured. Dean was in the hospital.

Bobby had been there when he arrived, looking like he carried the world on his shoulders. Cas quickly forced himself to stay calm as he approached, trying to offer comfort which the older man gladly accepted.

Cas then knew how worried he was. Bobby wouldn't have liked to be "coddled" if he hadn't found Dean; if he hadn't seen with his own eyes...

He didn't describe what he had seen, and Cas was grateful even as he felt ashamed that he couldn't even bear to hear what had happened. He knew that a drawer had fallen on Dean, and he knew which one, and it was enough that many horrifying scenarios had already fluttered through his mind.

He had joined Bobby's efforts in calling Sam, and when that hadn't brought any results, as they had known it wouldn't, the older man had called Jess while Cas had informed Balthazar, as he had promised he would (at least he thought he had as he ran past him).

Eventually, Sam called and told them he was coming. The flight alone took over four hours, so Cas expected him in by six at the earliest, but it would be a comfort for Dean to know his brother was going to arrive soon. Because of course he would wake up before that.

When the waiting became too much and Cas was about to beg the doctors and nurses to tell him something, anything, he excused himself and went to call Gabriel. His brother could be annoying, but he was also the one Cas had run to in bad times since he could walk.

"How nice to hear from you, little brother" he drawled into the phone, and Cas remembered that they hadn't talked in two weeks, but he didn't have the strength to discuss it.

"Gabriel – " he said. "Dean – "

He was aware that he sounded almost as shaky as Bobby had.

Normally when he mentioned his best friend, Gabriel, who knew about his feelings and was mysteriously convinced that Dean was "just in the closet, wait and see" would make a joke, but this time he began asking questions.

"What's wrong?"

Cas told him. He was glad that Bobby wasn't there to hear him; he sounded panicked.

Gabriel did his best to soothe him, although he was obviously concerned as well; despite declaring the opposite, he'd always had a soft spot for Dean.

"You know Dean. He'll pull through and then he'll wake up and scream at you for fussing."

Cas couldn't help but think this amusing.

After the talk with his brother, he felt better, calmer, and was able to sit down next to Bobby without springing up again in a moment. He was currently trying to find John Winchester, but it wasn't easy; apparently he wasn't in one of his usual haunts, and Cas bit his lip, keeping his opinion to himself.

He didn't like John Winchester. The antipathy was mutual. He had never understood how someone like him deserved sons like Sam and Dean. And he desperately wished that John didn't have that big of an influence on Dean. He had belittled him until his best friend had come to believe that he was a grunt who would never achieve anything and was lucky that he could work in a dilapidated garage.

Dean would have done great in college, or in any other career he would have decided to pursue. Cas and Sam agreed on this, but Dean would just laugh it off if they told him.

Dean didn't admit to liking Doctor Sexy or that he actually enjoyed pop music. He never said anything that could imply he was even the least bit critical of his father, or that he was in any way a better man than John Winchester ever would be.

He couldn't see his own worth, and Cas hated it.

And now he was in the hospital because John wouldn't allow him to make any changes, not even to ensure his safety.

Sam's arrival was a welcome respite from his worry and anger, but he couldn't help but notice that Dean hadn't woken up and that they had only learned the barest minimum from the doctors; they didn't know everything yet.

So when John Winchester finally stumbled in, Cas couldn't hold back. At least he didn't hit him.

And then they continued to wait.

Cas wanted to stay, desperately wanted to stay. But he could barely sit up when Bobby dragged him out, and he fell asleep as soon as he was in the car.

He vaguely remembered being shoved into his apartment and then the phone was ringing and he found himself lying face down on his bed, still in his clothes from yesterday.

The sun had risen, but not long ago.

It was Sam. This could only mean news. He picked up with a trembling hand.

"Dean's awake," Sam said without greeting, but Cas' joy at the news was checked by the fear his voice betrayed.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"He doesn't know who I am, Cas. He doesn't even know his own name."

The phone almost fell out of his hand. "What does that mean?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"He has amnesia or something – the doctor is with him now – we don't know – " he broke off.

"I'm coming," Cas said, as he always would when Sam or Dean called him.

On the way, he tried to call the university, but it was still too early, so he sent the secretary of the religion department an e-mail. He didn't know if he would make it to his two o' clock lecture. On the way to the hospital – Bobby had thankfully used Cas' car to bring him home last night – he constantly thought about Dean. He didn't remember his name. He hadn't recognized Sam.

He wouldn't know Cas.

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did – Sam certainly had more right to be upset, he was his family. But he and Dean had been through much together since they had met fifteen years ago. Dean wondering if he should finish high school at all and then doing it, defying every teacher's expectations; Cas' college degree, Dean's ASE, Sam leaving for college, various breakups, countless movie marathons, dinners, parties –

It all meant nothing to Dean now because he couldn't remember.

But the doctor had said nothing was wrong with his brain, Cas reminded himself. Dean would remember soon. Maybe he already would have by the time Cas arrived.

He only had to take one look at Sam to know he hadn't.

"The doctors are doing all kinds of tests. Psychological as well as physical," he said. "The nurse sent me out after he woke up, and since then..."

Sensing his friend's distress, Cas inquired, "Have you informed Jess?"

He shook his head. "She should rest. Her exam..."

"You do realize what she will do to you if you don't call her this instant?" Cas asked. He didn't know Jess that well, since she didn't accompany Sam on all his visits, but he felt confident that she would be angry if Sam didn't call her now that Dean was awake.

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Suppose you're right," he said tiredly. "Be right back."

Cas hoped Jess could give him some hope. She was almost done with her studies and had already worked in hospitals; perhaps she could explain that this was normal, that they had nothing to worry about –

But Dean forgot Sam. Sam. The little brother he had more or less raised on his own.

If he could forget Sam...

"Saw the kid outside talking on his phone," Bobby said behind him and Cas turned around. Bobby looked as bad as he felt, but he smiled warmly at him.

"At least he's awake," the older man said, and Cas nodded.

But they looked at one another and felt that lying and saying that everything was alright wouldn't do them any good.

Bobby sighed.

"That damn drawer – I should have –" He trailed off, mumbling to himself, and Cas patted his shoulder. Bobby had done the best he could for Sam and Dean, convinced that it was better they had a father than taking them away from him completely.

It might have been a mistake, but it had been a very human one.

Bobby smiled softly at him and said, "He's lucky to have you."

Cas drew his hand back in surprise. Surely Bobby didn't think that...

"Don't blow a fuse, I was just saying he's lucky to have you. In any way," he continued, and the emphasis made Cas painfully aware that he knew.

He didn't answer; thankfully Sam came back and spared him the necessity.

"Jess said it might just be a temporary confusion," he said. "She said he could remember any minute."

It wasn't really different from what they had already thought, but being told by someone studying medicine gave the news a more positive ring to it.

Once again, they settled down to wait, no one even having suggested that they call John.

He was really tired of all the stupid questions. For two hours now, they had poked at him and scanned him and questioned him and made him do maths problems and remember all kinds of stuff, from the date of Independence Day to the name of the president, and he wasn't in the least bit closer to making any sense of what was going on whatsoever.

He had woken up in a hospital. That was as far as he got when he tried to remember anything about himself. He came up with absolutely nada. Zero. Nothing. He was apparently called Dean Winchester since they'd told him he was, and the giant puppy in his room had been his younger brother Sam. No bells were ringing.

He wasn't even sure he felt like a Dean. Or that he particularly liked the name. He was sorry he'd freaked the guy out, though. If they were brothers, he must be really worried.

"Mr. Winchester, what's 23 times 37?"

That, too. Winchester. Who was named after a rifle? For all he knew, it was an alias and he was a secret agent or a criminal living under an assumed name.

"Mr. Winchester?"

He sighed, but did the math.

"851." The woman nodded and scribbled something on her pad. How much more did she need to ask to realize he wasn't an imbecile drooling on the floor but a normal guy whose memory was a bit scrambled?

"So? What's the diagnosis?" he asked impatiently. She looked at him and narrowed her eyes, and he felt slightly intimidated.

"It is not entirely uncommon for people with head injuries – and you are rather bruised, even if no further injury can be seen on the scan – to experience amnesia. Your memory might return any minute."

He nodded, feeling somehow sheepish because, while she had given him that look, she was still polite while he'd snapped on her and asked, "What's your name again?"

She'd told him but he'd been too busy freaking out to hear.

"Doctor Moseley. Let's get back to your room and call your family in. I'll tell you both the best and worst case scenarios here."

He nodded again. He'd definitely prefer to know everything that could be in store in for him. It was scary enough that he had more or less suddenly come to life in a hospital bed with no memory of the thirty years that had come before without knowing what could be wrong.

"Don't start asking questions right away," she warned him, pushing the wheelchair they had insisted on using to get him from one room to the other, even though as far as he could tell, there was nothing wrong with his legs. "I don't want your mind to be overwhelmed and you going into a seizure."

"May I still think?" he asked, but without an edge to it, and he knew that she understood he'd listen to her when she didn't reply.

As soon as they turned into the corridor his room was down, three people jumped up and wanted to rush towards him, but at a wave from Doctor Moseley, they stood still. One of them was the giant from his room, another was an older guy with a cap on his head who looked gruff but not unfriendly, and then there was a thirty-something old man with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen (considering he hadn't seen anything as far as he could remember, that didn't mean much, though) and dark hair in a rumpled suit who mustered him with open affection and worry.

Doctor Moseley brought him into his room and his bed, insisting he shouldn't strain himself before allowing the three in.

There were questions at the tip of his tongue, but he had the feeling Doctor Moseley would tear him a new one if he asked, so he amused himself with studying them and drawing his own conclusions.

The giant was his brother. He had no reason to doubt that. The older guy – he was hovering near the Sasquatch – no, Sam, he had to learn to address them with their proper names – and was obviously very concerned for both of their well-being. Not that he seemed to dislike the blue-eyed guy; he was just standing a little nearer Sam.

And the way he was looking at Dean – he looked like he was one step away from making chicken soup and forcing it down his throat. Relative. Definitely. Most likely his father. Otherwise he wouldn't be hanging around at this time of day. Could be an uncle, but dad was more likely, so he decided he'd believe that and let his gaze wander to the last guy.

When their eyes met, he felt a stirring in his gut. He didn't think they were related, or at least he didn't hope so; he was way too hot to be –

Oh. He hadn't paid attention to his sexual orientation yet. So apparently he was gay, or at least had a thing for dudes, too. Well. It wasn't like he particularly cared, but he would have liked to know who that guy was.

"I have examined Dean for an hour," Doctor Moseley began. "Of course this can only be a preliminary diagnosis". She waited for a moment before continuing, "This seems to be a case of dissociative amnesia. The patient remembers nothing about himself or the events in his life; however, his intelligence and general knowledge seem to be unimpaired."

"So he knows about the Boston Tea Party but doesn't remember us?" the old guy – yes, definitely his father, based on his expression – asked.

Dean smiled sheepishly, truly sorry that he was causing the man pain. He clearly cared a lot for him. "Sorry."

He moved forward and patted Dean's shoulder. "It's not your fault, son."

He knew it.

"Isn't dissociative amnesia caused by traumatic events, rather than physical injuries?" the guy in the trench coat inquired. Way to be blunt, dude, Dean thought, but he didn't mind. At least he was getting some information. Maybe he was a doctor? But he wouldn't be waiting with his family if he was.

Doctor Moseley nodded. "There seems to have been a subconscious reaction to the trauma his body experienced, but frankly, I cannot say why. Was Dean different in the days before the accident? On edge, maybe nervous, unsatisfied with his life?"

Sam started squirming under Dean's scrutiny. So he was unsatisfied with his life. Not exactly the best news to wake up to. But at least he had a family.

"He was – nervous," the man in the trench coat finally said and Sam shot him a thankful look.

Seriously, who was this guy?

The older man hadn't moved from Dean's side. No matter what had happened that had triggered the amnesia, at least he had a good father. That was something.

Plus a really tall brother and a strangely direct blue-eyed dude.

And being dissatisfied wasn't that bad, he supposed. He could have woken up and found that he'd been a psycho killer or a drug addict.

He could still turn out to be those things, but it seemed unlikely.

"Sorry to interrupt your theorizing," he said, hopefully not sounding too unfriendly, "but who – "

"I'm your brother," Sam said eagerly, stepping forward. If he'd thought he'd looked like a puppy before, when he'd been sad, it was nothing compared to now when he was excited.

"I'm four years younger than you. We are very close. I was at university when it happened, but I came immediately – "

"Shouldn't you have been studying?"

He had no idea where that had come from. Maybe he was just taken aback by the giant advancing towards him talking rapidly despite Doctor Moseley's attempt to quietly shush him. Whatever the reason, Sam looked strangely both happy and regretful, and he quickly added, "I mean, I'm glad we are close. I really am." He was. He felt comfortable in Sam's presence. In fact, he felt comfortable with all of them, but somehow he was the calmest when he had his eyes on his brother – perhaps because they had grown up together and some part of his brain still knew.

Sam started smiling truly again, walked to his side and clapped the shoulder his father wasn't busy patting occasionally.

"You'll remember before you know it," he said, and then suddenly laughed. "And you just told me you're happy we're close. I'm using that against you until the end of time."

He heard Doctor Moseley voice her protest, but he shook his head at her, because Dean wasn't feeling the least bit dizzy or overwhelmed; he was just confused. What was so strange in saying he was glad for his good relationship with his brother?

He turned to the old man.

"Is he always that annoying, Dad?" he inquired in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere and soothe everyone's worries. He didn't want to be coddled like a child; he could take it. He felt great aside from the amnesia – okay, maybe not great, but at least functioning. And he was capable of rational thought.

It dawned on him that he had probably overestimated his ability of deduction when the hand that had been once more occupied patting his shoulder stilled, Sam swallowed loudly and the blue-eyed guy still stared at him.

He looked up and found the old man was mustering him with a mixture of – what was that? Heartbreak? Joy? He'd really prefer it if his family stuck to one emotion at a time.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm not your father, kid." If he noticed the contradictory nature of his statement, he didn't let it show.

"I'm Bobby Singer. Known you and your brother since you were children." He hesitated, wondering whether or not he should go on, looking at Doctor Moseley.

Maybe he didn't have any parents left. It would explain why an old family friend was standing here instead of them. He didn't feel any sense of loss when he contemplated being an orphan, but he didn't remember ever having had parents, so it wasn't surprising.

That wasn't his most pressing question right now, though.

"May I ask questions, Doctor Moseley?" he asked sweetly.

"Don't play coy with me. I came to observe," she answered.

"And what have you observed?"

"That you won't follow my orders, but at the same time, you are not overwhelmed. That's a good sign."

"And what if I had been?" Dean knew he probably shouldn't provoke his doctor, but his day had been a rather difficult one, so he felt entitled.

"Do you really think I don't know my job? I would have intervened," she said simply, and he believed her.

At least the awkward moment had passed and he smiled at Bobby and nodded.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Good to see you, boy," he replied automatically and Dean had the feeling that it was a normal greeting between them.

He then looked at his last visitor.

"Who are you?" he asked as gently as possible. He might not remember them, but that didn't mean he wanted to cause them pain, and it must be painful to hear someone important in one's life ask who one was.

The guy didn't seem in any way perturbed, however, but advanced and held out his hand. Dean looked at it a moment before he realized he wanted to introduce himself properly and shook his hand, feeling foolish.

"Hello Dean. I'm Castiel Novak."

"Like the angel?" he asked before he could stop himself. It was really weird, knowing stuff without remembering how. When he heard the name, the information just popped into his head.

Well, at least he didn't have to relearn everything from scratch.

When Dean asked if Cas was named after an angel, Sam's eyes shot to Cas. His friend was taken aback, so Dean had never told him that the day he'd met him and questioned him about his parents' life choices because who would burden their kids with that (and Cas had magically not exploded with anger) he'd went to the school library and borrowed anything he could find about angels.

It was when Sam had first realized that Dean really liked his new friend.

"Yes," he said gently.

"Angel of Thursday, solitude, and tears," Dean continued. Cas nodded.

Dean hadn't let go of his hand yet and he did now, blushing furiously.

Sam watched the scene unfold and looked at Bobby. They were obviously thinking the same. Without the filter of his memories and self-perception, Dean's attraction to Cas was far more obvious than it had been before.

It also confirmed his suspicions that Dean had liked Cas since high school.

"And you are..." Dean prompted and Cas, who had been studying his face, shook himself and answered, "Your best friend. We've known each other since we were fifteen."

He still always spoke of being such with certain awe in his voice, as if he couldn't quite believe that someone like Dean had chosen him to spend most of his time with. Sam looked out of the window to hide his smile.

Dean really, really tried not to be too glad that the guy wasn't a relative, but something about him just drew him in. Probably those eyes.

He could easily believe that they were best friends. Just Cas being in the room made him feel better. The same could be said for Sam and Bobby, but in a different way.

He was getting a small headache now, but was too curious to stop. Sadly, Doctor Moseley noticed.

"Okay, that's enough for now," she said, and Dean groaned. "But..."

"No buts. You still have a chest contusion, in case you haven't noticed, and we still don't know what made your mind reset, so to speak. You need rest".

"She's right, Dean," Cas said earnestly.

Dean was about to resign himself to rest when the door banged open and reminded him, when he tried to jump up, that he had a contusion and that a drawer had landed on his head and that both hurt.

The three men in his room crowded his bed in an instant, in an instinct to protect him, he realized, touched and guilty that he couldn't remember them, and Doctor Moseley approached the visitor standing in the doorway.

He was a man in his fifties, wearing a dirty t-shirt and jeans, looking like he'd slept in them. He hadn't shaved nor, as far as Dean could tell, showered, and he moved determinedly into the room when he saw Dean looking at him.

"Hey, son. All well again?"

He was friendly, if a little forceful – and maybe Dean only saw it that way because of his headache. He smiled. This was obviously another relative or close friend – after Bobby, he wouldn't take the "son" for proof anymore.

He didn't need to because Sam spoke.

"Dad – "

"See, Sammy, told you Dean was gonna be fine. He always is."

Yes, Sam thought bitterly, even growing up, Dean had always been fine because he had to be. Watch after Sammy, Dean. Help me out in the garage, Dean. Don't disappoint me, Dean. You know how hard it's been since Mum died.

It was strange to see Dean's reaction, noticing none of the pride Dad's words would have inspired normally and instead watching him tilt his head – not unlike Cas did when he was puzzled over something – and wait for him to continue.

It was clear that Dad was unsettled. Dean should have answered "Thanks" and beamed like he always did, promised that he would be back in the garage before the week was out, no matter how unrealistic it was, but he hadn't. He had obviously taken Dad's words as a relieved comment, not to be taken seriously, and was patiently waiting for the visitor to add anything to it.

This really shouldn't have given Sam as much glee as it did. Critical as he was of his father, he still loved him and often wished he could think better of him; and this was no exception. But Dad wanted his good little soldier to be just that, and Dean couldn't be. Not this time.

"Ahem..." Dad began and cleared his throat.

"Dean has amnesia," Sam ejaculated, unable to hold back any longer in a mixture of amusement, worry, shame, and fear. Dad slowly looked from one of them to the other, his eyes eventually landing on Doctor Moseley.

"What does this mean?"

"It means," she told him in an icy tone, "that Dean can't remember anything from his life, although his learning and intelligence are unimpaired."

Dad needed a few moments to process this, then he advanced towards Dean, raising a hand, letting it drop.

"John Winchester. I'm your father," he informed him, as if he expected him to remember as soon as the fact dropped from his lips, but Dean only shot Sam an amused look.

"I guessed as much. Hey, Dad."

It sounded normal enough for Dad to get his bearings, but he still didn't know what to say.

He eventually settled on, "How are you feeling?" and Sam remembered how he had never asked Dean this question before without knowing that he would get the answer, "Fine."

Dean shrugged, then frowned. Clearly he was in worse pain than he had been in before and needed medicine, and when Sam turned to ask, Doctor Moseley was already leaving the room, apparently intent on telling someone.

Dean smiled as he answered, though. "Okay, I guess. My chests hurts a little, I'm getting a headache, and the whole amnesia thing sucks, but I suppose it could have been worse". Doctor Moseley had told him that a heavy drawer had fallen on him. It definitely could have been worse.

He didn't notice his father's shoulders stiffening in surprise, or the looks his other visitors threw each other. He didn't know that this was a behaviour he had never shown before.

Cas felt his heart swell with pride, despite the situation. Dean had admitted that he wasn't feeling well. He had hoped he'd one day be open and honest about his health and mental state for years. This reaction proved that he wasn't naturally reluctant to talk about it; he had simply conditioned himself not to be. Maybe he could unlearn it once he got his memory back –

Suddenly the fear that Dean never would get his memory back surged through him. Until this moment he hadn't considered the possibility that Dean might never recover.

That his Dean, the Dean he knew, the Dean he'd spent countless hours of his life with, his best friend, the man he –

The man he loved might be dead.

He could see that the thought hadn't yet struck Sam and Bobby and he was grateful for that. Perhaps the reason was Doctor Moseley's quiet confidence; or that the idea was simply too awful to contemplate.

It was clear, painfully so, now that he could watch the scene under this aspect, that this wasn't his Dean. There was none of the recognition and joy he would have shown at having him, Sam and Bobby in the room with him, no deference to his father (Cas might have been grateful for that, but it was more evidence that Dean wasn't well) and the slight curiosity one exhibited towards strangers.

Strangers. It was all they were to him.

A shiver ran down Cas' spine.

"Oh. I'm – sure you'll feel better soon," John said, stumbling through the unusual conversation with his son.

Bobby really wished he wouldn't find this whole damn talk as funny as he did. This was no time to laugh with Dean's memories all scrambled, but he had spent years trying to talk John into behaving somewhat like a father and seeing it was – well –

It also distracted him from Dean having him called Dad before, and him realizing how much he'd like it if it were true.

Anyone would be glad to have sons like Sam and Dean, anyone would be bursting with pride. Anyone except John Winchester apparently, because he was more confused than worried and Bobby wanted to punch him.

Not an unfamiliar feeling.

The door opened and a young nurse came in to administer pain medication and tell everyone, in a voice that brooked no argument, that Dean needed rest.

Sam eagerly promised that he'd come back in the afternoon, and when they saw his eyes linger on them, Bobby and Cas did as well.

Dean told them all goodbye, but while his words to them and his brother held warmth, it was subtly but noticeably lacking when he talked to John.

Bobby tried not to read too much into it. He failed.

Once they were gone and the nurse had bustled out with the information that she would soon check in on him, Dean let himself sink into his pillows, somewhat relieved to finally be alone.

This was... a lot to take in. He'd had an accident and had stumbled into the world as a newborn would. Well, a newborn who didn't need diapers and could actually communicate with others, thank God.

And there was this family at his bed, anxiously waiting for him to get better.

It wasn't that he didn't like them. On the contrary. Sam didn't just look like a puppy, but acted like one too, all caring and adorably confused. Bobby was a pretty good father figure... more so than his actual father, who'd only asked questions while being embarrassed, if he was being honest. Cas was a good friend, by the looks of it, and Dean shoved the strange feeling welling up in his breast as far away as he could. Cas had said they were best friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

While he was on the subject, the nurse who'd given him the medication was pretty cute, so he figured he was bisexual. Not that it mattered right now, but it was nice to know. It was nice to know anything about himself.

So what did he know?

He had a pretty nice family by the looks of it, one who cared a lot about him, and none of them seemed particularly dumb or prone to take anyone's bullshit, so he assumed he was a good guy, too. He'd have to wait and see, of course, but evidence pointed to it.

What was he doing with his life? Had he gone to college? His hands looked like those of a blue-collar worker, but from Doctor Moseley's questioning, Dean was aware that he knew a lot of stuff. Apparently he could even quote Vonnegut (although he still insisted that there was nothing particularly striking about "So it goes"). His intelligence was above average, as the doctor had put it.

What if he never remembered, he thought suddenly. What if he never knew who he was? What if his old self had simply disappeared, never to return?

He felt panic rise in him, until this moment kept at bay by his surprise of being in hospital and not remembering anything, by tests and visits.

He had simply been thrown into a world he no longer recognized, into a life he knew nothing of. Was he expected to live it like he had before, when he couldn't?

It was a good moment for the pain medication to kick in, and he registered the pain and his panic dulling as he started to get drowsy.

He'd take it one step at a time, he decided, already half-asleep. Maybe everything would be back by the time he woke up.

Maybe. Hopefully.