He wakes up in the driver's seat of a car. Not just any car, a classic car. It's stacked with a cassette tape, but the dashboard already is enough evidence to succinctly support his hypothesis. Nice, he thinks and runs his fingers over the soft leather of the passenger seat. It's well-kept for a car that likely has several decades of history beneath its tyres.
The car rumbles to life, the sound sending shivers down his spine. He turns on the radio almost on autopilot and finds himself bobbing his head in sync to the beat. As he prepares to pull out on the street it crosses his mind that he has no idea where he needs to go to.
He rakes his brain for a destination but comes up empty. Almost as an afterthought he realizes that he has not a single clue who he is, either.
He dives into his brain, trying to remember the story of why he is sitting here, who he is and where he wants to go, but nothing comes to mind. No memory, no clue, not even a vague notion. Just... nothing.
Back from the rearview mirror a pair of troubled hazel eyes glance at him. He puts the car in idle and sifts through his jacket for some kind of hint on his identity. He comes up with a switchblade (not uncommon), a silver cross (perhaps he is religious?), a motel matchbox (common) but no cigarettes (strange), a dead cellphone (who knew how long he hasn't charged the battery), a wallet with some cash and a crumpled piece of paper with an address on it, but no ID of any kind. His sleeves feel a bit heavy and on closer inspection he finds little gaps in the inseams that produce what appears to be a set of lock-picks and multiple small blades (definitely crossed over into weird there).
He silently appreciates the irony that he immediately knows what the single tools are used for and how he'd approach different kinds of door locks, but still has nothing regarding his own identity.
He leans over to the glove compartment and when he opens it, a map and a small ID card flutters past his hand to the floor. Relieved, he grabs for the card, but halts the movement when he notices a small chest tucked away beneath the passenger seat. Curiosity triggered, he reaches for it too.
Bringing both objects to his lap he decides to inspect the ID card first.
Hm. He is Harry Ford, born in Chicago, Illinois. Well, that settles it, at least, though Harry seems like a pretty short name to give to a newborn, considering Harrison left much more room for a kid to pick a version throughout his life.
He has a strange notion that a name like Harry doesn't fit him.
He places his ID on the dashboard to take a look in the chest as well. It leaves him even more puzzled than before.
The chest holds a number of ID cards which tumble into his calloused hands. FBI, State Trooper, Federal Marshalls, various police departments, even Homeland Security.
He's Robert Plant, John Bonham, Ace Frehley, Mick Jones, Eddie Van Halen.
Is he… a con artist? Some kind of undercover agent?
He frowns. He's pretty sure it's illegal to possess fake IDs like these, especially ones identifying yourself as a member of law enforcement. But the biggest food for thought was that he was right back to zero on the 'own identity' front.
He turns off the engine and steps out of the car. A 1967 Chevy Impala. The sight alone calms his frayed nerves, even if it's not enough at the moment to make him settle down entirely.
He glances at the beautiful black beast blaring Urgent by Foreigner from the speakers.
Well, he's a man of great taste at least, that's for sure.
He runs his hand through his hair in frustration. It can't be that hard to find some kind of clue on his identity, right?
What kind of guy just randomly loses his own memory? Was it a medical condition? Did he hit his head? No, he hadn't felt a bump when he'd tussled his hair just now. Well, where to start from?
The music had changed to a new track, Dazed and Confused by Led Zepplin, and if this is supposed to be some kind of cosmic joke, he isn't really feeling it at the moment.
He opens the trunk. It's empty save for a duffel bag filled with dirty clothes. Hm.
On a hunch, just a feeling, really, he glances around and pulls on the hold for the spare wheel. And immediately lets the hatch fall closed. What the-?
He hesitantly pulls the hatch open again. And stares at an entire armoury. Sawed-off shotguns, rows and rows of ammo for various handguns, bottles filled with unidentifiable liquids, knives in all variations, stakes. Freaking ninja stars sparkle at him from the top of the hatch's inside.
He feels his heartbeat patter in his chest when his eyes catch onto a particularly large knife half- hidden in a washed-out towel. It's coated in blood.
God.
He feels his breath quickening, brain immediately thrown into action and running through all the possible options this revelation entails. But his racing mind catches on one hypothesis time and time again, and it makes him swallow thickly.
With no idea who he is and only a bad presentiment on what he might've been doing before his amnesia, he wonders distantly how many people assume themselves to be a bad person before honestly considering all other options.
Shaking his head, he decides he has one last clue to follow up on. The address scrawled on a piece of paper in what he believes to be his personal wallet, one of the few possessions he carries.
He glances over the weaponry in the back of the car once more, his hand hovering over a silver Colt M1911A1. He hesitates for a felt eternity, then quickly closes the trunk and rushes back to the driver's seat. Sweat pools from his hairline when he picks up the map from the glove compartment and starts the engine.
He has a bad feeling about this. The ominous sense of foreboding only increases when he finally pulls up on the hastily scribbled address. There's a vague notion he's been here before.
So perhaps there are people around who can point him in the right direction, maybe even give him a name.
It is a nice family home. Large wooden patio decorated with basket chairs and a hammock. White roses dot the path up to the bright white front door.
Meyer, the golden plate next to the door says. He could easily open this door with the lock-pick set in his left sleeve.
His hand hovers over the doorbell for a second or two before he decides to knock instead.
The door is pushed slightly inside by his first knock, and he frowns. It's open?
Despite the bad feeling in his gut solidifying, he slowly pushes past the doorframe, careful not to leave prints on the doorframe. What?
"Hello?", he calls, already cataloguing the hallway he entered. Two doorways, one up front and one to the right, and stairs leading to the upper floor.
Still no answer to his call.
"Anyone there?", he tries a second time, louder than before, but there's no sound of movement, or a reply for that matter. He decides to check the rooms, maybe the residents are older folks and simply didn't hear him calling.
He takes a step forward towards the room upfront, feeling a strange pull drawing him to that room in particular. The doorknob feels sticky in his hand and as he looks closer, he feels his gut churning as he realizes it's blood. It's fresh, no more than a few hours old.
There really is no point in turning away now, so he still goes to carefully push the door inside.
He barely dares breathing when he sees the reason for the blood on the doorknob.
In the middle of the room, placed messily on the formerly bright carpet lies a mutilated corpse. No, two. A man and a woman. They're covered in stab wounds, and dozens of them. Probably a knife with a serrated edge going from the frayed wound edges.
He refrains from rushing closer to check on them. There's no more blood spilling from the open wounds. No heartbeat pumping the vital fluid through their bodies.
How he knows this just by looking at the wounds? He has an idea, and as the realisation strikes him – a chest full of fake IDs, the trunk full of weapons, this address in his wallet– he readily falls to his knees and dry-heaves. No. He- he couldn't be a killer, could he?
He stays on the floor for a few more minutes, thoughts rushing through his mind at lightning speed, crashing into each other, all jumbled and faded out.
He sits back on his heels and presses his palms flat into his eyes.
He couldn't be-
Why would he-
He had to get out of here.
Slowly, carefully, he rises from his position in the doorframe, consciously steering his eyes away from massacre and forces his racing heart to calm down.
He has to think this through. If he draws the wrong conclusions here it would get him into a big old bunch of trouble. Perhaps he is some kind of undercover PI with a knack for collecting weird weapons who just stumbled onto a crime scene he was trying to investigate?
The glaring, bloody counterargument to this new, more society-compatible theory of his identity still rests in his car's trunk, but he is not ready to dump the idea into the trash just yet. Even though everything inside him rears up against the thought of calling in the cops on this obvious crime scene. Even though he isn't really fazed by the blood itself, but more so by the prospect of his own likely involvement. Even though he knows the cause of death just by glancing over the wound edges from afar.
Perhaps he can find out something about himself if he tries to look himself up on the internet. Research isn't really his favourite task, but- wait, how does he know this all of a sudden?
He stumbles upstairs after mulling it all over for a mere minute and finds a computer in the room adjacent to the empty bedroom.
He starts it up anxiously, typing in... what, exactly? How do you look for info on yourself if you know little more than your outer appearance and the fact you are probably a murderer?
He starts by searching for young male killer, but unsurprisingly comes up with nothing concrete enough to draw any conclusions to his identity. Calming himself down some more by breathing in and out, slowly and controlled, he then thinks about what sticks out most about him.
The car?
He types 'young male killer black 1967 Chevrolet Impala' and comes up with a match immediately.
A cold shower runs down his spine. Oh no.
It is much worse than he expected. Oh god, so much worse.
His name is Dean Winchester, son to John and Mary Winchester, born in Kansas on the 24th January 1979.
Oh, and apparently, he is a prolific serial killer.
There's half a dozen cases listed as affiliate links on the news website he'd navigated to. He opens a couple at random and doesn't bother to read any more than the punchlines he picks up by skimming over the text. Bloody crime scene. Victim tortured within an inch of her life. Lair with trophies of the victims' possessions, possible links to four other unsolved murder cases. Emergency operation on SWAT officer stabbed in the raid. Bank robbery, three dead. Possible serial killer involved; FBI task force authorized.
And the list goes on and on and on. He stops scrolling on a screenshot from a news report. His own face is staring into the camera, eyes wide, an assault rifle put to the back of a security guard taken hostage.
As much as he wishes to, he can't deny it any longer.
Considering his obvious knowledge on all things killing, his random weird thoughts and the armoury in his car's trunk it had been safe to assume from the get-go that… that this wasn't his first time. But he still hadn't been prepared for the reality of being a hardened criminal.
It could've gone any other way. He could've been a con artist with a weird interest in weaponry. He could've been-
He is a serial killer.
The sensation of utter horror washes over him and he can't fathom why anyone would do the despicable things attributed to him. How does one become a murderer?
Intent on keeping his thoughts in a flow to avoid crashing from the knowledge of his deeds he looks further into what the internet knows about him. Apparently, he has an unwilling accomplice, a younger brother named Sam. The name tickles something in the back of his mind, but the expected recognition falls flat.
He rubs his dry eyes.
Well, there he has his explanation at least. His father, ex-marine and Vietnam vet.
He'd gone off the grid with him and his younger brother when they were still young. And malleable.
There was nothing definite they could pin on this John, his father, other than some misdemeanour charges in the 90s like credit card fraud or- or grave desecration. What the fuck.
But anonymous sources inside law enforcement confirmed what investigative crime reporters already speculated. Evidence points to the father as the instigator, and his eldest son, him, following him down the rabbit hole.
He swallows thickly.
Hopefully the brother at least managed to keep his sanity. So far he hasn't seen anything indicating the younger one to be anything but an unwilling tag-along.
Suddenly a thought flashes through his mindscape and he rushes back downstairs.
He gnaws at his bottom lip for a second before daring to step into the living room where the corpses rest. He needs to see, to check if the male was the brother.
The hair colour fits, but the face is rounder and less tanned. Perhaps the paleness is a reflection of the immense loss of blood, but still: it isn't the brother. He – Dean – turns to quickly exit again, when he finds himself pausing next to the lifeless corpses.
He may have taken their lives, but the least he can do is to give them some respect. He takes the woman by her feet and carefully drags her towards the center of the room, towards the male corpse. It is no trouble for him to rearrange their bodies to lie next to each other, rigor mortis has not yet fully set in. There. Another piece of traitorous, unsettling knowledge.
He nearly pukes at the stale, glassy horror in their eyes when he closed them with a caressing stroke of his hand. But he has to do this.
When he touches them by their jaws to move their heads facing their respective partner he notices the stiffness in their jaws, indicating they probably were dead for merely a few hours. Meaning he had likely murdered them, fled the scene, placed the bloody murder weapon in the trunk and then- somehow lost memory of it. His stomach rolls dangerously.
When he is satisfied with the result of rearranging them, he spares them another fleeting glance, running his hand over his face and mouth. Somehow it didn't bother him at all to touch human corpses. How depraved is he, really?
Refusing to go down that particular rabbit hole once more, he swallows to keep his dry throat from sticking together, closes the door solemnly and drags himself back to the computer.
There is not much more on the public net, but he decides to look himself up on the FBI's website - and soon wants to shut it down again. There are too many details, even crime scene pictures he is surprised to see on an official website available to the public. It is entirely too much info for his already fragile state of mind, and more than enough to see he is a nasty sonovabitch, to see he needs to be off the streets for good. There is a public statement from an agent, the head investigator. He has intense dark eyes, eyes that have seen the same images he has seen. This man knows the monster that is Dean Winchester.
An idea comes to life in a corner of his wobbly, empty mind.
He halts the typing for a minute. Does he really want to do this? It means never breathing unfiltered air again, never being free to go wherever he likes, to do whatever he pleases-
No. Who is to say his memory doesn't return sooner or later? And then what? He goes back to running a bloody crevice up and down the Midwest? No, he can't let that happen.
He looks up a last thing on the internet, an address. Then, he stands, and for the first time since he woke up with no memory of who he is, he has a definitive plan.
He heads for the door and in his determination nearly trips over the cat rubbing on his legs.
Poor thing, he thinks, and opens the front door to let her out, but she decides to stay inside, affirming her decision with a tiny meow.
Puzzled, he glances around. He has no idea what to do with it.
He doesn't know how long it takes until someone comes to take care of the dead, and he doesn't want the cat to suffer from hunger. He returns to kitchen, sees her empty bowls and fills one with tap water and one with such an amount of the cat food he found on the counter that it spills over.
He looks for the cat to point her to the bowl, and finds her sitting in the living room. He doesn't enter, and she just stares at him with intelligent blue eyes, her dead owners behind her. He leaves.
As he adjusts the back mirror in the Impala his hazel eyes sparkle with determination for the first time since he woke up. He is a changed man. He will not hurt anyone anymore.
He pushes the first tape he grabs into cassette tape player. It's Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive.
It only takes a moment of studying the map to find the address he's looking for. The cruise is equally short, and he instantly feels ashamed for the tiny bloom of enjoyment he feels during the ride, fresh air washing through his hair and sun kissing his face.
The knot in his stomach returns. His death grip on the steering wheel turns his knuckles white. He doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve to be happy. If he had just lost his memory and woken up a changed person a few hours earlier… They might just be alive.
But they aren't, and that is exactly why he's driving towards the city center right now.
He stops at a red and can already see the building he aims for at the edge of the next intersection. The light turns green and he pulls up to the ominous building of glass and concrete. He refrains from turning off the car, revelling in the sound of the engine for just a moment longer. He doesn't know why, but the Impala's deep rumble soothes his nerves.
He wonders what'll happen to it and feels saddened when he realizes it'll probably end up in some garage forever.
He shakes his head and finally kills the engine, disgusted at himself. He had a feeling this car meant a lot more to him than the people he'd left behind in his path.
He consciously puts the keys in his jacket and walks towards the building's entrance without further hesitation.
The sun burns on the skin of his neck as he stares at his reflection on the glass sliding doors. He looks down at himself and tries his hardest to ignore the stains on his jeans, boots and hands.
He wonders if it was his innate instinct that made it so hard to enter this building, which his previous self would probably have done anything to avoid.
Taking a deep breath, he runs his hand through his hair and over his stubble. Now or never.
He pushes through the door and immediately the air is cooler. They really have air conditioning inside here. He notices absentmindedly that despite the open window and the airflow during the drive here the stench of copper still remains firmly in his nose.
There's a reception at the back of the lobby and the lady behind it smiles at him. He knows it's his looks. He seems like a nice enough young man, right up until he isn't. He supposes that's what made it so easy for him to get close to his victims before.
She says, "How can I help you?"
He tries to speak but gags. His heart beats in his throat and everything inside him wants him to turn heel and run. But he will not enable himself anymore.
He clears his throat, opting for a charming smile despite not feeling it. "Can you direct me to Agent Victor Henricksen? I have to speak to him on an urgent matter."
She smiles at him once more, then returns her eyes to her desktop, manicured nails tapping away on the keyboard. "Just a minute, Mister. I'll look up his contact info."
"Thanks."
He waits anxiously, his heart hammering in his throat. He can still run. Go somewhere far away where he can't hurt people.
He glances around, contemplating, questioning his resolve, when an automatic door to the side of the reception beeps and spills a handful of men in suits into the lobby.
Out of habit he looks at them and realizes his decision has already been made for him.
He turns towards the men and says calmly, "Agent! Good to see you. I'm here to turn myself in."
"What the fuck-" It takes him only a second to realize before Agent Victor Henricksen immediately drops the files and cup of coffee in his hands to pull up his service gun. "Down on the floor!"
He just looks at the agent and replies, "I'm not carrying."
The poor receptionist stares at him, wide-eyed, then drops to the floor behind the desk. She had no idea who he was, how could she? Poor woman must be scared out of her mind.
The other agents point their guns at him now too, the one on Henricksen's left calling, "Hands up!" while the others equally yell orders at him.
He feels a strange elatedness spreading through his body despite the dire situation as he slowly turns and puts his hands in the air.
"DOWN ON THE FLOOR, NOW!", Henricksen barks at him and he sees the shock in his eyes. He certainly did not count on seeing him here, of all places.
He's currently looking into the wrong end of the barrel of six pistols and still he feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders when he slowly goes down on his knees. He lies on his stomach and stretches his arms to the side, head turned towards the agents.
By now a new squad had emerged from the security door, the receptionist must've called for them.
He focuses on following the commands to the point, careful to not spook anyone.
"Spread your legs, heels pressed to the floor, hands flat on the ground!"
He obeys, then quickly feels the pressure of a knee on his back and two hands blocking his left elbow and hand joint. His arm is twisted behind his back. He winces a little at the pain flaring in his shoulder, before cold metal snaps close around his wrists. The click of the handcuffs resounds ominously in the dead-silent lobby.
He feels hands move about his upper body and down to his legs.
"He's secure, no weapons!", someone calls, not directed at him.
He stays in this position for quite some time, the knee in his back interfering with his breathing.
From his position on the floor he cannot see much more than dress shoes gathering around him. His field of vision widens when the knee in his back lifts, and he looks up to see Agent Henricksen's wide brown eyes. The man doesn't want anyone to see, but his agitation is clearly palpable.
As he gets hauled up to his feet, sandwiched in-between two geared-up agents, he comes face to face with Henricksen again. He winches from the rough handling but doesn't resist. Henricksen opens his mouth, closes it, the shock written on his face, and despite the situation, he can't help the smirk flittering across his face.
The agent next to Henricksen huffs, "Didn't see that coming, did ya, Vic?"
Rage bubbles up in the agent's dark eyes as he growls, "Dean Winchester, you're under arrest for murder, bank robbery and illegal possession of firearms amongst many other charges. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, the state will provide one for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights?"
Dean nods solemnly. "Yeah."
A huff. "Good. Process him!"
By now there was a noticeable influx of people in the once empty lobby. And more seem to be coming from everywhere. Only now, from his elevated point of view, he catches sight of the rest of the fully-geared up intervention team to the back of Agent Henricksen. He guesses that they didn't count on him not resisting and wanted to be on the safe side just in case.
His small entourage of escort agents shove him towards another security door. His arm is still twisted upwards painfully even in cuffs, forcing him to walk with a slight lean forwards.
They bring him to a cold, tiled room, where he is searched very thoroughly two times by two separate agents before his handcuffs get released. The agent in charge of watching him doesn't refrain from a final warning before sliding the key into the handcuffs' lock, though.
"You better not act up, or we will use force. I believe you'd much rather take your photoshoot without metal bracelets anyway, don't you?"
He simply nods in response and the cuffs come off.
He rubs his wrists to bring circulation back into them. From his peripheral he can see the agents eyeing him warily, as if waiting for some kind of escalation now that his hands were free.
They take pictures from all sides, followed by a typical mug shot up front. He complies with every order, unwilling to start a fight. What for? He'd turned himself in, and certainly not to beat up FBI.
He has to undress until he's left with nothing more than his underwear. He glances down at himself and is surprised to see large haematoma on his ribcage and the side of his chest. He hadn't really felt anything of it.
The man operating the camera pays special attention to the fresh claw marks on his arms and neck, and old scars scattered haphazardly across his body. Mostly deep gashes long since turned to scars and healed fractures. There's multiple photos of his hands, still with rusted blood of the people back at house on his fingers and under his nails. Another forensic carrying a large metal suitcase enters the tiled room, and it's getting a tad bit cramped in here.
The suitcase contains little tubes, tweezers, q-tips and other equipment he assumed to be for securing evidence. The man rubs the q-tips under his nails and on his hands, then places it in a transparent evidence bag. Another one goes into his mouth, a bit of hair is taken with the tweezers. This and his clothes all get bagged, too.
Afterwards they hand him a light white shirt, new underwear and a blue overall paired with slippers that make him feel like a mental institution's patient. Perhaps he belongs there after all, considering no sane person would tour the US and murder people for fun. God, the thought makes him feel sick to his stomach, but he tries to not let anything on. His escort is already running on frayed nerves, better not to agitate them any further or worse, give them a reason to 'use force'.
He obediently holds out his hands when one agent indicates him to and they accommodate him by placing the handcuffs with his hands in front of him. It's much easier to walk that way.
They take him to another empty room. He recognizes it for an interview room. There's a one-way mirror, a metal table and two opposite chairs bolted to the floor.
His escort pushes him down into the seat facing the mirror and attaches his cuffs to a long chain looped through a metal ring bolted to the floor and another to the table.
"Sit here", the agent in charge says before leaving him alone once again.
He looks brazenly at the mirror. Behind it, there are people watching, and many. He doesn't know how, but he knows.
With nothing better to fill his time, he tucks absentmindedly at his cuffs, noticing the cameras in all corners and above the mirror almost in a trance. There is a metal plate bolted to the wall next to the ominous one-way mirror. It says: Standing up his prohibited. Do not spit. Do not attack. Any infringements will be met with according force.
He wonders what good it'd do to spit at someone when you couldn't even fight back properly.
There's also a clock on the wall over the doorway. The whole process from reception, photosession to finally sitting here had taken two hours tops. Good; The cat food should suffice for now.
He rubs his hands together and slouches slightly in the metal chair. It is uncomfortable, but that is probably the point.
After what felt like hours, the hairs at the back of neck prickle and Agent Henricksen finally joins him in interview room.
He adjusts his position in the seat, foldings his hands neatly on the metal table in front of him. This must be taken seriously, no slouching from now on.
Agent Henricksen sits down opposite of him, setting a pair of thick files on the table, staring at him wordlessly for a long minute. He wipes at his nose, then asks, sounding more confused than angry, "Why, Dean?"
He stares at the agent, knowing no answer to that question. Why what? Why the hairstyle? Why kill innocents? Why what?
Instead he clears his dry throat and says, "You gotta take care of the cat."
This throws Henricksen for a loop. "Deflection already? A Cat? What cat?"
"No", he says, "I left a cat behind. It's locked in a house and I don't know how long the food'll last. I'd hate to see it suffer."
Now Henricksen is practically on the verge of screaming at him, from zero to one hundred in a millisecond. He sees it in the way his jaw muscles near pop out of his skull.
"You'd hate to see it suffer?", he growls, furious.
Without a warning the agent opens the case file in front of him, throwing a wild whirlwind of pictures into his direction. They're people, Dean realizes in a split second: women smiling in the sunshine, men posing with their dogs, lovers kissing.
"And yet you had no problem making all those people suffer and die painfully, Dean!", the agent explodes, nearly rising out of his chair.
Dean swallows thickly. Avoiding the pictures with his eyes and staring at his hands is the only thing he manages to achieve.
The agent slams his palm onto the metal surface of the table. "You'd hate to see a cat suffer, but butcher dozens of humans, no problem!"
Dean still avoids looking at the pictures, opting for the ceiling instead.
Henricksen continues relentlessly. "That is what you like, don't you? You enjoy making humans bleed and scream?"
He grits his jaw, wishing he'd just be taken to a cell instead of this. Instead of getting a mirror held up at himself.
"Natalie Beechum, 32, bound and stabbed with a silver knife 7 times. Nolan Serpico, 41, shot twice in the heart with silver bullets. Marissa Delacroix, 19, beheaded."
He closes his eyes for the charges presented to him. The agent is throwing him for a loop and the whiplash leaves his stomach churning as he tries to keep up a façade of impassiveness.
"All of these people left behind families, friends. They had lives, aspirations, career goals, and you took that from them to satisfy some sick need to kill."
New paper rustles. He guesses it's more pictures the agent presents him with.
He bites his lower lip, still keeping his eyes closed. But his mind has nowhere to wander, he has no way to not hear the agent's cruel words.
"That's why you escalated more and more in the last few years, isn't it? Because you liked the sticky feeling of blood dripping down your fingers?"
Dean still doesn't dare look up at the pictures, but studying his hands doesn't help either- the remains of crusted blood on the side of his fingers nearly make him gag with the vivid picture the agent is painting in his head.
"Or was it because Daddy wasn't there to hold you back anymore? Deano could go on and make all the mess he wants?"
"Just stop already!", he exclaims explosively, finally looking up at the agent. He wanted this, wanted to be out of the streets, but he doesn't need to put up with these images in his head. Not now.
He fears they'd return sooner or later anyway, and as such he is glad if he's spared them for as long as possible.
He sniffs, turning his head to the side to avoid looking the agent in the eyes. He can't deal with the judgement right now.
He sighs. "I turned myself in to keep from doing that, okay?", he continues, temper already cooled. He adds, almost as an afterthought, "I don't want to kill anyone anymore."
That visibly puzzles the agent. The perplexion is almost palpable, and so Dean uses the small break this lends him to speak up once more, this time in a calm and collected manner.
"I lost my memory, okay? And when I retraced my steps, I found out who- or rather, what I am. And I found out the hard way." Here he pauses, breaking eye contact once more as a shudder runs down his spine. But to his surprise the agent lets him continue without interrupting.
"Send someone to 24 Heckler Drive", he says, subdued. "You'll find the residents. I tried to give them the most of respect under the circumstances."
Agent Henricksen goes rigid as the realisation hits him.
Dean grits his teeth, then recounts, "My car is parked around the corner of your bureau building. In the trunk you'll find weapons, I don't know what else. I didn't look."
He glances at the one-way mirror, then at Agent Henricksen again.
"I'll answer your questions as good as I can, I'll cooperate, whatever. All I ask is for someone to take care of the cat I left there. It's the last good thing I can do, save an innocent life."
To his surprise, Henricksen carefully nods his head, half turning to motion at the one-way, and Dean can just make out the faint sound of a door opening and closing outside.
Satisified, he nods at the agent, uneasily playing with the chains around his wrists. Henricksen rightens himself up in his seat and gives him a once-over.
"The cat's gonna be taken care of", he affirms. He has regained his grip.
"Why don't you tell me everything from the moment you woke up today. And don't leave out any details."
Dean takes a deep, controlled breath and then doesn't stop talking for a long time.
Hours later he gets re-cuffed behind his back and taken by the very same escort to a local holding cell a few hallways over.
Somehow he's feeling almost elevated to have gotten all of that off his chest. He didn't have the chance to talk to anyone since he woke up in this personal hell that is his life. Did he use a criminal interview as some twisted kind of catharsis for himself?
Henricksen announced that they'd be talking background tomorrow. He'd try to supply any memories, if they resurfaced, but so far there is nothing but vague notions and the uneasy feeling he should know some of the names Henricksen had dropped during the later stages of the interview. All in all, he's glad he cannot hurt anyone anymore, no matter what happens overnight. No matter if he regains his memories, and the urge to maim and murder again. On the way to the holding cells he'd casually checked out the security of the place and his new, even sturdier cuffs.
He comes up with a verdict that soothed his troubled mind:
He won't get out of here, that's for sure.