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Entry tags:
fic: In The Garden(of memory), 2/?
Title: In The Garden(of memory)
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, OCs
Rating: R
Word Count:2084
Summary: Struck with a spell, Dean suffers memory loss, losing everything that makes Dean "Dean". Sam is at his side, working to break the spell, but soon begins to wonder, is that helping Dean or hurting him?
At AO3
Worry 
Three silent days later found Sam pacing the war room, giving in to full panic mode now, both hands deep in his hair—yanking at it to keep from screaming. Cas hadn't been much help to alleviate Sam's worry. Nothing had charged Sam's anxiety more than having to listen to Castiel describe in an emotionless monotone (the voice he used whenever he or Dean, but mostly Dean, had gotten on his last nerve) his inability to find Dean.
"Sam, I'm not in peak condition, true, but finding Dean's location is difficult because there are no Dean thoughts to be found, not because it's beyond my scope," Cas said. "I'm also not saying something is wrong with Dean, I'm certain there is not. I may not be able to pick out his thoughts, but I have other ways. Sam, you just need to be patient."
Patient? "Patient—" Sam swept his hand through the air, trying to erase the memory of those fucking, uber-earnest, blue eyes away—knocking a bottle off the table in the process. Following the course of his amazing luck, the damn thing shattered and spread shards explosively.
"Damn it!" He stomped off to the kitchen to get a dustpan and a broom, slowing when he saw mixing bowls on the counter, the bowls that Dean had pulled out before he'd left. His "never tell me the odds" mug was tucked behind the bowls, standing in a dried puddle of coffee….
God, Dean loved his stupid coffee first thing in the morning, had to have it, just like he needed to park his ass behind the wheel of the Impala at least once a day, just like he needed to get off at least once a—
"Fuck, I am an idiot!" Sam wheeled around to the war room—dashed right back to the kitchen for the broom.
"Gotta track the car," he muttered, sweeping up shards of amber glass. "Look for her in lockup. If Dean can't call me or return calls, more than likely he can't get to the car...which has got to be somewhere close to where he was…" Sam refused to even think of any other possibility. First he'd find the car, then make a plan and then...and then.
Then would be handled when he had a solid lead.
Sam dumped the glass shards, headed back to the war room with a cup of tea. He dropped down in one of the wingback chairs against the wall. He stretched out long legs, propped his laptop on his knees. If Dean had parked anywhere near, or in the hotel's lot, by now she would have been towed, for sure. He accessed police tow lots for Wichita, somewhere close to the Ambassador.
It didn't take long to find the car, and a spark of relief swept through him. "There you are, sweetheart, " he crooned, and winced, couldn't help throwing a look over his shoulder despite knowing no one was there. Okay, maybe he wasn't obsessed over her like some he could name but...she kinda was family, after all. One of the few constants in his life.
He was packing a duffle for himself, tossing in a change of clothes for Asshat, when Cas fluttered into being practically at his shoulder, making him fumble the bag and its contents to the floor. "Cas…."
Still furiously believing that Dean was just trying to fuck his way through Wichita, he ended up taking it out on Cas, insisting that he didn't need the angel, that he didn't want to have Cas along. That went about as well as he expected, and Cas dogged his footsteps around the garage bays, demonstrating that he was a master of selective deafness when it came to something he didn't want to hear. Obviously he'd taken lessons from Dean.
"Sam, if Dean is injured, then you need to have what I can dredge up of my grace to heal him—"
"That's in no way as comforting as you seem to think it is," Sam huffed, ignoring Cas rolling his eyes—another lesson from the master—and flung the duffle bag into the back seat of the Muntz he'd taken the other day. When he slid into the driver's side, Cas was already in the passenger seat. Naturally.
Sam groaned. The only way he was going to get rid of Cas was splashing the dash with banishment sigils, and he didn't have the time, or the desire, to spill blood at the moment. "Just...please don't talk, and don't mess with the radio. And don't...stare at me."
+++
They found the car at a private impound lot, towed there after having been abandoned at the very, very nice hotel that he'd sent Dean to, to pick up the package Sam had traded for with weekend-hunter Roberto. The package Sam had sent was so ordinary, just few pairs of spelled handcuffs and magic-imbued rope. It had been a job mostly designed to get Dean out in the car (and out of Sam's hair) for a bit. There was nothing out of the ordinary around the hotel and as far as Sam could tell, not much to attract Dean—a few restaurants, a museum or something, a few bookstores, a couple of cocktail bars. Sam looked down the block and sighed. "Cas, how about you take one side of the street and I'll take the other—maybe Dean's just taking a mini-vacation from, from, from—" Sam choked, tried to hide it with a terribly faked cough.
Cas looked at him with entirely too much sympathy, those eyes just...Dean used to say that Sam unfairly used puppy dog eyes on him, but Sam was pretty sure that Cas in full-on 'I feel your pain' mode had him beat hands down.
"It's going to be okay, Sam. It is." Cas patted Sam's hand, and radiated sympathy.
"Yeah...uh, thanks. Just. Remember to hold your badge right side up, okay—and for god's sake, don't use the agent Beyonce one."
Cas nodded, then held up his wrist, displaying a chunky, old Timex Ironman. "We should synchronize our watches now. Dean told me that was an important feature of any job."
"Synchronize our what—why? No—you know what, don't even tell me." He sent Cas off, and judging by the look in his eyes, he'd disappointed Cas in some way that Dean probably wouldn't have. Whatever. When they found Dean, there'd be plenty of time to parse it then. Right now, he had to concentrate on hunting Dean down.
What Sam thought would be an hour or two of them showing Dean's picture up and down the strip turned into an irritating, then nerve-wracking, and then frightening lack of information. It seemed no one had seen him, except the concierge at the Ambassador, who definitely remembered him, and Roberto, who'd left as soon as the packages had been exchanged. Claimed that Dean had left him whole and well and heading for the bar. No one in the bar remembered him. No one in the garage remembered the car or Dean. None of Dean's ID had been in the car.
Dean had to have met someone or something in that parking garage.
Sam flipped through the cards he'd brought, and finding one that he was sure wasn't maxed, took a room at the Ambassador. He wandered around the floor his brother had been on, but there was nothing to see. There'd been an incident involving someone staying at the hotel who'd taken ill, but from the description, it wasn't Dean—just some guy who'd had a stroke or something. Sam hadn't really paid attention after he found out it wasn't Dean, and the only thing odd about it was that the guy apparently was young to have had a stroke. Sam promptly forgot about it.
They stayed another two days before returning to the bunker, Sam driving the Impala and Cas the Muntz. Sam searched for arrests, and Cas dropped in on and off with no news himself. It took slightly more than a week before Sam started searching for homicides as well. He was beginning to feel like he had when Dean and he were on the search for their dad. Sam called hospitals, morgues, but nothing panned out there, thank you Jesus.
Desperation brought him back to Wichita, back in FBI drag, with more photos in hand. He retraced their original steps, then expanded his search radius, day by day. Nearly three weeks had passed.
He dragged himself, tired, sweating like mad, and thoroughly disgruntled, into a little hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop. He ordered a salad and tea, and force of habit had him flashing a picture of Dean, looking prosperous in the suit he'd worn to pick up his goddamn twice-cursed package. The counter guy squinted, then nodded. "Hunh, y'know, he kinda does look familiar. There was a guy while back...it was weird as hell. Poor guy was maybe retar—challenged, I mean. Dirty, messed up, but - " He frowned at the picture. "Wow...shi – ucks, I think maybe that might be him. Could be. Gee, he looks good—what the hell happened?"
"Where did he go?" Sam snapped, his hands itching to pull the fucking idiot over the counter by his neck.
"Umm...probably to St. Christopher's, on North street...he was in really bad shape—your partner?"
"Yeah," Sam said. "My partner."
Prelude
"Dude, why do I have do the suit?"
"Stop yelling." Sam pushed open the door to Dean's room, and tossed a tie at Dean. "It's so you won't stick out like an infected wart—the Ambassador hotel is a pretty luxe place. The guy you're meeting up with, Roberto, is more than well off, likes to 'dabble' in the hunt to alleviate the excruciating boredom of being rich as hell, poor guy."
"Great, one of *those* fuckin' idiots. So, what is it I'm picking up from...?" Dean squinted at the card Sam had tucked in his jacket pocket. "Rob...erto...Padilla? That's his name?"
Sam made a mental note to force Dean into getting some readers next time they stocked up on necessities. And tease the living fuck out of him while they did…."Eh, a few minor books, though one sounds like something Bobby used to have. Roberto offered an exchange for a few spelled objects—trust me, nothing that could hurt him," Sam said when Dean wanted to protest. "He's a weekender, but not a complete moron."
"Yeah, all right, but dude, is it worth it? Don't we don't have enough books?" Dean leaned into the sink, glaring at the mirror as he tried to yank his tie into place.
"They're books we can use—recent books, Dean. Well, recent meaning the sixties. What with the MoL wiped out in the fifties, there are blocks of missing knowledge it can't hurt to fill in. Plus, I'm on the look-out for any book that Bobby had in his library."
Dean's eyes shifted a little sideways, his frown deepening—Sam knew the feeling well, an uncomfortable mash-up of grief and guilt. Sam watched Dean fiddle grumpily with the tie for a minute or two more before caving—he pushed him back from the sink, tugged a bit on the tie and Dean narrowed his eyes at him as it magically settled into position.
"Whatever. Why can't you go instead?"
"Because you need to get out, get some sun, feel the road under your tires."
"'Road under my tires', hunh? In other words, I 'm getting on your nerves," Dean laughed. "Okay. Take some ground beef out of the magic freezer, I'll make burgers when I get back."
Burgers, Dean's burgers. Sam nodded, completely unsuccessful at hiding his glee, which only made Dean laugh more. He swung past Sam, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Yer so fuckin' easy," he crooned. "But that's what I like about you, baby."
He crowded Sam against the doorway, pulled him in by a handful of hair, and licked across his mouth before capturing it in a deep, wet, kiss that promised serious continuation later.
Sam broke the kiss reluctantly. He pushed Dean back with gentle fingertips against his shoulders. He smiled down at Dean, his cheeks gone bright pink, and licked at his damp lips. "Yeah, yeah, screw you. Don't get lost."
"I'll be back soon," Dean said, his hand ghosting over Sam's cheek, smiling softly as he rested a fingertip gently, briefly in a dimple. "Before you know it."
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, OCs
Rating: R
Word Count:2084
Summary: Struck with a spell, Dean suffers memory loss, losing everything that makes Dean "Dean". Sam is at his side, working to break the spell, but soon begins to wonder, is that helping Dean or hurting him?
At AO3
Three silent days later found Sam pacing the war room, giving in to full panic mode now, both hands deep in his hair—yanking at it to keep from screaming. Cas hadn't been much help to alleviate Sam's worry. Nothing had charged Sam's anxiety more than having to listen to Castiel describe in an emotionless monotone (the voice he used whenever he or Dean, but mostly Dean, had gotten on his last nerve) his inability to find Dean.
"Sam, I'm not in peak condition, true, but finding Dean's location is difficult because there are no Dean thoughts to be found, not because it's beyond my scope," Cas said. "I'm also not saying something is wrong with Dean, I'm certain there is not. I may not be able to pick out his thoughts, but I have other ways. Sam, you just need to be patient."
Patient? "Patient—" Sam swept his hand through the air, trying to erase the memory of those fucking, uber-earnest, blue eyes away—knocking a bottle off the table in the process. Following the course of his amazing luck, the damn thing shattered and spread shards explosively.
"Damn it!" He stomped off to the kitchen to get a dustpan and a broom, slowing when he saw mixing bowls on the counter, the bowls that Dean had pulled out before he'd left. His "never tell me the odds" mug was tucked behind the bowls, standing in a dried puddle of coffee….
God, Dean loved his stupid coffee first thing in the morning, had to have it, just like he needed to park his ass behind the wheel of the Impala at least once a day, just like he needed to get off at least once a—
"Fuck, I am an idiot!" Sam wheeled around to the war room—dashed right back to the kitchen for the broom.
"Gotta track the car," he muttered, sweeping up shards of amber glass. "Look for her in lockup. If Dean can't call me or return calls, more than likely he can't get to the car...which has got to be somewhere close to where he was…" Sam refused to even think of any other possibility. First he'd find the car, then make a plan and then...and then.
Then would be handled when he had a solid lead.
Sam dumped the glass shards, headed back to the war room with a cup of tea. He dropped down in one of the wingback chairs against the wall. He stretched out long legs, propped his laptop on his knees. If Dean had parked anywhere near, or in the hotel's lot, by now she would have been towed, for sure. He accessed police tow lots for Wichita, somewhere close to the Ambassador.
It didn't take long to find the car, and a spark of relief swept through him. "There you are, sweetheart, " he crooned, and winced, couldn't help throwing a look over his shoulder despite knowing no one was there. Okay, maybe he wasn't obsessed over her like some he could name but...she kinda was family, after all. One of the few constants in his life.
He was packing a duffle for himself, tossing in a change of clothes for Asshat, when Cas fluttered into being practically at his shoulder, making him fumble the bag and its contents to the floor. "Cas…."
Still furiously believing that Dean was just trying to fuck his way through Wichita, he ended up taking it out on Cas, insisting that he didn't need the angel, that he didn't want to have Cas along. That went about as well as he expected, and Cas dogged his footsteps around the garage bays, demonstrating that he was a master of selective deafness when it came to something he didn't want to hear. Obviously he'd taken lessons from Dean.
"Sam, if Dean is injured, then you need to have what I can dredge up of my grace to heal him—"
"That's in no way as comforting as you seem to think it is," Sam huffed, ignoring Cas rolling his eyes—another lesson from the master—and flung the duffle bag into the back seat of the Muntz he'd taken the other day. When he slid into the driver's side, Cas was already in the passenger seat. Naturally.
Sam groaned. The only way he was going to get rid of Cas was splashing the dash with banishment sigils, and he didn't have the time, or the desire, to spill blood at the moment. "Just...please don't talk, and don't mess with the radio. And don't...stare at me."
They found the car at a private impound lot, towed there after having been abandoned at the very, very nice hotel that he'd sent Dean to, to pick up the package Sam had traded for with weekend-hunter Roberto. The package Sam had sent was so ordinary, just few pairs of spelled handcuffs and magic-imbued rope. It had been a job mostly designed to get Dean out in the car (and out of Sam's hair) for a bit. There was nothing out of the ordinary around the hotel and as far as Sam could tell, not much to attract Dean—a few restaurants, a museum or something, a few bookstores, a couple of cocktail bars. Sam looked down the block and sighed. "Cas, how about you take one side of the street and I'll take the other—maybe Dean's just taking a mini-vacation from, from, from—" Sam choked, tried to hide it with a terribly faked cough.
Cas looked at him with entirely too much sympathy, those eyes just...Dean used to say that Sam unfairly used puppy dog eyes on him, but Sam was pretty sure that Cas in full-on 'I feel your pain' mode had him beat hands down.
"It's going to be okay, Sam. It is." Cas patted Sam's hand, and radiated sympathy.
"Yeah...uh, thanks. Just. Remember to hold your badge right side up, okay—and for god's sake, don't use the agent Beyonce one."
Cas nodded, then held up his wrist, displaying a chunky, old Timex Ironman. "We should synchronize our watches now. Dean told me that was an important feature of any job."
"Synchronize our what—why? No—you know what, don't even tell me." He sent Cas off, and judging by the look in his eyes, he'd disappointed Cas in some way that Dean probably wouldn't have. Whatever. When they found Dean, there'd be plenty of time to parse it then. Right now, he had to concentrate on hunting Dean down.
What Sam thought would be an hour or two of them showing Dean's picture up and down the strip turned into an irritating, then nerve-wracking, and then frightening lack of information. It seemed no one had seen him, except the concierge at the Ambassador, who definitely remembered him, and Roberto, who'd left as soon as the packages had been exchanged. Claimed that Dean had left him whole and well and heading for the bar. No one in the bar remembered him. No one in the garage remembered the car or Dean. None of Dean's ID had been in the car.
Dean had to have met someone or something in that parking garage.
Sam flipped through the cards he'd brought, and finding one that he was sure wasn't maxed, took a room at the Ambassador. He wandered around the floor his brother had been on, but there was nothing to see. There'd been an incident involving someone staying at the hotel who'd taken ill, but from the description, it wasn't Dean—just some guy who'd had a stroke or something. Sam hadn't really paid attention after he found out it wasn't Dean, and the only thing odd about it was that the guy apparently was young to have had a stroke. Sam promptly forgot about it.
They stayed another two days before returning to the bunker, Sam driving the Impala and Cas the Muntz. Sam searched for arrests, and Cas dropped in on and off with no news himself. It took slightly more than a week before Sam started searching for homicides as well. He was beginning to feel like he had when Dean and he were on the search for their dad. Sam called hospitals, morgues, but nothing panned out there, thank you Jesus.
Desperation brought him back to Wichita, back in FBI drag, with more photos in hand. He retraced their original steps, then expanded his search radius, day by day. Nearly three weeks had passed.
He dragged himself, tired, sweating like mad, and thoroughly disgruntled, into a little hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop. He ordered a salad and tea, and force of habit had him flashing a picture of Dean, looking prosperous in the suit he'd worn to pick up his goddamn twice-cursed package. The counter guy squinted, then nodded. "Hunh, y'know, he kinda does look familiar. There was a guy while back...it was weird as hell. Poor guy was maybe retar—challenged, I mean. Dirty, messed up, but - " He frowned at the picture. "Wow...shi – ucks, I think maybe that might be him. Could be. Gee, he looks good—what the hell happened?"
"Where did he go?" Sam snapped, his hands itching to pull the fucking idiot over the counter by his neck.
"Umm...probably to St. Christopher's, on North street...he was in really bad shape—your partner?"
"Yeah," Sam said. "My partner."
"Dude, why do I have do the suit?"
"Stop yelling." Sam pushed open the door to Dean's room, and tossed a tie at Dean. "It's so you won't stick out like an infected wart—the Ambassador hotel is a pretty luxe place. The guy you're meeting up with, Roberto, is more than well off, likes to 'dabble' in the hunt to alleviate the excruciating boredom of being rich as hell, poor guy."
"Great, one of *those* fuckin' idiots. So, what is it I'm picking up from...?" Dean squinted at the card Sam had tucked in his jacket pocket. "Rob...erto...Padilla? That's his name?"
Sam made a mental note to force Dean into getting some readers next time they stocked up on necessities. And tease the living fuck out of him while they did…."Eh, a few minor books, though one sounds like something Bobby used to have. Roberto offered an exchange for a few spelled objects—trust me, nothing that could hurt him," Sam said when Dean wanted to protest. "He's a weekender, but not a complete moron."
"Yeah, all right, but dude, is it worth it? Don't we don't have enough books?" Dean leaned into the sink, glaring at the mirror as he tried to yank his tie into place.
"They're books we can use—recent books, Dean. Well, recent meaning the sixties. What with the MoL wiped out in the fifties, there are blocks of missing knowledge it can't hurt to fill in. Plus, I'm on the look-out for any book that Bobby had in his library."
Dean's eyes shifted a little sideways, his frown deepening—Sam knew the feeling well, an uncomfortable mash-up of grief and guilt. Sam watched Dean fiddle grumpily with the tie for a minute or two more before caving—he pushed him back from the sink, tugged a bit on the tie and Dean narrowed his eyes at him as it magically settled into position.
"Whatever. Why can't you go instead?"
"Because you need to get out, get some sun, feel the road under your tires."
"'Road under my tires', hunh? In other words, I 'm getting on your nerves," Dean laughed. "Okay. Take some ground beef out of the magic freezer, I'll make burgers when I get back."
Burgers, Dean's burgers. Sam nodded, completely unsuccessful at hiding his glee, which only made Dean laugh more. He swung past Sam, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Yer so fuckin' easy," he crooned. "But that's what I like about you, baby."
He crowded Sam against the doorway, pulled him in by a handful of hair, and licked across his mouth before capturing it in a deep, wet, kiss that promised serious continuation later.
Sam broke the kiss reluctantly. He pushed Dean back with gentle fingertips against his shoulders. He smiled down at Dean, his cheeks gone bright pink, and licked at his damp lips. "Yeah, yeah, screw you. Don't get lost."
"I'll be back soon," Dean said, his hand ghosting over Sam's cheek, smiling softly as he rested a fingertip gently, briefly in a dimple. "Before you know it."