na na na na na!
Thank you for the birthday wishes! I will be un-anti-social later and say that properly, but I wanted to put it out there.
Title: Ice Cream
Fandom: Supernatural
Notes: It's my birthday! Which means it's audience of ONE time again! Though this time it's gen? I don't even know what happened there. Post season 5, Dean-centric.
Dean liked Lisa and Ben. He liked living with them, the way they made a place for him, the way Lisa expected him to pull his share, the way Ben looked up to him. But that didn't make the transition to normal life easy. Stationary life carried risks -- that a credit card fraud would catch up with him, that someone would eventually link this Dean to that Dean Winchester, declared dead but still a person of interest. And normal had a whole different set of rules and routines to fumble over, though he was getting there.
Lisa sometimes left the news on as 'background noise' while she was doing things around the house. Dean wasn't quite sure how she managed -- he couldn't help listening for patterns, for the stories behind the stories -- but he'd been working on it.
... second reported sighting of a big cat within the city limits...
Skinwalker, Dean thought. He went to check on Ben, see how that homework was coming.
... fell from the family's fifth floor apartment when the screen...
Poltergeist activity, Dean thought. Lisa's car needed its oil changed, had for awhile, so he went to borrow a jack from the neighbor.
... heat wave continues...
Dean frowned thoughtfully at the tv, took his beer out back to watch Ben playing tag with other kids. Yeah, that one was probably nothing.
.... no, nothing. Didn't I just say that, or am I getting worse?
Dean froze when he heard the peevish voice, annoyingly familiar. He'd been elbows deep in clean t-shirts, and when he turned, he knocked the smallest pile over.
The reported chuckled good naturedly. Dean got only a glimpse of the glowering interviewee before the report cut to a doctor talking very seriously and monotonously, but it was enough. He'd never expected to see him again, and honestly, he wasn't anywhere near the top of Dean's list of losses... but he was back. Dean crushed the irrational surge of hope that Sa-- that anyone else had come back, too.
"Dean?" It sounded like that wasn't the first time Lisa had said his name while he was staring blankly at the screen.
He shook it off. Not his problem, not anymore. "Yeah?"
"Go." He couldn't read her expression.
He went.
***
Hospitals were easy to sneak into. Sa-- some hunters made a production out of it, lab coats and badges and professional attire and stories to keep straight. But Dean had found that just walking in worked well enough, provided you looked like you knew where you were going and you were meant to be there. Even visiting hours were really more of a suggestion and haphazardly enforced.
Armed with the partial room number from a B reel shot, Dean saw himself up to the fifth floor. He had to peek in on five rooms before he found the right one, but he was lucky -- no one questioned him, and 'John Doe' was sleeping, as was the guy in the other bed.
Dean snagged the chart. He couldn't read all of it, but he picked out the highlights. No organic damage, no reason the guy's memories were gone... just the supposed absence itself.
"You're not a doctor." Dean looked up, expecting... he wasn't sure. Something that would give the game away. But there was nothing in that puzzled-suspicious look that said he'd any idea either who Dean was or who he was -- had been.
"No," Dean agreed, putting the chart back. "I'm not."
"So, do I--" He frowned, shook his head. "Should I know you?"
"Nah," said Dean. "No reason you would."
"Just like rifling through other people's medical information?"
Dean shrugged and received a sly grin in answer.
"I can respect that," said the man who had been the archangel Gabriel. "Say anything interesting?"
"You're faking."
Anger flashed over his face, before he turned away. Dean thought the anger might be genuine, but even if it was, that didn't tell him anything. Angry because he'd been caught out at whatever game he was playing at would look the same as angry because he wasn't faking. "Back to that, are they?"
Dean ignored the question. The doctors seemed pretty convinced he wasn't faking. But they didn't know him. "Come on. You must remember something."
"You do know me," he said, softly. His eyes fixed on Dean, but Dean didn't answer. "Alright. I remember the past couple weeks fine, in all their stultifying glory. I remember the woman who found me and brought me here. I remember waking up in the hallway of a condemned building -- I'm told it used to be a motel. I don't remember anything before that."
"Nothing?"
"Seriously, am I speaking in tongues?" he demanded, all bristly irritation again. "Why is this so hard to understand?'
Because I knew you as the Trickster first. Because you're an angel. Because you're supposed to be dead. The man in the other bed shifted restlessly at the outburst, close to waking. Dean wasn't going to get any answers here, anyway. Time to go. Dean turned to the door.
"Wait!" Dean looked back. The guy looked convincingly lost. "What's my name?"
Dean wasn't sure what to tell him. If Gabriel was playing a game, well, Dean didn't want to play. And if he wasn't Gabriel anymore, Dean didn't know his name. He could have been anyone. But Dean couldn't bring himself to just walk out, because he was a sucker. "You've gone by a couple. Most recently, though... Gabriel."
He frowned and mouthed the name, like he was testing it out. His attention turned back outwards to Dean. "Thank you."
Dean left.
***
He ended up in a Starbucks near the university campus, drinking seriously-just-coffee and using their wifi to do the research he probably should have done right off the bat.
The report he'd caught turned out to be the last in a series by the South Bend station, all aired under a unifying melodramatic title. Surprisingly, the reporter had stumbled onto something big, though of course she'd then gone chasing rational explanations. An unusually high number of people had recently turned up with amnesia at hospitals and police stations across the state -- though the amnesiacs themselves weren't all local. Some had lost a couple weeks or months, others up to an entire year. They couldn't explain where they'd been or what they'd done.
After interviewing each individual case, the reporter offered speculations and 'expert' opinions about possible causes -- new diseases, biological agents, psychological events -- crazy conspiracy theory stuff. The truth was simpler. Leading up to the apocalypse, people had been possessed in ever increasing numbers, by demons and the angels alike. And now they weren't. The lucky ones were the amnesiacs, to Dean's thinking. Better not to remember.
The reporter had saved her biggest story for last: a man with no memories at all.
Or so he claimed.
Dean shut the laptop and drank the lukewarm dregs of the coffee. The problem was, there was no way to prove that Gabriel or the guy who used to be Gabriel -- whatever, he was using Gabriel -- was telling the truth. And catching Gabriel in a lie, when he could change the shape of reality to back it up... yeah, that was a trick. The smart thing would be to leave, right now. To drive back to Cicero, get far away from whatever Gabriel was up to, and not look back.
But then, Dean had never been the smart one. Instead, he found himself checking into a motel for the night, where habit soon had him checking for jobs in the area.
When Dean popped into the hospital room the next day, he found Gabriel sitting up, watching a talk show and eating orange jello from a plastic cup. Dean shook his head. Yeah, that could go either way in the 'evidence for/against the return of the archangel' stakes.
"So, you want to get out of here, or what?"
Gabriel startled, and the spoonful of jello landed in his lap. Judging by the smile, he either didn't notice or care. "Yes," he said fervently.
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Title: Ice Cream
Fandom: Supernatural
Notes: It's my birthday! Which means it's audience of ONE time again! Though this time it's gen? I don't even know what happened there. Post season 5, Dean-centric.
Dean liked Lisa and Ben. He liked living with them, the way they made a place for him, the way Lisa expected him to pull his share, the way Ben looked up to him. But that didn't make the transition to normal life easy. Stationary life carried risks -- that a credit card fraud would catch up with him, that someone would eventually link this Dean to that Dean Winchester, declared dead but still a person of interest. And normal had a whole different set of rules and routines to fumble over, though he was getting there.
Lisa sometimes left the news on as 'background noise' while she was doing things around the house. Dean wasn't quite sure how she managed -- he couldn't help listening for patterns, for the stories behind the stories -- but he'd been working on it.
... second reported sighting of a big cat within the city limits...
Skinwalker, Dean thought. He went to check on Ben, see how that homework was coming.
... fell from the family's fifth floor apartment when the screen...
Poltergeist activity, Dean thought. Lisa's car needed its oil changed, had for awhile, so he went to borrow a jack from the neighbor.
... heat wave continues...
Dean frowned thoughtfully at the tv, took his beer out back to watch Ben playing tag with other kids. Yeah, that one was probably nothing.
.... no, nothing. Didn't I just say that, or am I getting worse?
Dean froze when he heard the peevish voice, annoyingly familiar. He'd been elbows deep in clean t-shirts, and when he turned, he knocked the smallest pile over.
The reported chuckled good naturedly. Dean got only a glimpse of the glowering interviewee before the report cut to a doctor talking very seriously and monotonously, but it was enough. He'd never expected to see him again, and honestly, he wasn't anywhere near the top of Dean's list of losses... but he was back. Dean crushed the irrational surge of hope that Sa-- that anyone else had come back, too.
"Dean?" It sounded like that wasn't the first time Lisa had said his name while he was staring blankly at the screen.
He shook it off. Not his problem, not anymore. "Yeah?"
"Go." He couldn't read her expression.
He went.
***
Hospitals were easy to sneak into. Sa-- some hunters made a production out of it, lab coats and badges and professional attire and stories to keep straight. But Dean had found that just walking in worked well enough, provided you looked like you knew where you were going and you were meant to be there. Even visiting hours were really more of a suggestion and haphazardly enforced.
Armed with the partial room number from a B reel shot, Dean saw himself up to the fifth floor. He had to peek in on five rooms before he found the right one, but he was lucky -- no one questioned him, and 'John Doe' was sleeping, as was the guy in the other bed.
Dean snagged the chart. He couldn't read all of it, but he picked out the highlights. No organic damage, no reason the guy's memories were gone... just the supposed absence itself.
"You're not a doctor." Dean looked up, expecting... he wasn't sure. Something that would give the game away. But there was nothing in that puzzled-suspicious look that said he'd any idea either who Dean was or who he was -- had been.
"No," Dean agreed, putting the chart back. "I'm not."
"So, do I--" He frowned, shook his head. "Should I know you?"
"Nah," said Dean. "No reason you would."
"Just like rifling through other people's medical information?"
Dean shrugged and received a sly grin in answer.
"I can respect that," said the man who had been the archangel Gabriel. "Say anything interesting?"
"You're faking."
Anger flashed over his face, before he turned away. Dean thought the anger might be genuine, but even if it was, that didn't tell him anything. Angry because he'd been caught out at whatever game he was playing at would look the same as angry because he wasn't faking. "Back to that, are they?"
Dean ignored the question. The doctors seemed pretty convinced he wasn't faking. But they didn't know him. "Come on. You must remember something."
"You do know me," he said, softly. His eyes fixed on Dean, but Dean didn't answer. "Alright. I remember the past couple weeks fine, in all their stultifying glory. I remember the woman who found me and brought me here. I remember waking up in the hallway of a condemned building -- I'm told it used to be a motel. I don't remember anything before that."
"Nothing?"
"Seriously, am I speaking in tongues?" he demanded, all bristly irritation again. "Why is this so hard to understand?'
Because I knew you as the Trickster first. Because you're an angel. Because you're supposed to be dead. The man in the other bed shifted restlessly at the outburst, close to waking. Dean wasn't going to get any answers here, anyway. Time to go. Dean turned to the door.
"Wait!" Dean looked back. The guy looked convincingly lost. "What's my name?"
Dean wasn't sure what to tell him. If Gabriel was playing a game, well, Dean didn't want to play. And if he wasn't Gabriel anymore, Dean didn't know his name. He could have been anyone. But Dean couldn't bring himself to just walk out, because he was a sucker. "You've gone by a couple. Most recently, though... Gabriel."
He frowned and mouthed the name, like he was testing it out. His attention turned back outwards to Dean. "Thank you."
Dean left.
***
He ended up in a Starbucks near the university campus, drinking seriously-just-coffee and using their wifi to do the research he probably should have done right off the bat.
The report he'd caught turned out to be the last in a series by the South Bend station, all aired under a unifying melodramatic title. Surprisingly, the reporter had stumbled onto something big, though of course she'd then gone chasing rational explanations. An unusually high number of people had recently turned up with amnesia at hospitals and police stations across the state -- though the amnesiacs themselves weren't all local. Some had lost a couple weeks or months, others up to an entire year. They couldn't explain where they'd been or what they'd done.
After interviewing each individual case, the reporter offered speculations and 'expert' opinions about possible causes -- new diseases, biological agents, psychological events -- crazy conspiracy theory stuff. The truth was simpler. Leading up to the apocalypse, people had been possessed in ever increasing numbers, by demons and the angels alike. And now they weren't. The lucky ones were the amnesiacs, to Dean's thinking. Better not to remember.
The reporter had saved her biggest story for last: a man with no memories at all.
Or so he claimed.
Dean shut the laptop and drank the lukewarm dregs of the coffee. The problem was, there was no way to prove that Gabriel or the guy who used to be Gabriel -- whatever, he was using Gabriel -- was telling the truth. And catching Gabriel in a lie, when he could change the shape of reality to back it up... yeah, that was a trick. The smart thing would be to leave, right now. To drive back to Cicero, get far away from whatever Gabriel was up to, and not look back.
But then, Dean had never been the smart one. Instead, he found himself checking into a motel for the night, where habit soon had him checking for jobs in the area.
When Dean popped into the hospital room the next day, he found Gabriel sitting up, watching a talk show and eating orange jello from a plastic cup. Dean shook his head. Yeah, that could go either way in the 'evidence for/against the return of the archangel' stakes.
"So, you want to get out of here, or what?"
Gabriel startled, and the spoonful of jello landed in his lap. Judging by the smile, he either didn't notice or care. "Yes," he said fervently.
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