fic: My life on paper (1/2)
TITLE: My life on paper
WORDS: 5k
SUMMARY: Whatever random triggers Sam has for his hell flashbacks, his consciousness sidesteps them by becoming blank!slate!Sam. Amnesia!fic.
A/N: Written for de-nugis over at the Oh Sam commentfic meme.
WARNING: This might be kind of depressing, but in my mind it turns out okay obviously? Also, dub-con bc Sam has amnesia.
"Hey. Easy there, tiger."
Sam gently sidestepped him. "You don't need to walk me to the bathroom. I'm not injured."
Dean held out a hand like Sam might fall at any second. "Yeah, I know, I just. You tell me if anything hurts, okay?"
"What, was I in a fight or something?" He had various aches and pains, but they seemed to be mostly related to having been conked out, hooked up to an IV. The conditions were unsanitary as well. Instead of a hospital, he'd woken up in a guest bedroom on the second floor of a poorly lit house, yellow curtains billowing softly in the afternoon breeze when he'd first opened his eyes.
"You could say that."
The guy wasn't telling him anything. Sam'd push more once he had some lunch, at least. He hesitated before heading into the bathroom, unsure of what face was going to meet him in the mirror.
"You say we're brothers?" he asked. "So we look alike?" He seriously hoped so. Kind of embarrassing.
Dean shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, not really, but sorta."
Dude looked like a male model, so Sam couldn't be that ba- He stepped in front of the mirror. "Oh."
Dean clapped him on the back. "Them's the cards life dealt you. Read 'em and weep."
Sam touched two fingers to his ski slope nose, the unfamiliar cleft of his chin. "My face-"
"Sorry man."
He outlined his lips with a fingertip as he broke into a grin. "-is fantastic. Holy shit! I'm hotter than you!"
Dean busted up like he was surprised, like it was the best joke he'd heard all year. Sam just laughed right along with him, watching them both in the reflection, the unfamiliar crinkle around his eyes, the way Dean laughed with his mouth wide open, head thrown back.
"I mean what is this?" Sam said, grabbing a handful of hair that seriously needed to be cut. And that just set Dean wheezing with his hands on his knees, which was pretty fucking gratifying, all Sam could think to want in the world at this point.
"Been calling you a yeti for years," Dean got out, gasping.
"Old me must be kinda slow."
"You're not wrong."
Sam didn't feel the urge to stand up for old him; he didn't know the guy, didn't owe him anything. He ran his hands through his mane and muttered, "Man, that's ugly. God must be punishing me or something."
Dean choked on air.
Sam turned from the mirror. "Dude, are you feeling all right? You're going all...splotchy."
In answer, Dean manhandled him into a tight hug that went on a few seconds too long.
Sam patted him on the back with the flat of his palm, muttering, "Jesus Christ." Dean had gone from laughing to near sobbing into Sam's shoulder within seconds. Guy was a complete mess.
That night was steak and Sam dug in with gusto. Life seemed fresh and new and everything was untried. The tang of local IPA hit his tongue just right. He poured half a bottle of barbecue sauce onto his plate and dipped a hunk of meat into it.
"This is really good," he said around the mouthful. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
Dean's eyes crinkled with his smile. "Bobby here's a homebody," he said, which earned him a whap on the back of the head with a dishtowel.
Bobby sat down with his own plate. "Glad to see you got your appetite up. But maybe you better slow it down a little."
"Man needs meat in his life, isn't that right, Sam?"
Sam shrugged and nodded. Sounded about right.
"So how you doing this time?"
"Well, Bobby-it's Bobby, right? Not Mister-"
"Bobby's fine."
"I've had a few moments where I thought I remembered something. Like deja vu. I remember lots of facts about the world, but nothing about my own life. It's pretty annoying, to be honest."
"I can imagine."
They ate in silence for a second, before Dean said, "Sam."
Sam looked up. Dean was far too pretty to be related to him, it didn't seem possible. Guy acted like a hardass, but he had this fringe of eyelashes and a brush of freckles across his nose. Delicate hands holding his steak knife just so, like he'd been trained for surgery instead of fixing up cars.
"Sam, we're gonna try something different this time. I'm going to let you remember things on your own, because the last couple of times you've passed out once you started remembering things."
Sam froze. "Passed out-Don't you think you should have told me this hours ago? Or, I don't know, taken me to a hospital?"
"Sam. Sammy, look at me. Sam." Sam controlled his breathing, but felt tears prickling at his eyes. Embarrassing. "Sam, you're safe here. And it's complicated. You gotta trust me, man. You're doing great, just trust me."
Sam didn't nod, but he guessed his staying seated was answer enough. What other fucking choice did he have? For the first time since he could remember, he felt depressed, pissed, fucked-over.
Dean rubbed at his eyes and took a deep breath, like this was hard on him, before making his way up stairs. Bobby sighed and patted Sam on the arm.
"Thanks for letting me stay here, Bobby." Sam hadn't even thanked them yet, these strangers.
"Oh for the love of Pete," Bobby said, and went to get him some mint chip ice cream, claiming it had always been his favorite, ever since he was a kid.
He ended up eating his own cut and half of Dean's, not to mention the two bowls of ice cream. It laid him up until eleven puking his guts out.
There were footsteps on the old stairs, the now-familiar sound of boots. Sam rested with his eyes shut, dignity left to those not with their faces pressed to toilet seats.
"Hey, hey." A hand came down to rub him between the shoulder blades, circles that got less tentative as the moments passed. "Just hang in there," Dean breathed.
"What did I do to deserve this?" Sam moaned. "Am I allergic? Lactose intolerant? Is that it? Why didn't you tell me?"
"No, it's just, old Sam usually sticks to the lighter stuff. Less meat, more carrots. Even went vegetarian there without telling me for a few months."
Of course. He opened his eyes long enough for a half-hearted glare. "You're such a dick, Dean."
"That's more like it," Dean soothed. It sounded right with his voice. He seemed unashamed to sit with Sam for half an hour, rubbing his back, almost silent. That didn't sit well with Sam, though. It meant Dean'd had occasion to do this more than once. That, coupled with the way Dean and Bobby talked about death like it was a person and they were on decent terms with him....it was all pretty fucked up.
"Maybe he's never coming back," Sam said when he finally sat upright.
Dean yanked him bodily to standing and handed him a toothbrush, and wouldn't let him follow up on that thought.
If Dean and Bobby thought they were keeping him out of the loop, they were seriously kidding themselves. Sam could get a lot from just wandering through the house.
Religious texts piled up most walls like a badly-organized goldmine of knowledge, a roadmap to heaven if you could crack the chaos. There was a ton of paraphernalia on demons and angels. There were pentagrams on the ceiling and when he toed up the back rug to check, sure enough, that symbol was there, too. He drew the drapes and saw that there were others, sigils tagged on the dirty window panes, painted in what looked like blood.
It was obvious...they were part of a cult or something. Sam hadn't met any other members yet, but two other dudes had been mentioned a few times. Castiel, Crowley...there were some others, but Sam's head felt swimmy when he thought too hard about it. Best to stick to the easy stuff till the world leveled out.
Also, it seemed Dean had a child. He mentioned his baby more than once, and each time, Sam felt a pang of guilt, even though he couldn't do anything about it except prove that he was well enough Dean could take off for a while, get on with his real life. Sam had to stop dragging him down.
"Dean, I'm fine," he told him. "I'm more than fine, I feel great. Healthy. You can leave for whatever you need to do, you know?"
Dean gave him a steady look from Bobby's desk. "Doesn't it bother you? Not knowing?"
Sam had given up, sorta. He wasn't sure he wanted to be part of whatever it was they had going on here. "It would be nice to know, I guess, but I don't really care much. I mean, there can't be that much to tell, right?"
Dean was up, out of the chair, across the room. Sam backed up a step but then Dean was grabbing him by the front of the shirt.
"You don't care?" he ground out. "Again?" He seemed to be losing it.
"Woah." Sam shoved him off, but Dean only budged to arm's length, looking Sam in the eyes, breathing against his mouth. It sent a thrill up Sam's arms. "Hey, man. We're brothers. You're the one who told me that."
Dean didn't seem to get what he was saying, because his eyes went liquid, betrayed. "You think I don't know that?"
"No, no, I mean-" Sam was momentarily transfixed by the clenching of Dean's jaw, the Roman perfection of his nose. "Just, just chill okay? We'll get through this. You're freaking ou-"
Dean was up in his space, winding fists in the collars of his flannel and somehow managing to maintain sincere eye contact. "You're all I've got, Sammy. I'm not gonna lose you. Not here, not now, not after everything."
"Ahahahaha," Sam may have said. It was an unhinged sound. Dean tried to crowd in closer, but he ducked away. "I think I'm going to lie down. But I'll tell you what, maybe we could watch a movie later. You know, relax. Hang out."
"Relax?" Dean said it slowly, weight to the word; Sam had a suspicion he didn't know the meaning.
Dean seemed amenable, though. He nodded slowly, stepping back, rubbing a hand over his mouth as an afterthought. "I'll wrangle up a few brewskis," he said.
"So long as you're buyin."
Dean shot him an amused, if shaky, look. "You even got a wallet? Damn cheapskate."
Sam couldn't help but grin. Guy wasn't half bad. "Hold you to it," he said.
Day or so later, Sam finally got ahold of a laptop. First thing he did was look up the IP address. South Dakota. Huh. As far as places to be, that seemed....well, Sam didn't have any real feeling about that.
Second thing he did was google his own name. But the search results were all about some book series with a dude named Sam, no actual mention of the last name Winchester. He only gave the sites a cursory glance before sighing and giving that one up.
Finally, he went to email, which, thank god, logged in automatically. None of the messages were from Dean. He checked. It kind of made the hairs on the back of his neck raise along with his hackles, in suspicion; guy claimed to be so close to him, but here he was, not budging on the information front, and pushing Sam around, keeping him in this town with just a couple trips to the diner, during which time he acted crazy twitchy.
But then Sam remembered Bobby telling him, "you boys live in each others' pockets," and he thought maybe that was the reason. They wouldn't have to email when they could just have a conversation.
Although there weren't any emails from Dean, there were a lot of messages that were cryptic, to say the least. It seemed he was part of some fantasy, role-playing group. He clicked through a few. Emails from a ton of people most of them apparently strangers, telling him that they were glad he could help, could he meet them at...But that was about time Sam's head started to hurt, a pain that was eerily familiar.
With a mind to asking Dean for some of those pills he'd seen him pop from a bottle in his front pocket, Sam shoved the computer closed and stood. World went all lucid, and then black.
Sam woke up on the floor of a bedroom. He did a quick inventory to make sure he had all his limbs, that he wasn't bleeding out or otherwise maimed. But when he got to his feet he realized he'd still been half-dreaming. He'd had the vague impression of ghosts and goblins or something, but the more he tried to focus on it, the dream slipped away.
“Oh well.” His voice sounded off in the quiet room, like he'd never heard it before.
And where was he? God, Sam was obviously still in the throes of sleep. Maybe he was hungover. What had he done last night? He was probably at someone's parents' house. There were china plates displayed on the hall shelves and a vase of dried flowers. He'd probably gotten so wasted he'd be feeling it till tomorrow.
He went to the top of the stairs, step gentle, and overheard the following conversation echoing up to him:
"Spit it out, Bobby." The voice sounded nice, comforting.
"I'm not sure, is all. Whaddaya think you're actually doing with the kid?"
It sounded like someone was storming around the room. "You wanna tell me? Because I've got absolutely no clue. I mean, dead to the world is one thing, writhing in the lockbox of Hell is bum luck, but downright insanity-induced amnesia? That's something entirely different."
Hell? The older voice receded, muttering, "All right, all right. Keep your pants on." And followed this with something about 'sandwiches to keep the morale up,' but the blood was rushing in Sam's ears. He clung to the banister.
"Two weeks. God dammit." Someone kicked the wall, then did it again for good measure.
World blacked out.
Part 2
WORDS: 5k
SUMMARY: Whatever random triggers Sam has for his hell flashbacks, his consciousness sidesteps them by becoming blank!slate!Sam. Amnesia!fic.
A/N: Written for de-nugis over at the Oh Sam commentfic meme.
WARNING: This might be kind of depressing, but in my mind it turns out okay obviously? Also, dub-con bc Sam has amnesia.
"Hey. Easy there, tiger."
Sam gently sidestepped him. "You don't need to walk me to the bathroom. I'm not injured."
Dean held out a hand like Sam might fall at any second. "Yeah, I know, I just. You tell me if anything hurts, okay?"
"What, was I in a fight or something?" He had various aches and pains, but they seemed to be mostly related to having been conked out, hooked up to an IV. The conditions were unsanitary as well. Instead of a hospital, he'd woken up in a guest bedroom on the second floor of a poorly lit house, yellow curtains billowing softly in the afternoon breeze when he'd first opened his eyes.
"You could say that."
The guy wasn't telling him anything. Sam'd push more once he had some lunch, at least. He hesitated before heading into the bathroom, unsure of what face was going to meet him in the mirror.
"You say we're brothers?" he asked. "So we look alike?" He seriously hoped so. Kind of embarrassing.
Dean shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, not really, but sorta."
Dude looked like a male model, so Sam couldn't be that ba- He stepped in front of the mirror. "Oh."
Dean clapped him on the back. "Them's the cards life dealt you. Read 'em and weep."
Sam touched two fingers to his ski slope nose, the unfamiliar cleft of his chin. "My face-"
"Sorry man."
He outlined his lips with a fingertip as he broke into a grin. "-is fantastic. Holy shit! I'm hotter than you!"
Dean busted up like he was surprised, like it was the best joke he'd heard all year. Sam just laughed right along with him, watching them both in the reflection, the unfamiliar crinkle around his eyes, the way Dean laughed with his mouth wide open, head thrown back.
"I mean what is this?" Sam said, grabbing a handful of hair that seriously needed to be cut. And that just set Dean wheezing with his hands on his knees, which was pretty fucking gratifying, all Sam could think to want in the world at this point.
"Been calling you a yeti for years," Dean got out, gasping.
"Old me must be kinda slow."
"You're not wrong."
Sam didn't feel the urge to stand up for old him; he didn't know the guy, didn't owe him anything. He ran his hands through his mane and muttered, "Man, that's ugly. God must be punishing me or something."
Dean choked on air.
Sam turned from the mirror. "Dude, are you feeling all right? You're going all...splotchy."
In answer, Dean manhandled him into a tight hug that went on a few seconds too long.
Sam patted him on the back with the flat of his palm, muttering, "Jesus Christ." Dean had gone from laughing to near sobbing into Sam's shoulder within seconds. Guy was a complete mess.
That night was steak and Sam dug in with gusto. Life seemed fresh and new and everything was untried. The tang of local IPA hit his tongue just right. He poured half a bottle of barbecue sauce onto his plate and dipped a hunk of meat into it.
"This is really good," he said around the mouthful. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
Dean's eyes crinkled with his smile. "Bobby here's a homebody," he said, which earned him a whap on the back of the head with a dishtowel.
Bobby sat down with his own plate. "Glad to see you got your appetite up. But maybe you better slow it down a little."
"Man needs meat in his life, isn't that right, Sam?"
Sam shrugged and nodded. Sounded about right.
"So how you doing this time?"
"Well, Bobby-it's Bobby, right? Not Mister-"
"Bobby's fine."
"I've had a few moments where I thought I remembered something. Like deja vu. I remember lots of facts about the world, but nothing about my own life. It's pretty annoying, to be honest."
"I can imagine."
They ate in silence for a second, before Dean said, "Sam."
Sam looked up. Dean was far too pretty to be related to him, it didn't seem possible. Guy acted like a hardass, but he had this fringe of eyelashes and a brush of freckles across his nose. Delicate hands holding his steak knife just so, like he'd been trained for surgery instead of fixing up cars.
"Sam, we're gonna try something different this time. I'm going to let you remember things on your own, because the last couple of times you've passed out once you started remembering things."
Sam froze. "Passed out-Don't you think you should have told me this hours ago? Or, I don't know, taken me to a hospital?"
"Sam. Sammy, look at me. Sam." Sam controlled his breathing, but felt tears prickling at his eyes. Embarrassing. "Sam, you're safe here. And it's complicated. You gotta trust me, man. You're doing great, just trust me."
Sam didn't nod, but he guessed his staying seated was answer enough. What other fucking choice did he have? For the first time since he could remember, he felt depressed, pissed, fucked-over.
Dean rubbed at his eyes and took a deep breath, like this was hard on him, before making his way up stairs. Bobby sighed and patted Sam on the arm.
"Thanks for letting me stay here, Bobby." Sam hadn't even thanked them yet, these strangers.
"Oh for the love of Pete," Bobby said, and went to get him some mint chip ice cream, claiming it had always been his favorite, ever since he was a kid.
He ended up eating his own cut and half of Dean's, not to mention the two bowls of ice cream. It laid him up until eleven puking his guts out.
There were footsteps on the old stairs, the now-familiar sound of boots. Sam rested with his eyes shut, dignity left to those not with their faces pressed to toilet seats.
"Hey, hey." A hand came down to rub him between the shoulder blades, circles that got less tentative as the moments passed. "Just hang in there," Dean breathed.
"What did I do to deserve this?" Sam moaned. "Am I allergic? Lactose intolerant? Is that it? Why didn't you tell me?"
"No, it's just, old Sam usually sticks to the lighter stuff. Less meat, more carrots. Even went vegetarian there without telling me for a few months."
Of course. He opened his eyes long enough for a half-hearted glare. "You're such a dick, Dean."
"That's more like it," Dean soothed. It sounded right with his voice. He seemed unashamed to sit with Sam for half an hour, rubbing his back, almost silent. That didn't sit well with Sam, though. It meant Dean'd had occasion to do this more than once. That, coupled with the way Dean and Bobby talked about death like it was a person and they were on decent terms with him....it was all pretty fucked up.
"Maybe he's never coming back," Sam said when he finally sat upright.
Dean yanked him bodily to standing and handed him a toothbrush, and wouldn't let him follow up on that thought.
If Dean and Bobby thought they were keeping him out of the loop, they were seriously kidding themselves. Sam could get a lot from just wandering through the house.
Religious texts piled up most walls like a badly-organized goldmine of knowledge, a roadmap to heaven if you could crack the chaos. There was a ton of paraphernalia on demons and angels. There were pentagrams on the ceiling and when he toed up the back rug to check, sure enough, that symbol was there, too. He drew the drapes and saw that there were others, sigils tagged on the dirty window panes, painted in what looked like blood.
It was obvious...they were part of a cult or something. Sam hadn't met any other members yet, but two other dudes had been mentioned a few times. Castiel, Crowley...there were some others, but Sam's head felt swimmy when he thought too hard about it. Best to stick to the easy stuff till the world leveled out.
Also, it seemed Dean had a child. He mentioned his baby more than once, and each time, Sam felt a pang of guilt, even though he couldn't do anything about it except prove that he was well enough Dean could take off for a while, get on with his real life. Sam had to stop dragging him down.
"Dean, I'm fine," he told him. "I'm more than fine, I feel great. Healthy. You can leave for whatever you need to do, you know?"
Dean gave him a steady look from Bobby's desk. "Doesn't it bother you? Not knowing?"
Sam had given up, sorta. He wasn't sure he wanted to be part of whatever it was they had going on here. "It would be nice to know, I guess, but I don't really care much. I mean, there can't be that much to tell, right?"
Dean was up, out of the chair, across the room. Sam backed up a step but then Dean was grabbing him by the front of the shirt.
"You don't care?" he ground out. "Again?" He seemed to be losing it.
"Woah." Sam shoved him off, but Dean only budged to arm's length, looking Sam in the eyes, breathing against his mouth. It sent a thrill up Sam's arms. "Hey, man. We're brothers. You're the one who told me that."
Dean didn't seem to get what he was saying, because his eyes went liquid, betrayed. "You think I don't know that?"
"No, no, I mean-" Sam was momentarily transfixed by the clenching of Dean's jaw, the Roman perfection of his nose. "Just, just chill okay? We'll get through this. You're freaking ou-"
Dean was up in his space, winding fists in the collars of his flannel and somehow managing to maintain sincere eye contact. "You're all I've got, Sammy. I'm not gonna lose you. Not here, not now, not after everything."
"Ahahahaha," Sam may have said. It was an unhinged sound. Dean tried to crowd in closer, but he ducked away. "I think I'm going to lie down. But I'll tell you what, maybe we could watch a movie later. You know, relax. Hang out."
"Relax?" Dean said it slowly, weight to the word; Sam had a suspicion he didn't know the meaning.
Dean seemed amenable, though. He nodded slowly, stepping back, rubbing a hand over his mouth as an afterthought. "I'll wrangle up a few brewskis," he said.
"So long as you're buyin."
Dean shot him an amused, if shaky, look. "You even got a wallet? Damn cheapskate."
Sam couldn't help but grin. Guy wasn't half bad. "Hold you to it," he said.
Day or so later, Sam finally got ahold of a laptop. First thing he did was look up the IP address. South Dakota. Huh. As far as places to be, that seemed....well, Sam didn't have any real feeling about that.
Second thing he did was google his own name. But the search results were all about some book series with a dude named Sam, no actual mention of the last name Winchester. He only gave the sites a cursory glance before sighing and giving that one up.
Finally, he went to email, which, thank god, logged in automatically. None of the messages were from Dean. He checked. It kind of made the hairs on the back of his neck raise along with his hackles, in suspicion; guy claimed to be so close to him, but here he was, not budging on the information front, and pushing Sam around, keeping him in this town with just a couple trips to the diner, during which time he acted crazy twitchy.
But then Sam remembered Bobby telling him, "you boys live in each others' pockets," and he thought maybe that was the reason. They wouldn't have to email when they could just have a conversation.
Although there weren't any emails from Dean, there were a lot of messages that were cryptic, to say the least. It seemed he was part of some fantasy, role-playing group. He clicked through a few. Emails from a ton of people most of them apparently strangers, telling him that they were glad he could help, could he meet them at...But that was about time Sam's head started to hurt, a pain that was eerily familiar.
With a mind to asking Dean for some of those pills he'd seen him pop from a bottle in his front pocket, Sam shoved the computer closed and stood. World went all lucid, and then black.
Sam woke up on the floor of a bedroom. He did a quick inventory to make sure he had all his limbs, that he wasn't bleeding out or otherwise maimed. But when he got to his feet he realized he'd still been half-dreaming. He'd had the vague impression of ghosts and goblins or something, but the more he tried to focus on it, the dream slipped away.
“Oh well.” His voice sounded off in the quiet room, like he'd never heard it before.
And where was he? God, Sam was obviously still in the throes of sleep. Maybe he was hungover. What had he done last night? He was probably at someone's parents' house. There were china plates displayed on the hall shelves and a vase of dried flowers. He'd probably gotten so wasted he'd be feeling it till tomorrow.
He went to the top of the stairs, step gentle, and overheard the following conversation echoing up to him:
"Spit it out, Bobby." The voice sounded nice, comforting.
"I'm not sure, is all. Whaddaya think you're actually doing with the kid?"
It sounded like someone was storming around the room. "You wanna tell me? Because I've got absolutely no clue. I mean, dead to the world is one thing, writhing in the lockbox of Hell is bum luck, but downright insanity-induced amnesia? That's something entirely different."
Hell? The older voice receded, muttering, "All right, all right. Keep your pants on." And followed this with something about 'sandwiches to keep the morale up,' but the blood was rushing in Sam's ears. He clung to the banister.
"Two weeks. God dammit." Someone kicked the wall, then did it again for good measure.
World blacked out.
Part 2