Supernatural 1. prolouge

Title: Unknown

Author: Ghost

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. sigh I am making no money from this. double sigh Any resemblance to any person, living, dead, or wandering the earth in ghostly torment, is strictly coincidental.

Author's notes: Howdy. Once again I am fleeing my responsibilities and playing in make-believe land. I have so many starts to stories that I have never finished that it's truly sad. I mostly don't post because I don't want to do to people what I have unfortunately done to the readers of my other long fics and leave you high and dry. Somehow I want to play today though, so be warned: I may never make it to the end of this story. I aplogize in advance for that. But I will try; and right now I don't know what happens next, so I will probably stay with it for awhile (it's when I figure out how it ends that my muses abandon me. Go figure). As always, all feedback is welcome. Good, bad, or constructive, I appreciate it all.

* * *

Dripping.

Dripping and the smell of burning rubber and ozone as wiring fried, and his head was throbbing in time with his pulse – and there was no real rhythm to it. _Bad Moon Rising_ was still playing.

That was wrong, somehow.

He fought to find where his head was. Almost got it up. Couldn't, quite. The world was rolling.

What was wrong?

Something. Something.

Metal squealed, the sound ripping through his skull like a rusty saw, agony arcing through his brain and jaw and eyes – his neck ached, hot and electric, his gorge coming up as the sound sparked not just pain, but nausea.

He wanted to scream, but couldn't seem to remember how to do that. Wanted to curve in, curl up; hold his head, cry, breathe…but everything hurt. Beyond hurt.

What the fuck was wrong?

Metal squalled again and something rocked, jolting… everything. He tried to gasp in enough air to scream in protest, but the pain that woke in his chest kept him breathless.

A murmur of voices.

Who? What….

He couldn't understand. Couldn't think about anything except trying to pull in enough air to keep going, Keep awake. Breath coming thin and reedy and coppery around the pain.

"_No."_

He heard that, clear and calm in the cacophony of derailed senses and raw nerve-endings that was reality right now.

Sam.

But not Sam. Sam, but horse, and thick, and…wrong. Like the music, wrong.

Why? Why?

The world jostled again.

Someone started screaming.

Sammy?

No. God, no.

More screaming.

He fought. Forcing a whooping gasp into a chest that couldn't deal with much air, forcing a head that was no longer properly attached to move, struggling with the massive task of getting his eyes open.

Fight. Fight. Move. Sam. Dad.

Dad?

Where?

What the hell was going on, damnit?

Someone was shooting.

Automatically he flinched, muscles that resisted his conscious efforts for control responding to a training ingrained in him from a time before conscious thought.

The hot flush of agony that followed pulled him down, sinking him deep.

Still, on some level he could still hear the shooting; the explosions; the screaming that just went on and on….

Jostling again. He gasped, sputtered, coughed up red. The pain brought him around enough to see a form, leaning in through the door – through where the door should have been – and searching. Finding a cell.

His eyes closed, all of existence swirling in a dark red flare.

_Bad Moon_ had switched to _House of the Rising Sun_.

It was quiet, and … soothing, somehow, as CCR can be. Familiar. And someone was talking calmly, emotionlessly, say things like: Hi-way 35. North. Accident. Ambulance. Two. And hurry.

There was more pain. His eyes opened again, and a cell was laying, open and active, on his legs. The screen glowed with numbers. He struggled to decipher them. They were important.

His eyes closed again. Fingers, stroking his cheek, too hot and too sticky.

"I love you."

Sam; but not.

Something was wrong.

Wasn't it?

Really, really wrong.

It was so quiet.

The numbers had said 911.

Move. C'mon, move. Get Sam. Get dad. Hurry. Hurry.

Pain.

_Sam_?

He sank again to escape the pain that the sirens and lights caused.


	2. Chapter 1

Title: Unknown  
Author: Ghost  
Please see chapter one for disclaimer and notes.

* * *

"Fuck you," Dean growled. He tried to set up and hissed at the movement. 

"Don't start, Dean."

His father sounded tired, defeated. It pissed him off.

"I haven't even _thought_ of starting yet, pop. When I do, you'll be the first to know." He tried to move his arm, and hissed at the hot agony that throbbed through the stapled muscles of his upper chest. The pain wasn't much less than it had been a few days ago, but he'd been warned by the doctors that the shredded muscle would take weeks to fully heal.

If this is what his mom had gone through….

No. Not just no, but hell no. He wasn't going there. He was sick of thinking about how likely it was that his mom had felt this kind of pain. Not that he didn't care, but it didn't help anything. So, not going there again. No fucking way. Besides, he wasn't the guilt-aholic in the family; that spot was reserved for his brot-

Stop. Just fucking stop.

Purposefully he moved his shoulder; stretching, pulling at the staples and the pain.

At least when he was gasping he couldn't think.

"Jesus, Dean. Would you just knock it off and stay still?" His father's hands were cool on his face, and the brush of his fingers caused a throb that went deeper than his chest.

"Get off of me." The words were low, dangerous. His dad didn't listen, though, pushing him down, holding him still. His dad never did listen. Stubborn, obstinate, cold-hearted, stupid, self-centered son-of-a-bitch. Dean fought back the urge to lash out and kick him in his bad leg, watch him fold. '_Shoot me, son. Shoot me in the heart!'_ Fucking martyr.

Dean was personally going to kick his ass as soon as he could move again.

He never thought that he would have so much sympathy for the high-chair tyrant his brother had been as a teen.

The thought sucked out his anger, leaving him only heat and pain; in his head, in his chest. In his heart.

He went limp, all fight gone, and laid back against the raised pillows, eyes closed and panting. His father's hands hesitated, then tugged at the blankets before retreating.

"It'll get better, son."

"No," he said. "It won't."

There was a long moment, and Dean tried to feel bad about hurting his father. But every time the guilt started, he would hear his dad screaming at his brother, demanding that _his own son kill him_, and then the acid in his voice as he reprimanded the young man for not shooting to kill.

Bastard.

God, Dean just wanted to sleep.

"We'll get him back."

Dean knew that this was supposed to be comforting. But his dad sounded so tentative that it pissed Dean off all over again.

He struggled for a response and came up with…nothing.

Time passed in silence. It had never been this quiet near his dad. The old man was always either researching and talking, or cleaning the weapons, or building shells and preparing shot. There was always a game on in the background, or a radio; mild cursing because of a missing tool, or a slip-up, or curious boys 'helping'. The sounds of his growing-up.

Now it was noiseless. Not even the tick of a clock to relive the pressure of the absence of sound, of life. He couldn't sleep like this, and he was so hot and tired….

"Dad?" He hated the way his voice shook.

There was a sigh. "I'm here, Ace. It's okay."

He swallowed. He wanted some water. "Sorry. Don't know why I'm acting like this."

The hand was back, carding through his hair. "It's the fever. It's okay. Just rest."

He swallowed again. His breath hitched. He refused to open his eyes. "Two days now?" he couldn't help asking.

Another pause, and then: "It's been three, Ace. You've lost a little time."

"Three." After a moment he began to try to get up, hissing in pain. "We gotta go."

"Dean, damnit, you're not leaving this hospital. Not until this fever breaks. Now just settle down before you pull your IV out!"

"Fuck you! Get out of my way."

"Lay down, before I have a nurse sedate you. Again." His father pushed him back down. The room spun.

"We gotta find Sammy." he said, not sure why he was too weak to just shove the hands aside.

"It's okay. Joe and Charlie are looking for Sam. Everybody in the circle is watching for sign. If anything, any hint, of where to start looking shows, we'll know before the hour is out. But right now all we can do is rest and heal up enough to be ready when we know where to go."

"I'm going to kill them all." Dean was rather surprised at how dreamy his own voice sounded. All the guilt from Meg and that other fucker had boiled away in the blood and pain and heat that followed.

"Stand in line." Dean opened his eyes and regarded the worn and rough face of his father, barely visible in the dim light of the night washed room. The anger and pain he could see there echoed the heat radiating from Dean's chest.

Dean sighed, closing his eyes and laying back. He reached out and, groping, found his dad's cool hand. He patted it. "We'll kill them together."

"Go to sleep," his father said gruffly.

And he did...

Or he tried, but something was hissing. His eyes opened reluctantly to find the source of the annoyance and the noise resolved, like a radio signal coming in as you drove into range.

"I'm telling you, John," it was Joe. Joe was hissing – talking in that weird hissing tone that passed for intense in a sick room. "I ain't never seen anything like this. They're tearing themselves apart." The light coming in the windows suggested that Dean had actually slept a fair bit.

"Joe, the only things I'm interested in right now are the location of my son, and the death of the evil mother fucker that took him. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I know, but, John, we found three more dead in that warehouse. That's on top of the other two _and_ the four we found with you guys. John, they were in _pieces_."

"So?"

"So aren't you the least bit worried that something out there is shredding people?"

Dean watched, bemused, as Joe stepped back from the look that John turned on him. "If my boy shows up as one of them, I'll be concerned. Until then, more power to it."

Joe looked upset. He glanced at the bed and seeing Dean sort of awake turned pleading eyes on him. "Dean. Thank God. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Those are _people_ getting killed. We can't just let them be slaughtered."

"Leave him be," John said, grabbing Joe's arm. "You know he isn't in any shape to be dealing with anything."

But it was too late. Being drawn into the conversation forced Dean to become a little more aware, to realize that there were actual words being said, not just sounds. "What's going on?" he asked. "Have you found Sammy?" He rubbed a hand over his face, ignoring the IV, and struggled into a semi-upright slouch.

He watched Joe drop his eyes. His dad came over to his bed, leaning heavily on a cane. There were new lines around his eyes and mouth. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, causing only a slight twinge in the staples, and ran the back of his hand over Dean's cheek and forehead.

"Well, it's down this morning, at least." Reaching over to the nightstand, he handed Dean a cup of water. "Drink."

Dean did, cautiously, testing his throat, chest and stomach. There was pain, but everything seemed to work pretty much like it should. He drained the cup.

"You feeling clearer?" His dad took the cup and refilled it before handing it back.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "Yeah. Clear enough. Has there been news?"

His dad gestured at the cup, watching him closely, judging, and Dean sipped obediently.

"Do you want me to go get a nurse, or a doctor, or something?" Joe asked, edging toward the door.

"Whatever." John had completely dismissed Joe from his awareness as he focused on Dean. It made Dean wonder just how close it had been, and how long he'd been raving.

He looked at his dad. "We're still on day, what … three, right?" he asked, trying to make it a joke.

His father sighed, and gestured to the cup again. "Starting day six, kiddo. You've been out of it for awhile."

"…Fuck."

"Yeah."

His dad pushed against the bottom of the cup and Dean drank.

"Sammy…?"

"No sign." His dad looked so …old. He blinked, hard, looking away.

"So what are we gonna do?" Dean asked.

"We get you out, first. No more separating until we end this."

Dean nodded. One of them was missing. Dad wouldn't risk another disappearance, and neither would Dean. "And then?"

His dad sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean could see a rough line of healing tissue across the back.

"Then we go find your brother."

"How?" Dean was embarrassed by how…needy his voice sounded.

His dad sighed, standing to walk to the window, leaning against the sill. "I don't know. There's been…a trail. Of sorts."

"Trail." Dean sat up, suppressing the instinctive hiss of pain, to look his dad in the eyes. "If there's a trail, why the hell aren't you out there going after Sammy?"

"Dean, it's not like that."

"Then what's it like? What the fuck is going on, dad?"

His dad sighed again, rubbing his hands through his hair. "We…we don't really know what's going on, Dean. The – the night of the crash, when we were found, there were four other bodies. They were…mangled. Badly."

"Who were they?"

"We don't know. Best guess by the _authorities_ at this point is that they were a carload of good Samaritans who stopped to help us out and got themselves dead by the same freaks who ran the truck that hit us off the road to take their shipment. Then, whatever came, and fucked them up, and took your brother with it when it left."

Dean digested that. So the cops thought that some one had tried to hijack the simi, causing it to hit the Impala. Then some civilians had shown up at the scene, only to get killed by the 'hijacker' when they tried to help. He sighed. The cops were dangerously close to the truth. "Three guesses as to what bastard would take time to mangle bystanders while he's busy stealing Sam." Damn. Dean leaned back against his pillows and wrapped his needle-free arm over his chest.

"Yeah. That's what we think, at least."

"But I don't get it. Why kill them and leave us? Why the hell would it leave us alive, dad? Wouldn't it be safer for it to off us when we were defenseless?"

"C'mon, Dean," his dad sneered just a little, "there are lots of reasons, if you can think like that demonic fuck. To taunt us, to show us how powerless we are and how easily it can take us if it wants. To let us stew over how it slaughtered innocents that had come to help _us_. Or to use us as a perpetual threat to keep your brother in line."

Oh good Christ, he was right. "If we were dead, Sam would fight to the death and try and take the bastard out when he went. With us alive-"

"As long as we're alive, kid'll do whatever it takes to keep us that way." His dad sounded slightly disappointed.

_Oh, Sammy. _Dean closed his eyes and fought to breathe past the sudden burning in his sinuses.

Dean heard the door open, and felt his father press his shoulder. His dad wasn't concerned so he didn't bother to open his eyes and see who it was.

"So, Mr. Green. I hear that you finally decided to rejoin us." The mildly condescending tone and officious hands could only mean that a doctor was on the scene. Green, huh. Super. He wondered if his first name was still Dean.

"Dean, kiddo, open your eyes." His dad had taken on that perfect parental tone of worried concern, as if they hadn't just been chatting about bodies and demons. The man was a master, flubbing the doc and letting Dean know what name he needed to respond to at the same time.

With a heavy sigh, Dean prepared himself to be the lost and confused patient. But not too lost or confused. He wanted out. He needed to find his brother. He opened his eyes slowly.

"Hey, dad," he said, glad he didn't need to hide the roughness of his voice.

"Hey, Ace," his dad responded, grinning slightly. The doc would think it was relief, but Dean could see the sarcasm in his eyes. "There's somebody here to see you."

"Mr. Green, Dean," the doctor was quick to take his cue. "Do you think you can answer a few questions for me?"

"I can try." He grunted slightly as he struggled to sit up higher on the pillows.

Dean answered the typical post-concussion questions, only having to glance at his dad once or twice for a clue.

"Well," the doctor said, writing on the chart, "With the break in your fever you could be looking at getting out of here as soon as tomorrow. But I want to make sure that fever is well and truly gone."

"Did you ever find out what caused it in the first place?" his dad sounded properly concerned.

"No," the doctor muttered, scribbling on his chart. "It was almost as if the muscle tissue was producing heat. Probably just a part of the injury. The body can sometimes do funny things when faced with major trauma. I wouldn't worry now that the fever's broken." He looked up again at Dean, visibly donning his bedside-manor mask. "And now that you are coherent, and the wound looks good, we can defiantly start thinking about letting you go. I bet you'll be happy to get out of here, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean said, shooting a glance at his father and trying to gauge his temperament. So far he only looked contemptuous and amused. It was fairly obvious that Dean had ended up with exactly the kind of doctor that his father liked: an educated and oblivious ego on feet. All prescription pads and no real questions.

Lucky him.

The doctor nodded, distractedly. "I have another patient to see this afternoon, but I think that given how well you're doing we could let you go after another few hours of antibiotics." He grinned in what Dean knew he thought was a charming way. "Give this bed to someone who's really sick, huh?"

"Sounds good," Dean responded, leaning back and closing his eyes. Give the bed to someone with better insurance and more money, he meant. Whatever. As long as he got out.

The doctor muttered something at his father. Dean couldn't pull up enough energy to care. He was tired, he hurt, and he wanted his brother, god damnit.

He started to drift, as his dad's hand wrapped around his.

"Good news, huh?" Joe asked loudly, "Dean getting out and all."

"Tomorrow we start hunting, son," his dad murmured in response.

And Dean drifted off with the promise of it ringing in his ears.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine. Season 4 would be turning out a hell of a lot different if they were.

Author's Note: Look at me with the time for writing again. For a couple of weeks, anyway. Sorry for the complete non-posting for so long. And even more sorry that it will probably be repeated. Soon. Thanks for reading, if anyone is out there.

As always: all comments are welcome, be they good, bad, or flaming trolls with bushy-crazy hair.

* * *

John and Joe were arguing again. Still. Continually.

Ever since he had been released from the hospital this morning the two had been at it; John insisting that they begin to hunt _now_, while Joe timidly and tenaciously kept bringing up the mangled dead people and saying that they needed to wait, bring in help.

They argued in the hospital parking lot; in the car; on the short walk into the motel room.

At this point Dean just wanted them to shut-up.

Dean walked into the room that Joe had been staying in for the last couple of days, and dumped the small bag of personal belongings that had been salvaged from the Impala. One of the nurses at the hospital had slipped it to him as he waited for his father to finish up with the doctors and cops. He hadn't even gone through it yet. He idly wondered how his dad had explained away the weapons in the trunk, but his head hurt too much to worry at it for very long.

Joe and John followed him into the room, still going at it. Who knew that Joe could be this insistent? Or this annoying.

Dean stood, swaying slightly, just staring blindly at the overly orange room and wondering what he was supposed to do now. He missed his brother's quick, common-sense. He had faith that his dad would win the argument soon, or, barring that, the two of them would just handle it on their own. But until then he felt…at odds with himself, caught between the need to act and the inability to do anything productive.

He suddenly found himself sitting on the bed, with no idea of how he'd gotten there. His dad gave him an odd look, then went back to nattering at Joe. Dean could tell from the desperate look on Joe's face that his dad was down to taking chunks out of him. It wouldn't be long now until Joe conceded. So he knew they would be on the hunt soon.

Good.

But until then he was tired, and he hurt. Hell, even thinking about his poor car, his once joy, hurt. Again, without really thinking, he curled up fully dressed on the bed, closing his eyes and letting dad and Joe finish up.

He sprawled as comfortably as he could on the strange bed and closed his eyes. Sleep offered an escape; a way to get away from the pain and worry. And the last of the hospital drugs were whispering in his veins, coaxing him, encouraging him to find that escape.

And he wouldn't have to listen to his dad and Joe anymore.

With that thought, the last of his guilt evaporated and he began to relax, just starting to drift –

-when he heard a cell phone ring.

His eyes opened again. But it was a quiet noise, and he was tired, and it could be ignored….

It rang again.

Dean sighed and shut the sound off, mentally. Sleep. He was going to sleep while he could. He relaxed into the too thin pillow.

Ring.

He cursed, shoulders tensing. Joe and his dad were still arguing while the muffled, incessant ringing of the cell had gone from barely noticeable to irritating beyond belief. "Will one of you answer your goddamned cell already?" Dean growled, not bothering to open his eyes again.

"It's not mine," his dad answered.

"Not mine, either," Joe said defensively. Joe was always defensive anymore.

"I think it's yours, Ace."

Who the hell would be calling his cell-

Dean's eyes snapped open and he scrambled clumsily off of the bed, ignoring both his body's complaints and his dad's shout as he fell to his knees and began clawing through the bag from the hospital.

"Where the hell is my cell?" Only a few people knew his cell number, and out of them only two would call him when his father was available.

Dean tried to tally how long it had been ringing and realized that he had no idea. But it was a long time now. Too long. _Don't hang up_, he mentally pleaded. _I'm trying, just don't hang up._

"Dean, what-" his father started, but Dean cut him off.

"Shush!" he commanded as his hand finally, finally closed on his cell. He dragged it free of the dirty clothes at the bottom of the bag. The caller ID said only PHONEBOOTH, but Dean flipped it open without a hesitation.

"Sammy?"

The room went still.

There was a long pause. Dean waited and tried to loosen his grip on the cell before he cracked it. "Sammy? You there?"

"_Dean?_"

Hesitant, thick, horse and rough, but undeniably Sam.

"It's Sam," Dean breathed, and his father jerked forward, demanding to know if it was really Sam, demanding the phone. Dean waved him off, turning away. His eyes closed and, swallowing hard, he spoke. "Jesus wept, man. Where the hell are you? Sammy?"

Again, there was a long pause. Then his brother's voce came floating over the line again, sounding hurt and lost and much too young. "_I-I don't know. Not sure. Somewhere_…."

He just drifted off, and Dean felt himself panic a little. Something was not right here. "Sam? C'mon, kiddo, focus here. We don't know where you are, Sam. We can't find you. We need your help. You have to tell us where to find you, okay, Sammy? …Sammy? Sammy!"

"_It's Sam."_

He closed his eyes, grinning. "Good boy. Just tell me where you are and I'll come get you. Sam?"

Another pause. _"I don't know where I am, Dean." _His tone was clearer.

"It's okay. It's okay. I'll find you. But I need a clue, Sammy. You've gotta help me out here. Look at the phone, dude. Read me the phone number for the phone booth." Dean waited through the now expected lag. It was almost as if Sam was having trouble processing the words. Dean was desperately trying not to list the types of head injuries that could be a symptom of.

"_Right," _Sam said, eventually,_ "'cos the numbers will…_._"_

"Will tell me where you're at. Right. So can you read them for me, Sammy? They should be right there on the front of the phone." His dad stepped up behind him and handed him a notepad and pencil. Dean reminded himself to calm down. The last thing he needed to do was spook the kid into hanging up.

That odd pause, then, "_Yeah. Yeah. I see 'em. 895…_._"_

"895? Sammy? 895…?"

A beat where he could feel his heart in his throat, and then Sam spit the numbers out so fast that Dean was scrambling to write them down. _"895-555-7765."_

"Okay. I'm looking for it now. Just…don't hang up, okay?" Dean had wedged the cell against his ear and was reaching for Joe's laptop, which Joe had pulled out and had started booting. He waited impatiently for it to finish up. "We got Wi-Fi here, right?"

"Yeah," Joe said. "All set up."

"Sammy? You still with me?" He pulled up a web browser and went to Google. "Sam?"

"_Here. Sorry. I'm tired."_

"S'okay. Just stay with me." He typed the phone number into the search engine and waited. His dad stood over his shoulder.

"Gotcha," Dean muttered, as the browser spit out the address of the phone booth. Then he looked at his dad as something dawned on him. "Where are we?"

John looked at the address. "About two hours from the state line. We can be there in about four hours, if we push it."

Damnit. "Okay, Sammy. Are you safe? Where you're at, is it safe?"

"_Wh-what?"_ The voice was rougher, more raw, somehow.

"Sam," Dean mentally cringed and then spoke. "Look, it's gonna take us way too long to get to you. You need to call 911, okay?"

"_No."_

"Look, I'm not gonna argue with you about this, Sam."

"_No."_ he said again, and there was a…change in his voice. The roughness had a different quality, less hurt, more angry. _"No. I have to go."_

"Sam! Don't you hang up on me!"

"_Sorry. They're here. Sorry."_

"Who's there? Sam! Who's there?" Dean demanded.

"_I have to go,"_ Sam said, his voice both stronger and more distant, as if he wasn't even aware of the phone anymore. _"I'll try again later_."

"Sam! Sammy! No!"

But all that came back over the line was silence.

~*~


End file.

Supernatural, Angst