Ok, this is a bit long and a hell of a lot confusing and I wrote it!!

If you want to read it, go with it, but don't worry if it makes your head ache!

Don't own

They found him in a cemetery in Wyoming.

He lay outside a worn and old mausoleum, naked and badly burnt, as if he had just crawled out of a fire.

The doctors in the burns unit did not think he would survive the night, but they took him in anyway, treated him the best they could and sent him down to ICU, just waiting for him to die.

The man clung, tenaciously, to life. Hours, days, weeks went by and he grew a little stronger, his burns beginning to heal. They had no idea who he was, where he came from; enquiries and searches drawing nothing but blanks. One night, in delirium, he called out the name, Sam, so that is what they called him.

Sam got better. His burns seemed to heal well, his recovery something of a miracle. He was moved out of ICU into a normal ward and proceeded to charm the nurses and, therefore, was never short of care.

Beneath the burns, Sam, it appeared, was a very handsome man. Tall and broad; with bright green eyes and perfect lips. His hair was blond and tousled, his pale face speckled with freckles.

He had no memory of anything, just a complete blank where his mind should be. He didn't appear to have any brain damage; he was intelligent, friendly and incredibly smooth. He could dress himself, wash himself and he read books like they were going out of fashion. He was pleasant, charming and easy going and every nurse under the age of 60 fell in love with him.

Eventually, he had to leave the hospital and they found him a job in the community, helping out at the local 'flop house' and soup kitchen. He seemed to take to it like a duck to water, relating to those who were homeless in an almost scary way.

He spent hours in the local library, reading or on the computers, looking for something, anything that might spark off a memory, something that might fill the void that gaped across his brain. He didn't mind the life he had; in fact he was told he should be grateful to be alive at all. He loved his job, liked helping people, saving people. It seemed right somehow, as he helped yet another young person off the street and into the warmth of the flop house, telling them that everything would be alright now.

He rented himself a small room, trying to make it seem like home. It was hard, because he didn't know what home looked like, where his home was.

He filled his life, working, reading, going out to bars. He enjoyed a game of pool, seemed pretty good at it. Liked good food, seemed to attract slutty women.

With his first pay check he bought a battered old leather jacket from the thrift store, tried it on and thought it was cool. The assistant, a dark, chubby woman with a warm laugh and soft, white breasts, told him that it suited him.

That night he went on his first real date in, what was, forever really, as he didn't remember the last time.

The years passed, as they are want to do, and he continued to work, to study, to search. He moved to a bigger apartment and then a house, buying a dog, joining the local soccer team, keeping fit.

He was still known as Sam, the authorities giving him the imaginative surname of Jones. He didn't mind the name Sam; it wasn't that alien to him, it seemed oddly familiar.

He visited the place where they found him. Staring for hours at the huge, grim mausoleum. Looking at the odd sigils on the outside, the five sided stars, the engravings of crosses and strange birds. He laid his forehead on the door and tried to commune with something, anything, but nothing happened and his memory remained blank, only the new memories he was making present in his mind.

He married his thrift shop girl and they bought an even bigger house together. They had more dogs and two kids, falling into cosy domesticity that felt strange but right. He wondered if he had had this before, if some poor woman was waiting for him to come home, if he had a family that missed him, wanted him.

No one ever came.

The house was old, rickety, with cold spots. His baby son cried when he was left alone in the nursery, his daughter had an imaginary friend. Sam cleaned and painted and put down new floors. He pulled out the old kitchen and put in a new one but still the house was wrong somehow and it worried and frustrated him in a way that he didn't understand.

A friend of a friend recommended that he call some guy called Bobby. Apparently this Bobby guy might know someone who could help him. Sam rang Bobby and gave his details, listening to Bobby's gruff voice repeat them, feeling stupid and oddly vulnerable.

His wife called for him to come down; a big, black muscle car stood in the driveway and Sam breathed in sharply his breath catching in the back of his throat.

The guy who got out of the car was tall, rangy, almost painfully thin. He had long chestnut hair, streaked with grey and tied back in an untidy ribbon. He wore a brown leather jacket which looked too small for him, ripped jeans and biker boots. A silver amulet of some sort hung round his neck and his eyes were tired and sad.

He ducked as he came through Sam's open door and he stared at Sam for the longest time, his long throat working, eyes brighter than anything Sam had ever seen.

There was a long silence, broken only by the man's hitched breathing and soft, wet sobs. Sam could only stare, his mind whirling and confused. His wife looked distressed, the baby in her arms wriggling, her daughter hiding behind her skirt.

"Are these your children?" When the man finally spoke, his voice was scratchy and rough, tears still rolling across his stubbled cheeks.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam felt odd, sick almost, wondering why this tall, thin stranger was weeping in his kitchen.

"They are a credit to you," the man laughed, hoarsely "a real credit to you."

"Thanks, are you ok?" Sam put his hand on the other's arm, felt it tremble, felt the tremors rumble through his own body.

"Yeah – yeah – it was just – ok – I'm ok," he smiled, dimples appearing in his cheeks, "my names Dean – Dean Winchester, I hear you have a problem."

He never really knew what Dean did; there was some chanting and a little digging and Dean carrying something out in a black, plastic bin bag. There was a small bonfire in the garden and Dean sprinkling salt on their window sills and door steps.

When Dean left the house felt better and so did Sam.

He rang Bobby later to tell him what had happened and to thank him. He still didn't really understand what had occurred or what Dean had done to make things better; he just knew that they were.

Bobby sounded as gruff as ever, but there was something new in his voice, something lighter, something warm.

"I'm glad you are ok, 'Sam'," he said, strange emphasis on his name, "Dean was happy to help, real happy. Don't call again though, Dean's decided to quit his job, go back to school for a while. Seeing you sort of inspired him, reminded him what he wanted out of life," Bobby coughed and Sam wondered why he was telling him all this, why he was confiding in a stranger than he barely even knew, "Dean says he was so glad to have met you – so glad to have seen your family. It meant a lot to him Sam, it meant a lot."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Dean lost his only brother, years ago now, it hit him hard, you know. Never thought he'd get over it," Bobby's voice was faint now, "he told me to tell you to be happy, that he is glad you are alive, that you are happy."

He never really remembered his old life, just continued to make new memories in his new one. He never forgot Dean Winchester though and would prick up his ears when he heard the rumble of an old car engine or when he walked into an old house and felt a chill.

He would wonder where Dean was now and if he were happy. He would wonder why Dean stood in the centre of his house and cried so bitterly, he wondered and wondered and wondered.

But he knew he would never know.