Writer's Note: Hey guys! I know I should launch back into You Better Start Swimming and finish the damn thing, but my Sunday was taken over by this other concept I wanted to play around with.

This story is located somewhere in the second or third season and there is no romance in this story whatsoever.

One warning, though: there's a lot of swearing happening, so if you think I rated it too low, just shoot me a PM and I'll mark it up to 'M,' or something. Thanks guys! ~ Alex Kerr

Clean Slate

Chapter 1

Sam opened his eyes slowly, starting to wake up. Thinking of nothing in particular, his mind blank, he took in the sight of the run-down motel room with indifference. He vaguely felt a warm pressure against his back. Nice blankets, though, Sam thought.

He hummed a sigh as he moved a little bit, awareness starting to surface as the gears in his mind started to grind. He looked up at the clock on the nightstand: eight A.M. He could use some coffee.

He moved again to roll onto his back before getting out of bed but instead knocked into something. The warm pressure he thought had been the blankets was a solid mass behind him.

Sam's instincts went into overdrive, his entire body tensing in bed as he took a good look at the stranger next to him and shouted in shock.

"What the shit?!" Sam nearly fell out of bed in alarm. He landed on the floor and scrambled up just as Dean stirred, then opened his eyes sharply, zeroing in on Sam immediately.

"Who are you?!" Sam demanded, shocked and angry. Dean's eyes blazed threateningly at Sam, but kept quiet. Sam noticed movement under the pillow near Dean; a split second later, Dean was up, standing on the other side of the bed, brandishing an intimidatingly large blade.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean shot back in a menacing undertone, his stance obviously defensive and ready for a fight.

"Hey, w-whoa!" Sam said, backing up in fear. He raised his hands up to Dean. "That is so unnecessary!" He finished, pointing at the knife, appalled. Dean held his ground, though, and watched with narrowed eyes as Sam backed up near the desk.

Suddenly a flash of knowledge hit Dean about what the stranger before him was about to do, but it was too late. In one quick move, Sam had reached under the desk, grasped the handgun lodged there, and was now pointing it at Dean.

"Ah! Fuck," Dean grunted in frustration as Sam leveled the gun in his direction.

"Put. The knife. Down," Sam ordered slowly, the sound of his voice having lowered into an equally threatening tone to Dean's. Dean gave Sam a rueful look and threw the knife on the floor. He looked back up at Sam, pissed, and threw his hands up, gesturing that he had no weapons. Sam noticed he didn't look any less threatening, though, and kept his gun on its target.

"Who are you?" Sam asked again gravely. Dean licked his lips, staring daggers into the stranger before him.

"Answer me!" Sam demanded, a little louder. He moved the gun to indicate his control over the situation. Dean gritted his teeth and opened his mouth to growl an answer when he stopped, an entirely different expression overcoming him. He stared at the floor, frustrated confusion evident in his stance.

"Hey!" Sam shouted, snapping the man back to the situation at hand: he was being held at gun point – Sam deserved a little recognition here.

"I don't know," the man finally responded to Sam, his voice slightly shocked, but more angry that he was being forced into answering this stranger's questions.

"You don't know who you are?" Sam repeated with disdainful skepticism. "I'm gonna count to three, and if you don't start-"

"I'm telling you I don't know!" Dean yelled back, eyes alight with frustration. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know who you are. I – Don't – Know," Dean stressed his last few words, his bafflement easily translating to anger towards the stranger with the gun.

Sam didn't know what to do. A few moments passed by before Dean gave a long sigh and attempted a casual hand wave, gesturing to Sam.

"Do you know who you are?"

Sam huffed in amusement. Of course I know who I am, he thought. Until he tried to remember.

The gun still trained on him, Dean could tell Sam was going through the same realization that had hit him only moments before: no memories, no recollection whatsoever. Just instinct. Dean studied the man before him. He was really tall. And they'd been sleeping in the same bed. Weird, Dean thought. He felt zero emotion towards this guy.

"So you're drawing a blank, too, huh?" Dean finally asked. Sam bit his lip, conflicted, but finally nodded.

"All right can we truce or something? I don't like this," Dean tried to negotiate, pointing at the gun Sam still held steadily in his hands.

Sam looked at the gun with uncertainty. He cringed as he looked back at Dean.

"Yeah I… Don't really want to do that," Sam admitted honestly. It would have been comical were either of them in the mood.

"Okay how about you just lower the gun – you can keep it on you, though?" Dean continued.

Sam pursed his lips together and slowly lowered the gun away from its target.

"Thanks," Dean said clearly, still eyeing Sam with suspicion. Sam still had both hands on the gun, ready to lift it again at a moment's notice.

"Uh huh," he replied skeptically, watching Dean. A few moments passed in silence, with both of them staring at the other with harassed expressions. Sam was at a loss, and Dean could sense the stranger's worry – could see it in his eyes. Sam, however, only saw blunt confusion in Dean. Despite his confusion, though, Sam sensed Dean's general demeanor of self-assurance. It struck him as odd, given the fact that as Sam continuously tried to remember anything about his past, his own anxiety kept ticking up in notches.

"So you're in the same boat as me? No memories? No nothing?" Dean broke the silence, curiosity overriding his other senses.

Sam gulped and looked around the room in bewilderment.


Dean nodded and followed Sam's eyes to look around the motel room. As he surveyed the room, he spoke up again.

"Do you remember your name?"

At Sam's silence, Dean looked back up to him expectantly. Sam, dazed, met Dean's eyes and shook his head with a furrowed brow.


"No," Dean answered almost immediately. "Can I move around?" He asked Sam, nodding to the gun in his hands, reminding him that Sam was still in control as long as he had his weapon. His gut told him to try to keep this guy feeling secure. It made sense, as he was the one with the gun, after all. He waited for the man to reply before moving away from the side of the bed.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," Sam answered weakly. Dean nodded in understanding to Sam and cautiously moved over to the small table by the window of the motel room. He wanted to look at the news clippings and articles that had been haphazardly taped or stamped to the wall.

Sam moved back to look at the items on the desk – a duffle had been thrown onto the table and as Sam unzipped it, he looked back at Dean as he heard him whistle.


"This is some serial killer shit right here…" Dean murmured.

"What?" Sam said in annoyed surprise, walking closer to see what the man was looking at.

"They're all article clippings of deaths in the same place: Richmond, Virginia," the man informed Sam as he continued to stare at the wall. Sam turned and backed up over to the nightstand.

"Hey-" Sam called to the guy, picking up the motel notepad. Dean turned around.


"This place? The motel's called The Horseshoe Inn – Richmond, Virginia. Says it right here…" Sam trailed off, disturbed. A few moments of silence passed.

"You think we're serial killers?" Dean blurted as he casually started opening the lap top on the table, scrutinizing the screen as it booted up. Sam looked up at Dean to catch his eye, disgruntled at the thought.

"N-no. I don't feel evil…"

"That's good. Because you're the one with the gun," Dean quipped as he sat down.

"What…" Sam gulped, fear returning to his eyes, "What about you?"

Dean looked up casually, eyes reflecting slight amusement. Sam had no idea how this stranger wasn't as devastated as him right now.

"Me? No," he said confidently. Sam managed to relax a little. "Although," Dean pointed to the bed, "I have no idea why I had a machete under my pillow."

"I have no idea how I knew a gun was under the desk," Sam murmured, looking down at it in his hand. It felt comfortable, though; familiar.

"So you knew how to handle a gun; I knew how to handle the blade. Our memories are zapped to hell, but I think we can safely say that this is our motel room."

"We only have one bed-" Sam said softly, then looked up at Dean.

Dean, who had been staring at the lap top monitor, blinked up at Sam without moving his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Let's not go there, dude."

Sam couldn't help but give a small chuckle. He was okay with that decision: he felt nothing for this stranger. The fact that they must have fallen asleep in the same bed while their memories were intact was not the mystery he wanted to solve at the moment, either. However, it did indicate one thing that he wanted to throw out on the table.

"But, you know, it does mean that when we had our memories, we didn't think the other one would kill us in our sleep."

Dean scrunched his mouth to the side and squinted, his distaste for that assumption evident. He put an elbow on the table and propped his head up in thought.

"I had the knife under my pillow, though. You had to get the gun from the desk. For all you or I know, I was planning to kill you in your sleep," Dean replied, genuinely concerned. He didn't know why, exactly, but that thought ate at him. It was a cowardly manner in which to murder someone – something he realized he had a natural revulsion towards. And there was something else – an unerring, intense confidence that told him that that circumstance would simply never happen.

"You think that's what you were planning?" Sam asked, starkly appalled. Dean looked at the stranger's expression and something pulled at him.

"No," he replied glibly. His voice held certainty, though, and Sam, again, visibly relaxed. Dean noticed and wondered what the hell was going on – this guy, a complete stranger, seemed overly influenced by Dean's words and behavior. The sense that this guy was consistently watching him, reading him so closely was almost cloying. Just as he was about to say something, the guy spoke up.

"What's with the laptop?" Sam didn't move from the bed – he didn't want to come too close to Dean.

"There's a lot on here. Files on some pretty weird shit, I've gotta say," Dean answered as he navigated through the various PDFs on mythological creatures – each with their own folders.

"Weird shit like… Serial killer shit?" Sam asked, again slightly worried. Dean looked up at Sam, biting his lip.

"Not… Really. There's docs of mythological creatures on here-" He said as he turned the laptop around to show Sam the screen. Sam backed up, though, nervous to be too close to Dean. "Here- Just take it, will you?" Dean pushed the laptop towards Sam impatiently. "C'mon I'm not gonna hurt you – you're still the one with the gun, remember?" Dean pressed. Sam winced, but finally set the gun down on the bed and grabbed the laptop from Dean's hand. Dean released his grip from the laptop and leaned back, resting his hand on the table and feeling keys under several documents.

"Whoa," Sam murmured as he flipped through the folders. "Rawheads, Witches, Demons, Ghouls, Werewolves-? What the hell-?"

"I know," Dean muttered as he fished the keys out of the mess on the table. "Hey," he called to Sam. Sam broke his gaze from the laptop and looked up at the keys Dean was dangling from his index finger.

"Car keys?" Sam asked. Dean shrugged and nodded.

"You want to go to the front desk, ask for our names? I'll start testing the cars in the lot?" Dean offered.

"Um," Sam considered, overwhelmed. "Um, sure, I guess," he finally said. Dean stood up, instantly feeling better with a plan. "Hey, wait."

Dean turned around.

"What about wallets?"

Dean looked down at his t-shirt and sweats, patting himself down.

"I don't know where that'd be. You want to stay inside and search for them?" Dean asked. Sam shrugged and nodded. "Cool, okay." Dean turned around.

"Hey-" Sam called, and Dean turned around to look at Sam again, "You think it'll jog our memories?" Sam asked.

"Ah, yeah," Dean breathed in reply as he opened the door, "It better, right?" He turned to give Sam a meaningful look: a lot was at stake here. He stopped, though, when he saw Sam's doubtful, worried expression. "What, you don't think it'll work?"

"I… Don't know. But our memories are completely wiped. I've never heard of anything like this."

"Repeat what you just said in your head, dude. If your memory is completely wiped, how could you know if you've ever heard of anything like this happening?"

"That's fair but I still remember general stuff, I think," Sam answered quickly. Dean turned to look at him fully, an eyebrow raised.

"Like what?"

"I don't know…" Sam murmured, slightly exasperated, then quirked his head to the side in confusion. "Court case precedents."

"Court case precedents? Like… Law? Lawyers?"

"Y-yeah…" Sam looked up and realized they were both wearing dumbfounded expressions. After a moment or two, Dean shook his head.

"Um, okay. Whatever. I'm gonna go check out the cars."

"Okay," Sam murmured in acquiescence.

Five minutes later, Dean watched Sam leave the motel room.

"Hey!" Dean waved Sam down. Sam stopped and turned at Dean's call and waved back. "D'you find anything?"

"No, just a money clip," Sam called back.

"With money in it?"

"Yeah-?" Sam replied slowly.

"How much?" Dean blurted from across the parking lot.

"I'm not shouting you the answer to that," Sam replied as he began to walk towards the motel's office. Dean laughed as he turned back to the cars in the parking lot. That guy could not be a lawyer – the kid was too young. Then Dean backtracked on that thought: how old was he? For some reason, he felt confident that he was older than the stranger – he was more self-assured, more relaxed in this crisis, than him. And that was another thing: for some reason, he'd defaulted to thinking the stranger was a, 'kid.'

He wiped his hand over his mouth and noticed his hands were shaking. A brief flash of understanding flew through him: coffee. He ignored the desire and surveyed the parking lot. Squinting, he walked over to a less obvious corner of the lot and landed his eyes on a black, 1967 Impala. He twitched a smile as he made a bee-line towards the car, hoping against hope that it was his.

Okay, so I guess I love classic cars, Dean realized. He reached the Impala and ran his calloused hand across the smooth black exterior and angled the keys into the driver's side door.

"Okay c'mon baby," he whispered as he turned the lock. "Ha!" Dean exclaimed in a small huff of satisfaction. He opened the door and looked inside.

"Holy shit-" Dean whispered as he took in the interior. Needless to say, the car looked lived-in. The driver's and passenger side seats were well-worn. A hoodie was hanging over the front bench seat. A denim over shirt was stuck in between the seat cushions. Food wrappers were balled up in the door consoles. Several ancient-looking books were strewn around the floor of the passenger seat, as well as in the back. Dean squinted at the title of one: a law textbook. Okay, so this car might be his - or shared by the two of us, Dean reasoned. At this, Dean felt a little deflated – something inside him, a sense of possession, sparked for a brief moment. He closed the door to the driver's seat and moved to the back. Opening the door behind the driver's seat, he spotted a little green army man stuck in the ash tray of the door and grimaced.

"Ugh, kids," he murmured. He kneed the backseat and ducked inside. "I really hope we're not responsible for any kids here because that would be fucked up," he groaned to himself as he pulled a duffle bag from the seat well and pulled it in front of him. He unzipped it, revealing the dangerous contents.

"Shit," he said angrily, the pit in his stomach sinking further. He was staring at two sawed-off shotguns, a crossbow, about five full flasks, three hand guns, and three knives. Dean leaned back, away from the bag, and covered his face with his hand.

"Oh my god we're serial killers," he breathed, overwhelmed.


Dean jerked, recognizing the voice, and turned to see the tall stranger coming towards him with two Styrofoam cups in his hands. He sighed and moved around to put his legs onto the pavement, but still sat on the backseat. He didn't think he had the strength to stand up under the circumstances – he and this guy might actually be serial killers. He squinted when he looked up to the approaching stranger.

"I got coffee," he said. Dean grimaced tiredly.

"How do I know you didn't poison it?"

"I… Didn't," Sam replied bluntly, surprised. Dean rolled his eyes and took the coffee.

"So this is the car?" Sam recovered. Dean nodded sadly as he followed Sam's gaze, still incredibly unhappy about the duffle of weapons he'd found.

"Yeah," Dean murmured. For some reason, he didn't want to tell this guy about the duffle – and it wasn't because he wanted an upper hand if the two of them came to blows. No. It was because he didn't want to worry the kid any more than he already was. It was a strange instinct, but Dean held onto it and diverted the conversation. He took a sip of his coffee.

"So what – D'you find out our names?" Dean asked as he saw Sam rummaging around the front seat.

"Law textbook, d'you see that?" Sam asked from up front.

"Yeah I saw it," Dean answered, an unspoken understanding passing between them: whoever Sam was, he belonged to the car.

"Our names?" Dean prompted again.

"Uh - yeah - They seemed fake," Sam answered, his head below view from Dean's perspective. He was hitting something in front of the passenger seat.

"What do you mean, fake?"

"You got the keys?" Sam asked offhandedly, reaching his arm behind him, looking for Dean to put them into his hand. Sam was still focused on what Dean realized was the glove compartment. Still, Dean was slightly surprised that Sam was trusting him enough to not look at Dean while his hand was extended out to him. Dean could easily stab him with one of the knives in the duffle and gain the upper hand (no pun intended, Dean joked to himself).

Suddenly, Dean's stomach somersaulted in disgust at the idea, though. Silently, he gently placed the keys into Sam's hand.

"Thanks," Sam murmured, and proceeded to angle the key into the lock.

"So, fake names?"

"Yeah. Apparently you're Walker Harrison and I'm Francis Norris," Sam said distractedly as the glove compartment popped open. Dean had leaned forward from the back seat and, at their given names, started laughing.

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah," Sam replied absentmindedly as he pulled out what looked like a makeshift cigar box, "So I doubt those are our real names."

Dean smiled and sized the stranger up.

"I dunno you kinda look like a Francis," Dean found himself teasing. What the hell am I teasing this guy for? I don't even know him, Dean thought.

"Yeah whatever Walker," Sam replied instantly, knocking Dean off guard again. Were they bantering?

Sam had to flip the box upside down in order to get the lid to open the right way. As he did so, the contents fell out on his lap.

"Oh… Jesus…" Sam muttered as he looked at the various forms of identification. Dean took one look at the contents and got out from the backseat to slide into the front, behind the wheel.

"This just keeps getting weirder and weirder, man," Dean said as he flipped through laminated badges of both him and the stranger.

"Did you, uh, find anything else? Anything in the back?" Sam asked, stunned, as he continued to scrutinize the badges with his face on them. Dean gave a sidelong glance at Sam, nervous about admitting to the duffle of weapons. He couldn't lie, though, and then wondered why he felt the compulsion to be honest at all. Dean swept over it and answered meekly over a small cough.

"Yeah, um, there's a duffle of freaky weapons in the back – on the seat."

Sam looked up at him, alarmed, and immediately twisted around the front seat. Dean watched as Sam pushed himself up a little bit to reach and spread the bag wide open. Dean counted a couple of seconds as the guy just stared at its contents.

"Okay," Sam whispered, closing the bag and turning around to stare, unseeing, out the windshield. "Okay."

"Okay what? Hey- uh - Francis!" Dean yelled as Sam opened the passenger side door and got out of the car.

Dean followed suit and got out on the other side of the Impala to look at Sam, who was now just staring out at the sky.

"Hey- You okay?" Dean asked, slightly concerned. Sam braced himself against the roof of the car.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Sam grumbled weakly.

Writer's End Note: Thank you for reading! Please review! Please please!~ Alex Kerr