A/N: I know what you're thinking. C'mon, another amnesia!Sam story? Laaame. But really, I just couldn't help myself. And I can say that I have never seen the amnesia used in this way, so hopefully there's a little novelty left. This was supposed to be a oneshot, but I got carried away. Everything's a little condensed because of that, but it sort of worked out. I think. Anyway, enjoy!

Sam blinked blood out of his eyes, the hand that was holding the Colt shaking a little. The demon from the semi paused, seeming to weigh chances. It glanced at Dean and John, both unconscious, before refocusing on Sam. Sam used all of his remaining strength to lift the gun slightly and point it at the demon's head.

"Get lost," he slurred. The demon gave a calculating look before walking away. Sam was somewhat startled. He had expected either a fight or a typical demon escape by leaving the host.

Sam coughed roughly. "Dean," he rasped. "Dad." He got no response. Shakily, Sam put down the Colt next to his dad, ignoring it when it slid to the floor before attempting to pull out his cell phone. No signal. Groaning aloud, Sam pried himself free of the car, ignoring the throbbing pain in his whole body. Sam lifted the phone a little higher. Bingo. Signal. He was swaying where he stood, but he managed to dial 911.

"911 state your emergency."

Sam sucked in a pained breath and tried to remain cognizant. "Car . . . car crash. Need an ambulance."

"Sir, can you tell me where you are?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but a sound from his left had him turning, disbelieving, to find the yellow-eyed demon grinning at him. It hadn't taken him long to find another body.

"Sammy. You and I need to take a little trip."

He didn't have the Colt in his hands, his family was out of the game, and all Sam could do was toss the phone into the car and hope the 911 operator traced the call.

"Can't you just leave . . . us alone?" Sam managed to get out.

The smirk grew, if that was possible. "Sammy, I'm hurt."

"It's Sam," he growled, sounding slightly intimidating, but then he had to put a hand on the wrecked Impala to keep from falling over.

"Let's go, Sam," Yellow-eyes said.

Sam's eyes widened, and then he found himself flat on his back, staring up at the open sky. He sat up with a groan.

"You've been a little too troublesome, Sam Winchester." The demon was a slight distance from Sam.

Sam swallowed the fear, keeping it confined to the queasiness of his stomach, though maybe that was demon-travel side-effects. "So sorry for that," he grunted.

"And that pesky attachment to family. I figured I could use it, but really it's only making things more difficult. Your lovely brother and father are just getting in the way."

Sam couldn't help but grin slightly, though he knew the attempt was pathetic. "They're known for that."

"So. New plan." Yellow-eyes turned towards Sam, and he swallowed. He scrambled for his feet, forcing himself to stay upright.

"What's that?" he asked warily. He was defenseless, and probably about to die. Sam just wished he knew that Dean and his dad were okay before the demon killed him.

"You're going to forget everything. Except for how to hunt. When things are starting, then you'll be ready." The demon held out a roll of money.

Sam shuddered. "When you say forget . . ."

Yellow-eyes had a cruel smile. "Happy hunting."

The first time Dean woke, it was to a vague drowsiness, an annoying beeping, and something in his throat. He almost started fighting whatever it was in his throat, but then he began drifting. Hospital, he realized, just before floating away again.

The second time, Dean reacted enough so that someone took the tube out. He was still too drugged to recognize anything, or even focus on why he was in there. All he knew was that someone was putting a hand on his forehead and telling him to sleep, and so he did.

He finally was lucid enough to look around the third time he woke up. Hospital. A small, white room. And all alone. Dean reached around in his very hazy memory and suddenly felt like panicking. The demon. His dad, possessed. Sammy . . . Dean tried to call out, but his throat felt like it was filled with sand, and all it did was make him curl up in a coughing fit.

"Easy, son. Just take it easy."

Dean relaxed marginally, his coughing easing slightly. "Dad?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm right here."

He was offered water, and Dean greedily sipped at it before it was taken away. "Sammy?" he managed. The response took too long to come, and Dean worked to focus on his dad's face. "'S'okay?"

"Sam's fine. You just need to recover, all right?"

There was something wrong, but there was something in him, slowing everything down. Dean found himself drifting back into unconsciousness before he could ask where Sam was.

When everything was clear enough, Dean made himself sit up. The hurt told Dean that he probably had a couple cracked or maybe broken ribs, possibly had surgery for internal injuries.

Was it sad that he could diagnose himself so well? Dean ran a sloppy hand over his face, to find that it hurt as well.

"Dean? Hey, lie down. What are you doing?" His dad hurried over, pressing down on Dean's shoulders. Dean didn't fight him.

"Hey, Dad. How long have I been out?"

He grimaced. "Too long."

Dean mimicked his expression at that. "Great. What happened? I'm a little fuzzy on the details."

His dad tossed him a half-hearted grin. "You and me both, son. They told me it was a car crash. T-boned by a semi. I woke up here."

Dean licked his dry lips, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Sam?"

His worse fears were confirmed when his father's face fell. "I don't know. He's missing."

Dean shot up, only to cry out and sag back against the bed. "Dad . . . Sammy."

"We'll find him, Dean. I promise. As soon as you're on your feet."

Dean fought through the pain, trying to stay awake. "But . . ."

"We'll get through this, okay?"

His head was pounding. He sat up, raising a shaking hand to his forehead. He half-expected it to fall into pieces when he touched it, but it didn't. Okay. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He . . . he didn't know his name. He fought for calm. Probably just had a concussion.

Though if he had a concussion, he should be in a hospital. Trees were not a hospital.

Forest. His thoughts immediately turned to the monsters that could be lurking. Wendigos could be . . . Wait. He returned to that thought uneasily. Monsters. Ghosts. Werewolves. Carefully sifting through the information in his brain, he had the terrifying thought that he could be insane. Insane and with amnesia. Perfect. But when he chanced a glance at the trees again, he knew that it wasn't just in his head.

He suddenly realized he might have an ID. Rifling through his many pockets, he found a knife (silver, his brain told him, it would kill a whole lot of creatures), spare ammo, a lockpick, and a thick roll of money, but no ID. Maybe he was a thief, he thought briefly, but then dismissed that as soon as it came.

"Happy hunting."

He was a hunter. That much he knew. He didn't know who he was, but at least he knew what he was.

He groaned, the pain in his head and the rest of his body throbbing. After sitting up, he realized that he wasn't actually in a forest, just a copse of trees, beyond which was . . . civilization, of a sort. Looked like a small town. It was morning. He fingered the money in his pocket. At the very least, he could get something to eat.

He got some weird looks as he limped down the street, and ducked inside a diner's bathroom. Oh. There was blood all over his face. He was unrecognizable. He splashed water over his face, wiping it roughly with a bunch of paper towels. Looking in the mirror again, he realized dully that he was still unrecognizable.

He ducked his head, gripping the edges of the sink, knuckles whitening. What had happened? Why couldn't he remember anything? Why was he alone?

The sheer amount of questions was overwhelming. He forced himself to take several deep breaths before hobbling out and taking a seat.

Well, he could read English. That was good.

He needed a name. His mind cast around for a good one. John Smith was too generic, too obvious.

"You ready to order, honey?"

He offered her a bland smile. "Could I get a coffee and the breakfast platter?"

"Sure thing."

"I'm sorry, but I got in late last night. Where am I?"

Her gaze was condescending, but he ignored it. "You're in Sioux Falls."

Right. The name meant nothing to him. But he thought it was in South Dakota.

And he still needed a name for himself. He blew out a frustrated breath. An old man sitting nearby reading a Bible caught his eye. Somehow he wasn't surprised that he felt pretty comfortable with it, and could even bring some verses to mind. Matthew. Maybe he would go by Matt. That was a decent name. And he would stick with the Smith for his last name.

So. He had a name now. Matt Smith. He said it aloud, getting another strange look from the waitress, who was pouring him his coffee.

Matt sipped absently at the coffee. Amnesia wasn't something he was an expert on, but he was pretty sure that his wasn't from any normal means. Otherwise he would have some sign of trauma on his head, and there was nothing, aside from the blood. And plus, small town in the middle of nowhere, waking up bloody? That screamed hunt. The supernatural tended to go for the small populations.

So. There could be a hunt here. Research, then. Matt ran a hand through his hair, finding it irritatingly over-long. First things first. Haircut, shower, and then research.

Dean was on edge. His dad kept admonishing him, telling him to take it easy or he wouldn't heal, but Sammy was missing.

On the one hand, it meant he could still be alive. But on the other . . . Needless to say, Dean was a bit past freaking out.

He slowly eased himself into a standing position, his dad looking on. Dean glared at him, daring him to offer help, but his dad wisely stayed out of the way. Dean took hesitant steps, and then looked at his dad.

"Okay. I'm good. Let's go find Sam."

His father's expression was unreadable. "The car's been towed to Bobby Singer's."

Dean gave a hollow laugh. "Sure he won't shoot you?"

John Winchester, ever emotionless, shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Dean didn't know how to respond to that, and focused on getting dressed.

The bus ride was silent. Dean lost in his own worry, John . . . well, Dean never really knew what was going on in his dad's head, as much as he tried to be like the guy.

Dean didn't expect the compassion he saw in Bobby's eyes. The older man eyed his dad a bit askance, but jerked his head towards the house.

A strong drink and his dad's quiet explanation of what had happened, and Dean was a little bit more focused.

"Where's the Impala?" he finally spoke up.

"Out back. I didn't touch a thing."

Dean nodded tersely and went out. He couldn't help wincing at the sight. She was battered to pieces, and it would take a lot of work to get her in action again.

But first things first. Dean carefully pulled open the dented driver's door. Sam had been driving. The first thing he saw was the cell phone lying on the seat. So Sam had called 911. One mystery down. Next, he saw the Colt on the baseboard. With the hammer cocked. Dean frowned.

"Dean, what have you found?"

"Sam called 911. And I think something tried to come after us. The Colt is here. And . . ." Dean stiffened. "Sulfur."

His dad's sigh was one of resignation. "Just when I thought we had made a good escape. Any bullets left in the Colt?"

Dean swallowed his disappointment at his dad's first question being related to the hunt. "Yeah. Sam didn't use the bullet."

"So either it was a lackey or Sam didn't have enough time to use it," John mused. Dean ground his teeth.

"What did it do with Sam?" he growled.

Bobby gave Dean a hard look. "You two protected against possession?"

Dean blanched. "You think . . ."

His dad scrubbed a tired hand across his face. "Bobby, if you could call all your contacts, get everyone searching for Sam . . . please."

Bobby seemed appeased at the "please" and nodded, moving off to the house.

"Dad . . ." Dean mumbled, feeling helpless. "What do we do?"

"We keep hunting. Search for Sam in the meantime. We'll figure this out."

Dean had once completely relied on his father, especially after Sam went to Stanford. When Sam had been hunting with him, he had gradually ceased to rely on the man, but hearing him in all his confidence gave Dean a crutch, and Dean willingly leaned on it. Though he wished he could be leaning on Sam instead.

Matt ran his hands through his shorter hair. It wasn't that short . . . for some reason he didn't want to cut all of it off. Though it would be smarter, as a hunter, to have a crew cut or something. Still, it was out of his eyes. That was good enough.

He huffed in frustration. No hunt in this town, which meant no explanation for his amnesia.

Matt officially thought it was time for him to move on. It was obvious that there was nothing here for him. So all he needed was a ride.

Had he been a moral man, before forgetting everything? Matt didn't know, but stole the motorcycle anyway.

A couple minutes of riding, and Matt decided that while he didn't know if he normally would have stolen cars or motorcycles, he had definitely ridden a motorcycle before. Though maybe not for a long time, because it still had a foreign feel about it.

Matt grabbed a quick look at the phone book at his motel before heading out. Singer's Salvage. He needed to make the motorcycle unrecognizable.

Technically, Matt had enough money to pay whoever Singer was for a job on his motorcycle. But Singer could be a decent guy, and could figure out that the bike was stolen.

So Matt snuck in after dark. Found a flashlight, worked quickly and with fumbling fingers. Officially he was not a mechanic-oriented guy. Good to know.

A sloppy paint job, a different windshield, and Matt was out of there. He passed a beat up '67 Impala and winced. That had to have been a nasty crash. His brain backtracked. Huh. Maybe he was more of a car guy than he initially thought. No way he could've known about a random, half-destroyed car from a glance otherwise.

Matt shrugged and flung a leg over his bike. Time to hunt.

The drive was a couple hours, but Matt was still sore by the time he got there. Apparently it had been a long while since he had ridden a motorcycle. Oh well.

The hunt had a good feel about it. It was clearly an adlet, from all reports, and though technically it was a monster that deserved a couple hunters, Matt figured he might as well jump in and find out how good he really was.

Plus, it wasn't as if he was leaving anyone behind if he died. Matt reconsidered that thought. That was vaguely . . . suicidal of him. Hmm. Maybe he was a depressed kind of guy. He'd have to watch out for that.

A twisted ankle, a bruised side, and a ripped up shoulder. But Matt felt . . . alive. He was a good hunter. Maybe not great, because Matt had the vague feeling that he knew there were some better hunters out there. He worried at that, pulling at the twinge, but nothing came. No memories of someone else.

Matt made a pit stop to pick up a first aid kit. He could check suturing off of a list of skills, though he was clumsy. Maybe that meant he had normally had a partner.

Well, that probably meant said partner was dead. Matt shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs. No use focusing on that until something came up to really trigger his memory.

John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before looking at Dean. His son shrugged.

"Another hunter got here first?"

He pressed his lips together. "I suppose."

"I'm not complaining. Not overly fond of adlets." Dean shoved his hands in his pockets. "Has Bobby . . .?"

"No," John said shortly. Dean's face held a flash of pain before returning to the stoic mask.

"What now?"

John turned away from the ashes of the adlet. "Head out for the next hunt," he responded coolly. Dean nodded, but the comfortable partnership John had once had with his oldest son wasn't there. John knew the reason, and it still rankled him that Dean preferred Sam over him. Especially with what Sam was supposed to become . . . John's thoughts stuttered to a stop. Dean still didn't know.

It was a whole week before John allowed himself to broach the topic. Not that he was a coward. But he was about to tell Dean that his younger brother was destined to go evil.

"Dean, we need to talk."

Dean stiffened, but continued to clean his gun. "Shoot."

"It's about Sam."

Stiffness became vibrating tension. John winced. This wasn't going to be easy. "We're going to find him," Dean said firmly. He probably assumed John was going to tell him it was hopeless, and that they should give up.

"That's not what I'm worried about," John said, as gently as he could.

Dean's bright green eyes snapped up. John heaved a sigh.

"Dean, the time I was gone, I was hunting the demon. And I have a bead on some of his plans, and it's . . . it's bad."

"Spit it out already," Dean growled.

"Sam's visions. His girlfriend dying in the same way that . . . Mary did. It's all connected to the demon, Dean."

Dean's hands were shaking as he set down the gun. John watched as he clasped them convulsively.

"That doesn't mean . . . so what does it mean?" he asked desperately.

"It means that we have to be prepared. If Sam's been taken by the demon, there's a chance that Sam won't be Sam when we find him. I don't know what the demon's plans are, not really. But it can't be good. If we can't save Sam, then we'll have to kill him."

"No," Dean muttered under his breath. Dean shuddered, and then raised his gaze to John's again. "It won't happen. We'll find him. It'll be fine."

"We don't know that for sure," John insisted. He had to get this through Dean's head. "If it's gone too far, you know what we'll have to do."

Dean looked sick. "What, kill Sam? The kid didn't kill you when you were possessed, and now you want to off him just because he might go bad?"

John set his face into the no-arguing cast. "Your first point is worthless. Sam should've killed me, and all this would've been avoided. But that aside, we can't take chances, Dean. We'll make sure. But if it's not him, then we'll have to stop him."

Dean swore thoroughly before hissing, "I can't do that. I can't kill Sammy."

"He won't be Sammy anymore," John said ruthlessly. He had to get through to Dean. His son's face was murderous.

"How can you . . . he's your son," Dean spat.

John remained silent, letting Dean read the realness of their situation on his face. Dean's finally crumpled.

"But . . . it's Sammy," he pleaded.

John sighed. "I know."

A/N: I know, you guys hate me for not finishing my other stories first *ducks rotten tomatoes*

But school's been killer, and for some reason this story was super easy for me to write. So bear with me. Spring break's coming up, so I'll at least try to get "I am a Soldier" finished, seeing as it's close to the ending for that one.

To any SPN readers out there, thanks for stopping by :)