Work Text:
Dean opens his eyes slowly. He blinks against the white light blinding him. Where is he? He tries to sit up but sinks back into the uncomfortable bed when his head feels as if it were hit by a baseball bat. Maybe it was.
"You're awake," a man says. "He's awake. Quick, Claire, get a nurse!"
A nurse? He must be in a hospital. Makes sense, with the white walls and unnerving beeping. Dean groans and tries to open his eyes, this time more slowly.
"There you are. You scared me out of my wits," the man says, cupping his cheek tenderly.
Dean flinches away from the touch. This man doesn't wear scrubs. He isn't a doctor. Why the hell is he touching him?
"It's gonna be alright, love. The doctors said your injuries are healing well… for the circumstances, at least. You'll be back in no time."
"Who…?"
The man shushes him. "It doesn't matter, Dean. The police are taking care of it. Donna and Jody put every officer they could spare on your case. They will find these assbuts."
Dean has no idea who these women are, but he has no time to ask as a woman in a white doctor's coat with the name 'Moseley' embroidered on it enters the room, a blonde teenage girl in tow.
"Mr Winchester. Welcome back to the world of the living. We had to sedate you for a while. Luckily, the attackers were interrupted early enough, and your healing is quicker than we expected. There shouldn't be any long-term aftereffects of your injuries. We're happy that you're back."
The stranger on the chair next to Dean's bed smiles at the doctor. It's strained but genuine. "I can't thank you enough, Doctor." He grabs Dean's hand and gives it a squeeze.
"Keep your hands to yourself. What's wrong with you, man?" Dean all but shouts.
The other man's face loses all colour. He huffs a nervous laugh. "I didn't know I wasn't allowed to touch my husband."
Dean blinks at him. His eyes flicker to the doctor and the girl next to her. "What sick joke is this?" he asks them. "I don't know this man. Did he claim to be my husband? He's probably the one who attacked me."
Fear washes over Dean. He doesn't remember the attack, but how could the hospital let a complete stranger into his room?
"Dad. You're kidding, right?" the teenager asks.
Dean swallows hard. She's looking straight at him. "I'm not anybody's dad. I don't know what you're talking about."
The doctor clears her throat. "Mr and Ms Winchester, would you please go to the waiting room? I'm with you in a moment."
The fake Mr Winchester nods and looks at Dean, his hand twitching in an effort not to touch. "Yes." He gets up. "Come, Claire. Your father needs a moment. We should call your uncle and tell him that Dad is awake."
She looks at Dean with tears running over her face. "Why doesn't he remember us?"
The man lays an arm around her shoulder. "His head was hit hard. I'm sure he'll be his old self soon." He guides the girl out of the room, turning one last time. He looks wracked. Sadness washes over Dean's body like a tidal wave. He has no idea why. This guy must be sick in the head, playing his husband and pulling the poor girl into the charade.
"We'll have to thoroughly check you, Mr Winchester," Dr Moseley says and starts with his vitals.
***
"Finally someone I know. Took you long enough, bitch." Dean grins widely at his brother. Sam presses his lips to a thin line. "What's with the grumpy face, man? I thought you'd be happy to see me."
"I am, Dean. Believe me. You scared the shit out of all of us."
Dean waves him off. "I've survived worse."
"No, Dean. You didn't," Sam croaks. His voice sounds heartbroken. "We thought we'd lose you."
"Oh, please. I'm a Winchester. We have skulls made of steel."
Sam nods and shoves his hands into his jeans. He takes a step to the side, giving free view to the psychiatrist, the woman who examined Dean over the last few hours.
"What is she doing here?"
"Dr MacLeod just wants to be here in case…" Sam breathes out raggedly. "Dean, they say you don't remember having a family."
"Of course I remember. There's you, and Eileen, Bobby, Ellen…"
Sam looks over at Dr MacLeod. "So… you don't remember your husband? Or your kids?"
"Sam, not you, too. Why the hell would I marry a man? I'm straight. And you know that I never wanted kids. What's up with all that crap? Come on, Sammy."
Sam breathes a sigh. "Dean, you've been married for two years. Cass and you have been together for six, maybe seven. You adopted Claire when she was thirteen and Jack when he was five."
Dean stares at his little brother. "Is this Punk'd or what?" Sam's strained expression gives Dean pause. The doctors tried to make him believe that this Castiel guy was married to him, but he just laughed it off and flirted with the cute nurse. She's his type—big boobs and an ass to die for. Her smile is nice, too. He'll most definitely slide her his number when he gets discharged.
Sam pulls a chair to the side of Dean's bed and slumps into it. He runs his hands through his hair. "Dean. This is real. You have amnesia."
Dean's eyes narrow. He furrows his brow. No. No, that can't be true. "I don't. It's the year 2021, there's a pandemic going on, and you play stupid mind games?"
Sam licks his lip. "Where do you live, Dean?" he asks sternly.
Dean rolls his eyes. As if he wouldn't know. He racks his brain. The answer should be easy, but he can't really reach out to it. "A… white house?"
Sam nods. "Who else is living there?"
Dean huffs a laugh. "Who should live there? I'm… Wait, do I have a dog?"
Sam nods. "Miracle, yes. Remember how you got her?"
Dean screws up his face trying hard to remember but coming back empty.
"Jack got lost at the fair. We found him cuddling with this abandoned pup, and you adopted her."
Dean shakes his head. "I don't know a kid named Jack. Why… why are you telling me all this?" Tears prick Dean's eyes. He should remember. But all he can remember is kissing Trevor McCalkin in 8th grade and being beaten to a pulp by him and his friends. He swore himself that he would never kiss a man ever again.
Sam pulls his phone from the pocket of his jacket and starts a video before he hands it to Dean. "I took this last May at my birthday. We did a garden barbecue, socially distanced and all."
Dean looks down at the phone. There he stands with Sam's kiss-the-cook apron, flipping burgers. The man from earlier walks to him and embraces him from behind. He presses a kiss to his cheek, and Dean laughs. He turns to him and kisses him on the lips.
Dean shoves the phone back in Sam's hand and gets up from the bed. "This is some sick joke. This prank isn't funny, Sam. I'm not a faggot."
"Dean," Sam all but screams.
"I don't suck cock. No offence to anyone liking that, okay? To each, their own. But this… this isn't me, Sam. I can't believe you…" He throws his hands in the air in exasperation.
"Mr Winchester, please, calm down," Dr MacLeod says, voice carefully even.
"How am I supposed to calm down when everyone is playing this stupid game?"
Dr MacLeod smiles at him kindly. It's infuriating. "Where are you working, Mr Winchester?"
"At Bobby's."
Sam sighs. "Bobby died nine years ago, Dean."
Dean steadies himself on the foot of his hospital bed. "No," he protests. Fuck! How could he forget? Sam's right. But if he doesn't work for Bobby then for whom does he?
"You haven't worked as a mechanic in years, Dean. You went to college. That's where you met Cass. He was one of your professors. You two…" He chuckles like one does about a fond memory. "You were made for each other. You were so in love. You came out to be with him. He wrote poems about you! I've never seen you like this, Dean." Tears fill Sam's eyes, and Dean has to avert his own.
"This… this can't be true. I'm not smart enough for college."
Sam blows a breath through his nose. "You're really acting as if the last decade didn't happen. Dean, you're smart, and you're loved."
"I'm not gay, Sam."
His brother glances at the psychiatrist. "You're at least gay for Cass. And you're a great father to two smart and sassy kids. You work as a teacher, and in your spare time, you volunteer at the LGBTQ+ Youth Shelter."
Tears run over Dean's face. "Stop it, Sam. This can't be…" he sobs.
"It's the truth, Dean."
"I think that's enough for the day," Dr MacLeod says.
Sam nods. He pulls a photograph from his bag. "I thought you'd like to have that. Maybe it helps you remember."
Dean doesn't move from where he is staring at the foot of his bed. Sam puts the picture on the bedside table. "I'll check in tomorrow. Don't do anything stupid," Sam says and pats Dean's back.
Dean answers with silence.
When he's finally alone, he sits down at the edge of his bed. His eyes fall on the photograph. He takes it and shakes his head. It doesn't look photoshopped. It's a family picture taken in a park. He has a boy on his knees. Mr 'Winchester' has an arm slung around his shoulder and the other around the blond girl Dean saw when he woke up. Eileen with a tiny baby bump leans against her as Sam leans against Dean on the other side.
Dean puts the photograph down and cards his hands through his hair. How the hell did he get to have a husband?
***
"We think your husband has dissociative amnesia. It's rather rare, Mr Winchester, but it happens. It usually stems from emotional shock or trauma," Dr MacLeod explains. "I think the reason for the attack—your husband being gay—could make him lose all memories surrounding your relationship."
'Bi,' Castiel thinks, but he doesn't correct the psychiatrist. It's all his fault. If Dean wouldn't have met him, he probably would never have come out, and these bigots wouldn't have beaten him to a pulp just because he wore a pride shirt.
"Will… will his memories come back?"
"Very likely. This kind of amnesia is usually rather brief. I'm sure when everything's calmed down, he'll remember. Especially when he's home, where he can connect with the surroundings, you, the kids." She breathes out audibly. "I know it's hard. But it's gonnae be okay."
"How can he know what year it is, that Biden is president, and that we are in the middle of a pandemic, but not where he works or with whom he lives?"
Dr MacLeod smiles empathically. "The human psyche works in mysterious ways. Your husband's brain likely felt he needed protection."
Castiel nods. "When can I take him home?"
"He should be discharged any minute."
***
Charlie's mouth falls open when she sees Dean in his bloodstained clothes standing in front of her door.
"Dean, what are you doing here?" she asks softly.
He looks down at her nighty. "I didn't know where else to go. I can't go home if I don't know where home is and to complete strangers. And Sam—it's weird with him. He wants me to talk with… Castiel. But I can't, Charlie. And, apparently, everyone else I remember being friends with is either dead or moved away." He breathes a ragged sigh.
She nods at him in understanding. "You're lucky that I still live in this hovel. Come in. Are you hungry?"
He nods. "The food in the hospital was terrible."
Charlie chuckles. "It usually is. Want a change of clothes?" she asks when he shrugs out of his jacket and the blood-soaked tee underneath becomes visible.
"I'm not surprised that these thugs thought me to be a good target," Dean says as he looks down on his shirt.
"You always loved 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show', Dean. You introduced it to me, remember?"
"Yes, that I remember," he bites. Charlie winces at his harsh tone. Dean worries the inside of his cheek to ground himself. Charlie is his best friend. She doesn't deserve this shit. "But I don't remember buying a shirt with Frank N Furter and the gay flag on it."
Charlie looks at him sadly. "I bought it for your last birthday. You said you loved it." She's close to tears, and Dean could kick himself.
"I'm sorry, Charles. A change would be great. And maybe laundry. I don't have stuff on me."
"Didn't Cass bring you clothes?"
Dean shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I dunno. Haven't seen him." He worries his lip between his teeth. "Listen, I'm tired and hungry, and I really don't wanna talk about it."
Charlie looks at him with sad Bambi eyes, but she still nods to Dean's relief.
Later, when he's taking a long bath, he pretends not to hear her talking over the phone with the man that everyone says is his husband. He also doesn't question the source of his perfectly fitting clothes, or asks why he heard Baby's engine in Charlie's driveway. He knows he's just lying to himself, but he needs to pretend that he's the Dean he's in his head. He needs to, for his own sanity. Until this nightmare is over.
***
Dean knocks at Castiel's door. Their door. He rubs his hands together. He's freezing. If it's simply the cold of the night creeping into his bones or the waking up in the wee hours, restless and lonely in Charlie's guest room, he doesn't know.
Castiel opens the front door tentatively. He looks tired and wrung out. No wonder, at four in the morning. He's wearing Dean's hot dog pyjama pants. Dean can't help but smile a little at the sight. His tousled hair makes Dean's heart ache in the best way possible.
"Dean," is all Castiel musters to say. Dean can see how he struggles not to open the screen door and wrap him in his arms.
"I'm so sorry, babe, I…"
A sob leaves Castiel's mouth. Dean throws the screen door open and pulls his trembling husband into his arms. "I woke up, and I remembered… us. I'm so sorry. How could I forget? How? You and the kids, you're my life."
Castiel clings to him like to a mast during heavy sea. "The attack," he sobs.
"I can't remember any of it," Dean croaks. "But I remember our first kiss, and the days we brought Claire and Jack home. I remember you making love to me on the backseat of the Impala, and…" Dean presses his lips in Castiel's hair. "I remember stealing kisses in your office, and Adler's stupid face when you brought me to the faculty dinner."
Castiel chuckles wetly into Dean's shoulder.
"I remember how my knee cracked when I kneeled down to ask you to marry me, I remember how beautiful you looked in front of the altar. I remember how much I love you, Cass. I'm so sorry."
Castiel pulls back and brushes the tears away that are running seemingly infinitely. "It's okay, love." He presses his lips against Dean's in a desperate kiss. Dean sobs into it. It's messy and imperfect, tastes salty from both their tears.
"Will you stay?" Castiel whispers when they run out of air.
"There's no place I'd rather be."
Castiel grabs his hand and leads him silently upstairs to their bedroom. Dean smiles sadly when he sees their kids in the light falling in from the hallway.
"You think we still all fit in there together?" he whispers.
Castiel nods, smiling at him tiredly. "I won't stray much from you tonight."
Dean cups Castiel's cheek and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Me either."
They roll Jack closer to his sister and squeeze into the tight space that the kids leave them.
Dean snuggles against Castiel's back and breathes in his husband's scent. "I love you, Cass."
Castiel weaves their fingers together and presses them over his heart. "I know," he says, tears audible in his voice. "I thought I'd never hear you saying it again."
"I will. For the rest of our lives," Dean promises.
Castiel squeezes his hand. "I love you, too. Welcome home, Dean."
Dean presses his chest even closer to Castiel's back. If his husband feels the tears wetting his hair, he doesn't comment on it. Dean isn't much of a crier. Or maybe there are still things he doesn't remember about himself. But these are problems for another day. Dean's eyes close, and he falls asleep where he belongs.