Those were the three things he could smell, waking up. Things he could feel were limited to a seat under his legs, a dashboard under his forehead, a seatbelt cutting across his chest and a blinding pain in his skull.
Instinct told him not to make a sound. It didn't tell him what had happened, but that was obvious on its own: car crash. The car he was sitting in, specifically. Had crashed into--that would involve moving his head.
Which he wasn't sure he wanted to do, but did anyway.
The car had crashed into nothing, so it seemed, unless one counted the swatch of shrubs they'd apparently deforested on their way down the hill. The car was tilted at an improbable angle, and the engine was idling.
At least he hadn't been driving. He brushed hair out of his eyes--nothing broken, then, that was good--and looked at the man crumpled over the steering wheel. He hadn't been wearing a seatbelt. Might be regretting that, now.
He reached one hand over, laid it on the driver's shoulder. "Hey, you all right--?"
Name. He couldn't remember the man's name.
...come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure about his own.
There was a groan from the back, and he fumbled the latch on his belt. A shaggy head popped up over the seatback, blinking blearily. "Sam, that you?"
"Yeah, maybe." Sam--possibly--twisted around in his seat. "Uh... what's going on?"
"We crashed," the probably-not-a-stranger said. "Because Dean is a crap driver. What do you think happened?"
Dean. Right. Dean. The name sounded familiar, at least; that was a good sign. Not as good as remembering everything would have been, but good nonetheless. "This is going to be a weird question," he started.
"Yeah, I'm used to those." He unbuckled himself. "Haven't been traveling with you guys for six months without picking up on your--" he gave a pained grin. "Idiosyncracies."
Sam nodded. "Who are we?"
He swore a look like realization dawned in the man's eyes.
"Adam," he said. "I'm Adam." He reached out, touched Sam's shoulder, and--as if that touch were just enough tactile reminder--images sparked in Sam's mind. The three of them, in the woods/at a gas station/in one room of a seedy motel, the pages of a journal, a woman's scream, a shotgun blast that smelled like hot salt, something large and looming and not entirely human--
"This kind of amnesia is usually temporary," Adam said, and Sam nodded. Memory seemed to be returning, at least. "You're Sam. That's Dean. He's your--" he stopped, looking over the seats. "Maybe you'd better try to remember on your own."
"Right." Sam checked him over for injuries. Procedural memory intact, then. Given the choice I guess I would rather lose the episodic. He didn't seem hurt too badly--probably had a concussion, probably had a steering-wheel-shaped bruise, but probably hadn't broken anything. Lucky bastard. Someone up there likes him.
"Where are we?"
"Middle of nowhere." Adam popped his door open, letting in a waff of pine-scented air. "I said let's pitch camp. Dean says 'watch this' and throws his car down a hill." He stepped out, hauling a bag out behind him. From the disorder in the back, it looked like he'd shoved a lot out of the way to make room for himself to sit in the first place. Must have drawn the short straw, Sam thought. He was grateful for the ample legroom up front.
"That doesn't seem smart, no," Sam agreed.
"Yeah, well, he's your--." Adam cut himself off. "Look, can you help me pitch this? There's probably a patch of flat ground around here somewhere." He grimaced. "And it's that or sleeping in the car."
"Um. Right." Sam opened the door, extracting himself. His head throbbed in protest. "You got any aspirin or anything?"
"Glove compartment."
"And Dean--"
"Let him wake up on his own. We'll carry him down if we have to." Adam gave a low chuckle. "And not a moment before."
Actually, it was more like two hours.
Those were the three things he could smell, waking up. Things he could feel were limited to a seat under his legs, a dashboard under his forehead, a seatbelt cutting across his chest and a blinding pain in his skull.
Instinct told him not to make a sound. It didn't tell him what had happened, but that was obvious on its own: car crash. The car he was sitting in, specifically. Had crashed into--that would involve moving his head.
Which he wasn't sure he wanted to do, but did anyway.
The car had crashed into nothing, so it seemed, unless one counted the swatch of shrubs they'd apparently deforested on their way down the hill. The car was tilted at an improbable angle, and the engine was idling.
At least he hadn't been driving. He brushed hair out of his eyes--nothing broken, then, that was good--and looked at the man crumpled over the steering wheel. He hadn't been wearing a seatbelt. Might be regretting that, now.
He reached one hand over, laid it on the driver's shoulder. "Hey, you all right--?"
Name. He couldn't remember the man's name.
...come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure about his own.
There was a groan from the back, and he fumbled the latch on his belt. A shaggy head popped up over the seatback, blinking blearily. "Sam, that you?"
"Yeah, maybe." Sam--possibly--twisted around in his seat. "Uh... what's going on?"
"We crashed," the probably-not-a-stranger said. "Because Dean is a crap driver. What do you think happened?"
Dean. Right. Dean. The name sounded familiar, at least; that was a good sign. Not as good as remembering everything would have been, but good nonetheless. "This is going to be a weird question," he started.
"Yeah, I'm used to those." He unbuckled himself. "Haven't been traveling with you guys for six months without picking up on your--" he gave a pained grin. "Idiosyncracies."
Sam nodded. "Who are we?"
He swore a look like realization dawned in the man's eyes.
"Adam," he said. "I'm Adam." He reached out, touched Sam's shoulder, and--as if that touch were just enough tactile reminder--images sparked in Sam's mind. The three of them, in the woods/at a gas station/in one room of a seedy motel, the pages of a journal, a woman's scream, a shotgun blast that smelled like hot salt, something large and looming and not entirely human--
"This kind of amnesia is usually temporary," Adam said, and Sam nodded. Memory seemed to be returning, at least. "You're Sam. That's Dean. He's your--" he stopped, looking over the seats. "Maybe you'd better try to remember on your own."
"Right." Sam checked him over for injuries. Procedural memory intact, then. Given the choice I guess I would rather lose the episodic. He didn't seem hurt too badly--probably had a concussion, probably had a steering-wheel-shaped bruise, but probably hadn't broken anything. Lucky bastard. Someone up there likes him.
"Where are we?"
"Middle of nowhere." Adam popped his door open, letting in a waff of pine-scented air. "I said let's pitch camp. Dean says 'watch this' and throws his car down a hill." He stepped out, hauling a bag out behind him. From the disorder in the back, it looked like he'd shoved a lot out of the way to make room for himself to sit in the first place. Must have drawn the short straw, Sam thought. He was grateful for the ample legroom up front.
"That doesn't seem smart, no," Sam agreed.
"Yeah, well, he's your--." Adam cut himself off. "Look, can you help me pitch this? There's probably a patch of flat ground around here somewhere." He grimaced. "And it's that or sleeping in the car."
"Um. Right." Sam opened the door, extracting himself. His head throbbed in protest. "You got any aspirin or anything?"
"Glove compartment."
"And Dean--"
"Let him wake up on his own. We'll carry him down if we have to." Adam gave a low chuckle. "And not a moment before."