The Blood Remembers

Reach Out and Touch Someone

Ben laced his fingers around the cardboard cup, thumb nail on one hand picking at the cuticle of the other thumb.

"I saw shit. I did shit. I got out of the shit," he said softly. Shifting in his chair, Ben rubbed the back of his neck. "But that don't mean the stink didn't follow me home."

Several people nodded in agreement and understanding. Mike, the group facilitator leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And how's your sleep been lately? Still needing the.. what is it, bourbon?"

Ben nodded, looking embarrassed, and took a sip of bad, lukewarm coffee. "It's... been. Some nights are fine. Some nights are bad, and some nights, I don't get any sleep. The stuff going on in my head though, it's changed a bit. I... uh... I think I had some memories of my dad."

Mike sat up straight and motioned for Ben to go on.

"Years ago, I did one of those ancestor mail-in kits," Ben said with a shrug. "I completely forgot about it, until a few days ago, I get this notification that a close match was found. A first cousin, of all things. He sent me a picture of who he says are our dads, and one of them is this guy I had a dream about recently."

Ben clearly wasn't comfortable talking about this. But he needed to talk it out with someone. Anyone. He'd been mulling over what to do since he read the email, barely able to concentrate at work, and was no closer to figuring things out. He didn't want to risk bringing it up with his mother, the fact that she'd never said anything to him about his father, surely meant something.

"I should respond to him... I will respond to him. Tomorrow," Ben said resolutely. He looked up at the others with determination.

That night, he slept a dreamless sleep.

* * * * * *

Dean maneuvered the text under the photo and sat back. The graphic was a black and white photo of the back of a woman in shorts, tanktop, and sneakers, jogging along a deserted road. The headline read "The attraction is the traction of our soles." The rest of the text, now under the photo, extolled the virtues of said sneakers, and why you, the consumer, just had to have them. He saved the layout, and sent it to the distribution department. In about a week, the ad would be national. It was a huge coup for his small advertising company, and things were looking good for bigger - and better paying - clients.

He snapped his laptop shut, slid it into his bag, shut the light and door to his office and headed out for the night. He passed his partner's door, and stuck his head in.

"Rizzo, I just sent you the final. Client approved everything, so we're good for national release."

Rizzo Vega glanced up from his own computer and gave Dean a thumb's up. "Oh, hey, Leilani wants to invite you out to the ranch Saturday and Sunday. Figure some swimming, some shooting, horseback riding, and of course we'll have the BBQ pit going."

Dean leaned against the door frame of Rizzo's office and arched an eyebrow. "Don't you mean Leilani wants to set me up with another one of her friends or some random person she barely knows?"

Rizzo had the grace to blush and shrugged.

"What is with you married people?" Dean asked, shaking his head. "This driving need to set up your single friends. Let's see, what's the count at now? No less than three sorority sisters - what were their names? Candy, Mandy, and Sandy? Paul a trainer at the gym - which I still can't go back to, thankyouverymuch - and her hair dresser, Mike... excuse me, Michel?"

Dean pushed himself off the door frame, adjusted his bag and turned to head out.

"It's her brother," Rizzo said. Dean just shook his head and continued walking.

"He's a firefighter," Rizzo sang out.

"Still not enough of a reason to be interested in him," Dean sang back, pushing the front door open with one hand, fishing his car fob out of a pocket with the other.

"Mama's making those tamales you love," Rizzo hollered after Dean. "We'll see you and Assbutt on Saturday!"

Dean waved his arm in acknowledgement as the door closed behind him. Set up or not, he and Assbutt always had a great time at the Vega ranch. The car growled and Dean sank back in the leather seat, letting the vibration and noise clear his head. He checked the mirror, pulled out of the lot, and headed out. Once home, it was the usual routine. Meal subscription into the cooker (salmon filet, baby potatoes, and green beans), change into running clothes, and out the door with Assbutt. Today's starting song was Toni Basil's Mickey.

Later that night, Dean gave the kitchen counter one final swipe with a rag, catching himself humming Mickey under his breath. He tossed the rag into the sink, grabbed his laptop from the couch and headed upstairs. Assbutt followed after giving the downstairs a final sniffing. She jumped onto the bed, circled once, and settled down against Dean's thigh. He had his laptop open, and was once again reading over his father's journal. He remembered the link he'd seen last week, so he clicked back to the page, and clicked on the link. It opened to a page that had a picture of a key in a wooden box, and a phone number. He frowned and stared at the numbers for several minutes wondering whose it was. An Internet search wasn't helpful. Dean just hoped the number was still in service.

He decided to check his email before closing his laptop and turning in for the night. When he opened the app, he suddenly felt a small burst of adrenaline. He'd gotten a reply from Ben. He clicked on the email immediately.

Dean, I don't think I ever expected to find any long lost relatives, and I certainly didn't expect such a close relative. To say getting this information was a shock, and complicates things for me is an understatement. I need to figure some things out first, but I'll be in touch with you after the weekend and we can at least talk. Oh, and I live in Boulder, if you were wondering. - Ben -

Dean reread the email, then opened a map. Casper, Wyoming to Boulder, Colorado was roughly 270 miles, about a four hour drive. Or he could take the little Cessna, and cut travel time to almost nothing. Well, he was getting ahead of himself on that. Tomorrow was Friday, he had a weekend planned at Rizzo's family ranch, and if this email was any indication, "after the weekend" was a broad timeline. He closed the laptop, slid it to the other side of the bed, turned off the lights, and was asleep in minutes.

* * * *

With the big project completed, Friday was a relatively low-key, short day. Dean made sure to check his schedule for the following week, had an end-of-project meeting with Rizzo, and with assurances he'd be at the ranch around 10AM the next day, Dean left the office. He spent an hour making his way along a fake rock face by his fingertips and toes at the local climbing club (he really needed to figure out how to get back to the gym after that disastrous date), then came home, showered, and packed a couple changes of clothes and his swim trunks into a leather satchel.

He'd been avoiding making the phone call all day, and now he'd have to suck it up and just do it. He pressed the call icon next to the number, put his ear to the phone, and waited. And got a voice mail. For the FBI. Dean frowned, looked at his phone, and when instructed to leave a name and number at the tone, and "Special Agent James Brown" will get back to him, he did as instructed.

"Uh, Special Agent Brown, my name is Dean Winchester, number is 307-555-2338. Um, I think my dad, Sam, might have known you or something? I'm not sure what's going on, so if you could call me back, I'd appreciate it. Thanks."

Dean ended the call looking very confused. He decided to head out to a nearby bar called Southern Comfort that had pool tables in excellent condition, a jukebox near a dance floor with a killer playlist, and a South American/South Korean fusion menu that shouldn't work, but had won a couple James Beard awards. And their selection of beer on tap never disappointed. Dressed a step up from 'bar casual', shoulder-length hair dried, comfortable cowboy boots on, Dean grabbed the car fob and headed out for an evening of good food, good music, cold beer, and maybe a game of pool and a turn around the dance floor.