SPN Challenge fic
mgbutterfly talked me into signing up for a challenge over at spn_dailylife. I started off gangbusters - outline, some dialogue, I was pretty happy with it as a start. But then with moving and the new job I just ran out of time to do it justice. :-(
But I finished it in under deadline and did the best I could.
The challenge was flowers and their meanings. I had:
Primrose
Can’t live without you
Thanks to mgbutterfly for keeping me on task and not letting me get away with too much pissy-face.
It's gen SPN with some brotherly shmoop and angst. Hardly even any bad words... I must be slipping.
It took them a few weeks to notice, what with the hell on Earth thing, but since he came back from the dead Sam’s powers were different. Tweaked in a different way, attuned to a different frequency, maybe. Or maybe, Dean thought a few times in the darkest hours, Sam had just come back wrong.
Sam started seeing things, not dreams or visions but glimpses. Glimpses of things... of shadows, not ghosts, he assured Dean, just after-images. A week or so later, they nearly came to blows in a Waffle House parking lot when Sam admitted that he was hearing things, too. It was just whispers and mutters… words indistinct but the meaning, the emotion, bled through and Sam had trouble blocking them out.
Dean hated it. Hated that Sam sometimes stared at nothing, his eyes, wide and panicked, tracking things Dean couldn't protect him from. Hated that when he came out of the shower one morning he'd found Sam sitting on the bed, his headphones on and blaring loud enough for Dean to hear them. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands fisted in his hair as he thumped his head against the wall, muttering, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up."
The shadows bled through the cracks, trying to find the cracks in Sam, trying to get into him. Shadow things that gibbered pretty lies and got Sam so twisted up that he didn't know if it was real or in his head.
"Sam, I'll figure this out." Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face, interrupting his in-depth examination of the napkin dispenser. "You with me here? We will figure this out and we will stop it. We'll fix it, Sam, I promise."
Dean held his gaze until Sam nodded.
Sam believed him because he couldn't believe anything else. He didn't want to believe anything else. Didn't want to acknowledge that he might have come back wrong.
And Dean, Dean had that look on his face again. The same look he had after Jess died and after Sam told him about the visions. He was angry and scared and trying desperately not to show it. Sometimes Sam thought that angry desperation was the glue that held Dean together and without it he'd simply fall apart.
Sam decided not to tell him about the smells.
At first he thought it was perfume; it took weeks for him to admit to himself that it wasn't. He'd assumed that Dean was hooking up with some chick in town. But then they'd moved on to a new town... then another. And the odds of Dean hooking up with three girls in three separate towns with the same perfume were pretty astronomical. Also, the fact that Dean rarely left him alone now for more than twenty minutes also helped make that scenario rather unlikely.
The scent only came when Dean was near and Sam knew Dean's toiletries as well as he knew his own. That just left one explanation. Another manifestation of his never-ending freak show. Another thing for Dean to worry about. But it wasn't driving him crazy so Sam kept this one to himself. Besides, he found the scent kind of soothing; it was light and flowery, like early spring flowers.
Yeah, it was best not to tell Dean that he was smelling weird things... or that Dean smelled like spring flowers.
~*~*~*~*~
The dreams came next.
Not visions, just nightmares. Horrible, violent nightmares full of blood and fire, decay and soot, copper and ash. Fire and blood. And under it all, always a vague hint of that damn scent that wasn’t Dean but was. Dean was leather and orange and motor oil and spearmint; this was flowers and dawn and the sharp-cold fist of winter not ready to let go of the Earth. It wasn't Dean but it was.
It scared Sam. The dreams, formless and vague, scared him more than the shadows and the whispers. He felt it now, like a fishhook tugging at his insides, small but sharp and unrelenting.
Time was running out. Running out for what or who he didn't know but he knew the end of whatever this was, was drawing near.
Most nights now, Sam woke up heaving; the sharp scent of burned flesh in his nose, the screams of the innocent and guilty alike ringing in his ears. One night Sam didn’t manage to wake up before he vomited, bile and whiskey burning his throat as he laid on his back right there in the bed. For several long, horrible moments Sam struggled with the border between reality and dream - he was choking, drowning and he couldn’t move. Suddenly, he was pulled upright, a heavy hand clapping him sharply between the shoulder blades.
"You're okay, Sammy. You're okay. I've got you."
Sam gasped and choked and spit, not caring that he was making a mess of himself and the bed. He just gasped in air and held on to Dean, burying his head into Dean's neck and trying to block out the smells of his nightmare.
As he breathed in, that cloyingly sweet, flowery scent cut through even the sharp scent of his own bile and he shuddered.
Later, in Dean's bed, his back snugged comfortably against his brother's, he struggled to stay awake. He could feel the fishhooks tugging sharper every day. He knew time was running out soon... weeks... maybe less.
The dreams got steadily worse. Sam and Dean were, by turns, overly solicitous and waspish with each other - usually in opposition. They spent most of their days in strained and sullen silence or baiting one another into petty fights. But the nights, the nights were dark and close, punctuated by sharp cries and desperate attempts to soothe.
It got to the point that Sam was unwilling to try and sleep.
The door slammed shut behind Dean as he kicked it with his foot but Sam barely even blinked. He just sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Dean waved a bag under his nose. "Valium. I hear all the cool kids are doing it."
Sam just looked away and shook his head.
"C'mon, Sam. You can't not sleep and this stuff is guaranteed to knock you so far on your ass that you won't even roll over, much less dream." Dean pulled out the bottle, opened it and shook out two small pills. He held them out to Sam, along with a bottle of water.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a scream of frustration when Sam simply ignored him. Taking several deep breaths, he willed himself to calm down. Crouching down, he laid his forearms across Sam's knees and caught Sam's eye. "Hey. It's not like I want to roofie you."
"I know. I just..." Sam's voice trailed off into a sigh, his mouth twisting down, eyes dropping back to the floor. He looked so god damned miserable that Dean wanted to kill something. Problem was, neither of them knew why this was happening or how to make it go away. Things were simpler when there was some big evil demon to kill.
Sam's head was hanging so low that it was practically even with Dean's. Not knowing what else to say, Dean simply leaned forward, touching their foreheads together in unspoken sympathy.
After a few minutes Sam uncurled his arms from around his ribcage and held out a hand. "Okay, I'll try it."
Dean handed over the pills, then the water bottle. "It's gonna be okay, Sam."
Sam flashed him a brief, wry smile. "I guess it can't get much worse."
Dean clapped him on the leg as he stood, "That's what I love about you, Sammy, you're always so 'glass half-full'."
"Yeah, of hemlock," Sam snorted as he stretched out on top of the covers.
The next thing Sam was aware of was a dull ache in his back, he felt clammy and cold and like his head was full of sand. Something rough and wet was scraping along his cheek and he clumsily swiped at it without bothering to open his eyes. Suddenly his face was grabbed and a voice was demanding something from him. It took a minute to process but he finally figured out that the voice belonged to Dean and all Dean was asking was for him to open his eyes. Piece of cake.
After several tries Sam managed to get his eyes open but they wouldn't focus. He was confused as to why this was so much effort but just thinking about it made him tired. He let his eyelids slide closed; he could think better if he took a nap.
"Sam? C'mon, Sam, don't do this."
Sam frowned, swiping ineffectively at his face again, the annoying, rough wetness was back and he realized that Dean was wiping his face with a damp towel. And Dean sounded tired... and scared. Sam made an effort of will and opened his eyes again, the second time wasn't as hard as the first and he even managed to focus a little on Dean's face.
"Hey," he tried. It came out more like, "hehh" and sounded pathetic but Dean didn't seem to care. He dropped the towel and put his hands back on Sam's face, stroking his hair back with one hand and keeping the other between Sam's face and the cold edge of the... tub?
Sam frowned, as Dean leaned in, searching Sam's eyes for a long moment. Sam blinked, trying to piece together what had happened but the tub was getting more uncomfortable every second he was awake. And seriously, what was he doing in the tub? He tried to ask but it came out all raspy and unintelligible like, "Whaduhfuh, Deh? Whym'i innatu?"
Instead of answering, Dean just stared at him, bloodshot eyes staring out from a pale and haggard face. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed Sam's arms, pulling him forward, cradling Sam to him. Sam could feel the tremors wracking Dean's body; remnants of adrenaline and fear. Dean kept one hand cupped to the back of Sam's neck, the other arm looped around his back, holding Sam to him in a desperate embrace. Exhausted, Dean rested his cheek on Sam's head, muttering under his breath, "Jesus, Sam, oh, Jesus fuck, Sammy. You wouldn't wake up, Sam, and you were... But you're okay, I've got you... oh, Jesus, Sam... Holy Christ, Sammy."
After several minutes, Dean's breathing went back to normal and his hands steadied. Standing up, Dean helped Sam get out from the tub and shed his wet clothes. He wrapped Sam in a blanket, led him into the other room and deposited him in a chair. Sam flinched a little as Dean suddenly snarled but Dean was looking across the room and in two quick strides he snatched the bottle of Valium from the low dresser. He stalked back into the bathroom and flushed all the pills down the toilet, crushing the bottle flat with a vicious stomp of his boot.
Dean stayed in the doorway of the bathroom for a minute, his hands gripping the edges of doorway so tightly that his knuckles were white. When he finally looked up his eyes and his voice were flat as he said quietly, "Never again."
Sam didn't ask questions. It had been bad, bad enough to scare Dean into a chick-flick moment. Frankly, he really didn't want to know.
~*~*~*~
Dean sleeps with Sam now. He crawls in next to Sam every night and tries to cocoon him from the terrors the darkness holds.
Sam continues to dream, and now it always begins with Dean.
His brother lays in a clearing in the forest. There's no sound - not even a crunch from Sam's feet on the frost-crusted dirt as they fly across the pine covered ground. He can’t hear his own cry as he falls to the ground, straddling Dean, hands searching for a pulse, a breath.
Always, the stray thought skitters through his consciousness haven’t I done this before?. God, dad, I wish I could go back and do it all differently. I won't fail Dean; so much sacrifice already. But Dean's body lays still under his hands. It's too late for CPR, no nurses to call… Dean is pale. He's cold, he hates being cold, and there’s frost on his lashes. Sam's hand traces Dean's face and he notes absently that Dean's lips are blue. The ground heaves and Sam screams mutely at the leaden sky. When he looks down again his hands, which were clutching Dean’s shirt before, are now sunk into Dean's chest. Panicked, he struggles to pull them free, unwilling to hurt Dean any further. Eventually, he stops trying, stops crying and simply lays his head down on Dean's shoulder, feeling the cold seep into his own bones. The only thing besides Dean is the scent of the flowers, crushed under their bodies, under Dean’s head.
Funny, he hadn't noticed it before but they're lying on a bed of flowers. The palest yellow ground cover peeking through the frost. The scent of first spring and Dean surrounds him as he closes his eyes.
On the good nights, few and far between, it ends there. He wakes to find his head nestled over Dean’s heart - Dean’s hands stroking firmly down his back, his brother’s warm breath ghosting over the top of his head as he talks. It doesn’t matter what he says, he’s talking, he’s breathing and Sam can hear Dean's heart beating under his cheek. And, sometimes, he can sleep for a little while.
Other nights, most nights, Dream-Dean (dead Dean) disappeared like the morning mist. He vanishes from beneath Sam, leaving him alone on the cold ground, shivering and lost in the woods. And no, the symbolism isn’t wasted on him. But he can’t control the panic that wells up, the anger and the pain. Because it’s getting harder and harder to tell his dreams from reality and every night he’s afraid that his dream has come true - because dammit his dreams *do* come true. And everything that follows is a tangled snare of death and destruction and blood and fire. Always blood and fire.
And he tried so hard not to think about it, about what he does in those dreams. Because Dream-Sam liked it.
God help him, some part of him liked it.
Dean felt Sam slipping away, his sanity sliding between the cracks of reality and dream. He was losing Sam in the darkness. People avoided them now, whether consciously or unconsciously they didn't know. But no one sat next to them in restaurants, motel owners didn't put anyone in the rooms next to them. It was like their desperation was contagious. Dean felt like a leper. Sam didn't seem to feel much of anything beyond a bone-deep exhaustion and the insistent-sharp pull of soon, soon, soon fishhooks in his gut.
They stopped for gas somewhere in Mississippi and Sam got out to stretch his legs. The sun was arcing low across the horizon and the landscape was suffused with an unearthly golden glow. There was an antique store and flower shop next door to the gas station and Sam wandered in, being sure to catch Dean's eye as he did. He didn't want a repeat of Dean's spectacular freak-out at the diner the day before when he came back from the bathroom to find Sam "missing". By the time Sam got back from the car with John's journal... well, it hadn't been pretty to say the least.
Sam wandered around the little shop before finding his way out the back door and into a little courtyard garden. He meandered the space, bumping his head on hanging baskets and sniffing the fragrant blossoms. He was loathe to leave the quaint space but he reluctantly turned to head back when a plant caught his eye. Pale yellow blossoms clustered tightly together. Sam leaned over and breathed. Dean.
"May I help you?"
Sam straightened quickly, smacking his head on yet another hanging basket, this time it was geraniums. He cursed under his breath, then blushed and apologized when he turned to find a kindly-looking older woman standing behind him.
"Sorry, I hope this isn't off limits."
She smiled at him. "A little late for apologies if it was isn't it, son?"
Sam blushed and tried to skirt around her to the exit, bumping yet another hanging basket with his head.
"Lord boy, you don't have the brains God gave a goose, do you? And you keep barging around here like a bull in a china shop you'll bash out what little brains you've got collecting dust in that head of yours."
Sam froze and rubbed his head with one hand. She reminded him a little of Missouri... well, Missouri when she talked to Dean anyway. "Sorry," he repeated.
"Lord, boy, you are a simple one aren't you? And look at the size of you, must be that bovine growth hormone the government put in the cows."
Sam smiled politely and nodded as he successfully skirted around her and headed for the exit. She followed him, haranguing him the entire way. Just as he was about to step over the threshold her voice stopped him.
"Why is it you were so interested in the primrose, boy?"
He turned back, confused. "The what?"
"Are you deaf as well as simple? The primrose? The yellow flowers you practically had your whole face buried in? Why are you so interested in them?"
"No reason, really, I just... they have a nice smell. It's familiar."
"Is it now? Well, don't you let nobody lead you down that primrose path, boy."
"Pardon?"
The old lady heaved a put upon sigh. "What do they teach you young'uns in school these days? The primrose path?" At Sam's blank look she elaborated. "To lead someone down the primrose path is to take the easy way out of a hard situation. Folks deceive themselves, or are deceived by devils into thinking things are one way. Truth is, things are usually complicated and nothing worthwhile comes without sacrifice. You get me?"
"Yes ma'am," Sam answered slowly. "I think I do. Thank you," he added as he turned to leave.
She grunted. "You want to thank me, you could buy some damn flowers. Primrose flower means 'I can't live without you', maybe you could get some for your sweetie."
Sam paused in the doorway, looking at Dean waiting impatiently by the Impala, and choked back a laugh. "Sorry, ma'am, I don't think that would go over very well, but thank you."
A few miles down the road Dean asked him what the hell he was doing in that shop for so long. Sam spun him half-truths and then feigned sleep for a few hours. He needed time to think. The symbolism of dreams had meaning, his maybe more than others.
After hours of introspection he opened his eyes and unobtrusively watched his brother for a while. They'd been so wrapped up in this thing that they'd let the weeks go by, weeks of Dean's life, weeks of Dean's last year of life. It was so clear now he wondered how could he have missed the connection.
Everything began with Dean - his life began with Dean and no matter how far he spun away, he always came back to Dean. Everything always came back to Dean. Dean was his beginning and his middle and his end. To save himself he has to save Dean; to save Dean, he has to save himself. Dean is his beginning, Dean is his end.
Sam was ready now, ready for war. He was ready to wage the battle for his brother's soul.
Nothing worthwhile ever comes without sacrifice.
But I finished it in under deadline and did the best I could.
The challenge was flowers and their meanings. I had:
Primrose
Can’t live without you
Thanks to mgbutterfly for keeping me on task and not letting me get away with too much pissy-face.
It's gen SPN with some brotherly shmoop and angst. Hardly even any bad words... I must be slipping.
It took them a few weeks to notice, what with the hell on Earth thing, but since he came back from the dead Sam’s powers were different. Tweaked in a different way, attuned to a different frequency, maybe. Or maybe, Dean thought a few times in the darkest hours, Sam had just come back wrong.
Sam started seeing things, not dreams or visions but glimpses. Glimpses of things... of shadows, not ghosts, he assured Dean, just after-images. A week or so later, they nearly came to blows in a Waffle House parking lot when Sam admitted that he was hearing things, too. It was just whispers and mutters… words indistinct but the meaning, the emotion, bled through and Sam had trouble blocking them out.
Dean hated it. Hated that Sam sometimes stared at nothing, his eyes, wide and panicked, tracking things Dean couldn't protect him from. Hated that when he came out of the shower one morning he'd found Sam sitting on the bed, his headphones on and blaring loud enough for Dean to hear them. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands fisted in his hair as he thumped his head against the wall, muttering, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up."
The shadows bled through the cracks, trying to find the cracks in Sam, trying to get into him. Shadow things that gibbered pretty lies and got Sam so twisted up that he didn't know if it was real or in his head.
"Sam, I'll figure this out." Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face, interrupting his in-depth examination of the napkin dispenser. "You with me here? We will figure this out and we will stop it. We'll fix it, Sam, I promise."
Dean held his gaze until Sam nodded.
Sam believed him because he couldn't believe anything else. He didn't want to believe anything else. Didn't want to acknowledge that he might have come back wrong.
And Dean, Dean had that look on his face again. The same look he had after Jess died and after Sam told him about the visions. He was angry and scared and trying desperately not to show it. Sometimes Sam thought that angry desperation was the glue that held Dean together and without it he'd simply fall apart.
Sam decided not to tell him about the smells.
At first he thought it was perfume; it took weeks for him to admit to himself that it wasn't. He'd assumed that Dean was hooking up with some chick in town. But then they'd moved on to a new town... then another. And the odds of Dean hooking up with three girls in three separate towns with the same perfume were pretty astronomical. Also, the fact that Dean rarely left him alone now for more than twenty minutes also helped make that scenario rather unlikely.
The scent only came when Dean was near and Sam knew Dean's toiletries as well as he knew his own. That just left one explanation. Another manifestation of his never-ending freak show. Another thing for Dean to worry about. But it wasn't driving him crazy so Sam kept this one to himself. Besides, he found the scent kind of soothing; it was light and flowery, like early spring flowers.
Yeah, it was best not to tell Dean that he was smelling weird things... or that Dean smelled like spring flowers.
~*~*~*~*~
The dreams came next.
Not visions, just nightmares. Horrible, violent nightmares full of blood and fire, decay and soot, copper and ash. Fire and blood. And under it all, always a vague hint of that damn scent that wasn’t Dean but was. Dean was leather and orange and motor oil and spearmint; this was flowers and dawn and the sharp-cold fist of winter not ready to let go of the Earth. It wasn't Dean but it was.
It scared Sam. The dreams, formless and vague, scared him more than the shadows and the whispers. He felt it now, like a fishhook tugging at his insides, small but sharp and unrelenting.
Time was running out. Running out for what or who he didn't know but he knew the end of whatever this was, was drawing near.
Most nights now, Sam woke up heaving; the sharp scent of burned flesh in his nose, the screams of the innocent and guilty alike ringing in his ears. One night Sam didn’t manage to wake up before he vomited, bile and whiskey burning his throat as he laid on his back right there in the bed. For several long, horrible moments Sam struggled with the border between reality and dream - he was choking, drowning and he couldn’t move. Suddenly, he was pulled upright, a heavy hand clapping him sharply between the shoulder blades.
"You're okay, Sammy. You're okay. I've got you."
Sam gasped and choked and spit, not caring that he was making a mess of himself and the bed. He just gasped in air and held on to Dean, burying his head into Dean's neck and trying to block out the smells of his nightmare.
As he breathed in, that cloyingly sweet, flowery scent cut through even the sharp scent of his own bile and he shuddered.
Later, in Dean's bed, his back snugged comfortably against his brother's, he struggled to stay awake. He could feel the fishhooks tugging sharper every day. He knew time was running out soon... weeks... maybe less.
The dreams got steadily worse. Sam and Dean were, by turns, overly solicitous and waspish with each other - usually in opposition. They spent most of their days in strained and sullen silence or baiting one another into petty fights. But the nights, the nights were dark and close, punctuated by sharp cries and desperate attempts to soothe.
It got to the point that Sam was unwilling to try and sleep.
The door slammed shut behind Dean as he kicked it with his foot but Sam barely even blinked. He just sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Dean waved a bag under his nose. "Valium. I hear all the cool kids are doing it."
Sam just looked away and shook his head.
"C'mon, Sam. You can't not sleep and this stuff is guaranteed to knock you so far on your ass that you won't even roll over, much less dream." Dean pulled out the bottle, opened it and shook out two small pills. He held them out to Sam, along with a bottle of water.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a scream of frustration when Sam simply ignored him. Taking several deep breaths, he willed himself to calm down. Crouching down, he laid his forearms across Sam's knees and caught Sam's eye. "Hey. It's not like I want to roofie you."
"I know. I just..." Sam's voice trailed off into a sigh, his mouth twisting down, eyes dropping back to the floor. He looked so god damned miserable that Dean wanted to kill something. Problem was, neither of them knew why this was happening or how to make it go away. Things were simpler when there was some big evil demon to kill.
Sam's head was hanging so low that it was practically even with Dean's. Not knowing what else to say, Dean simply leaned forward, touching their foreheads together in unspoken sympathy.
After a few minutes Sam uncurled his arms from around his ribcage and held out a hand. "Okay, I'll try it."
Dean handed over the pills, then the water bottle. "It's gonna be okay, Sam."
Sam flashed him a brief, wry smile. "I guess it can't get much worse."
Dean clapped him on the leg as he stood, "That's what I love about you, Sammy, you're always so 'glass half-full'."
"Yeah, of hemlock," Sam snorted as he stretched out on top of the covers.
The next thing Sam was aware of was a dull ache in his back, he felt clammy and cold and like his head was full of sand. Something rough and wet was scraping along his cheek and he clumsily swiped at it without bothering to open his eyes. Suddenly his face was grabbed and a voice was demanding something from him. It took a minute to process but he finally figured out that the voice belonged to Dean and all Dean was asking was for him to open his eyes. Piece of cake.
After several tries Sam managed to get his eyes open but they wouldn't focus. He was confused as to why this was so much effort but just thinking about it made him tired. He let his eyelids slide closed; he could think better if he took a nap.
"Sam? C'mon, Sam, don't do this."
Sam frowned, swiping ineffectively at his face again, the annoying, rough wetness was back and he realized that Dean was wiping his face with a damp towel. And Dean sounded tired... and scared. Sam made an effort of will and opened his eyes again, the second time wasn't as hard as the first and he even managed to focus a little on Dean's face.
"Hey," he tried. It came out more like, "hehh" and sounded pathetic but Dean didn't seem to care. He dropped the towel and put his hands back on Sam's face, stroking his hair back with one hand and keeping the other between Sam's face and the cold edge of the... tub?
Sam frowned, as Dean leaned in, searching Sam's eyes for a long moment. Sam blinked, trying to piece together what had happened but the tub was getting more uncomfortable every second he was awake. And seriously, what was he doing in the tub? He tried to ask but it came out all raspy and unintelligible like, "Whaduhfuh, Deh? Whym'i innatu?"
Instead of answering, Dean just stared at him, bloodshot eyes staring out from a pale and haggard face. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed Sam's arms, pulling him forward, cradling Sam to him. Sam could feel the tremors wracking Dean's body; remnants of adrenaline and fear. Dean kept one hand cupped to the back of Sam's neck, the other arm looped around his back, holding Sam to him in a desperate embrace. Exhausted, Dean rested his cheek on Sam's head, muttering under his breath, "Jesus, Sam, oh, Jesus fuck, Sammy. You wouldn't wake up, Sam, and you were... But you're okay, I've got you... oh, Jesus, Sam... Holy Christ, Sammy."
After several minutes, Dean's breathing went back to normal and his hands steadied. Standing up, Dean helped Sam get out from the tub and shed his wet clothes. He wrapped Sam in a blanket, led him into the other room and deposited him in a chair. Sam flinched a little as Dean suddenly snarled but Dean was looking across the room and in two quick strides he snatched the bottle of Valium from the low dresser. He stalked back into the bathroom and flushed all the pills down the toilet, crushing the bottle flat with a vicious stomp of his boot.
Dean stayed in the doorway of the bathroom for a minute, his hands gripping the edges of doorway so tightly that his knuckles were white. When he finally looked up his eyes and his voice were flat as he said quietly, "Never again."
Sam didn't ask questions. It had been bad, bad enough to scare Dean into a chick-flick moment. Frankly, he really didn't want to know.
~*~*~*~
Dean sleeps with Sam now. He crawls in next to Sam every night and tries to cocoon him from the terrors the darkness holds.
Sam continues to dream, and now it always begins with Dean.
His brother lays in a clearing in the forest. There's no sound - not even a crunch from Sam's feet on the frost-crusted dirt as they fly across the pine covered ground. He can’t hear his own cry as he falls to the ground, straddling Dean, hands searching for a pulse, a breath.
Always, the stray thought skitters through his consciousness haven’t I done this before?. God, dad, I wish I could go back and do it all differently. I won't fail Dean; so much sacrifice already. But Dean's body lays still under his hands. It's too late for CPR, no nurses to call… Dean is pale. He's cold, he hates being cold, and there’s frost on his lashes. Sam's hand traces Dean's face and he notes absently that Dean's lips are blue. The ground heaves and Sam screams mutely at the leaden sky. When he looks down again his hands, which were clutching Dean’s shirt before, are now sunk into Dean's chest. Panicked, he struggles to pull them free, unwilling to hurt Dean any further. Eventually, he stops trying, stops crying and simply lays his head down on Dean's shoulder, feeling the cold seep into his own bones. The only thing besides Dean is the scent of the flowers, crushed under their bodies, under Dean’s head.
Funny, he hadn't noticed it before but they're lying on a bed of flowers. The palest yellow ground cover peeking through the frost. The scent of first spring and Dean surrounds him as he closes his eyes.
On the good nights, few and far between, it ends there. He wakes to find his head nestled over Dean’s heart - Dean’s hands stroking firmly down his back, his brother’s warm breath ghosting over the top of his head as he talks. It doesn’t matter what he says, he’s talking, he’s breathing and Sam can hear Dean's heart beating under his cheek. And, sometimes, he can sleep for a little while.
Other nights, most nights, Dream-Dean (dead Dean) disappeared like the morning mist. He vanishes from beneath Sam, leaving him alone on the cold ground, shivering and lost in the woods. And no, the symbolism isn’t wasted on him. But he can’t control the panic that wells up, the anger and the pain. Because it’s getting harder and harder to tell his dreams from reality and every night he’s afraid that his dream has come true - because dammit his dreams *do* come true. And everything that follows is a tangled snare of death and destruction and blood and fire. Always blood and fire.
And he tried so hard not to think about it, about what he does in those dreams. Because Dream-Sam liked it.
God help him, some part of him liked it.
Dean felt Sam slipping away, his sanity sliding between the cracks of reality and dream. He was losing Sam in the darkness. People avoided them now, whether consciously or unconsciously they didn't know. But no one sat next to them in restaurants, motel owners didn't put anyone in the rooms next to them. It was like their desperation was contagious. Dean felt like a leper. Sam didn't seem to feel much of anything beyond a bone-deep exhaustion and the insistent-sharp pull of soon, soon, soon fishhooks in his gut.
They stopped for gas somewhere in Mississippi and Sam got out to stretch his legs. The sun was arcing low across the horizon and the landscape was suffused with an unearthly golden glow. There was an antique store and flower shop next door to the gas station and Sam wandered in, being sure to catch Dean's eye as he did. He didn't want a repeat of Dean's spectacular freak-out at the diner the day before when he came back from the bathroom to find Sam "missing". By the time Sam got back from the car with John's journal... well, it hadn't been pretty to say the least.
Sam wandered around the little shop before finding his way out the back door and into a little courtyard garden. He meandered the space, bumping his head on hanging baskets and sniffing the fragrant blossoms. He was loathe to leave the quaint space but he reluctantly turned to head back when a plant caught his eye. Pale yellow blossoms clustered tightly together. Sam leaned over and breathed. Dean.
"May I help you?"
Sam straightened quickly, smacking his head on yet another hanging basket, this time it was geraniums. He cursed under his breath, then blushed and apologized when he turned to find a kindly-looking older woman standing behind him.
"Sorry, I hope this isn't off limits."
She smiled at him. "A little late for apologies if it was isn't it, son?"
Sam blushed and tried to skirt around her to the exit, bumping yet another hanging basket with his head.
"Lord boy, you don't have the brains God gave a goose, do you? And you keep barging around here like a bull in a china shop you'll bash out what little brains you've got collecting dust in that head of yours."
Sam froze and rubbed his head with one hand. She reminded him a little of Missouri... well, Missouri when she talked to Dean anyway. "Sorry," he repeated.
"Lord, boy, you are a simple one aren't you? And look at the size of you, must be that bovine growth hormone the government put in the cows."
Sam smiled politely and nodded as he successfully skirted around her and headed for the exit. She followed him, haranguing him the entire way. Just as he was about to step over the threshold her voice stopped him.
"Why is it you were so interested in the primrose, boy?"
He turned back, confused. "The what?"
"Are you deaf as well as simple? The primrose? The yellow flowers you practically had your whole face buried in? Why are you so interested in them?"
"No reason, really, I just... they have a nice smell. It's familiar."
"Is it now? Well, don't you let nobody lead you down that primrose path, boy."
"Pardon?"
The old lady heaved a put upon sigh. "What do they teach you young'uns in school these days? The primrose path?" At Sam's blank look she elaborated. "To lead someone down the primrose path is to take the easy way out of a hard situation. Folks deceive themselves, or are deceived by devils into thinking things are one way. Truth is, things are usually complicated and nothing worthwhile comes without sacrifice. You get me?"
"Yes ma'am," Sam answered slowly. "I think I do. Thank you," he added as he turned to leave.
She grunted. "You want to thank me, you could buy some damn flowers. Primrose flower means 'I can't live without you', maybe you could get some for your sweetie."
Sam paused in the doorway, looking at Dean waiting impatiently by the Impala, and choked back a laugh. "Sorry, ma'am, I don't think that would go over very well, but thank you."
A few miles down the road Dean asked him what the hell he was doing in that shop for so long. Sam spun him half-truths and then feigned sleep for a few hours. He needed time to think. The symbolism of dreams had meaning, his maybe more than others.
After hours of introspection he opened his eyes and unobtrusively watched his brother for a while. They'd been so wrapped up in this thing that they'd let the weeks go by, weeks of Dean's life, weeks of Dean's last year of life. It was so clear now he wondered how could he have missed the connection.
Everything began with Dean - his life began with Dean and no matter how far he spun away, he always came back to Dean. Everything always came back to Dean. Dean was his beginning and his middle and his end. To save himself he has to save Dean; to save Dean, he has to save himself. Dean is his beginning, Dean is his end.
Sam was ready now, ready for war. He was ready to wage the battle for his brother's soul.
Nothing worthwhile ever comes without sacrifice.