SPN gen fic: Weaver 0-1/9
Title: Weaver
Author: sbg
Rating: R, for language
Category: H/C, Angst, A/A
Season/spoilers: 1/directly follows "Nightmare"
Summary: Sometimes dreams teach, sometimes they tell the future and sometimes they just hurt like hell.
Disclaimer: The Impala, Sam Winchester and (oh, this one hurts) Dean Winchester and various other characters don't belong to me. Some of the things referenced in the story also don't belong to me, but then some of them do. All these things, sans my own words, belong to The CW and Kripke's company, whose name will be inserted here once I get around to finding it. Not trying to step on toes or claim ownership, much as I would really enjoy that.
Author's Note: To be fair, I hadn't really read many Supernatural stories when this idea popped into my head. So...er...it might seem even more derivative than usual. Comments welcome, but not necessary. I really would appreciate a head's up if it truly sucks and anyone reading wants me to stop posting. I might not listen, but I still want to know. ;) Many thanks to ldyanne, who took the time to scour the fic and provide encouragement. Any errors that remain are my fault. Those, I do own. ;)
~~*~~
Dean was being a total pain in the ass. Sam understood that it was a mechanism, a means to alleviate stress, but that didn’t make the remarks any less annoying. His head swirled with fear and dread despite Dean’s attempt to prove everything was just fine by joking constantly and tormenting the shit out of him. Dean was a terrible actor. Things were not fine, and no amount of teasing from his brother was going to make Sam feel any better about his potentially huge, definitely frightening abilities.
The analogy of spoon bending had only made him feel worse, for the lack of control was what scared him the most about his mental…powers. As far as he was concerned, about the only thing he knew about his ability to move things with his mind was that it happened when he was experiencing a spasm of enraged fear. That wasn’t exactly comforting. The chances of being in a similar situation were pretty good, considering what they did for a living. Sam didn’t want anyone getting hurt (Dean, his mind screamed.) because he couldn’t control what might blow up or fly across the room.
“Sam, what’s going to happen if I turn left up here?” Sam clenched his jaw twice and glared over at Dean’s smirking face. Jerk loved this way too much; Sam could only hope he’d get tired of it soon. “C’mon, use your divining powers and predict it.”
Sam still couldn’t believe they were actually heading for Vegas. He thought that, too, had been a joke, but Dean said he figured they had to go some direction, so why not head for money? Just in case Sam miraculously managed to gain control of whatever the hell was up with him in time to hit a poker game or two and win big. Right. Regular joes didn’t just show up for the high stakes games of poker in the biggest gambling city in the world. Sam suspected Dean actually wanted to go there for the showgirls. T&A, 24/7.
“I dunno, Dean, we’ll be heading west?”
“Wow, you do have some amazing new skills.”
“Shut up.”
“And witty comebacks, too.”
Sam glared at Dean for another ten-count and then closed his eyes. The best way to deal with Dean when he was being this big a jerk was to try to ignore him. Unfortunately, that left him alone with his thoughts, which invariably turned grim. His head kept swirling with all that had happened in the past couple of days, and with unshakeable guilt about Max’s fate. Dean was right. He wasn’t Max, and he hoped to hell having a brother like Dean around was enough to prevent that madness and desperation from happening to him. As messed up as their upbringing had been, at least there had been love. It wasn’t always obvious and it was usually tempered with anger and antagonism, but Sam knew his father loved them, even if he didn’t always show it.
He sighed. Something about the sound of the car’s engine combined with rubber spinning on pavement always made him tired, but he was reluctant to sleep. He shifted a little and leaned his right temple against the cool glass of the window, opening his eyes a crack. The night sky seemed thick with darkness, brightened only by a muted orange glow of a small town off in the distance. Dean turned the music down a notch or two, a mild act of consideration Sam wasn’t going to take for granted.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, do you want to stop at a hotel or something?” Dean said. “Get some real sleep?”
Sam lifted his head and looked over. Dean never moved his gaze from the road, and for a flash Sam thought it was probably because his brother couldn’t stand the thought of looking at him in all his freakish glory. Ridiculous, since Dean had been smirking at him about it every chance he got for the last six hours. Sam shook his head slightly.
“Dean, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, I meant when we hit a town or something.”
“No,” Sam said. “Not unless you’re tired.”
“Nah, could drive all night. But I swear if you complain about a crick in your neck I’m going to hurt you.”
He put his head back against the window. A thin trail of cold air tickled at his face, coming from where the rubber had slightly eroded and hardened like always happened with cars this old. Sam didn’t mind. He hoped, actually, that it would keep him just awake enough for him to keep from subconsciously calling Max back into his head. Not Max literally, but what he represented. It was so much worse to envision himself like that. It was in him, and that was a fact no amount of fighting could change, no matter how strong Dean thought his influence was.
The rhythm of Dean drumming his fingers against the steering wheel joined the growl of the engine and susurration of tires on the road. Sam smiled to himself in spite of his lingering unease. Maybe he should stop worrying so much about it and enjoy the showgirls as much as Dean was going to. Sam let himself drift toward sleep with images of beautiful women with beautiful long legs dancing before him. It was nice and warm and if sleep could always be like it, he’d never get up.
And then he was alone, running, running faster than he ever had before and all Sam could see was blackness. Direction didn’t matter. He didn’t know where he was or where he was going, he just knew he had to keep going before it found him. He heard it, always right on his heels, its breath hot and moist against his chilled skin. He’d been running forever, and he couldn’t tell if his muscles were quivering from cold or fatigue. Suddenly, there was brightness amid the black. A gorgeous woman appeared before him, her skin so pale and translucent in contrast to the black that she appeared to glow. Her eyes were too huge and dark for her face and she cried out to him but her lips didn’t move. ‘Help, someone help me.’ Sam couldn’t feel or hear the thing behind him anymore, and he kept running for the woman, focused solely on her terrified eyes, which were now so big he could see the reflection of himself running toward her in them. The blackness was behind her now, and he could see it edging closer.
“Move,” he shouted.
She blinked and shook her head at him. She wore silver and glitter and a huge headdress, showgirl, and the feathers swayed like they were alive. Tentacles that reached out for him. Sam skidded to a halt, wildly looking left and right for escape, for Dean, for something. There was only darkness, it and her. He looked at her again, and frowned. She smiled coyly, not a trace of fear showing on her serene, familiar face. This wasn’t right.
“Jess?” Sam whispered, and her smile grew to reveal sharp, yellow teeth. This wasn’t how his dreams of Jess went. “No.”
“Help me, help me,” she said mockingly, and laughed at him. Her lips moved now. Her eyes, besides being too large, weren’t the right color. They were black as oil and he realized suddenly why the thing that chased him didn’t scare her. “Woe is little old me.”
Sam took a step back, into impossible empty space that had been ground only seconds ago. He fell. The black-eyed beast morphed out of Jess’ shape and into Max. It peered at him over a ledge, a decapitated head floating in the dark. Sam stopped falling with a jerk, suspended in mid-air by absolutely nothing. By Max. Fear choked him, filled his throat so he couldn’t breathe or cry out.
“See what I can do?” Max said casually, his eyes boring into Sam. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Max held him in place, and even at a distance Sam recognized arrogant sureness in his eyes. They were no longer the scared, desperate eyes Max had when he was alive. These were cold and possessed with real evil. “You can do it, too. You’re going to be just like me, Sam.”
No, Sam thought, nonono I’m not. He managed to shake his head. Max’s nostrils flared for a moment, like a bull enraged by a waving red flag. He started falling again, flipping over and over until he finally stopped on a headfirst descent. Max stood below him now, arms open as if waiting for an embrace. Sam closed his eyes.
“Sam, Sam, Sam.” Max’s voice was taunting and cruel and much harder than Sam remembered it. “You can’t fight it, Sam.”
Max was right. Sam shook all over; couldn’t stop. He wasn’t in control of his own body.
“Sam!” Everything shook, every muscle vibrated in involuntary contractions and he wondered if Max could somehow manipulate people as well as objects. “Sammy, wake up and breathe, damnit.”
Dean. Sam opened his eyes and saw the Impala’s sleek dashboard. He gulped for air, automatically jerking forward so his head was almost between his knees. He felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder now, squeezing tightly. He looked over and, through the black starbursts obscuring his vision as oxygen returned to his bloodstream, saw Dean’s face was the picture of abject terror. It only lasted a second, vanishing so quickly Sam wasn’t sure it had even existed. Dean was left looking calm, cool and collected, which seemed like just what Sam needed.
“What happened?” Sam said, still gasping.
“I think you were dreaming,” Dean told him.
“Yeah, I knew that.” Sam thought he’d finally regained control of his lungs again. He stared at Dean. “I meant what else.”
“You wouldn’t wake up.”
Which explained Dean’s apparently active participation in the task. Sam had a brief, paranoid thought about the myth of falling dreams and what actually happened to people who hit the ground in them. It wasn’t something anyone could substantiate. Sam closed his eyes, and was treated to an image of Max standing as he had in the dream. Sam shook his head, wrinkling his nose a little as he opened his eyes again. Something didn’t really make sense to him. Lots of things, actually.
“You don’t usually try to wake me.”
“You don’t usually stop breathing, Sammy. You usually jerk yourself awake.”
Sam didn’t miss the faint annoyance that crept into Dean’s tone, symptomatic of extreme fear rather than anger, he knew. As always, he chose to not acknowledge it. Dean seemed to need the illusion that he was unaffected most of the time. Wait.
“I stopped breathing,” he said. That was new. “For how long?”
“A minute. Probably less. Seemed like more.” Dean gave him a funny look. “It doesn’t matter how long, just that you did. What the hell were you dreaming about?”
In other words, was it one of those kinds of dreams? Emphasis on ‘those’ to make it sound like a dirty word. Sam figured his brother was as freaked out about this stuff as he was, but damnit if it didn’t hurt just the same. A little or big part of Dean probably now put Sam into the ‘freaky things we usually fight and kill’ box. Dean had been prepared to kill Max, who was as human as the next guy. That was as disturbing to him as the powers themselves. He didn’t know how much detail he should go into about the dream, and didn’t really want to talk about it.
“I can’t remember much. I think I was falling.”
“You stopped breathing because you were falling,” Dean said with a quizzical, disbelieving quirk of his eyebrows. “In your dream.”
“I guess,” Sam said. He looked away.
Dean didn’t believe him, but he started the car and pulled back onto the road. Oh. It had scared Dean, Sam thought, enough to pull the car to the side and turn it off entirely. He looked out the window into darkness again. Any hope of getting rest was gone. He remembered Dean telling him the guilt-fueled dreams of Jess would kill him if he didn’t find a way to deal. Sam felt the draft of air from the window, and this time it only left him chilled.
~~*~~
Dean stared at the face of the phone, his dad’s highlighted number staring back up at him. All he had to do was press one button and he’d be able to release his pent-up concern…to voicemail yet again. He clicked the cell shut. He had no idea what kind of message he’d leave for their father anyway. He didn’t exactly have a clue what was going on with Sam any more than Sam seemed to.
“Hi, Dad, it’s me. I think Sam might be going nuts. Just thought you should know. Call me sometime.”
Right. That would really get their dad moving as fast as he had at Lawrence, or when Dean was dying. And there was the slight problem that Dean didn’t actually think Sam was nuts. He didn’t know what Sam was if not nuts, and that was so much worse. He got up and stalked to the bathroom door. He pounded on it twice.
“Hey, I’m going to hit the tables for a while. You okay here?”
This hole in the wall hotel - as tempting as it was, they couldn’t risk getting busted for credit card fraud by staying at a nice place - had really good water pressure. He heard the sound of water slapping against porcelain change slightly, probably with Sam’s movements. Dean glanced at his watch and wondered just how long Sam planned on staying in there. It wasn’t that nice. Half an hour was pushing it a bit far, like Sam didn’t think he could get clean.
“I’m not five, Dean,” Sam bellowed. “Just don’t lose all our money.”
“Our money? Dude, I’m the one who earns the cash around here,” Dean said. Sam sounded normal, at least. “You couldn’t hustle pool if your life depended on it.”
It was true. The more illegal aspects of their life fell heavily on his shoulders, which was annoying at times. Sam usually made up for it by using his greatest strengths when they were on a case - his geeky tolerance and enjoyment of research and the damned sincerity of puppy dog eyes. The simple truth was if Dean had to break the law so Sam wouldn’t have to, he’d keep doing it. He’d keep making sure all the credit card applications and insurance forms couldn’t be tied to Sam in any way. The fake IDs were a different story, but that was out of his hands.
“Hey!”
“You know it’s true.”
“Whatever, dude.”
Dean rolled his eyes and then rolled for the door. They wouldn’t stay here long. Vegas was just a quick pit stop he intended to make the most of, with or without Sam’s mental mojo. The very thought of that made him pause with his hand on the door. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to leave Sam alone right now. It was the middle of the day, but Sam could still doze off or something and do that…apnea thing. Sam insisted it was probably just a one-time occurrence. Dean had his doubts. He didn’t really know what he was going to do about it; eventually both of them would sleep at the same time, and he couldn’t keep his eye on Sam forever. He turned the door handle and stepped out into the bright light.
He told himself he wouldn’t play more than a couple hands. Dean glanced up and down the dirty street. Actually, they were so far off the strip that a few hands weren’t worth the travel time. He looked at the closed door behind him and decided a few slot pulls at the 7-Eleven and a chilidog would be enough for now. Maybe he’d get to play some blackjack later, when Sam was out of the shower, which had better be by the time he got back. He didn’t think he could keep it together if Sam wanted to keep talking about whatever was going on with his brother’s wacky brain. The less they mentioned it the better as far as he was concerned. He rubbed clammy hands down the front of his jeans. It would help if he stopped thinking about it all the damn time.
Fuck 7-Eleven. This was Vegas and for once he was going to allow himself two days to be normal. Two lousy days free of supernatural shit and full of gambling, alcohol and women - all things Sam should really get in on. Dean turned around and went back into the room, intent on getting Sam on board and out of his funk. That overactive brain of his brother’s made him nervous. He never should have even considered leaving Sam alone to just think. So help him, Sam was going to shut his brain down for a couple days.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean shouted, pounding on the bathroom door again. “Change of plans. You’re coming with me if I have to drag your ass out of the shower.”
“Dean…” Damn, Sam didn’t sound normal anymore, he sounded beat down.
“Get out of the damn shower, get dressed, we’re going to have at least one memorable night in Vegas, Sam.”
“Gambling’s not really my thing, you know that.”
“Then we’ll go see some showgirls. Scantily clothed, long-legged showgirls. C’mon, man.”
There was a soft thud and skitter as something fell to the tub basin, and water pounded down unimpeded by a body in its path. Sam didn’t answer him. Sam didn’t make any noise at all. Dean pounded on the door again, alarmed by the silence.
“Sam?”
At least he hadn’t heard the sound of his brother collapsing on the floor. No, that was no comfort. Dean slammed his fist against wood, hoping like hell he wasn’t going to have to kick in the door, but every second of silence made him feel more apprehensive. The tub faucet squeaked loudly, and the water shut off at last. He heard the shower curtain draw back. He relaxed a little. Whatever was going on, it must all be in his head. Sam was fine. Dean clenched his jaw.
“Sam, talk to me. What’s going on with you?”
The door opened, steam rolling out. Dean backed up a few steps and slouched down on his bed. Sam didn’t come out. Every passing second was like torture for him. Damnit, he knew the long shower wasn’t a good sign. He was glad he came back in.
“Nothing,” Sam said, quietly. “Nothing’s going on. You want to gamble, fine. Give me a few minutes.”
The fuck it was nothing, Dean thought. He let out a sigh. He really hoped playing blackjack or roulette was going to be enough of a distraction for Sam, and for himself. Something freaky was going on with his brother, more than just both of them thinking too much about something that could be a fluke. He felt like a jackass for thinking it, but Sam wasn’t normal. He wasn’t Max, but he wasn’t normal and never had been.
“Yeah,” Dean said with conviction he didn’t feel. If they won anything, that was it. Time to hit the road again. He was sure Sam wouldn’t object. “We finally get to have a little fun. Can we stay out past ten, grandma?”
“Shut up,” Sam snapped as he stepped from the bathroom in a towel. “Believe it or not, I do know how to have fun sometimes.”
“Prove it.”
Sam glared at him for a second, then rooted through his bag, snatched some clothes and retreated back into the bathroom. Dean frowned. He should be relieved at his brother’s snarking, but Sam had spent the better part of an hour in a hot shower, yet his face was drawn and ashen, his shoulders tight. Shit.
“I’m serious, Sammy. If you don’t think I am, ask yourself when you think the last time I took a day off was. We need a break, but it ain’t going to last. We have to make the most of it.”
“You’re right,” Sam said, reemerging dressed and ready to go. Dean thought he really needed to cure his little brother of striped, button down shirts. “I’m up for anything. What happens in Vegas…”
Liar. Sam was a big fat liar. The hollowness that usually occupied Sam’s eyes (which Dean figured Sam didn’t realize was so obvious) was now more like a giant canyon. All dark and not even a spark of light. Dean knew he couldn’t press Sam about it, but he could keep a careful eye on the guy. Something told him he himself would be the grandma tonight. It was harder to avoid other distractions in public and his gut told him he couldn’t afford to slip up by letting his attention wander.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Dean said, giving Sam an evil grin.
There was the problem. If he didn’t act normal himself, Sam would know he knew things weren’t actually normal. It was a delicate balance and even though he and Sam had traveled together 24/7, Dean still hadn’t figured his brother out. He didn’t think he ever would.
“I draw the line at strip clubs.”
“Sam, your respect for women is a major character flaw.”
“It’s a problem that I don’t treat them like objects,” Sam said, flashing an exasperated smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably skilled with the ladies.”
“I so don’t want to hear details of your exploits.”
Yet another reason he wished his brother was normal. Dean had no one to turn to when he wanted to admire the female form and damn if they hadn’t run into several fine specimens during their travels. Now Dean found himself more excited to see all the hot women Vegas was famous for than he was to earn a couple extra hundred in cash. He could totally handle the distraction, he told himself, all the while imagining half naked women. It was not a problem.
“Fine, but the offer for tips and advice is always open.”
Sam sighed.
“This kind of thing is in an older brother’s job description,” Dean continued.
“Whatever. What’re we just sitting here for? Let’s go.”
Sam said it like they were going to their executions, not out for a night in Las Vegas. Vegas. If he got a couple beers in Sam and he’d be fine and maybe that would help him get some sleep too. Sam hadn’t even tried since the…apnea thing. Dean really needed to think of a different name for that incident. Or not, he told himself, because it was no big deal and he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it anymore. Sam couldn’t bend spoons and just because one dream made him momentarily stop breathing didn’t mean it would happen again. It was just stress. That was all.
“Where to first?” Dean asked. He jangled the keys.
“You’re the driver,” Sam said, weariness in his voice so heavy it made Dean tired. The lack of enthusiasm normally would have just irritated him, but now it was cause for more concern. “You pick.”
“Look, dude, if you’re not up for this, we can wait until tomorrow.”
“Of course I’m up for it. What’re you talking about?”
“You look tired, that’s all. Thought maybe you could use the sleep.”
Sam flinched and looked away, then shook his head and straightened his shoulders. For a second, Dean saw resolve set his brother’s jaw and figured out they were both doing the same thing - trying like hell to be normal when nothing ever had been that way for them their whole lives. If nothing else connected them, that would. But Sam had always wanted that kind of normal more.
“I’m not tired,” Sam said.
Dean let the lie slide.
~~*~~
On to part two here
:)
Author: sbg
Rating: R, for language
Category: H/C, Angst, A/A
Season/spoilers: 1/directly follows "Nightmare"
Summary: Sometimes dreams teach, sometimes they tell the future and sometimes they just hurt like hell.
Disclaimer: The Impala, Sam Winchester and (oh, this one hurts) Dean Winchester and various other characters don't belong to me. Some of the things referenced in the story also don't belong to me, but then some of them do. All these things, sans my own words, belong to The CW and Kripke's company, whose name will be inserted here once I get around to finding it. Not trying to step on toes or claim ownership, much as I would really enjoy that.
Author's Note: To be fair, I hadn't really read many Supernatural stories when this idea popped into my head. So...er...it might seem even more derivative than usual. Comments welcome, but not necessary. I really would appreciate a head's up if it truly sucks and anyone reading wants me to stop posting. I might not listen, but I still want to know. ;) Many thanks to ldyanne, who took the time to scour the fic and provide encouragement. Any errors that remain are my fault. Those, I do own. ;)
~~*~~
Dean was being a total pain in the ass. Sam understood that it was a mechanism, a means to alleviate stress, but that didn’t make the remarks any less annoying. His head swirled with fear and dread despite Dean’s attempt to prove everything was just fine by joking constantly and tormenting the shit out of him. Dean was a terrible actor. Things were not fine, and no amount of teasing from his brother was going to make Sam feel any better about his potentially huge, definitely frightening abilities.
The analogy of spoon bending had only made him feel worse, for the lack of control was what scared him the most about his mental…powers. As far as he was concerned, about the only thing he knew about his ability to move things with his mind was that it happened when he was experiencing a spasm of enraged fear. That wasn’t exactly comforting. The chances of being in a similar situation were pretty good, considering what they did for a living. Sam didn’t want anyone getting hurt (Dean, his mind screamed.) because he couldn’t control what might blow up or fly across the room.
“Sam, what’s going to happen if I turn left up here?” Sam clenched his jaw twice and glared over at Dean’s smirking face. Jerk loved this way too much; Sam could only hope he’d get tired of it soon. “C’mon, use your divining powers and predict it.”
Sam still couldn’t believe they were actually heading for Vegas. He thought that, too, had been a joke, but Dean said he figured they had to go some direction, so why not head for money? Just in case Sam miraculously managed to gain control of whatever the hell was up with him in time to hit a poker game or two and win big. Right. Regular joes didn’t just show up for the high stakes games of poker in the biggest gambling city in the world. Sam suspected Dean actually wanted to go there for the showgirls. T&A, 24/7.
“I dunno, Dean, we’ll be heading west?”
“Wow, you do have some amazing new skills.”
“Shut up.”
“And witty comebacks, too.”
Sam glared at Dean for another ten-count and then closed his eyes. The best way to deal with Dean when he was being this big a jerk was to try to ignore him. Unfortunately, that left him alone with his thoughts, which invariably turned grim. His head kept swirling with all that had happened in the past couple of days, and with unshakeable guilt about Max’s fate. Dean was right. He wasn’t Max, and he hoped to hell having a brother like Dean around was enough to prevent that madness and desperation from happening to him. As messed up as their upbringing had been, at least there had been love. It wasn’t always obvious and it was usually tempered with anger and antagonism, but Sam knew his father loved them, even if he didn’t always show it.
He sighed. Something about the sound of the car’s engine combined with rubber spinning on pavement always made him tired, but he was reluctant to sleep. He shifted a little and leaned his right temple against the cool glass of the window, opening his eyes a crack. The night sky seemed thick with darkness, brightened only by a muted orange glow of a small town off in the distance. Dean turned the music down a notch or two, a mild act of consideration Sam wasn’t going to take for granted.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, do you want to stop at a hotel or something?” Dean said. “Get some real sleep?”
Sam lifted his head and looked over. Dean never moved his gaze from the road, and for a flash Sam thought it was probably because his brother couldn’t stand the thought of looking at him in all his freakish glory. Ridiculous, since Dean had been smirking at him about it every chance he got for the last six hours. Sam shook his head slightly.
“Dean, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, I meant when we hit a town or something.”
“No,” Sam said. “Not unless you’re tired.”
“Nah, could drive all night. But I swear if you complain about a crick in your neck I’m going to hurt you.”
He put his head back against the window. A thin trail of cold air tickled at his face, coming from where the rubber had slightly eroded and hardened like always happened with cars this old. Sam didn’t mind. He hoped, actually, that it would keep him just awake enough for him to keep from subconsciously calling Max back into his head. Not Max literally, but what he represented. It was so much worse to envision himself like that. It was in him, and that was a fact no amount of fighting could change, no matter how strong Dean thought his influence was.
The rhythm of Dean drumming his fingers against the steering wheel joined the growl of the engine and susurration of tires on the road. Sam smiled to himself in spite of his lingering unease. Maybe he should stop worrying so much about it and enjoy the showgirls as much as Dean was going to. Sam let himself drift toward sleep with images of beautiful women with beautiful long legs dancing before him. It was nice and warm and if sleep could always be like it, he’d never get up.
And then he was alone, running, running faster than he ever had before and all Sam could see was blackness. Direction didn’t matter. He didn’t know where he was or where he was going, he just knew he had to keep going before it found him. He heard it, always right on his heels, its breath hot and moist against his chilled skin. He’d been running forever, and he couldn’t tell if his muscles were quivering from cold or fatigue. Suddenly, there was brightness amid the black. A gorgeous woman appeared before him, her skin so pale and translucent in contrast to the black that she appeared to glow. Her eyes were too huge and dark for her face and she cried out to him but her lips didn’t move. ‘Help, someone help me.’ Sam couldn’t feel or hear the thing behind him anymore, and he kept running for the woman, focused solely on her terrified eyes, which were now so big he could see the reflection of himself running toward her in them. The blackness was behind her now, and he could see it edging closer.
“Move,” he shouted.
She blinked and shook her head at him. She wore silver and glitter and a huge headdress, showgirl, and the feathers swayed like they were alive. Tentacles that reached out for him. Sam skidded to a halt, wildly looking left and right for escape, for Dean, for something. There was only darkness, it and her. He looked at her again, and frowned. She smiled coyly, not a trace of fear showing on her serene, familiar face. This wasn’t right.
“Jess?” Sam whispered, and her smile grew to reveal sharp, yellow teeth. This wasn’t how his dreams of Jess went. “No.”
“Help me, help me,” she said mockingly, and laughed at him. Her lips moved now. Her eyes, besides being too large, weren’t the right color. They were black as oil and he realized suddenly why the thing that chased him didn’t scare her. “Woe is little old me.”
Sam took a step back, into impossible empty space that had been ground only seconds ago. He fell. The black-eyed beast morphed out of Jess’ shape and into Max. It peered at him over a ledge, a decapitated head floating in the dark. Sam stopped falling with a jerk, suspended in mid-air by absolutely nothing. By Max. Fear choked him, filled his throat so he couldn’t breathe or cry out.
“See what I can do?” Max said casually, his eyes boring into Sam. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Max held him in place, and even at a distance Sam recognized arrogant sureness in his eyes. They were no longer the scared, desperate eyes Max had when he was alive. These were cold and possessed with real evil. “You can do it, too. You’re going to be just like me, Sam.”
No, Sam thought, nonono I’m not. He managed to shake his head. Max’s nostrils flared for a moment, like a bull enraged by a waving red flag. He started falling again, flipping over and over until he finally stopped on a headfirst descent. Max stood below him now, arms open as if waiting for an embrace. Sam closed his eyes.
“Sam, Sam, Sam.” Max’s voice was taunting and cruel and much harder than Sam remembered it. “You can’t fight it, Sam.”
Max was right. Sam shook all over; couldn’t stop. He wasn’t in control of his own body.
“Sam!” Everything shook, every muscle vibrated in involuntary contractions and he wondered if Max could somehow manipulate people as well as objects. “Sammy, wake up and breathe, damnit.”
Dean. Sam opened his eyes and saw the Impala’s sleek dashboard. He gulped for air, automatically jerking forward so his head was almost between his knees. He felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder now, squeezing tightly. He looked over and, through the black starbursts obscuring his vision as oxygen returned to his bloodstream, saw Dean’s face was the picture of abject terror. It only lasted a second, vanishing so quickly Sam wasn’t sure it had even existed. Dean was left looking calm, cool and collected, which seemed like just what Sam needed.
“What happened?” Sam said, still gasping.
“I think you were dreaming,” Dean told him.
“Yeah, I knew that.” Sam thought he’d finally regained control of his lungs again. He stared at Dean. “I meant what else.”
“You wouldn’t wake up.”
Which explained Dean’s apparently active participation in the task. Sam had a brief, paranoid thought about the myth of falling dreams and what actually happened to people who hit the ground in them. It wasn’t something anyone could substantiate. Sam closed his eyes, and was treated to an image of Max standing as he had in the dream. Sam shook his head, wrinkling his nose a little as he opened his eyes again. Something didn’t really make sense to him. Lots of things, actually.
“You don’t usually try to wake me.”
“You don’t usually stop breathing, Sammy. You usually jerk yourself awake.”
Sam didn’t miss the faint annoyance that crept into Dean’s tone, symptomatic of extreme fear rather than anger, he knew. As always, he chose to not acknowledge it. Dean seemed to need the illusion that he was unaffected most of the time. Wait.
“I stopped breathing,” he said. That was new. “For how long?”
“A minute. Probably less. Seemed like more.” Dean gave him a funny look. “It doesn’t matter how long, just that you did. What the hell were you dreaming about?”
In other words, was it one of those kinds of dreams? Emphasis on ‘those’ to make it sound like a dirty word. Sam figured his brother was as freaked out about this stuff as he was, but damnit if it didn’t hurt just the same. A little or big part of Dean probably now put Sam into the ‘freaky things we usually fight and kill’ box. Dean had been prepared to kill Max, who was as human as the next guy. That was as disturbing to him as the powers themselves. He didn’t know how much detail he should go into about the dream, and didn’t really want to talk about it.
“I can’t remember much. I think I was falling.”
“You stopped breathing because you were falling,” Dean said with a quizzical, disbelieving quirk of his eyebrows. “In your dream.”
“I guess,” Sam said. He looked away.
Dean didn’t believe him, but he started the car and pulled back onto the road. Oh. It had scared Dean, Sam thought, enough to pull the car to the side and turn it off entirely. He looked out the window into darkness again. Any hope of getting rest was gone. He remembered Dean telling him the guilt-fueled dreams of Jess would kill him if he didn’t find a way to deal. Sam felt the draft of air from the window, and this time it only left him chilled.
~~*~~
Dean stared at the face of the phone, his dad’s highlighted number staring back up at him. All he had to do was press one button and he’d be able to release his pent-up concern…to voicemail yet again. He clicked the cell shut. He had no idea what kind of message he’d leave for their father anyway. He didn’t exactly have a clue what was going on with Sam any more than Sam seemed to.
“Hi, Dad, it’s me. I think Sam might be going nuts. Just thought you should know. Call me sometime.”
Right. That would really get their dad moving as fast as he had at Lawrence, or when Dean was dying. And there was the slight problem that Dean didn’t actually think Sam was nuts. He didn’t know what Sam was if not nuts, and that was so much worse. He got up and stalked to the bathroom door. He pounded on it twice.
“Hey, I’m going to hit the tables for a while. You okay here?”
This hole in the wall hotel - as tempting as it was, they couldn’t risk getting busted for credit card fraud by staying at a nice place - had really good water pressure. He heard the sound of water slapping against porcelain change slightly, probably with Sam’s movements. Dean glanced at his watch and wondered just how long Sam planned on staying in there. It wasn’t that nice. Half an hour was pushing it a bit far, like Sam didn’t think he could get clean.
“I’m not five, Dean,” Sam bellowed. “Just don’t lose all our money.”
“Our money? Dude, I’m the one who earns the cash around here,” Dean said. Sam sounded normal, at least. “You couldn’t hustle pool if your life depended on it.”
It was true. The more illegal aspects of their life fell heavily on his shoulders, which was annoying at times. Sam usually made up for it by using his greatest strengths when they were on a case - his geeky tolerance and enjoyment of research and the damned sincerity of puppy dog eyes. The simple truth was if Dean had to break the law so Sam wouldn’t have to, he’d keep doing it. He’d keep making sure all the credit card applications and insurance forms couldn’t be tied to Sam in any way. The fake IDs were a different story, but that was out of his hands.
“Hey!”
“You know it’s true.”
“Whatever, dude.”
Dean rolled his eyes and then rolled for the door. They wouldn’t stay here long. Vegas was just a quick pit stop he intended to make the most of, with or without Sam’s mental mojo. The very thought of that made him pause with his hand on the door. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to leave Sam alone right now. It was the middle of the day, but Sam could still doze off or something and do that…apnea thing. Sam insisted it was probably just a one-time occurrence. Dean had his doubts. He didn’t really know what he was going to do about it; eventually both of them would sleep at the same time, and he couldn’t keep his eye on Sam forever. He turned the door handle and stepped out into the bright light.
He told himself he wouldn’t play more than a couple hands. Dean glanced up and down the dirty street. Actually, they were so far off the strip that a few hands weren’t worth the travel time. He looked at the closed door behind him and decided a few slot pulls at the 7-Eleven and a chilidog would be enough for now. Maybe he’d get to play some blackjack later, when Sam was out of the shower, which had better be by the time he got back. He didn’t think he could keep it together if Sam wanted to keep talking about whatever was going on with his brother’s wacky brain. The less they mentioned it the better as far as he was concerned. He rubbed clammy hands down the front of his jeans. It would help if he stopped thinking about it all the damn time.
Fuck 7-Eleven. This was Vegas and for once he was going to allow himself two days to be normal. Two lousy days free of supernatural shit and full of gambling, alcohol and women - all things Sam should really get in on. Dean turned around and went back into the room, intent on getting Sam on board and out of his funk. That overactive brain of his brother’s made him nervous. He never should have even considered leaving Sam alone to just think. So help him, Sam was going to shut his brain down for a couple days.
“Hey, Sam,” Dean shouted, pounding on the bathroom door again. “Change of plans. You’re coming with me if I have to drag your ass out of the shower.”
“Dean…” Damn, Sam didn’t sound normal anymore, he sounded beat down.
“Get out of the damn shower, get dressed, we’re going to have at least one memorable night in Vegas, Sam.”
“Gambling’s not really my thing, you know that.”
“Then we’ll go see some showgirls. Scantily clothed, long-legged showgirls. C’mon, man.”
There was a soft thud and skitter as something fell to the tub basin, and water pounded down unimpeded by a body in its path. Sam didn’t answer him. Sam didn’t make any noise at all. Dean pounded on the door again, alarmed by the silence.
“Sam?”
At least he hadn’t heard the sound of his brother collapsing on the floor. No, that was no comfort. Dean slammed his fist against wood, hoping like hell he wasn’t going to have to kick in the door, but every second of silence made him feel more apprehensive. The tub faucet squeaked loudly, and the water shut off at last. He heard the shower curtain draw back. He relaxed a little. Whatever was going on, it must all be in his head. Sam was fine. Dean clenched his jaw.
“Sam, talk to me. What’s going on with you?”
The door opened, steam rolling out. Dean backed up a few steps and slouched down on his bed. Sam didn’t come out. Every passing second was like torture for him. Damnit, he knew the long shower wasn’t a good sign. He was glad he came back in.
“Nothing,” Sam said, quietly. “Nothing’s going on. You want to gamble, fine. Give me a few minutes.”
The fuck it was nothing, Dean thought. He let out a sigh. He really hoped playing blackjack or roulette was going to be enough of a distraction for Sam, and for himself. Something freaky was going on with his brother, more than just both of them thinking too much about something that could be a fluke. He felt like a jackass for thinking it, but Sam wasn’t normal. He wasn’t Max, but he wasn’t normal and never had been.
“Yeah,” Dean said with conviction he didn’t feel. If they won anything, that was it. Time to hit the road again. He was sure Sam wouldn’t object. “We finally get to have a little fun. Can we stay out past ten, grandma?”
“Shut up,” Sam snapped as he stepped from the bathroom in a towel. “Believe it or not, I do know how to have fun sometimes.”
“Prove it.”
Sam glared at him for a second, then rooted through his bag, snatched some clothes and retreated back into the bathroom. Dean frowned. He should be relieved at his brother’s snarking, but Sam had spent the better part of an hour in a hot shower, yet his face was drawn and ashen, his shoulders tight. Shit.
“I’m serious, Sammy. If you don’t think I am, ask yourself when you think the last time I took a day off was. We need a break, but it ain’t going to last. We have to make the most of it.”
“You’re right,” Sam said, reemerging dressed and ready to go. Dean thought he really needed to cure his little brother of striped, button down shirts. “I’m up for anything. What happens in Vegas…”
Liar. Sam was a big fat liar. The hollowness that usually occupied Sam’s eyes (which Dean figured Sam didn’t realize was so obvious) was now more like a giant canyon. All dark and not even a spark of light. Dean knew he couldn’t press Sam about it, but he could keep a careful eye on the guy. Something told him he himself would be the grandma tonight. It was harder to avoid other distractions in public and his gut told him he couldn’t afford to slip up by letting his attention wander.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Dean said, giving Sam an evil grin.
There was the problem. If he didn’t act normal himself, Sam would know he knew things weren’t actually normal. It was a delicate balance and even though he and Sam had traveled together 24/7, Dean still hadn’t figured his brother out. He didn’t think he ever would.
“I draw the line at strip clubs.”
“Sam, your respect for women is a major character flaw.”
“It’s a problem that I don’t treat them like objects,” Sam said, flashing an exasperated smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably skilled with the ladies.”
“I so don’t want to hear details of your exploits.”
Yet another reason he wished his brother was normal. Dean had no one to turn to when he wanted to admire the female form and damn if they hadn’t run into several fine specimens during their travels. Now Dean found himself more excited to see all the hot women Vegas was famous for than he was to earn a couple extra hundred in cash. He could totally handle the distraction, he told himself, all the while imagining half naked women. It was not a problem.
“Fine, but the offer for tips and advice is always open.”
Sam sighed.
“This kind of thing is in an older brother’s job description,” Dean continued.
“Whatever. What’re we just sitting here for? Let’s go.”
Sam said it like they were going to their executions, not out for a night in Las Vegas. Vegas. If he got a couple beers in Sam and he’d be fine and maybe that would help him get some sleep too. Sam hadn’t even tried since the…apnea thing. Dean really needed to think of a different name for that incident. Or not, he told himself, because it was no big deal and he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it anymore. Sam couldn’t bend spoons and just because one dream made him momentarily stop breathing didn’t mean it would happen again. It was just stress. That was all.
“Where to first?” Dean asked. He jangled the keys.
“You’re the driver,” Sam said, weariness in his voice so heavy it made Dean tired. The lack of enthusiasm normally would have just irritated him, but now it was cause for more concern. “You pick.”
“Look, dude, if you’re not up for this, we can wait until tomorrow.”
“Of course I’m up for it. What’re you talking about?”
“You look tired, that’s all. Thought maybe you could use the sleep.”
Sam flinched and looked away, then shook his head and straightened his shoulders. For a second, Dean saw resolve set his brother’s jaw and figured out they were both doing the same thing - trying like hell to be normal when nothing ever had been that way for them their whole lives. If nothing else connected them, that would. But Sam had always wanted that kind of normal more.
“I’m not tired,” Sam said.
Dean let the lie slide.
~~*~~
On to part two here
:)