A/N: This is an entry for two NFA challenges: The Nightmare challenge and the Heroes Have The Right to Bleed challenge. The latter challenge was to write a story which interpreted the lyrics to the Five for Fighting song "Superman". Thus, I've included some of them at the beginning and then they'll show up again at the very end. It is not, however, a songfic. The title comes from the song and I've referenced it, but to me, the two challenges dovetailed nicely into each other because of the mention of dreams.

A/N2: I never do this, but I need to mention one other point. There will be a few spoilers for season 7, maybe a mention or two of season 8 stuff in this story, but nothing major. However, this is a story which does not use my personal fanon of Sam and Naomi McGee as Tim's parents. I have, out of necessity, made a different backstory. I hope you still enjoy it. The first chapter is fairly gruesome, but it calms down dramatically after that.

Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm poor. I have no money. NCIS and its characters do not belong to me. I'm not making money off this story. Yadda yadda yadda, et cetera and so forth.


Looking for a Dream
by Enthusiastic Fish

I wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I'll never see

It may sound absurd...but don't be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed...but won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me
"Superman" by Five for Fighting

Chapter 1

Twenty-three years ago...

"Do you ever wonder why people don't bother saying they've been worried until they can smell something coming out the windows?" Detective Branson asked.

"No. I gave up on wondering about people a long time ago. You should try it. You'd be a lot happier, I think," Detective Jones said with a world-weary sigh. "The real question is what are they smelling? Spoiling food or decaying bodies?"

"I hope for the former," Branson said grimly, but he pulled out his gun. "You knock."

Jones nodded and pounded on the front door of the small two-story house. It was in a quiet neighborhood in the suburbs of Baltimore, and the pounding seemed to echo in the silence.

"Baltimore PD! Open up!"

No sound. Jones reached out and tried the door. It opened. He looked at Branson who lifted his gun while Jones drew his.

Together, the two detectives stepped inside the house.

"This is the Baltimore police!" Jones called out again. Still nothing. The smell was in the air. Something was rotting.

"That's not spoiled food," Branson whispered.

Jones didn't bother to reply. They began to methodically clear each room of the house. There was nothing on the ground floor except for the stench they began to suspect was coming from upstairs. The study had been trashed, but other than that there was no sign of anyone.

"Upstairs," Jones said softly and they walked up together. Branson took point with Jones in the rear. Up...a pause on the landing and up again. The second floor had three bedrooms and a bathroom.

One bedroom obviously belonged to a young boy. Another looked like a spare room.

The master bedroom door was closed, but the smell got much worse when they reached it.

They counted down silently and Branson kicked in the door...and promptly nearly threw up from the overpowering odor of decaying flesh. It had been hot in Baltimore the last few days. The bedroom window was open and two people lay on the floor. Dead. Bugs crawling around on the decaying corpses. A woman and a man. They both had hair that was obviously dyed black and their clothes marked them as possibly being Goth. Strange for the area. No details of the woman's face could be discerned. The man didn't have the look of a Goth, but considering the fact that he had maggots crawling all over the gaping wound in his throat, it would be wrong to jump to conclusions. Branson stared. He wasn't new to the job, but he didn't have the years of experience Jones possessed, and he was horrified by the sight.

"It wasn't spoiled food," Jones said.

"Yeah."

"The bathroom?"

"No one has seen the boy either for the last four days."

Figuring that they'd be finding another corpse, the two detectives headed for the closed door, carefully stepping over the bodies which lay in front of it. Branson pulled it open and then jumped back as bullets flew through it.

"Baltimore PD!" he shouted. "Drop your weapon!"

Ten bullets...and they thought they could hear someone crying beneath the sound of gunfire.

"Can you see anything?" Branson asked.

"Nothing! Stop firing! Drop your weapon and come out with your hands up!"

Still the bullets continued...and then stopped after ten. ...and they heard a clicking sound as if someone was still pulling the trigger. The crying was louder.

"Hello?" Branson called out.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

He looked at Jones who aimed his gun around the door and took a step. Branson also aimed his gun but stayed back, ready to cover Jones if something happened.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Jones walked forward into the bathroom. There was a series of holes in an opaque shower curtain which had been drawn around the claw-footed tub.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

"Hey, who's back there?" Jones asked. He was ready to fire, but he was beginning to think that he wouldn't need to. He nodded to Branson to be ready and reached out to grasp one side of the curtain with a steady hand. He mouthed his countdown.

Three, two, one...

He ripped the curtain open.

"I didn't hear anything! I didn't hear anything! I didn't hear anything!" The shrill voice instantly filled the bathroom. The small boy in the bathtub held a gun in his hands and continued to shout the same sentence over and over again.

Jones quickly holstered his gun and crouched down in front of the boy who was staring at him but not really seeing him.

"I didn't hear anything! I didn't hear anything!"

"Hey, it's okay. It's all right if you didn't hear anything," he said. "I'll just take this gun from you, okay?"

The boy continued to shout the same sentence and when Jones touched the gun, he started pulling the trigger again, still shouting. No bullets, just that clicking sound.

"It's empty. No more bullets, son. Just let it go," Jones said in his best cajoling voice. He was good at getting his own kids to do what he wanted when he spoke like this, but then, his kids weren't generally shouting at the top of their lungs either.

"I didn't hear anything! I didn't hear anything!"

"Okay, okay. I'm just going to get in the tub with you. Sit next to you until you're ready."

Suiting actions to words, Jones climbed in beside the boy and sat silently. Branson came into view and the boy started pulling the trigger again.

"Branson, go downstairs and wait, okay? Let me handle this."

"Okay."

"I didn't hear anything! I didn't hear anything!"

Then, it was just the two of them, and Jones waited silently. After five minutes the boy suddenly stopped shouting. The gun was lowered and he turned toward Jones, finally seeing him. He stared without speaking.

"Hi," Jones said.

"Hi." The boy's voice was hoarse after all his shouting.

"I'm Detective Uriah Jones. You can call me Uri."

"When did you get here?" the boy asked conversationally.

"A few minutes ago."

"Oh. Did you meet my parents?"

"No... not formally."

The boy nodded and held out his hand. Jones took it and then was surprised to be led out of the bathroom and to the decaying corpses of two people who must have been the boy's parents.

"Mom, Dad. This is Uri. Uri, this is Mom and Dad. They're dressed up special."

"I can see that. Will you come downstairs with me?"

A cloud of worry darkened the large green eyes.

"Oh, no. I'm not supposed to go downstairs. Daddy told me to stay in here...where it's safe."

"Safe from what?"

The boy began to look frightened. He glanced around the bedroom and then pulled his hand away from Jones'. He ran back into the bathroom, into the bathtub and closed the curtain.

Jones walked back into the bathroom and knocked on the curtain.

"Hey, it's Uri. Can I come in?"

"Come in...but don't open the curtain. It's not safe."

"Okay." Jones squeezed in around the curtain. The boy was sitting on the floor of the tub, gun in hand, knees drawn up to his chest.

"How long are you staying?"

"As long as you are."

"Really?"

"Yes. How long are you staying?"

"I don't know. Until Daddy tells me it's safe to come out. I've been waiting."

"Where did you get the gun?"

Again, that cloud.

"When I'm thirsty, I turn on the water, but I'm getting hungry. I wish Daddy would tell me to come out."

"What's your name, son?"

"My dad is really smart. He knows lots. He collects guns and he even showed me how to use them just so that I wouldn't make a mistake with it."

"Hey, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Your dad...he can't tell you to come out."

The cloud darkened.

"Why not?"

"Because, son...he's dead."

"No. No." The boy began to shake his head and pull back. "No! I showed you! I introduced you!"

"They're dead, son. I'm sorry, but you need to come out of here with me."

"No! Not until Daddy says so!" His voice began to grow louder and higher. "Not until Daddy says I can go! I promised!" Then, he got out of the tub and ran into the bedroom. "Daddy, I promised I wouldn't! Tell me it's okay to go! Tell me so that Uri can take me out! Tell me, Daddy! Tell me!"

Jones came out and knelt beside the distraught child.

"He can't hear you, son. He's dead."

"No! He's moving!"

The maggots.

"Daddy, tell him! Tell him you're not dead!"

The boy began to shake...until it became such a violent tremor that the gun he'd been holding so tightly slipped from his grasp. Jones took his hand.

"He's not moving, son."

The boy's lower lip began to quiver. "Daddy? Daddy?"

"I'm sorry."

"Mommy?"

Jones wanted to make him come away, but if he'd been staring at these corpses for days, there was probably little he hadn't already seen. He put an arm around the shaking body.

"Will you come downstairs with me?"

"Daddy..."

"Come on."

Jones tried to lead him away, but he resisted for a few seconds before becoming almost boneless. Jones picked him up and carried him out of the house and then sat with him on the front porch.

"What's your name, son?" he asked.

No answer to the question, just the awful, awful shaking.

"Are you hungry?"

A nod in the midst of the shaking.

"Branson, see if you can find something for the kid to eat."

"Sure thing, Uri."

"How old are you?" Jones asked.

"T-T-Ten."

"That's a good age. What are you learning at school?"

No answer.

"Do you like music?"

No answer.

"I do, especially jazz. You'll have to listen to some of it when you get a chance. It's the best music there is."

No answer. Branson came over with a candy bar he'd found in the car and a bottle of water.

"It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

"I'll open it for you, kid."

"Th-Th-Thanks."

He handed it to him, but the boy was still shaking so much that he couldn't keep a grip on the candy bar; so Jones held it and broke off pieces for him which he obediently put in his mouth.

"Do you like to read?"

A nod.

"What kind of books?"

He swallowed. "D-Det-t-tective n-novels."

"Excellent. The best kind."

The ambulance, along with about five squad cars, arrived twenty minutes later. Jones was surprised when the boy leaned back against him, trying to get away from the EMTs who had come over to get him.

"It's all right, kid. They're not going to hurt you."

"S-Stay with y-you."

"No, you need to go with them to the hospital. It'll be okay."

"N-No."

The shaking had ebbed slightly, but that same frightened shadow darkened his eyes.

"You can go with him, Uri. I'll hold down the fort here," Branson said.

It wasn't about that, but about the wisdom of letting this kid form an attachment that couldn't be permanent. Still...it didn't look like he had anyone else at the moment.

"Okay."

He got up and walked beside the gurney as they headed to the ambulance. Just before the EMTs loaded him in, the boy stuck out his hand.

"M-My dad w-wanted me to be a gentleman. I'm T-Timothy M-McG-Gee."

"Nice to meet you, Timothy."

Tim was loaded into the ambulance and they drove away.