February 2002
Somewhere above the North Atlantic Ocean

Dean Winchester

"Dude, you are not seriously reading this old thing again?" Sam asked, examining the crumpled- up newspaper cutting in Dean's hand in disbelief.

"How about you mind your own business, Sammy?" his brother gave back, slightly irritated. Which was not only Sam's fault – the brothers had been on this damned plane for over an hour now and there was much more to come. Dean didn't like planes and still less did he like flying in them. His back hurt from sitting all the time on the uncomfortable grey seats of the airline's economy class and every time there was a clear-air turbulence he almost jumped out of his skin.

"You're humming Metallica?" his brother asked confusedly.

"Calms me down."

Sam laughed. "Dean, relax!"

"Said the boy that's afraid of clowns!" his brother hissed at him, "Planes crash! What do clowns do? They make children laugh! What's so frightening about that?!"

"But our plane won't crash," Sam responded more softly, "I promise."

Dean was not convinced, but he left it at that and looked out of the small window at the white sea of clouds beneath him instead. His thoughts drifted off to the moment he took farewell of his mother. It had been a quick and tearless goodbye, in the middle of an airport, among a crowd of stressed, sweating people and crying children. Now he wished he had done it more properly.

Because he and Sammy were going to war and hell, maybe neither of them would come back. Dean closed his eyes and thought of Bobby Singer and Jessica Moore, the only two other people he cared about and hadn't really taken farewell of, either. While they still were at home and had returned to their daily duties by now, he sat here in this fatal plane on his way to Afghanistan to be a soldier.

He remembered how he had signed up to become a soldier in the army of volunteers of the US Army to fight in the battles in Afghanistan. He hadn't even hesitated to affix his signature and now, 45.000 feet above ground level, it dawned on him what he maybe had lost forever. Most likely had lost forever.

Dean was not a soldier; he was a pathetic car mechanic at Bobby Singer's garage and a pathetic male prostitute besides in a pathetic try to finance his brother's law studies. Dean clenched his hands and looked over to his brother, Sam, who was sunk in one of his books. Sammy was even less of a soldier than he was. Sure, with his 6'4'' body height and his strong muscles he looked impressive, if not intimidating, but he was the most gentle and considerate person Dean had ever met. Sam wouldn't harm a fly and now he was on the best way to kill people.

Dean sighed and yet again read the poem he had cut out of a newspaper a few years ago and always been carrying around since.

Awake

I was asleep
When you found me; living and dying,
Drowning and breathing in a sea so deep
Loud and silent, where the skies were crying.

The waves were crashing
And above I saw the sun's reflection
Seeming to be the lights of freedom flashing
Yet, I was going into the wrong direction.

And I was asleep
Until you came and woke me
But now that I'm awake I weep
Because I finally see.

I see that faith is a dangerous slope
And just one careless step might cause your obit.
I see that freedom is a length of rope
And God wants you to hang yourself with it.

"What does this even mean?" Sam, who had, unnoticed by his brother, been looking over Dean's shoulder, asked. Dean shoved him aside with his elbow. "Go and find your own cheesy poem, Sammy."

"You've read it so many times you must know it by heart by now! And stop calling me 'Sammy'. My name is Sam, how many times do I have to tell you? Maybe I should also write a poem about it."

His brother stuffed the poem back into the pocket of his leather jacket and closed his eyes. "Good luck with that, Sammy."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean drifted off to sleep and had some weird dreams about crashing planes crowded with clowns until the next turbulence jerked him awake. He stared out of the window again when suddenly he could hear his little brother say quietly: "I already miss them, Dean. Mom, Bobby… Jessica." Jessica Moore was Sam's girlfriend and one could tell by the pain that entered his eyes when he now spoke about her that he really did love her more than anything.

Dean sighed. "I told you this was a stupid idea."

Sam looked up and furrowed his brows. "Don't you understand? I had to do something. Adam… would want me to do something."

Adam Milligan. Sam's best friend.

"Sammy, I'm sure Adam wouldn't want you to do this. You two were almost like brothers. And I as your actual brother can tell you that this is certainly not what I want for you. And you can't bring him back this way, either."

"Don't say that to me, I already know!" Sam shot back, suddenly angry.

As Dean just looked at him sympathetically, Sam took a deep, shaky breath and covered his face with his hands. His brother gently touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't mean to – "

"No, you're right," Sam interrupted him, "It won't bring him back. And maybe I will get myself killed and leave Mom and Jess with even more pain to deal with. Maybe I will get you killed, Dean. Just because I couldn't save Adam."

"You can't save everyone."

There was a moment of silence, then Sam said, his voice muffled by his hands and maybe by back held tears: "Can you imagine them if we don't come back? All of them?"

Yes, Dean could. Dean could see his mother doing nothing but sitting on her bed and staring at the opposite wall all day, just as she always did on the anniversary of her husband's death day. He could see Jessica, cowering on the kitchen floor of her and Sam's apartment, shaken by those sobs that don't let you breathe and make your lungs ache. He could see Bobby, pottering around on one of his cars; jar tightly clenched together, a single tear escaping his eye.

Yes, Dean could imagine all of them. And it hurt so badly.

He forced a smile on his face. "It's going to be okay, Sammy. I'm here to watch out for my little brother, so no worries. We're going to be okay. I promise."