Author's Note: Happy Birthday Sam! Here's some more hurt!Sam to celebrate! Let's set this in season six.
"I just woke up from a dream today
Time gone by but you still look the same
Felt so real to have you back with me
It's just too bad it's just another dream
Give me just one wish . . ."
Nickelback, "Miss You"
This is why they can't have nice things, Sam thinks dimly as he feels the magic swirl around him. He can't let go of the cerulean glass orb in his hands—a birthday gift from Bobby, or so he thought but now, he knows better—and as the orb glows, he wonders if this is how he'll finally die.
Death by magical orb on his birthday—it's somehow fitting, he thinks.
"Sammy!"
It's a shame that Dean has to be here as he slowly burns to death, but there's nothing his brother can do. There's an invisible barrier surrounding him, preventing Dean from knocking the orb out of the youngest Winchester's hands. Fire surges through his veins and Sam wants to cry out, but he's frozen, rooted into this spot and then, before he can fully process what's going on, he's falling—
Into the dark.
"Sam?"
He knows that melodic voice. He remembers it so well; sealed it in the recesses of his mind the minute the fire was put out in his dorm room. It's a voice that has haunted his nightmares, calling out to him, why Sam, why?
"Sam," A soft hand gently shakes him and he forces his eyes open to meet those sparkling eyes that captured his heart the moment he laid eyes on them. Her smiles blinds him, "There you are. Thought you were going to sleep all day!"
It's Jessica Moore, alive.
"Jess?" His voice is dry and as rough as sandpaper. It feels like he's been screaming at the top of his lungs all night long. He can't tell if this is some sort of a dream or a cruel nightmare, but as she presses her lips to his, his heart hammers in his chest.
She's just like he remembered her. The faint smell of cherries from her shampoo, her warm hand on his cheek—she's exactly the same. Every single detail he spent months cataloguing, here they all are back in the flesh. She's alive and breathing and Sam, for once, is speechless.
"Are you just going to lie there all day?" She teases with a smirk, her voice light and singsong. "I mean it is your birthday, but we've got plans—"
And in that moment, Sam doesn't care if this is a dream or some twisted reality. He pulls her into his arms and embraces her tightly, grief and relief pouring out of him as tears make their way down his cheeks. He never thought he would get another moment like this—without the blood, without the screaming, without the tears. Now, he'll savor this for as long as it lasts.
Jess, for her part, seems stunned by this sort of reaction, but quickly wraps her arms around him, whispering, "It's okay, Sam. I'm here."
"I thought you were gone—" He confesses quickly, breaking off the hug and hastily wiping his tears away. He wants to tell her everything, but she'll never understand. Having her here with him, by his side again, will have to do.
"I'm here," She assures him with a grin, "Just a nightmare. I'm here."
But he knows, deep down, he knows she's gone. Whatever this is, he'll wake up soon and when he does, his heart will break once more. But this dream is so much more vivid than the others. From the beating of her heart under his fingertips to the steady rise and fall of her chest, it's almost as if this is all real.
But it's not. Jessica died.
And it was his fault.
"Sam?"
He meets her gaze once more and can't help but feel butterflies in his stomach as she smiles at him.
"Yeah?"
"Get dressed. We're meeting Brady for breakfast."
"Sure."
He doesn't know how much more time he has left before she's screaming on the ceiling, but he'll take it. Is it selfish of him to want her still? To want some slice of normalcy after everything he's been through? After everything he's done? Does he even still deserve it?
"Sam!" She tosses his faded Stanford t-shirt at him, the one with the stain from where Brady managed to spill some bleach on it, and waits for him to move.
He doesn't. He hasn't seen this shirt in years. It got burnt up in the fire, along with everything else he held dear. It's funny how sentimental a shirt makes him.
"Sam, come on." Jessica pleads, brushing her hair. "We've got places to go and people to see."
And slowly, Sam pulls the shirt over his chest and begins to get ready.
Dean places the I.V. in his brother's arm and forces himself to take a steadying breath. Around him, the sparkling pieces of the shattered orb catch the light and twinkle like starlight in the dim motel light. Whatever power they held was long gone and the spell had already been cast.
It's been six hours since Sam touched the orb and fell unconscious. Six hours since Dean began to lose his mind with worry, six hours since he tried to rouse his brother to no avail. Sam was in a deep sleep and aside from a low fever, he was perfectly healthy. So far, Dean had been going down the list—he tried a salt circle, tried a few general curse breaking spells—but Sam hadn't so much as flinched.
Which means it's time for Sam's specialty—research.
He's already got Bobby in the loop and the gruff hunter promised to make a few calls to see if anyone else in the community had encountered something like this before. That leaves Dean to comb through the piles and piles of books he's brought in from the car. Whatever has happened to Sam, Dean will find a way to save him.
That's my job, right? Watch after my pain in the ass little brother?
"Stop." He growls, banishing the image of Cold Oak away. This isn't like then. He won't be too late. He has Sam here, within his sights, and all he needs to do is figure out the counter spell. Sam will survive and they'll laugh about this a few days down the road.
"You have crappy luck on your birthdays, don't you, Sammy?" He murmurs, hoping faintly for some sort of snarky response, but Sam sleeps on.
"Yeah," Dean mutters, sitting at the table and opening the first book, "That's what I thought.
It's time to figure out how to save his baby brother.
"Shut up, Brady!" Jess teases, punching Sam's old roommate playfully in the shoulder as the three of them eat breakfast, "I did not say that to Amber—"
Sam takes another bite of his pancake—it's funny how good they taste, the touch of cinnamon that the diner down the road from the college would put in the batter is just as incredible as he remembers it—and marvels at how great Brady looks. Sure, most of their time together had been scheduled by Hell, but for those few months that Brady was not possessed, the two of them had been as thick as thieves. It was Brady who helped him settle into school, it was Brady who took Sam with him for winter break—in short, Brady had been the closest thing to family while he was at Stanford.
"Amber wouldn't lie to her boyfriend!" Brady exclaims, wolfing down another piece of maple syrup drenched bacon. "Sam, Jess was totally in love with you from the moment she saw you—"
"Brady, shut up!" Jessica tries yet again, this time kicking him under the table.
"Damn, Jess!" Brady swears softly, "You didn't need to hit me so hard—"
Sam keeps waiting for this all to go up in flames, literally. He's never had a dream last so long before nor has the food he's ever had in dreams tasted better than ash. He's not sure what's going on, but he's willing to take it.
Stanford had been a happier time for him. Of course, he missed Dean and even John on occasion, but neither of them had ever understood what the youngest Winchester was after. This—moments of laughter with friends—this is what he wanted in his life. Not ghosts, or demons or angels—just normal humans doing normal human things.
"Here." Brady tosses a small wrapped package across the table and Sam quickly fumbles to catch it. Brady smirks, "Happy birthday, Sam."
"Thanks." Sam murmurs as he quickly unwraps the gift. A small shot glass lies in his hands and when Sam turns it over, he sees engraved on it is "congratulations". Curious, Sam meets Brady's gaze once more.
"For when you get into law school," His friend explains with a grin, "We'll take that out with us when we celebrate."
"Sounds like fun." Jess chimes in.
Sam swallows over the lump in his throat. He remembers this. Brady did give him a shot glass a year before he took his exams. He had placed it on his shelf in the bedroom to give him something fun to look forward to whenever he was struggling with studying.
It had also burned up the night Jess died.
So many memories, gone, reduced to ash.
"Sam?" Brady questions, voice a bit quieter now. "You do like it, right?"
"It's great." Sam finally manages to say, plastering a smile on his lips. "Thanks."
And as he continues to listen to Jessica and Brady complain about their Psych 405 class, Sam can't help but wish he could stay with them forever.
The fever is slowly but surely climbing higher and even with I.V. medication is hovering at about 102.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean whispers as he places a cool cloth on Sam's forehead, hoping that it will somehow help break the fever, "You gotta snap out of this."
But Sam—just like he's done for the past 12 hours—sleeps on, completely oblivious to the fact that his older brother is slowly losing his mind from stress and worry.
Dean's got no leads. He's pretty sure the glass orb had been some sort of a cursed object, but without a witch to take responsibility for it, Dean can't find a counter spell specific enough to bring Sam back to reality. He doesn't know if Sam will ever wake up. Will he just slowly wither away and die?
"No." Dean won't just watch. There has to be some sort of clue, something that he's missed. He needs to call Bobby again and find out what their next move is. He places a hand on his brother's too warm cheek and reminds himself that he can't give up.
"It's okay, Sammy." Dean tells him, "I'll figure something out. Just . . ." He's never been good at the whole emotional confession thing. He's never been one to express himself with words—that's more Sam's dead—but seeing his brother in such a state brings up all sorts of regrets within him. Things he should've said—not just now, but over the years, like the night Sam left for Stanford—and they swirl within him, grief stealing his breath.
If—no, when Sam wakes up, Dean won't hold anything back anymore. He'll tell Sam what's on his mind. He'll do his best to convey to Sam exactly what he means to him.
Sam just has to wake up first.
"Come back to me, Sammy, okay?"
And pressing a kiss to his brother's forehead, he resolves to comb through the research once more.
Come back to me, Sammy, okay?
A voice floats on the wind as he walks hand in hand with Jess towards their apartment. He knows it from somewhere, but he can't place it. It's such a familiar voice though, reassuring in its timbre, like a warm blanket on a snowy day.
"Sam?" Jess regards him oddly, a frown tugging down her peach lips. "What's wrong? Aren't you having fun?"
He quickly pulls her to him and presses a kiss to the top of her head before adding, "I am. I just . . ." She's supposed to be dead. This is supposed to be a dream, but what if it's real? What if he has a second chance to get things right? What if he can save Jessica and live that normal life?
"Just?" Jess presses.
Sam sighs, "It's nothing."
Jess rolls her eyes, not buying that excuse for a second, but thankfully doesn't press him any further. Together, they continue to walk down the path towards their apartment.
"Sam." She nudges him.
"Yeah?" He stops.
"I love you." She presses her lips to his and lets himself savor the feeling. He wants to drown in her kiss. There's so much comfort there, so much love being expressed. After he lost her, he thought he wouldn't make it, but Dean—
Dean brought him back.
If he stays here, with her, what about Dean?
"Babe?" She asks and he realizes that he abruptly cut off their kiss. "What's wrong?"
Dream or no dream, the one thing that was missing at Stanford was his brother. He had let angry silence harden into an insurmountable wall. He won't make that mistake again. If he has to choose between Jess and his brother—
He'll choose Dean every time.
"Sam?" Jess grips his hand and he realizes now that he has to let her go. He can't keep living or wishing for the past. He has to forge a future now.
With Dean by his side.
Jessica's grip tightens, "Sam, don't go. I love you. We can be together."
His heart aches when he lets go of her hand. Part of him will always love her, will always wonder what might have been.
"I'm sorry." He tells her.
And that's when he takes off sprinting back down the path.
He needs to get out of this illusion.
After Bobby managed to track down the witch and kill her, Dean had said the counter spell to seemingly no avail. Sam's fever has climbed even higher, resting in the 104 to the 105 range. Dean's got ice packs on him now, but it doesn't seem to even have a small affect. His brother's breathing is shallow and his pulse is rapid. If the fever continues to go up, Dean will have no choice but to call for an ambulance, but he knows a hospital won't do his brother any good.
The orb grants the holder their greatest desire. It's up to them to break free of it.
Dean doesn't know what to do. There's no more research to conduct, there's no creature to hunt down. All he can do is hold Sam's clammy hand within his and hope that Sam will choose to come back. He doesn't know why he would—who would want to live in a world where they hunted monsters, committed crimes and watched people die every week?
But he does know this—he loves Sam. There's nothing he wouldn't do for his little brother. And if sitting by his bedside, talking to him, taking care of him is what he needs, then Dean will gladly do it.
"Just wake up, Sammy."
His voice is hoarse, maybe from all the screaming he did when Bobby told him there was nothing more they could do now that the witch was dead and the spell was said.
Sam has to want to come back. Just give it time and keep his fever down.
"Please, Sammy."
He wants to see those puppy dog eyes again, wants to hear his brother's bitchy remarks. Those years at Stanford, when the shotgun seat had been empty and the Impala had seemed to so huge and empty, those had nearly been his undoing.
If he loses Sam now, Dean knows he won't be able to make it.
He just needs to take a page from Sam's book and have faith.
Around him, Stanford slowly dissolves, like watercolor paint dripping down a canvas. Within minutes, there's nothing left but a white light that seems to expand forever outwards.
"Dean?" His voice echoes around him.
He doesn't know where to go or how to get out. He doesn't even know if he can escape. He left Jess behind, but can he find his brother somewhere in this void?
"Are you sure you want to?" A voice asks.
He quickly turns around to see a young woman with ruby red hair, emerald eyes, dressed in jeans and a loose fitting t-shirt. She tilts her head to the side, as she looks him over before coming to stand next to him.
"Who are—?"
"It's your birthday present," She explains softly, "I thought you wanted to be with her."
"How do you know—?"
"But if you don't, just say the word."
"I want my brother—"
"Very well," She snaps her fingers, "If you insist."
And he's falling once more.
Sam's eyes fly open and he gasps as he come back to reality.
"Sammy, easy, just breathe—" Dean is there, arms quickly steadying him, grounding him in the moment. His brother's sporting the beginnings of a beard and his eyes have bags under them. He must've stayed up for however long Sam was out.
"Dean?" He feels compelled to ask, to double check that he's back and that this isn't some sort of twisted dream.
"I'm here, Sammy," Dean tells him with a dazzling grin, the relief evident in the way his shoulders slump as tension drains from his body, "You good?"
"I'm fine." Sam whispers, running a hand through his hair as he tries to process what he's been through.
"You were running a fever for a long time. Drink some water—"
Sam hugs him instead.
"Sam, what—?"
"I missed you."
Back during Stanford, he found out that normalcy wasn't as great as it was cracked up to be. Sure, he found Jess and Brady and they somehow made a makeshift family, but the one crucial piece that had been missing was Dean. He had wanted to share his college life with his brother, want to celebrate good grades with him, wanted to ask his advice about Jessica. But, back then, they hadn't speaking and he hadn't been brave enough to try and bridge the gap.
Now, he would make sure to make up for that lost time.
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean soothes, "I'm here. It's going to be okay."
As he holds his brother, Sam believes him.
Two weeks later, Dean places a store bought cake in front of him. In crimson frosting is written, "Happy Birthday Sam."
Dean gestures vaguely at the cake, "To make up for . . . you know."
Sam just laughs and cuts them both a slice. As they sit in silence, watching cheesy reality TV shows, Sam knows that this was always how his life was supposed to turn out—relaxing next to his brother.
Dean notices his grin, "What are you smiling about?"
Sam shakes his head, "Nothing."
This is their version of normalcy.
And Sam wouldn't trade it for anything else.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this piece. I will have some more birthday stories up soon. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!