Author's Notes: So, this was inspired by a song called "No More Lullabies" that I found on Superwiki. It's actually a song written for Supernatural. It's really good and it definitely spawned this fiction. It's set during the break between seasons three and four. I hope you guys like it. It made me cry when I was writing.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or the song.
He felt the fire as he stared in helpless horror at her face. It was once so beautiful but now it was ugly with fear. Her blue eyes that used to sparkle are now clouded with anger, and he heard her voice whisper, "why? Why, Sam?"
He doesn't have answer for her. He wished he did; something that would satisfy her so that she could move on. He hated to see her in agony. Flames licked at the once pale skin of her face making it red and then black as it burned. Her face was charred and he could feel the ashes raining down at his face, making his eyes sting but he continued to lay there. Sam was transfixed by the sight of her exposed cheekbones as the fire slowly pulled her apart.
Then blue eyes turned to green, so much like his own that he couldn't breathe for a second, and the face of his past love turned into one that he had only seen in weathered photographs. She was still beautiful, golden hair surrounding her like a halo. Sam's own guardian angel. Her mouth was twisted into a look of horror and her eyes were filled with pity for him and she appeared to be begging for forgiveness. Why would his mother want his forgiveness?
Oh, that's right. She sold him to a demon. The thought enters his head and for a split second he is filled with red hot hatred. The flames burn brighter, white-hot and he can feel sweat pooling in the back of his shirt. She screams, blood-curdling and hair-raising, in pain as the flames eat her up, and he knows. He knows that he killed his mother, and Jessica. It didn't matter what Dean said. He was always telling Sam that he shouldn't feel guilty. That he didn't kill them but he knew it was his fault. His fault for being born, knowing that it never had anything to do with Mary, that it was all about him.
Dean.
Sam's breath hitched and he felt a sudden stickiness on his back as the temperature in the room drops from the lack of flames. He's had this nightmare before; he knows what he'll see when he turns to the side. The bed dips with the sudden weight of someone new and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly, willing himself to wake up. He doesn't want to see it, not again. But he eventually opens his eyes, as usual, he has no control. The nightmare pulls him along like a marionette, pulling him into the next scene and down the same path. Sam looked to the side.
"No!" Sam screamed, pushing himself as far away from the figure as possible. His hand touched the blood, coating him with it and he recoiled. It's Dean, only not the Dean he is used to seeing. This Dean isn't alive, there's no careless smirk on his face; no vein pulsing in his neck or mouth poised to angrily shout at Sam for something he did. The Dean on the bed was staring sightlessly at the ceiling with milky eyes and not the familiar hazel. Dean on the bed is covered with blood from the gashes in his chest. It seeped from the wound and stained the sheets red. Wet earth and rotting meat reached Sam's nose and he gags. How could anything smell that bad?
His breath gets stuck in his throat as he takes in the exposed white of Dean's ribs. The hellhounds' claws had cut his brother to the core. Sam can hear Dean screaming, terrified and dying, in his head. He can see the abused flesh of his brother's body and he wishes the image would go away.
But it doesn't and Sam watched horrified as the head turns, pale face and white eyes glaring at Sam. The mouth opened revealing a black, wriggling mass.
"…Your fault…" The accusatory whisper in Dean's voice drew a terrified scream from Sam's lungs as he is enveloped by fire and a pain like no other.
"Dean!" Sam sprung awake. His heart began to beat erratically and the room spins from lack of oxygen. Sam takes a deep breath as he returns to a sense of wakefulness. He felt the breeze from the parking lot chilling him and he shivered, drawing his knees tightly into his chest. He knows he's shaking but he can't stop. His eyes drifted close and he sees Dean's face, skin hanging off bone and the skin of his chest raw and exposed. Sam's eyes fly back open with a gasp and he leaps off the bed, pacing to the windows and door, double-checking the salt lines he had drawn there before bed. He was scared, the remnants of the nightmare cloaked him and Sam continued to shake. Sam glanced over to the other bed; it was perfectly made and not slept in, like it had been three days before when he first checked into the motel. The sight made Sam's eyes water and he choked back on a sob, running to the bathroom.
Sam leaned over the sink, coughing out the bile that rose in his throat. He continued to gag and spit and cough until he was spent. His hands reached over and turned on the faucet, letting cold water splash into the sink. Sam cupped his hands underneath and drank some, letting it soothe his burning throat. He filled it one more time, splashing his face and he takes a deep breath. He glanced up and sees Dean in the reflection of the mirror. His brother is staring at him with concern as he leaned against the doorway. Sam registered that Dean was fully dressed with his old leather jacket on.
"You okay?" Dean's voice is even as he asked the question and Sam wants to cry. Instead he nodded, "yeah." His voice sounds too hoarse to his ears and he cleared his throat. Dean crossed his arms over his chest, "sure, dude." The action makes Sam's chest constrict painfully and he turned to the towel, wiping his hands. He drew out the action as long as possible.
"Want to talk about it?" Dean asked as Sam brushed by him, leaning against the headboard of his own bed. The covers are blanketing his legs and Sam wishes they could warm him up already. Dean is on the other bed, sitting on the edge and staring at Sam.
"Sorry, I woke you." Sam said, staring at the stain on the wallpaper across from him. Dean snorted, "Its not me you woke up, but the neighbours might start to complain." Sam gave a half-hearted chuckle to satisfy Dean but they both know his heart isn't in it.
"Go to sleep, Sam." Dean suddenly sighed, wearily and Sam nodded, slipping down so he was lying on his back and pulling the blankets up to his chin. His eyes close and he turned on his head, facing away from the image of his brother.
"I got ya, little brother." He feels a hand on his hair, stroking it and Sam feels safe with his brother's soothing voice in his ear. Sam feels a new weight on his chest as something is slipped over his neck and as he gripped it tightly in his fist, he remembers that it's Dean's amulet. The one he never took off since the Christmas Sam gave it to him.
"Go to sleep, Sammy. It was just a dream." Dean's voice is meant to be reassuring.
"No, it wasn't." He heard himself whisper but he wasn't sure if he actually opened up his mouth.
"No," Dean agreed, sadly, "it wasn't." The motion of Dean stroking his hair warms Sam and a tear slipped down his cheek because he knows that Dean won't be there when he wakes up with his quiet reassurances; that he hasn't been there for a while and Sam knows that he'll never be there again.
I have no words, just review if you liked it.