Blue Crayon & Yellow Eyes

Six-year-old Sam woke to the sound of running water.

It scared him.

He sat up groggily, wondering why he was scared, not quite remembering what it was he was so scared of. He looked around the seemingly empty motel room, realizing that the water sound was coming from the bathroom. He didn't stop to think who was in the bathroom. He didn't stop to think at all. His tired mind stopped all train of real thought and he moved on sleepy autopilot, still rubbing his eyes and yawning. The bright morning sun shone through the curtains, and he woke up a little more, still vaguely asking himself why exactly there was an aftertaste of fear and dread in his mind.

All musing ended immediately upon noticing a blue crayon on the floor before him. With a smile spreading across his face, Sam happily picked up the makings of a distraction, glancing around for a makeshift canvas to work his art upon. He spotted a half-crumpled piece of yellow paper next to the shotgun on the desk by the wall. He quickly grabbed it, unconsciously identifying it as the flyer that had been placed under the car's windshield the day before, remembering how mad Daddy had been at the solicitors in this area for touching his precious automobile.

Sam laid down on his stomach, placing the brightly colored paper before him and began to draw the first image that came into his mind, doodling excitedly with the blue crayon-stub.

He was so deeply fascinated with his activity that he barely comprehended the fact that he was singing at the same time. He never even noticed the significance of the tune that came from his lips. In fact, he had completely forgotten that there was someone else in the motel room with him, someone who had been running water in the bathroom. Sam was totally unaware when that person, having heard the sound of Sam's voice, came slowly out of the bathroom, stealthily approaching the little boy from behind. He didn't even hear when that person sat quietly behind him for a few moments, watching him, and listening to him with interest.

He didn't even notice. At least, not until that person spoke.

"Watcha drawing Sammy?"

It was like being doused with ice water, like being slapped in the face. Suddenly Sam knew what it was he was supposed to be scared of, why he had awoken with a dulled sense of dread, why utter terror was pulling at his entire being at the moment he heard the voice of his big brother. The deja-vu-like memory passed over his consciousness in the space of a millisecond. A dream from the night before...

A dark room, everything blurred, shapes, smells...all uncertain. But one thing was sure - a voice, one Sam recognized...his own? "No, Dean, you're the only one who can do it." Movement, sounds. "Promise." Another voice, one Sam knew meant safety, surety. "Don't ask that of me." Ask what? Ask WHAT? What did I ask? "Dean, please. You have to promise me." What am I asking? "I promise." Promise WHAT? WHAT DEAN! "Thanks; thank you." Rushing, whooshing, more sounds, time passing. How do I know time is passing? Another day, another time. The scene clear, vision unobstructed. Dean with tears streaming , a gun pointed at ...Sam? "Shoot me!" Sam's own voice again? What the... "Just shoot me!!" No! NO! Don't shoot me , Dean, DON'T KILL ME! "I'm sorry, Sammy..." Sobs..."Goodbye brother." Dean, NOOO! A gunshot. White hot, then ice cold, then...nothing at all.

The nightmare had ended, but Sam remembered. He didn't know why, but he knew it was true. It was real. Dean was going to shoot him. Dean was going to kill him.

All logic left Sammy's mind as sheer panic took over.

He jumped. Practically spazzed. His entire body jerked with shock, his head twisted around involuntarily, fast enough to cause whiplash. He barely registered the alarming fact that Dean was a mere two feet behind him. How did he get there? He barely noticed his brother's startled expression and wide eyes, knowing that his own eyes were much wider, and full of terror rather than surprise. Sam scrambled to his feet before Dean could have the chance to react and grabbed his drawing; he didn't really have a reason for that last action, it was just a sort of reflex. He heard his own whimpers and knew that Daddy would not like this sort of behavior. He really didn't care. All he cared about was getting away, staying alive. All he cared about was escaping his brother, who he somehow knew was going to shoot him, kill him, because Dean never broke his promises.

Any sensible person would have run out of the motel and jumped in a car. Maybe called 911, asked someone for help, even would've screamed.

Well, six-year-old Sammy sure wasn't using any sense.

He sprinted straight to the motel room's tiny excuse for a closet and shut himself inside. Even in the cool mustiness of the dark enclosure he was sweating profusely, wrapped his clammy fingers around the door's knob, holding the it closed as tightly as possible. He heard Dean yelling, but didn't bother to pay attention.

He did pay attention, however, when he heard the cocking sound of the shotgun he knew had been on the desk against the wall, just feet away. Sam knew his whimpers were steadily becoming sobs, and his crying redoubled when he felt Dean trying to pull the door open from the outside. Sam again heard his brother's yelling from the other side of the door, and Sam frantically searched his young, frightened mind for some option that might save him from obviously impending doom. As nothing was visible in the dark closet anyway, Sam was at a loss to find a way to stop his brother's attack. He resorted to screaming rather pathetically for aid.

"Somebody help me!" Even as he cried out he knew there was no way anyone would hear so weak a shout as that. He was so dead.

Sam gave up, succumbing to his urge to crumple and cry. He scrunched himself up in the corner of the small closet, head on the tops of his knees, arms wrapped around himself, and cried. He vaguely wondered why the door wasn't opening, and why Dean wasn't blowing him away. Stupid Dean, he thought. Stupid ME. Why did I ask him to...wait... Wait. Hold on, just hold on! Sammy hadn't asked Dean yet, right? He knew, even in the dream. It had been in a different time, a different place. Of course, that didn't change the fact that Dean was gonna kill him, that Dean would promise to kill him. But it wouldn't, couldn't happen yet right? I never asked him to...not yet...but I will. Why? Sam frowned, confused, even through tears.

His thoughts were interrupted by a thoroughly unfamiliar sound.

"Sammy what did I do?" Was that Dean? "Sam I-I...it's me, Dean." It couldn't be Dean. The voice was crying. Dean didn't cry. "I'm not gonna hurt you." Sam didn't move , this new voice Dean was using was scaring him more than anything. He couldn't believe those words. Dean would shoot him...would kill him...WHY? How did he know so surely? Something inside of Sam told him it was fact, that Dean was going to kill him...something told him so...something...or...someone? Sam screamed inside of his head. You're going to kill me, you're going to kill me, you're going to kill me,...

"You're going to kill me." Out loud it was barely more than a whisper. He heard the agony in his big brother's voice as Dean responded. Once again it was something Sam was totally unaccustomed to.

"Sam how can you...why would you ever...never Sam!" Dean's voice was closer now. Sam wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Dean sounded sincere, but what about the dream? Sam believed very strongly in his nightmares - no matter how many times Dean or Daddy had told him they weren't real, Sam always kept them stored away in the back of his mind, just in case. You don't have scary dreams just for no reason, Sam reasoned. Still, Sam was hard pressed not to immediately trust that voice beyond the door.

"Sammy, I'm your big brother. I'll always protect you and keep you safe. I'd never hurt you Sam, I swear I'm not going to k-" Sam had his face back on his knees. He was so scared and so unsure of everything. Dean had always protected him, provided for him, cared for him. Why should he doubt the person he loved more than anyone? Why would Dean ever hurt him? Dean would do anything and everything for Sam.

Sam still didn't move as he heard the door begin to slowly open.

"I swear never to hurt you Sammy. Never." The door opened more now. "Sam you know I'll always keep you safe, right? You know Ill never let anyone do anything to you?"

Sam lifted his head just the smallest fraction and one of his watery eyes found the wet face of his protector. It was a promise that would someday doom Sam. Maybe could undo that future promise with another? Dean never broke his promises. Dean would promise anything for Sam Even to kill me. Sam pushed the thought away, willing himself to speak.

"Promise, Dean?"

"Of course."

"I don't want you to kill me."

"Sam don't say that - I'd never-"

"No matter how many times I ask." That one stopped Dean cold. Sam watched tearfully as his brother pushed the door open all the way, sliding into the closet beside him. It was important that Dean understood what Sam meant. Sammy needed Dean to understand. But I can't explain it. Not right.

"Sam why on earth would you ask me to do a thing like that?" Sam didn't have an answer. Something...something inside Sam told him nothing he said would make sense to the nine-year-old before him. Dean wouldn't understand the dream, the nightmare, the feeling, the fear, the plea...the promise

Something told him Dean just wouldn't get it. To Sam's credit, he still tried.

"I dreamed..." Key word is tried, "Don't kill me, Dean! Please!" All inhibitions forgotten, Sam reached for the only refuge he'd ever known and wrapped his arms around his shocked sibling. Sam sat and cried as Dean hugged him back, shedding his own tears.

Sitting there, back in his brother's arms, Sam knew Dean would decide not to tell Dad about this. He knew Dean would probably never even bring it up again.

And Sam decided that he would do his best to forget it, too. After all, Dean had promised. And Dean never broke his promises.

Sam never even remembered to get the picture he had been drawing from the dark corner of the closet, the picture done in blue crayon, on yellow paper.

Yet another image that had appeared in Sam's nighttime consciousness.

A picture os some thing...something...someone?

A picture of a pair of eyes.

Yellow eyes.