Title: Blackbird
Author: Oldach's Dream
Summary: Someone or Something is trying to trap Sam within his own mind. Alluring him with the promise of the normal life that he's always wanted. Will Dean be able to save his baby brother before he's gone forever?
Disclaimer: Supernatural defiantly isn't my creation.
Rating: M
A/N: Okay, here it is. My second multi-chapter fic. You guys have to tell me what you think of this one, as I possess some insecurities about it.
This takes place AFTER Nightmare. That episode and everything before it is fair game, meaning there's pretty much spoilers for every episode.
The rating is for language and mature themes. And I guess that's it. Read On.
Chapter One:
Sam's eyes opened slowly. Immediately he felt, what seemed to be an angry midget with a hammer, inside his head, hammering away at the internal walls of his skull. The bright light that assaulted him, as soon as his eyelids cracked slightly, was enough to make it angrier still, so he promptly shut them again.
The pounding did not stop though. Sharp jabs of intense pain mixed with the overall throbbing, making his head feel about twice it's normal size, and he considered briefly whether or not he was going to throw up. The thought of it sounded disgustingly appealing, if only to get the extreme churning feeling in his stomach to recede. Yet that would require a lot of movement, not to mention opening his eyes. The thought of either of those things left him feeling even queasier.
The never-ending cycle from hell. He thought sarcastically, and mentally groaned. He would of done so out loud, but it was very apparent at this point, that that probably would of provoked unwanted results from the angry little midget demon in his head.
"Sammy?" Dean's questioning voice was immediately recognizable, even in Sam's clouded mind.
Funny, he sounded scared. Dean didn't get scared too often, and when he did, he masked it with sarcasm and inappropriate humor. Dean could laugh in the face of death, and had many times before. In fact, the only times Sam could ever remember him actually acting scared, were on hunts when Sam had been close to death, or had appeared to be.
Even on those occasions, when his fear was obvious, he would never admit to it. Which is why his next words were so unexpected.
"Come on Sammy, you've got to wake up. You're scaring us."
Sam wondered briefly who 'us' was, but it was a fleeting thought, droned out by Dean's uncharacteristic confession and the pleading laced through his voice. Well, that and the pounding head pain, which went so far beyond a migraine, it made him long for his last extreme hangover. Which had happened on a particularly embarrassing night at Stanford last year.
"I know you're awake." Dean's voice cut through his thoughts again and Sam was briefly and illogically, irritated. Couldn't his brother shut up for a couple seconds so he could figure out what was going on?
"I saw you try to open your eyes." There was a beat of silence. "Is it the light?"
He felt, rather than heard, Dean get up and walk in the other direction, only to pause somewhere a few feet away.
The harshness on the back of his eyelids dimmed considerably and the demon- pounding thing seemed to loose a bit of it's angry streak.
"There." Dean said. "Better?"
Sam meant to say something sarcastic, to put Dean's obviously worried mind at ease. If there was anything that would say, 'I'm fine, quite babying me.' to his brother, it would be a crack about a chick flick moment.
That plan however, was ruined when his voice came out as nothing more than a choked whisper of nothing even resembling English.
Dean was back at his side instantly and Sam felt something thin being pushed at his lips.
"Water." Was Dean's hasty explanation. "Drink."
Sam did as he was told, taking small sips of the cool liquid. It felt good on his raw throat. He hadn't noticed how uncomfortable that particular part of his body had been before he'd been presented with something to rectify it. He'd been a little preoccupied with the other degrees of intense pain.
"Hurts..." Sam managed to rasp between gulps.
"Your throat?" Dean asked, immediately taking the cup away.
"Head." Sam informed.
It was amazing how hard it was to communicate that fact. He couldn't simply say, 'Hey bro, I feel like my head's gonna implode, you think you could do something about it?'
No, he had to rasp out pathetic whimpers, like a child in pain. And while the pain part was certainly accurate, Sam hated being weak. Especially around Dean. He'd always felt the need to impress his older brother, ever since they were younger, and he hated to disappoint him.
He also hated the way his mind could function so well right now. It reminded him of early mornings, the way his brain would turn on before he did. He thought best in the morning, even when he didn't get a lot of sleep. Right now though, he couldn't remember falling asleep. He actually couldn't remember much...
"Alright Sam." A different voice, he realized immediately; a professional, female one. He wondered vaguely if he was drifting in and out of consciousness, for he didn't recall the sounds of anybody entering or exiting the room.
He had deduced, though the stiffness beneath him and the sanitizer smell all around, that he was in a hospital bed. The feeling wasn't one that was completely unfamiliar to him. In their line of work, occasional hospital visits were just part of the job description. Yet never before had it been this antagonizing to wake up in one.
Hell, as far as he could remember, he had never been in so much pain before in his life, but his thoughts on the matter might of been a little skewed at the moment.
"Sam?" Dean's voice again. "You still with us?"
Well, I am now. He attempted to nod, but the angry midget demon thing didn't like to be moved, it seemed. So he stopped abruptly. Luckily it had been enough for Dean.
"Good." Relief. Very apparent relief. "There's a doctor here. She's going to give you something, some medicine, through the IV in your arm. You're probably gonna go back to sleep."
Thank fucking God. Sam thought to himself. Sleep had never felt so desirable. Especially in the six or so months since Jessica's murder, the constant nightmares had turned sleep into something he dreaded. But right now, he would gladly take a nightmare, even one of his creepy visions, over staying awake to further piss off the demon dude in his skull.
"Night, Sam." Dean's voice was far away and Sam wondered if that was due to the medicine now making its way through his bloodstream, which he could only assume it was. Or if his brother was just speaking in an extremely soft voice.
"We'll be here when you wake up Sammy." His voice was softer still. "Don't worry."
Those were the last words he processed before the blissful world of unconsciousness consumed him once again.
00000000000000000000000000
He was still in the hospital, of that much he was sure. Only now he possessed the ability to open his eyes without wanting to die. Everything still felt very real; the dull, but bearable, headache. The stiffness in his neck and shoulders, the slightly queasy feeling.
Yet he knew none of it was actually happening.
He remembered thinking earlier that anything would be preferable to staying awake, but now he wasn't so sure.
Jessica stood next to where he was laying in the hospital bed. Her hand was wrapped around his tightly, and it felt so real, so right. The way it used to be.
A part of him wanted to do nothing but loose himself in the feeling of being near her again, touching her. The only thing that held him back was the knowledge that the more he let himself believe it was real, the more it would hurt when he woke up and had to face reality.
It wasn't the first time he'd had a dream like this. He still wasn't quite sure if he preferred them to the nightmares or not. At least in the nightmares he knew what to expect, what he would feel. He knew he deserved the guilt that they brought him. That they were meant to bring him.
"You're awake." Her gentle, loving voice brought unbidden tears to his eyes.
"I miss you." He rasped. He didn't bother to sit up in bed. Any sudden movement in dreams sometimes made things disappear.
"What?" She asked, looking beautifully confused. "I'm right here."
She lifted up the hand that wasn't already gripped in his, and placed it on the side of his face, cupping his cheek lovingly. "Always. Forever."
Sam couldn't resist leaning into her touch. Needing it, in that moment, more than he needed air. He thanked anyone who might be listening, for she didn't fade.
A moment later he risked lifting up his own hand, to cover hers. He moved it from his face to his mouth, kissing the back of it gently; the way he used to do, when she was alive.
"I'm sorry." He choked out. It was hard to speak. It always was when he was talking to her. Whether it be in dreams, nightmares or his perfectly conscious mind.
"Oh, Sam." She said gently with a smile. "It wasn't your fault. Don't blame yourself. If anything I should be apologizing to you."
"No." He said as forcefully as he could manage, which wasn't very, but it was enough to get his feelings across. "How could it be your fault?"
"Well," she said, her fingers were now running through his hair, pushing it out of his face gently. "If I hadn't asked you to go, it wouldn't of happened."
Sam was confused. He was talking to Jessica as if she was real, and she certainly seemed real. Yet he knew from past experience that she was not. She couldn't be.
Then again, nothing quite like this had ever happened before, in any type of dream he'd ever had. Dialogue was always kept to a minimum and he always woke with a stronger feel of what had happened, rather than any specific memories.
In fact, he could narrow them down to two categories. Jessica telling him that her death was all his fault and then bursting into flames. Or a memory, a good memory that he thought he no longer possessed the right to cherish.
This was neither.
"How much about that night do you remember?" She was now asking gently.
"Everything." he answered immediately. Every memory from the night she died was permanently etched into brain, ready and willing to play itself over and over again, at a moments notice.
She paused and looked at him strangely. Something else that had never happened in a dream before. It was always lovingly or accusingly; everything else existed on a middle ground that only live people could walk on.
Maybe whatever medication he had received earlier was messing with his subconscious. Making him feel weird, awake emotions in his dream.
Could you dream pain? And actually feel it? He had never thought about it before, but the tension in his head was increasing slightly.
"Are you sure?" She asked. "You remember me asking you to go get take out because I didn't feel good? You remember what happened afterwards, because the police still haven't..."
"What are you talking about?" His voice was laced with very apparent confusion.
"The robbery." She said, as if it were obvious. "God, Sam, you've been in a coma for nearly two weeks. The doctors weren't even sure you were gonna wake up..." her voice cracked and Sam squeezed her hand tightly, acting on instinct more than anything else, as she went on. "Dean's been worried sick, he's barely left the hospital at all. Your parents came back from Maui..."
"What?" Sam asked stupidly, feeling as though his brain could not catch up with his dream. Which was beginning to feel more and more not like a dream.
"What?" She repeated, almost annoyed. "You think they wouldn't come back early? A second honeymoon seems a tad inconsequential when your youngest son almost dies. You know how much they care about you."
"I...I...I have no idea...I'm...What..." he couldn't even pretend to form a coherent sentence. He couldn't manage a coherent thought either, so it wasn't that shocking. "I think it's time to wake up." He said, when everything else failed.
"What?" She shook her head, indicating her own growing confusion.
"This is a dream, and I have to wake up now, because you're confusing me and I... Your making me miss you more." He was on the verge of tears again, but she just scoffed lightly.
"I told you already Sam, I'm here for you. No matter how strange you insist on acting."
"Stop saying that." He pleaded.
"Why?" She asked, generally curious, still squeezing his hand reassuringly.
"Because you're not real. Because I don't want to wake up anymore."
"Why do you keep acting like this is a dream?"
"Because it is. Because you are." He paused and thought about it. "Well, either that or I'm dead. And I always pictured heaven with more clouds." A beat of silence. "And a harp."
"You think I'm dead?" Her voice was somewhere between shocked, amused and concerned, there was disbelief thrown in there as well.
"Yeah." Although his voice was more unsure than it should be, as he was just stating a fact.
"I... I'm going to go get the doctor now, alright?" She said it while slipping her hand away from him. Which sent him into a fit of unexpected panic.
"No! I want you to..." he cut himself off however, as he began coughing violently. He sat up for the first time since he had entered this drug-induced dream, clutching his chest.
He felt something tugging on the back of his throat as he rasped desperately for air, making him feel like he was going to spew the contents of his stomach all over the place. If he could manage to take a deep enough breath, which wasn't really happening at the moment.
"Doctor!" Jessica's frantic screech felt like a booming foghorn in his ear. The pounding in his head resumed, full force, but still he wouldn't let go of Jessica. He couldn't bring himself to give her up again.
His vision was swimming and he could no longer focus enough to hold on to the blissful, painful, un-dream like dream.
The last thing he saw was Jessica's concerned face, before the darkness fell over him again. Only this time, it took him quite unwillingly.
End Chapter.
000000000000000000
A/N: So, what do you think? Should I keep going? Feedback is crucial.
