A-N: I don't own Supernatural.
Also, I'm not quite sure when in the show this is set. All I know is, it isn't Season Three. But other than that... Anyway, you decide.
Sam's dream starts with a crash. Also Dean. Well, it's Dean crashing through a window. So, technically, both.
Dean is grimy, and there's a bruise on his forehead. There seems to be dried blood in his hair, and his palms are scraped from falling on pavement. His jacket is torn, and so are the knees of his jeans. That's nothing compared to the rest of him.
He's clutching his rock-salt gun with one hand. The other is wrapped around his torso, trying to stop the flow of blood or, (Sam flinches just thinking about it) perhaps holding in his guts. Sam can't quite tell, because the blood covering his brother is so dark that it's impossible to see what's underneath.
"Dean?" Sam tries.
But Dean can't seem to hear him. He just steadies himself using his gun hand- a bad sign, it means he won't take the hand away from his stomach- and turns around. Sam can tell from Dean's eyes that he's being chased, and that the thing will find him soon.
Sure enough, seconds later, a giant shadow of some sort of beast appears. Dean would probably know what it is, but Sam is too busy worrying helplessly about Dean's ragged breathing to classify it.
But when the thing itself materializes in the window Dean just broke, Sam can see that there's no beast- only a man. The shadows prevent him from seeing his face, but Sam can tell he's big, beefy, tough. Holding a foot-long knife, more of a machete. He's nothing Dean couldn't normally handle, but this isn't normal- Dean can barely stand.
The man knows it, too. Sam isn't sure, but he thinks the man is smiling. Sam tries to move, get between this man's evil grin and his brother's weakened self, but he can't- he's not really there, after all, just seeing.
Dean points the gun at the man, even though his hands are shaking. His eyes are narrowed, green slits almost glowing in the dim white streetlamp light coming in through the shattered window.
The man carelessly advances, not even seeming worried about the gun. Maybe he knows it's rock salt, or maybe he knows how weak Dean is, or maybe he's the sort of person who normally disregards guns pointed at his head. At any rate, the salt won't kill him, but it could certainly blind him if it hit him in the eye.
"Shoot him! Dean!" Sam cries, frustrated, but he's un-see-able and un-hear-able.
The big man just keeps coming forward, stopping a couple feet before Dean. He pauses before speaking, "Don't try and fool me, son." His voice is low, gravelly, with some sort of slur- but somehow, Sam doubts that the man is drunk. "I know there's nothin' in that gun a yours."
To Sam's horror, the man seems to be right. He must be, because Dean sighs, drops the gun, and flings himself at the man. Practically suicide. True, the man is only a couple inches taller than him, but he's twice as wide, not to mention, not bleeding.
Dean puts up a decent fight for someone in his condition, getting in a couple solid punches, but he really has no chance. The man only has to swing his fist back and hit Dean in the stomach, and the fight is over. Dean collapses, either from the wind being knocked out of him or from the renewed pain of his wound.
Either way, Dean is down, and the man is not. The man smiles- he's missing several teeth, which might have caused the slur- as Dean groans in pain and shifts slightly.
"Sorry, sonny," the man says, almost jovial. "Wish I didn't have to do this, but you of all people know that life ain't all peaches and cream." He lets out a dry chuckle. "I'd say 'see-ya' but some'ow I don't think I will."
Dean coughs weakly, but manages to make a rude gesture with one bloody hand. The man laughs again, dropping to one knee beside Sam's brother.
Sam can only watch helplessly. In one swift motion, the man casually adjusts the knife in his hand and drives it down. Right. Into. Dean's. Chest.
"Dean!" Sam roars, "Dean!" But nothing happens- except the knife slipping easily out of Dean's chest, dark with blood. Dean breathes out, and it sounds like a sigh. After a couple seconds, Sam realizes Dean is still breathing, albeit shallowly, never mind that he probably won't be soon.
The man steps back, wiping his knife casually on his jeans, the way Sam has seen Dean do countless times, though after killing monsters, not people. He looks as if he's about to say something, but then just shrugs. Walks away, through the broken window. As if he hasn't just shattered Sam's world.
Sam isn't really there, but he manages to get closer anyway. Like pressing 'zoom' on a remote control. He can see every detail of his brother's face- though it's twisted in pain, there's surprisingly little blood, considering how much there is around him. The only blood on Dean's face is from a tiny scab on his jaw. Inconsequential. Stupid. Barely even a nick.
"Dean, Dean, oh god. . . Dean, look at me!" Sam pauses to swear, loudly. Right. Dean can't see him. "Dean, please, man. . . no, you need to stay awake, you hear me? Dean!"
Dean's gaze drifts past Sam, through him, each breath shorter than the last. The small part of Sam's brain still functioning realizes that since the man stabbed Dean in the center of his chest, it'll be a little while before he goes.
"The idiot," mutters Sam, a catch in his voice. "Can't you even manage stab someone in the damn heart properly?"
When he looks back at Dean, he's struggling to drawn breath, and Sam's panic returns. "Dean, please, Dean. . ." Sam doesn't even know what he's saying. He just needs to keep talking. "Not like this, please. . ."
"Sammy," Dean whispers, and even though Sam knows Dean doesn't know he's here, the word sends a shiver down his spine. It isn't a plea, and Dean isn't quite far enough gone to be a hallucination. No, it's more like a. . . reassurance.
"Please," breathes Sam, desperate. "Dean, just hold on, okay? You're gonna be fine." His voice breaks as Dean's eyes start to slide shut. "Oh, god, Dean, please, wake up, please, Dean-"
Sam knows it, there's nothing he can do. But he can't just let his brother die, the single most important person left to him, his only family member left-
The voice is loud, and it comes from all around him, echoing. A very familiar voice. "Sam, you're the one that needs to wake up. Open your eyes for me, alright? Sammy?"
….
Sam jolts awake to the green eyes of his brother above him. As much as Dean tries to hide it, Sam can see the relief obvious in them. But as soon as it's clear Sam isn't dreaming anymore, he sits back, giving Sam space to push himself up.
"You alright?" he asks gruffly. It's clear he knows the answer- no- but Sam is glad that Dean is giving him a chance to pretend nothing's wrong. Dean glances generously away, giving Sam a chance to let his heart settle back into normal rhythms.
Once Sam's breath has stops shuddering, he clears his throat. "Yeah. Dreams, is all." He's attempting to sound nonchalant, but anyone could tell he's lying. And Dean is certainly not anyone.
Dean studies him, and Sam stares back, trying not to show how panicky he was feeling only seconds before. Another vision. Dean died. Dean died. And Sam wasn't even there. Still, Sam is sure not all of his visions come true, right?
"What about?" Dean's voice is almost casual, but Sam, being Sam, can hear the discomfort and worry lurking in it.
For a moment, Sam considers not telling Dean what he saw. Because it's definitely not going to come true, right? But. . . Better safe than sorry.
But just as Sam opens his mouth to inform his brother what he saw, Dean cuts him off. "Never mind, man, you can tell me later. Can't be anything too bad, right?" He stands. "It's time to get up. No crazy dream talk until we're at least a little drunk."
Sam is going to protest and bury himself under the covers again, but before he can, Dean strides over to the window (he doesn't have to go far, this motel room is tiny, so tiny, in fact, that Sam has to watch his head every time he stands up) and throws open the drapes. Bright sunlight fills the room, only making Sam want to retreat under his covers even more.
But instead, Sam swings his legs out and stands, too. He can tell Dean what he saw later. He's definitely going to, though. . . but Sam needs some time to recover from it himself. His knees are still trembling slightly. He reaches for a fresh shirt, still looking at Dean.
Without looking up from the bag he's packing, Dean says, "Sam, stop looking at me weird."
""M not," says Sam automatically, even though he is. But it's justified.
Dean turns, and now he's the one looking at Sam weird. "Did something happen?"
"No," says Sam, too quickly.
"Mmm." says Dean, skeptical. "Okay. Fine. Let's get to work on the case, then." He raises his eyebrows at Sam, as if to say, Anything you wanna tell me before we start?
But Sam doesn't move, so Dean shrugs and starts to turn away. But as he does, something catches Sam's eye. On the side of his jaw. . . a tiny cut, probably from shaving. . . and identical to the one Dean had in Sam's dream.
Review? I'm unsure about continuing this, so reviews would be lovely, even if you don't like it.