Don't Dream It's Over
Summary: This story is about what happens to Sammy after Dean goes to Hell at the end of Season 3. I know that's way back, series-wise, but I've been working my way backward and got caught up here. It takes place about three days after the events of "No Rest for the Wicked", although Sammy's memory is of six months before that event.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or anything else connected with Kripke & Co.'s "Supernatural". Like the Talking Heads song says – this fiction is "never for money, always for love…" I don't own "Don't Dream It's Over" either, just love it.
"There is freedom within
There is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup..."
He reached out to change the station but I beat him to it, knocking his hand away from the knob. (When did I get faster than him!)
"C'mon Dean, don't change it."
He glanced at me, one eyebrow quirked up, lip curling.
"I like this song – just – c'mon…"
" Y'know Samantha, I really worry about what's gonna become of you after I'm gone.
I mean Tears for Fears? Really?"
"It's Crowded House actually – but good try Dean! The two bands do share a certain
stylistic and vocal niche."
"Okay, now you're just being super-annoying, Bro."
Yeah, I was.
"I listened to the radio a lot as a kid, Dean. A lot. It was – company, y'know? And I liked the oldie station too, just like you. Just – different oldies, I guess."
"Ya think?"
"There's a battle ahead;
many battles are lost.
But you'll never see the end of the road
while you're traveling with me."
Although I had let it pass, I hated it when he referred to the end of his life so casually – like you'd talk about your next vacation in Hawaii or something. My heart always lurched a little, and I think now he did it so I would gradually get used to the idea, but it wasn't working. Maybe he sensed I was ticked though, because he said "Well, maybe it's not the worst song I've ever heard."
"Wow, coming from you that's practically an endorsement", I said. "This song - reminds me of us a little."
As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wished I could swallow them back in, knowing they would prompt a sneer or a punch in the shoulder.
"Dude, could you be more gay?"
Dean always reacted that way when I came off "all girly" – which is to say, if I expressed any emotion other than anger, curiosity, or determination. I understood though and it didn't bother me, really. Dad had trained Dean practically from birth to be the good soldier - to hide his feelings, to never show weakness, or fear, or doubt. I knew that underneath the easy smile and the snarky remarks and the "fuck it" attitude that he felt all those things, and more. But he hid it - from me and even from himself, I think.
"Well, that's what we're doing, isn't it? Trying to catch the deluge in a paper cup? I mean, it was one thing when we were just chasing werewolves and vampires, and ghouls and revenants and all the other assorted uglies out there. But now we're battling the collected minions of Hell – a fucking army of 'em. And with what – a bewitched knife and an old six-shooter!"
"Yeah, but what a six-shooter!" Dean shot back, flashing a grin. "The Gun That Won the West. We're like the Lone Ranger and Tonto."
"I guess I don't have to ask you who's Tonto", I said.
"You got that right, Keemo Sabe!"
I laughed. I couldn't help it. Dean could always make me, even when I didn't want to. When we were kids, if I was sick or in pain, or lonely and hurting Dean would always find a way to distract or divert me away from thinking about myself. He always had time for me even if no one else did. He talked to me, kept my childish secrets and soothed my fears. In a world where nothing was certain, Dean was the star I steered by.
He had always, always put himself between me and anything that might hurt me. And not because Dad told him he had to, like it was his assignment in life, but because he loved me more than anything or anyone. Because I was his – the only thing in the world that really was. His whole life he had defended me, protected me, loved me. It was why he'd be gone in another six months.
Of course, sitting beside him that warm afternoon, tearing down the road in the Impala with the windows rolled down and the sun slanting in, and the music on and him smiling, I didn't believe for a minute that Dean was going to die. We were strong and smart - we were the fucking Winchester Brothers for Chrissake! We would find a way to break the deal, to cheat death like we always did – to beat the Devil at his own game.
Those were all the things I thought that day.
The song ended; I glanced over at Dean. He was completely relaxed – slouched back against
the seat driving one-handed – the other draped along the edge of the door, fingers unconsciously caressing the steel skin of his beloved ride. The sun glinted in his hair capturing little sparks of gold. He was looking straight ahead, looking down the road with that 1,000-yard stare of his, and the smallest of smiles played around his lips. He sensed my gaze I guess, 'cause he turned and looked at me, still with that same small smile.
It was so brief – God! So brief – an instant, only. But I looked at his face, into his eyes – and they were smiling too – calm and deep like two still, green pools, and so full of tenderness and love that I felt it in my chest like something physical. He turned back to the road an instant later.
"You hungry, Sammy?"
"I could eat."
That was six months ago.
I had a brother. His name was Dean.
It's been three days since he died. Three days since I watched him scream while invisible hellhounds tore off his flesh, bit and gouged and violated him - and dragged his soul down into Hell.
Every night since then I've spent sitting here in the Impala with the radio turned on, listening to the music and knocking back a few beers. It's the only place on this planet that I can bear to be right now since I can't sleep anymore. See, when I try to sleep all I can see is his body being torn, and his eyes begging me to make it stop; all I can hear are his screams, and my own ragged voice begging that bitch to PLEASE PLEASE STOP, and those cursed fucking hounds snapping and snarling.
So I sit here every night because this is the place I feel him most. We practically lived in this car, after all. It still smells of him – a mixture of cordite, leather, sunlight on grass, and the mysterious spice of his own essence.
My brother's love for me was simple; it nourished me, taught me, strengthened me, protected me. He was the other half of me – the best part. Dean was full of light, and despite his skepticism of all things religious, he was full of faith and a belief that humankind was worth fighting for. He made me believe it too for awhile.
My love for my brother is …complex. And I have spent a good part of these last three nights thinking about it, coming to terms with it. I already understand that it was the light in Dean that balanced…whatever… lives in me. His love – without condition or limit – fed whatever virtue I possessed and kept the seductive pull of my demonic nature at bay.
I look out the night-darkened side window and see his face reflected there – the soft curve of his upper lip, curled up at the corner in that wry half-smile, the sun-burnished skin with its dusting of tiny freckles, the bottomless green eyes. My fingertips brush across the image and it dissolves.
I had thought that I had no tears left in me, but now fresh tears stream from my eyes; I feel as if I'm crying blood. I am sobbing like a child – my whole frame wracked and shaking. The Colt loaded with a single silver bullet sits in my lap as it has for the past three nights. I would stick it in my mouth and pull the trigger without hesitation - (my suicide guaranteeing my entry to Hell) if I could be sure I would see Dean there – if I could spend Eternity suffering by his side. But I knew it didn't work that way, because although Hell is full to bursting with the damned, each soul is eternally and absolutely – ALONE.
So I cry until pure physical exhaustion closes my eyes and my head drops back on that seat that smells of Dean. It's the middle of the night – just the beginning of an eternity of nights that stretches out ahead of me like a road paved with razors.
The familiar opening chords pulled me back to that beautiful day we spent a lifetime ago, and I suppose subconsciously I've been listening for this song. But it's never come on until now. As it plays I sing softly along…
"Hey, now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come - they come to build a wall between us
We know they won't win.
Don't let them win…"
So that's it comrades – my first Supernatural fic. I hope you enjoyed it. I am considering making this Chapter 1 of a longer story that will have an actual PLOT. Reviews will be welcomed and greatly appreciated.