Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

Sam woke up, choking.

Alarms were sounding all around him, he could tell that much. He was in a hospital… and he couldn't breathe. Finally, mercifully, a nurse came over to his bedside and removed the breathing tube from his throat.

The next thing Sam knew, a man in a white coat entered the room. "Hi Sam," he said gently. "Good to see you up. My name is Dr. Trinidad, and you're at Stanford Medical Center. How are you feeling?"

"Not so good," Sam said, truthfully. "Fuzzy."

"Fuzzy, huh? Do you remember what happened?"

Groggily, Sam replied. "No… not really."

The doctor smiled halfheartedly. "There was a fire, Sam, at your apartment. You sucked down a few too many lungfuls of smoke, and you've been unconscious for --"

"Oh god… that was real." A chill went down Sam's spine. God help him, he did remember. Everything. "Jessica," he said frantically, gazing wildly at the doctor. "My girlfriend, Jess, she was in the apartment too."

The doctor swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Sam. There was nothing we could do for her.

He'd torn out his IV, the nurses told him, and broken a monitor. Those were expensive. He'd tried to get out of the bed but his weak body wouldn't allow it. They'd had to drug him to calm him down. Was he ready to try again, they asked. Was he ready to hear the extent of his injuries, to talk about what happened that night?

Sam nodded, and Dr. Trinidad entered, seemingly wary of his patient. "You've got some fight in you, Sam," he said, shaking his head. "Pulling out the IVs like that takes some strength, a surprising amount for a person who hasn't been awake in such a long time. That's a good thing though… the muscles haven't totally atrophied." He glanced at Sam's chart, then at Sam. "They tell me that you remember what happened… so you know that just getting out alive was incredible. That said, a fire like that, there's going to be some damage. You've got some lung damage from the smoke, and burns running the length of your left arm. You hand was spared, thankfully, and there was minimal grafting. I'm sure you've seen the scarring -- we did the best we could, and you should regain full mobility."

Sam glanced down at his arm. "These scars aren't new. None of it is. How long have I been out?"

The doctor looked at him uncomfortably. "It's been over three months, Sam."

This was so unlike any other trip to the hospital. There were no cover stories, no aliases to keep straight. He wished he could have that now, the anonymity. But there were counselors from the University, and the police, and the fire department, and - worst of all - Jess's parents. He'd always liked Jess's parents; they'd been kind to him, especially around the holidays.

It felt very different now, seeing them here. When they'd entered his hospital room, Sam noticed that Jess's mother seemed to have aged ten years. She was clutching an envelope (a get well card, Sam supposed) that she never ended up delivering -- she'd run from the hospital room in tears as soon as she laid eyes on Sam. Mr. Moore's reaction was worse. His voice said all the right things: Hope you get better, son. What a tragedy. Jess loved you. But his face… his face said different things: Where the hell were you when my baby was burning to death? It should be you that's dead, not her. How the fuck did you make it out alive, you son of a bitch, while I couldn't even bury a body?

The Moores never came back to the hospital after that.

The next few days were blurry. Sam was being kept on a powerful cocktail of drugs to stave off infection and control his pain. He had asked Dr. Trinidad about calling his family, and was informed that the hospital had tried contacting his father numerous times, but the number had been out of service. Of course, Sam couldn't exactly say that John had probably pissed off the wrong cop and had a dozen other phone numbers ready to go. Sam also kept to himself the fact that he would much rather see his brother than his father. At the same time, just thinking about Dean made Sam upset. They hadn't spoken in years and, despite the horrific circumstances surrounding Jessica's death (definitely our kind of case, Sam thought grimly), he was nervous about contacting Dean. At the present time, it wasn't even an option. Dr. Trinidad had said no phone calls for at least a week -- he wanted nothing upsetting Sam. No one could really understand how truly alone Sam felt right now. Jess was dead, because of him, and his brother and father might as well be dead as well. Sam vaguely wondered if they really were. At the very least, they had been totally uninterested in him for at least four months now. He expected that from his father, but from Dean? Sam swallowed hard. Maybe it was stupid, but he'd always kind of thought that Dean kept tabs on him, at least had his own ways of checking up on him over these past few years. That was looking less and less likely now.

Sam could feel his thoughts taking a dark turn, and decided to distract himself with some television. Not much on at 3pm, he thought. Sam picked up the remote to do a little channel surfing when a sudden, shooting pain invaded his skull. He cried out, dropping the remote to the floor. Looking down, he realized he was no longer in his hospital room, but in a basement. He watched, helpless, as two shadowy figures tussled with each other. The altercation was quite violent, and Sam heard a sickening crack as one of the men's heads connected with the concrete floor.

"Honey? Sam?" A nurse was shaking him. "Wake up! You're having a bad dream!"

Sam gasped, holding his aching head in his hands. "I have to stop it," he mumbled.

"Stop what?" the nurse asked. "Sam, you were crying out in your sleep, saying awful things. I'm giving you a sedative."

Sam didn't have the strength to fight her. What the hell was happening to him? This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Before the fire, he'd dreamed of Jessica dying, vividly. Just as it had happened. That was a secret he'd take to his grave, he knew. But he didn't recognize the men in the last image -- he couldn't even make out their faces. As the sedative took hold, Sam blankly wondered what was happening to him.

More to come. Thanks for reading! ----- AE