Notes: Some of you might recognize the first bit of Dean's dream from another story of mine, but as a matter of fact, it was here first :) (it's kinda intruiging to see it in those two very different contexts, though)
WEEK ONE
Now, with Dean
"There you go, handsome." Handing Dean a glass of whiskey, the gorgeous blonde in a bunny outfit blew him a kiss. Raising the glass to her, he sent her his most charming smile. "This one's to you, Sheryl," he hummed and took a sip before returning his attention to the brunette bunny right in front of him. "And this one," he whispered and pointed at himself with a sly grin, "is to you, Cherry." Tilting her head seductively, she accepted his hands on her waist with a soft murmur. "How would you like your lap dance today, Dean?" she purred into his ear.
Chuckling quietly, Dean pulled her closer. "Surprise me," he murmured and was pleased to find her grinning back knowingly. "You're right, Dean-o," she whispered at a low voice, "It is time for your surprise, isn't it?"
He arched an eyebrow as she eased herself onto his lap, offering him a brilliant view of both her cleavage and the enormous cake four further bunnies where wheeling into the club. "Oh, I like where this is going," Dean grinned in anticipation as the music grew louder.
After all, he was dreaming.
And this was the part where one of his favourite Casa Erotica stars joined the party.
Slowly but surely, the music reached its crescendo.
Dean leant forward.
The spotlight was focused solely on the cake.
Dean licked his lips.
At long last, the lid of the cake sprung open with glitter and confetti.
Dean's jaw dropped.
Sparkling amidst the colourful spotlight, clad in a sleeveless Chippendale-esque outfit and looking absolutely nonplussed stood none other than...Sammy. Glancing down on himself and then back to his brother, he chuckled in disbelief. "Seriously, Dean?"
His eyes wide, the older Winchester failed to react for a long time.
Sammy.
This was supposed to be a superficial, carefree dream.
Sammy.
It had been five freaking days.
Sammy.
Of course he was desperate enough to miss his brother's presence even in his most private dreams.
Brushing the stripper off his lap, Dean got out of the armchair and approached his brother. "Dude," Sam commented good-naturedly when he finally managed stepping out of the cake, "I really don't wanna know whether I'm normally part of your..." Looking around, he arched an appreciative eyebrow. "...imaginative dream landscape."
Torn between relief and longing, Dean chose the easiest route and simply grinned back. "You think this is imaginative?" he joked as he came to a halt in front of his brother and waved around, "Just wait till you see the one with Angelina Jolie in it."
Still smiling in light bemusement, Sam tilted his head – rather than phrasing a snarky reply, though, he simply took the final step and pulled his brother into a tight hug. "I miss you, man," he admitted.
Inhaling shakily, Dean hugged his brother back more desperately than he cared to admit. "And I'd choose you over Angelina Jolie any time, Sammy."
It was a strange dream, that, but as he felt his brother's chest shaking in a silent chuckle, Dean could not help realizing...that he had been needing this. Badly.
He might never admit it out loud, but in that moment he was grateful his brother made no move to end their embrace any time soon. "I'm real, you know," Sam whispered at last and rested his chin on Dean's shoulder. "I promised I wouldn't leave you, right?" he spoke softly, "This is me, trying to find my way back to you."
Dean's eyes widened. "Sammy?" he rasped. Again, this Sam had spoken the words he needed to hear – that he was with him, that he was talking to him...that there was a chance he would eventually wake up from that coma against popular belief. Hell, nowadays Dean welcomed any information that at least seemed to contradict the quacks' diagnosis.
Sam couldn't be dying. He couldn't.
But...that was just it, wasn't it? This was Dean's dream, and he was seeing a vision of his brother because he badly wanted to.
He had not even realized he had gotten this close to losing it again.
But as he stood there, in an imaginary club with bad lighting and cheesy music, hugging a funnily grotesque stripper version of his brother, he could not convince himself not to squeeze him a bit tighter in spite of all that.
By that point, any responsive version of Sam was fine with him. If that had to be a sparkly dream of a Chippendale, so be it.
All too soon, the magic was broken by Sam inhaling sharply. "Dean," he breathed with a strangled sound and stepped back at last, "This is annoyingly...hard to keep up."
He looked positively miserable all of a sudden, which in turn alerted Dean. "Sam?" he asked, confused. This was his dream – but this was not part of anything he would have come up with.
Or was it?
Was that the keyword he had been hoping for?
Could it be his subconsciousness had worked out something after all?
"What do you need me to do?" he urged.
Sam, however, did not answer right away. "You're with me right now, aren't you?" he prompted and cracked a soft smile, "At least, I can hear you all the time." He hesitated for a moment. "Is there any chance Cas is there as well?"
Grimacing, Dean shook his head. "The angels fell and Cas is gone," he summarized dryly, "I've been trying to call him dozens of times, but he doesn't answer."
Confusingly enough, Sam actually paled at that revelation. "Dean, this is bad," he rambled and ran a hand through his hair, "The final trial blew me up sky-high – literally." His eyes sought Dean's widening ones, looking for help as he had done so often before, "How am I supposed to get back to you when all the links are gone?"
Breathing deeply, Dean tried to uphold his composure.
So his brother had ended up in heaven...and could still somehow lie in a coma right next to him?
He was absolutely and royally screwed up to even come up with a theory like that.
But assuming he believed what his subconsciousness had cooked up, Sam was both dead and alive at the same time – which in itself was something he had never encountered in such a form before.
And it was a scary thought in any case.
But most importantly, the Sam staring at him with those large sad eyes in that very moment was neither entirely dead...nor entirely lost.
"Sammy," Dean finally found his voice again, "Never mind the angels. There's still at least one link left." He put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "We're standing here talking, aren't we?" He cracked a grin even though he had no idea what he was saying, "We can do that in the real world, too – once we find a way to haul you back over, that is."
Relieved at least, Sam smiled back tentatively. "I'll try, Dean," he promised.
A mere blink later, he was gone.
As the music grew louder once again and the bunny girls resumed dancing around him, Dean felt more satisfied than he had in days. Sam's soul, or mind, or whatever, having gone to heaven, was a wild guess, but it did offer an explanation for the injuries his body had undergone. As much as he hated to see it like that, if he had to compare what he had witnessed in that church, it had looked like Sam had been smitten. On the other hand, though, something bright had definitely left him rather than just burnt – it might have appeared like one of those freakish Angel spirits, but that could not be. So maybe it really had been his soul. Maybe souls looked like that, or at least trial-enhanced ones.
Maybe a part of Sam had been forced to Heaven.
He could not know.
In any case, it was a lead.
In any case, finding and confronting Cas was the most reasonable option.
In any case, Dean's new-found enthusiasm faded as quickly as it had come.
Whenever he had worked out plans like that within his dreams in the past, it had been some bastard of an Angel playing games with his mind.
But...what other choice did he have?
THREE HOURS EARLIER, with Sam
"So," Dean began conversationally as he put his legs on Bobby's table, "how've you been?"
Given the fact they were alone in the room, Sam gathered he was being addressed even though they had been together the entire time. "What do you mean?" he asked with a frown and put a bowl of popcorn on the table, gently but firmly shoving Dean's feet aside as he did so, "I'm fine, you know that."
Tilting his head, Dean downed his beer before opening three new bottles. "You don't look fine to me," he commented dryly and sighed. "I just wish you'd talk to me again," he stated flatly, "but I guess that's a bit too much to ask for, eh?" He chuckled humourlessly, yet he refused to meet his brother's gaze.
Sighing deeply, Sam sat down next to Dean. "Look, I'm just happy we're doing this again, okay?" he stated helplessly and motioned around the room, "We used to watch movies with Bobby all the time and now we can do that again at least."
Dean sent him a weary glance, yet humoured him at last. "I guess you're right, eh," he began and handed Sam a beer with a genuine yet strained smile, "Fight Club or Matrix?"
"Please, boys," Bobby complained as he placed the remaining snacks on the table and joined them at last, "Don't torture me with that cyber nonsense again."
Shrugging, Dean snatched the remote. "Never liked the Matrix all that much," he agreed, "so Fight Club it is."
They were halfway through the movie when the phone rang in the kitchen.
For a full minute, everybody simply looked in the ringing's general direction.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Sam asked Bobby slowly and stood up with a sigh when the older hunter stared at him as if he had grown another head. If one of their friends was in enough trouble to have one of Bobby's cover numbers called, someone should answer it. If that someone had to be Sam, so be it. He had pretended being a fed often enough.
Entering the kitchen, he found the offending phone quickly.
'Texas Rangers, huh?' Sam wondered vaguely, 'I didn't even realize he had such a number.' Shrugging it off, he picked up the receiver, "Hello? How can I help you?"
There was ragged breathing on the other end, but no words came for quite a while. "I've tried, you know?" the voice sobbed quietly, "I tried to be helpful."
Eyes widening, Sam recognized the voice at last. "Garth?"
Another sob confirmed his question. "I mean, I'm really happy you blasted those bastards back into the pit," Garth whispered flatly, "I just, you know, kinda hope you got the time to look for me now."
"Garth, where are you?" Sam demanded at once. But the connection had already died. After glaring at the receiver, he turned to the other person who had just entered the kitchen. "That was Garth, Bobby," he reported quickly, "We've got a problem."
Bobby, however, kept looking at him with the same doubtful expression he had worn previously. "We've got more than one problem, son," he began and approached Sam slowly, "I've been watching movies with you guys before, but I've never seen Fight Club." Hesitating briefly, he stared into Sam's eyes, "You're not just a part of my afterlife. You're really here, are you?"
Inhaling deeply, Sam did not know how to respond. "I'm pretty sure I'm dead," he admitted at last.
Closing his eyes in silent acknowledgement, Bobby nodded towards the living room, "Then Dean, too?"
Glancing through the doorway to where Dean was munching away on a steak, Sam grimaced slightly. "I hope not," he stated and corrected himself, shaking his head, "I think not. He's with us all right, talking and joking, but he's not exactly responding."
"I noticed that," Bobby agreed quietly, "So what does that mean?"
"I think he's talking to me," Sam sighed, feeling even worse about it now that he had to actually phrase it, "that is, to whatever is left of me." It would not be the first time Dean had refused to give him a proper hunter's funeral. On top of that...hadn't Sam promised to return?
It had been clear as the day in that moment, but now he was no longer so sure.
How would he do that? Could he even do that? His heart clenched when he realized he would have to break yet another promise to his brother.
"Bobby," he stated in sudden urgency, "I need to tell him I'm here." He gulped and felt close to despair, "How do I talk to him?"
"Easy there," Bobby replied and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Dean's with us in some way, isn't he? That's our best shot."
"He doesn't hear me," Sam countered flatly.
Bobby sent him a sharp look at that, "Have you even tried?"
Breathing heavily, Sam tried to regain his composure. As usual, Bobby was right. The mere presence of a version of Dean that was neither his imagination nor the real thing meant there had to be some sort of a connection.
Maybe, just maybe, whatever was left of Sam's body wasn't even entirely dead yet. Maybe he was actually hearing Dean.
A treacherous spark of hope flared up within Sam's chest.
Maybe he could keep his promise after all.
"Dean!" he called out, storming back into the living room.
Only to find his brother fast asleep, drooling happily onto the armrest.
"This is as good a chance as any, son," Bobby offered with a shrug and passed Sam on his way to a nearby shelf, retrieving a vaguely familiar jar from it.
"African dream root!" Sam called out as he recognized it as last and could not help grinning in relief, "You're a genius, Bobby."
The older hunter simply cocked his head in response. "Just hope you don't end up in one of his special dreams."
- Week One: End -
Notes: What is this I don't even- I have no idea how it got so late again. I can't zombie my way through tomorrow, so I guess the first two chapters will have to do for now even though I wanted to put up the first part in its entirety. Hopefully I'll get to the next two chapters tomorrow. If I'm not a zombie.
But if you already got around to reading this bit, please take a couple of seconds and let me somehow know whether you even want to read the rest. While I love writing fan fiction, polishing a story up for the interwebs is quite an arduous task to me, and for some reason it takes me forever. Apropos forever - five hours of sleep, if I'm lucky.
So for now: thank you for reading!
