(Title): Black Hole Sun

location: (nearby) Death Valley, California

1997

It was the summer of ninety-seven – hot, wet and swarming with mosquitoes. Both side windows of the Impala rolled down, dust flying in and coating everything in a golden hue. Sam squinted, keeping track of Dad's truck ahead.

"Next left, Dean," he bit through chapped lips and dry gums.

Soaked T-shirt sticking to his spine, and yet Sam felt completely dry on the inside: kernels of sand danced around his mouth. It was surprisingly tempting to let the car rock him to sleep. Sam shook his head again, blinking. Dean had turned into the bend. For miles and miles, they could see empty wasteland stretching out before them, and vibrating heat in the distance.

"Sam, hand me that water bottle, would ya?"

It was empty. They both groaned, gasping, and inhaling more dust.

"This hunt stinks," said Sam, to which Dean agreed.

"Yup, sucks balls."

The boys laughed. A glance that lasted just a little longer, before Dean focused on the road again, hands tense on the steering wheel. The small black speck was getting closer and closer, a billboard, a parking lot, a gas station…Texaco, modern and crowded, severely overpriced too. Dad wheeled them in, and Dean pulled up beside him, about ten yards away from the store.

Sam closed his eyes, deciding to make the most of it. They were supposed to wait out here, in the stifling sun, where even breathing was hard. His tired eyelids fell shut, occupying his mind with visions of vanilla ice cream, of soda drinks and fruit.

"Sam? You gotta snap out of it man,"

Something poked him in the side, Sam opened his eyes, slowly, carefully. He mumbled half-asleep

"Wha – , why?"

"Dad could be in danger. We must be on the ready, back him up."

Sam shook his head, he wanted to shout, to disagree. But found he didn't have the strength. He opened his mouth and nothing but a hoarse cough came from it, he tried again. The air was hot, oppressing, and unbearably dry. Dean's sweaty neck was the only wet thing around. Sam leaned into it.

"Sam?"

It was too late. Sam had lost consciousness, falling into Dean's arms. The poor kid was shivering. Dean touched his forehead – red hot. Oh man, now Dad really would be pissed. They were miles away from the nearest hospital, and what's worse, in the middle of a fucking job!

"Sam, Sammy? Wake up."

When nothing much happened, Dean pulled the keys out of the Impala, hooking an arm around Sam's waist.

"C'mon, we're gonna get you inside. See that shop? They got A/C in there."

Dean pointed, but it didn't register with Sam. Sam's eyes were still closed, his body limp against Dean's. When they climbed out of the car Sam buckled through his knees, falling, Dean grabbed him right before he hit the ground. Carrying Sam bridal style past the gas pumps, Dean got more than a couple of strange looks. But that didn't matter, cause someone held the door open for him, and they were inside, in the cool humid room. Thank God. He laid Sam down on the nearest bench, as a crowd gathered.

"Is he alright?"

Dean looked over his shoulder. Short bald man in overalls, about forty years of age and wearing thick rimmed glasses. "Steve Frank", the nametag read.

"No, of course not! Get me some towels, water and aspirin!"

Some minutes later Sam lay on a spare bed in the backroom, covered by blankets and a cool cloth on his forehead. Dean sat in a nearby chair, while John listened to Steve, nodding. With the condition Sam was in, they'd have to stay the night. The hunt was off, the monster got away, and they were stuck in the middle of nowhere, in some half-store-half-diner, not even a bed to sleep in. John went to check up on the Impala, and came back livid.

"You left the car with the windows rolled down," he said, rattling the keys in Dean's face.

"Sam was feeling very bad, and I…, well I…"

"You what? You didn't think again, did you?"

John clenched his fists, pacing up and down the small stretch of corridor.

"Dean, this is happening way too often lately. Ever since you dropped school. What's wrong with you? You let Sam get a sunstroke, you leave the car open and unattended, begging for it to be stolen. Not to mention that incident back in Sacramento,"

The words trapped inside John's throat as he dropped into a chair, keeping his eyes on Dean. And Dean, Dean would have given anything not to have his father look at him like that, because there was something worse than Dad's anger, worse than any punishment Dad could give. Dean tucked some shoelaces inside his sneakers, which had once been white. He heard his father sigh, then talk again, softer, this time – as if he was approaching a wounded bird and meant not to trample on it.

"It doesn't bother me if you see older…people,"

There was a discreet pause between older and people, which told Dean enough. That it did bother John, that it bothered him a lot, actually, bothered him more than he could possibly convey. And the fact that he didn't outright forbid it, that he laid the choice into Dean's own hands, that tore Dean up even more.

"Just, don't do it for money, okay?"

"Hey, do you remember Death Valley?" Dean asked one day.

Sam looked at him curiously, craning his neck to the left. An arm of Sam's rested just above the back of Dean's seat.

"Yeah, I was sick,"

"Damn right you were sick," Dean grinned at the road, inhaling the scent of fresh morning grass and motor oil.

Sam moved his arm away, folding both in front of his chest. He suddenly felt a chill run through his bones, remembering that night.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

Dean shrugged.

"Maybe," he said, sweeping his eyes over Sam then back on the road again. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"What?"

Sam's eyes went wide, he probed deeper inside the depths of his memory, coming up with nothing. Then he frowned, turning all of his attention to the left.

"Dean, what did you have me do? Did you prank me?"

Instead of an answer, Dean's body shook with laughter, and then with the usual smug grin and playful eyes he said

"Why don't I show you?", and snapped his fingers.

Before his very own eyes, Dean Winchester transformed into the Trickster, who winked, and everything went black. Sam woke up in the backroom of a petrol station, as his fourteen-year-old self.

"Hey."

It was Dean, eighteen-year-old Dean. He was back, back in Death Valley, on a squeaky old mattress. Sam felt the wet cloth fall off and into his lap.

"Hey," he murmured, wondering where Dad was.

He surely remembered Dad being there. The hunt had gone awry, all because of Sam. Because he'd saved up on water, and bought a Garbage tape instead. But he couldn't spot Dad anywhere…it was just him and Dean, alone in the dark storage room. Dean leaned over to turn the radio louder, which was stuck on an annoying station of Country music. Sam grimaced.

"Really?"

"The only other choice is Top 40," said Dean, making a face.

"Well put that instead."

Dean's look of mock shock never failed to make Sam laugh. He crept closer to the radio and fiddled with the buttons. It came rushing back to him – the feel of the display under his fingertips, the static sound. Sam tuned in the next channel, hearing that deep voice hum

"This is Mad River Radio, brought to you from the hottest plains of Nevada, oowee, what a lovely night we have on our hands!"

Dean cracked a laugh at the host's expense and chucked his soda can in the bin, a reflex Sam hadn't seen him do in a long time. Open-mouthed, Sam watched the speakers vibrate. It was exactly the same, just like last time. He remembered every single word.

"And number one, the song you've all been waiting for, ladies and gents, here's your one and only: Meredith Brooks!"

An applause tape ran through the ether, cut short by the string of two guitars, vaguely reminiscent of a classic rock tune. Dean bobbed his head to the beat.

"That's not bad," he said, scooting closer.

All Sam could do was stare at him. When the chorus came along Dean burst out in laughter. Keeping both hands on his stomach, and the tears from his eyes.

"Sammy, this song is about you!"

Dean began to sing along, as best as he could, which was frighteningly good… All the while wiggling his eyebrows Johnny Bravo style, and making funny faces. The instrumental part came on, and Dean fell silent, smirking.

"Dean, please,"

But relentlessly, his older brother ploughed on, inserting a dirty word or two, while having the time of his life. When Sam reached for the radio, his wrist got snatched, and Sam looked straight into the face of Dean, who fell over the bed, on top of him. Sam bit his lip. This was so stupid, he couldn't believe it was happening all over again. And then Dean sung the bridge, and Sam couldn't help himself. He let the word slip past his lips.

"Jerk."

Dean tapped his nose affectionately, close enough that his breath ghosted over Sam's face.

"Bitch."

"Sam? Hey, Sam, wake up."

Sam's eyes flickered open, and he stretched painfully, clutching his wounded shoulder. He found himself lying on the backseat of the Impala, fully clothed and covered by his own canvas jacket. Dean's head poked out the front seat, a rare smile on his worn face. Sam was back in 2009, April… He sat up straight, fingering the buttons of his shirt. Had it been a dream? A very vivid, very real dream to say the least… Sam didn't usually have those. Especially when it came to Death Valley – he hadn't even thought of that hunt in years.

Dean started the car, and they got on the road, the Impala grunting and rocking underneath. The radio was dead, emitting nothing but soft static sound. Dean cursed, then started checking the box for tapes, eyes locked on the road. A hand closed in on Dean's right one, smoothing over it and guiding it back to the steering wheel, where it belonged. Dean shot him a look, Sam smiled. He leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes and sang.

"I hate the world today. You're so good to me, I know, but I can't change. Tried to tell you, but you look at me like maybe, I'm an angel underneath, innocent and sweet,"

"What's gotten into you?" said Dean, barely suppressing his laughter.

Yup, it definitely had been a dream, a good one for once. Sam shrugged, smiling back at his brother and picking up the song where he'd left off.

A/N:

Betaread by Lux Hart

Title in reference to Soundgarden's 1994 song

Sam's final lines are from the lyrics to Meredith Brook's song "Bitch" (1997), not written by me.