.-.-.-.A Killer's Dream.-.-.-.

Summary:

Dean has been having some pretty weird dreams lately - he seems to be playing the murderer in a sick game that is life and death. So now he and Sam have to figure things out before things take a turn for the worse for Dean.

Disclaimer: Supernatural and the boys aren't mine... unfortunately.

A/N: So Bambers and Schelz both told me I should be writing and so I did. And somehow I ended up with chapter 2 of this. So thank you to those reading and for the encouragement. It means a lot. ^_^ Now, anyone who knows and my writing knows I can be unpredictable when it comes to updating... so the fact that I've updated this quickly, well, it's not my usual speed, but hey, I'll take it. :D Thanks guys!

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2. To dream a dreamer's dream

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Lucy Shall. She was a twenty two year old student with possibly the most amazing blue eyes he had ever seen - and she was dead. Dean's stomach twisted and he forced his gaze away from the television, jaw clenching as he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, fighting the temptation to throw up once more. Sure the news reporter hadn't said that the girl was dead, only missing, but Dean knew in his guts that she was. Or at least if she wasn't, she soon would be.

And somehow, it linked back to him.

Thinking about it, part of him wanted to believe that the girl was still alive and that if he woke Sam up right at that moment, then they could both go out there and save the day, rescue the damsel in distress. But Dean was far from stupid. And he trusted his instincts. More times than he could count, his instincts had saved him. So when his instincts told him that he was too late, he was inclined to believe them.

Jaw still stiffened, he allowed himself to look back towards the television, watching the screen through narrowed angry eyes as the guy behind the desk moved onto the next story, something that was of no interest or concern to Dean. But instead of leaving it on as background noise, he hit the remote and searched in desperation for another news channel, hoping for either some sort of confirmation or a hint that maybe the girl was somehow still alive.

He wasn't that lucky. Nothing but snow, a black and white movie and a few reruns of old TV shows. Damn cheap motel and its limited choice in channels. It only served to aggravate him and push him even deeper into his despairing mood. He felt guilty and responsible. After all, it had been him in the dream who had cut her throat open, his hand… Hell, it had even looked like his knife.

And for a moment too long, he allowed himself to entertain the thought that somehow… maybe it had actually been him who harmed the girl. With being so close to Hell, so close to being dragged away to the pit for all eternity, maybe something in his unconscious had snapped… maybe Hell had taken hold and taken him for a ride. And if not Hell, well he knew of plenty of evil sons of bitches that were quite capable of doing so… tattoo or not.

"No." One word, pure denial and total hostility. It couldn't have been him. There would have been something somewhere in the room or on his person that gave him away – there would have been blood. He didn't kill that girl. He just dreamed it, for some reason.

But all the same, his body twisted and his eyes landed on the pillow at the end of bed and he found his throat working as he crawled up the sheets in order to tuck his hand underneath the murky yellow that he had once rested his head on. And his fingers searched in desperation, wanting to wrap around the handle of the blade and at the same, almost afraid to in case it was covered in sickly red.

His heart thumping heavily, almost painfully in his chest, his skin touched nothing but cloth and he panicked. No, it had to be there. He always put it there. Moving quickly now, he grabbed the top pillow with his other hand and threw it behind him before grabbing the next and repeating the action. He could have choked there and then, heart and lungs leaping into his throat as his head span, stars dancing at the edges of his vision as everything suddenly felt surreal.

Gone. It was gone.

It couldn't be gone. It was there somewhere. It had just fallen into the crack between the mattress and the headboard or something… or maybe he'd accidentally thrown it behind along with the pillows. Then again, he couldn't be one hundred percent sure that he had put it there in the first place. Sure, it was almost an automatic movement of his every time they rented a new room but things had been so chaotic lately… he could have easily just forgotten, could have left it in his bag.

Desperately, his eyes searched the darkened floor behind him and he jumped from the bed to drop to his hands and knees, fingertips gliding over roughened carpet as he searched every inch of it for the knife. Nothing. Just absolutely nothingness. He drew in a deep short breath and scruffed up his hair, trying to think, trying to focus, but his eyes just flew around wildly, not wanting to stop until he'd found it… not able to stop.

The contents of his weapon bag were on the floor in no time as he'd snatched it up and emptied it out. Gun, gun, clip, half-full box of shotgun shells, gun… no knife. This couldn't be happening… He just had to calm down, just had to focus and relax. It would be staring him right in the face. Just like the time Sam had claimed he lost his lucky card when they were younger and it had been right in front of him.

Yeah, it was just like then. And just like how Sam had found the card, Dean would find the knife. It would be squeezed between the headboard and mattress, just like he'd thought… He could see it now, sitting there, just waiting to be found. And he pushed himself up, practically diving towards the bed so he could force his hand down the gap in search of his treasure.

But just like with the pillows, there was nothing there. And just like with the pillows, he acted a bit more hastily, throwing himself off the bed in order to lift the mattress, too consumed in his search to notice that in doing so, he'd accidentally knocked the lamp on the bedside cabinet to the floor with a loud clatter.

"Dean?" It was a sleepy question and it caused Dean to freeze, hands tight around the edges of the mattress as the upper end was nearly level with his eyes. But then his brother woke up that little bit more and his name was repeated, only this time it was a shocked question with possibly even a hint of anger and definitely a full on dose of worry.

"Sam…" The name left his lips awkwardly and his hands let go of the mattress, letting it drop back down haphazardly as he span to face his little brother, head spinning all too fast as he did so. His eyes were wide and he was sure he was wearing that deer caught in the headlights expression, walls completely absent, game-face nowhere to be seen. Sliding himself slowly to the floor, he rested his back against the wooden frame of the bed, heart still hammering in his chest as he looked up pleadingly at Sam.

What the hell was happening to him? What was going on? He was shaking so badly that he could feel it in every part of him. Fear seeping in as he silently begged for someone, anyone, to just tell him where his Goddamn knife was.

"What's going on Dean?" Sam had pushed himself up a little bit further now and Dean could see he was already making the movements to climb out from under the sheets to join his brother, the broken heap of a mess, on the floor between the beds.

And Dean felt his eyes drop, gaze averted as he couldn't watch anymore… couldn't even stand to think anymore, and he shook his head lightly, trying not to swallow the words as he spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "I killed her…"

And right there, right then… he truly believed that he did. He felt so lost and confused and his knife was nowhere to be found… it had been his only hope. And he had no idea how he was supposed to explain that to Sam, along with the upturned bed and mess of weapons on the floor… especially when Sam kept looking at him with those gentle eyes, as if he thought Dean would shatter into a thousand pieces any second.

"Oh God Sammy… I killed her."

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