Nemean Lion

"So, how about we clarify things a little?"

Sam started in surprise, looking around at his surroundings. "What? Where are we?"

"In your noggin. You're asleep. Keep up." The Trickster casually slid into the seat across from Sam—Jess was supposed to sit there and order her coffee, black, because the strong stuff was way better than that fancy sprinkles drink of yours and . . . somehow, over two years had not taken the pain away from that particular wound.

"So you want conditions?" Sam asked numbly. Palo Alto's local cafe continued to bustle around the edges of his perception. He ignored it.

The Trickster smiled. "I would think you would want them, wouldn't you? The labors must be completed on your own, no outside help. And Dean can't know that we have a deal. Nor can anyone else. We have to keep this hush hush, comprende?"

Sam nodded obediently. "I'm ready."

The Trickster's grin was unsettling. "Oh, you may wish that you had asked for a break to prepare, boy. This will be interesting. And probably bloody."

He snapped his fingers.

Sam opened his eyes, and he was in a forest. The grass was wet under his head, and it slowly began soaking through his hair. Not a dream. This was real. Sam ignored the jolt of terror at knowing Dean was alone; Dean was safe, he was in the motel asleep. Nothing would happen to him.

Except one time, when Sam had left early in the morning and made Dean stay at the motel, he had returned to find Dean sprawled across the floor, blood—

Sam shook his head.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked aloud.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised at the lack of answer. Sam glanced down to find himself dressed in some kind of short robe thing that looked and smelled ancient.

He swore. "Really?"

Sighing, he rose, finding his shotgun and knife by his side. After finding Dean alive and booking it out of Florida, Sam actually hadn't had time to look up the myths of Hercules for himself. Chances were, this was some kind of large monster—Sam hoped it was the type that was easy to kill.

A low growl sounded from the copse of trees to Sam's left. Sam dodged behind a larger tree himself, checking the shotgun's ammo. Only one shot. The blade, he hefted in his right. He held the shotgun by its barrel to use as some kind of club in order to save the shot for when he needed it.

The trees around him were gnarled and thick—easy to climb. Sam clambered up, silently thankful that his brother wasn't around to make fun of him in his outfit, since he probably looked like a fool.

The creature emerged from the tree across the clearing where Sam had woken up.

It was huge lion. Huge. Frickin' huge. Sam's mind, usually offering helpful synonyms at inopportune times, had been cowed into silence.

He was supposed to kill this thing with one shotgun blast? Sam scoured his brain trying to remember the Hercules myth. He knew that the Greek hero was always depicted with a lion skin in order to identify him—thank you, Jess's art history class—but that was the extent of Sam's knowledge.

The lion made a strange huffing noise, coming closer to Sam's tree.

"That's it, come on," Sam murmured.

It stepped forward once more, large paw sinking into the dewy ground.

Sam jumped. His downward thrust took his knife straight into the back of the monster's neck. The blade bent in his hands as the lion reared, sending Sam rolling off its back and onto the grass. The lion didn't look like it was made of anything like metal or stone, so it had to be magic of some kind.

Sam swallowed as it turned to face him, lethal grace in its movements.

"Nice kitty," he tried.

The growl was a relatively straightforward response. The giant cat pounced, and Sam rolled, feeling the air whistling through his hair as the paw came close to swiping at his head.

"Weak spot, weak spot," Sam chanted.

The lion snarled again and Sam stared at its red—vulnerable—maw.

"Aw, man," he muttered.

The lion leapt, and this time Sam stood his ground. Dropping his knife, he used both arms to swing the shotgun upwards, landing an uppercut on the lion's jaw and barely avoiding its claws. As the lion shook off the blow and opened its mouth to bite, Sam swung the shotgun around, pointing the barrel straight down its throat.

He fired.

The bullet punched straight through the lion's weak throat, killing it instantly.

Sam sagged back in relief, realizing too late that he was directly underneath the creature; it fell on top of him.

Sam grunted, shoving the carcass off.

A solitary clap sounded in the forest.

"I would give you a round of applause, but let's be honest, that wasn't half as impressive as Heracles strangling the Nemean lion."

"I'm so sorry," Sam said drily, "for disappointing."

The Trickster grinned, himself also in a Greek or Roman looking outfit—Sam wasn't exactly adept at telling them apart. "No worries, buddy, you passed. How 'bout that? You get to go back to Dean, who is about to wake up."

The Trickster raised his hand like he was about to snap his fingers again, and Sam called out "wait," holding up his own hand.

The Trickster paused.

"The hunts. The ones I did during the time—" Sam hesitated, "—the time Dean was dead. Are those still out there, since it reset?"

The Trickster shrugged. "I put you in an alternate dimension. Dean died, and you went hunting, so in this dimension, the hunts may be happening, may not. No way to really tell, though I would keep your eyes open for them. You were physically constant though, as a fun fact. So that means your birthday now falls on November 2nd, congratulations!"

The blood drained from Sam's face, leaving him feeling dizzy. "November 2nd?"

The Trickster's smile was more than a little cruel. "Happy trails, Sam. I'll see you for the next labor."

He snapped his fingers, and Sam was lying on his bed in their motel room, Dean sleeping on the bed next to him.

Only when he saw the bedspread rise and fall did Sam realize that the entire time fighting the lion, he had been also terrified that he might come back to find Dean dead again.

And so he lay in the dark room, and listened to Dean breathe until he was able to calm his racing heart.

"Sam?"

As Dean watched, his little brother flinched.

"Yes, Dean?" Sam's haunted eyes focused on him.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Sam shifted on the diner's bench seat. "What do you mean?"

Dean waved a hand in his direction. "You're acting all weird ever since we left Florida. C'mon, 'fess up."

Sam's laugh was a shadow of his old one. "You try being okay after seeing me die over a hundred times."

Dean was the one to flinch now.

"Alright, well, what do you want to do?"

"Hunt." Sam's voice was dark with intent, and Dean resisted the urge to shudder.

"I can do that," he said. They both were silent as the waitress set down their plates; normally Dean would have flirted, but things felt a little too unnatural for that to fly right now.

Sam was looking down at his food like he didn't know how to eat anymore.

"I'm not hungry," Sam blurted out, and then he darted out of the diner like a hellhound was on his heels.

"Great talk we just had. Nice," Dean said to the empty diner. He ate slowly, trying to enjoy his meal—after all, it wasn't like he had many left.

With that thought, Dean lost his appetite as well.

He caught up to Sam walking down the row of motel rooms.

"Dude, wanna do anything else in town before we head out?"

Sam's reaction was violent and excessive, as Sam whirled, going into a defensive stance.

"Sam?" Dean asked, a little warily.

Sam passed a hand over his face, shielding his eyes from Dean's view. "Right. Sorry. Um, no, we should head out soon. Next place we go I need a library. And wi-fi."

"Sure, princess," Dean joked as usual, but watched Sam go into the room to gather their stuff with worry gnawing at him. How could Sam be so inherently different? Dean got it—he really did. Seeing a brother die was traumatic in a way that no torture could surpass. But the way Sam moved was now with intent, and a speed that made Dean stretch his legs a little to catch up. And Sam fluctuated between staring at Dean for hours like he hadn't seen him for years, and acting like Dean didn't exist unless he was talking all the time.

Dean scowled, kicking at the dirt before quickly hiding his feelings behind a bland smile as Sam emerged.

"All set?"

Sam's eyes were almost desperate in the way they scanned Dean—like he might have died in the short minutes Sam was in the room. Dean's stomach turned at the thought.

"All set, Dean," Sam said softly.

Dean let him walk first to the Impala, noting how Sam started towards the driver's side before stopping and heading to the passenger's.

Sam may have stopped wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Dean was determined to figure him out, no matter what the cost.

A/N: I forgot to mention on the prologue that I won't be technically be interacting as much with you guys as usual. Normally I respond to every review and it's kinda my favorite thing about writing fic, but with nursing school it's been a little crazy. So I pinky promise, I'm not trying to be rude or ignoring you guys and I love every single review you post, I just won't have the time to respond (though if I catch a break sometime I might. We'll see) Thanks for reading!