Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or Supernatural

Sam was in the middle of a tornado of flying objects, all being controlled by his telekinetic powers. I watched him, shaking, a gun in my hand. Material possessions from a television remote to the Impala flew around him in a chaotic whirlwind. I couldn't stop myself. I raised the gun and aimed at Sammy's forehead. Sam looked at me with pleading puppy dog eyes, the objects around him falling to the ground. He said something, but I couldn't hear him. All I could hear was the gunshot, as the bullet flew through his brain.

That's when I woke up, shaken and sweaty. I'd been having that same dream for weeks. But I still felt the fear and misery it had brought the first go round. Beside me, Jen, or maybe her name was Kate, shifted and finally awoke. She gave me a curious glance, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Dean? Is everything alright?" She asked, her overly perky attitude dropped and replaced with concern.

I nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Glancing sideways at the blonde, I sighed. "I should go."

"Alright." She smiled, sadly. "Take care, brown eyes."

When I returned to the hotel room, there was a note from Sam on the table saying he'd gone to get coffee. I shook my head, smiling. His 'coffee' consisted of a pound of cream, sugar, and milk, I didn't think that classified as caffeine.

I threw on a clean shirt and jeans, and leafed through Sam's research. I smiled when I saw the word zombie circled with red ink. I supposed a member of the undead was easier for him to believe than a serial killer telekinetic.

I turned as the door to the motel swung open. Sam stood in the doorframe, balancing a tray with two cups of coffee and a paper bag probably containing breakfast. Sam smirked, setting the food and beverages down on the table. "Where were you last night?"

I rolled my eyes. "I couldn't sleep."

"Uh huh." He said, not convinced. "Bartender or waitress?"

I sighed, giving in. "Bartender."

"Thought so." He responded, sliding the paper bag towards me. I pulled out a greasy bacon breakfast sandwich.

"So what's the plan?" I asked, taking a bite and savoring the fried egg and melted cheese.

"I'm not sure." Sam said, setting down his coffee. "The security around this case is ridiculous."

"Not with the right I.D., Sammy." I reminded him, finishing off my sandwich. "So what can we do?"

"Well, there's crime scene for one, or the witness."

I raised an eyebrow. "Witness?"

Sam nodded. "The victim's ten year old daughter."

"Well, that sucks."

"Yeah."

I crumpled up the paper wrapping, and tossed it into the paper bag. "Well, I'll go talk to the witness, and you can go check out the crime scene."

"Sounds like a plan."

I got up from my seat, and unzipped my duffle. "Catch." I called, tossing Sam the EMF meter.

The case didn't run as smoothly as I had anticipated though. I arrived at the sheriff's department, and learned that the witness wasn't being kept there, but at the Los Angeles FBI headquarters. Which meant I wasn't going to be able to question her. The security would be insane, and my cover story would be bogus.

I returned to the hotel room, miserable. If this was our kind of gig, we wouldn't get the chance to help out. Minutes later, Sam entered, just as successful as I was. FBI had been crawling all over the crime scene, and any one of them would identify Sam to be a fake.

Needless to say, there was nothing left in L.A. for Sam and I. Great. I felt like a failure.

After a day of driving in shifts, Sam and I were back at Bobby's. It didn't take us long to realize we had absolutely nothing to do. The only case was the one in Los Angeles, I had finished working on the Impala weeks ago, and with none of Bobby's phones ringing, well, that left the three of us hanging out in Bobby's living room.

"How about a game of poker?" Bobby suggested.

I shook my head, and glanced sideways at Sam. "Sam sucks."

"Hey!" Sam cried out, offended.

I chuckled. "It's true, man."

"You know what?" Bobby said. "We'll meet here in twenty. We'll watch a movie, eat something, drink a couple beers. How's that?"

Sam and I paused considering. I grinned. "Sounds great."

True to our agreement, twenty minutes later Bobby was on the phone with Rufus- who ran into trouble with the FBI, again- which nobody was surprised about. Sam and I were seated on the couch with "Chuck Norris American Hero Collection" and "The Delta Force" tossed onto the coffee table beside a bowl of popcorn.

"I'm just saying – look, you can't really compare." Sam said.

"I don't even know you right now." I told him. "There's not even a contest."

"It depends on the criteria." Sam said, trying to justify his reasons.

"Survival is the only criteria, all right?" I argued. I grabbed one of the dvd's and stood up. "And when the crap hits the fan, it's not about who has skill. It's about who's the bigger badass. Bobby, will you please tell Sam that Chuck Norris could kick Jet Li's ass?

"Since when?" Sam asked.

I scoffed. "Since always." I set the dvd down, and grabbed the remote, taking a seat beside Sam again. He rolled his eyes and took the popcorn.

"All right, scoot, jerkface. Show your elders some respect."

"You scoot, ass-hat." Sam replied, flipping a piece of popcorn at me.

Bobby walked in and handed the beers to Sam. He took one for himself and placed another on the coffee table in front of me. I looked inside the plastic bag, which contained snacks that Sam had purchased.

"Did we get licorice?" I asked as Bobby sat down.

"No, we did not get licorice." Sam replied, with a mouth full of popcorn. "We got good snacks. Licorice is disgusting."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry. I didn't quite understand that, uh, Mr. Peanut-Butter-and-Banana Sandwiches?"

"You know what? I stand by that sandwich." Sam argued. "Nobody likes licorice. I-it's – it's made of dirt."

I scoffed. "It is a classic movie food. It's right up there with popcorn."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Popcorn? Really?"

"Yes."

Sam shook his head. "You're out of your mind."

"What – it's like little chewy pieces of heaven." I defended.

"Oh, chewy pieces of heaven if you're a girl." Sam retorted.

"Whatever." I said. "Let's watch a hundred and twenty-five minutes of Chuck Norris kicking ass."

"Jet Li's better." Sam muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Sam smirked.

A couple hours and three bowls of popcorn later, most of which was consumed by Sam, the three of us went our separate ways, each too tired and full of snacks to converse on an intellectual level. Not that we usually did anyhow.

It was sometime after two a.m., and I was in the bathroom, the door locked behind me. I looked over my hands and clothes, expecting to see Sam's blood splattered all over them. There were small patches of grease from the popcorn, but other than that they were perfectly clean.

I turned on the taps, and splashed the cool water on my face. I sighed, and gripped the edge of the sink. This recurring nightmare was killing me. I couldn't even look Sam in the eyes anymore. I scoffed. I was ashamed for something that hadn't happened yet, maybe it never would. But it still felt real, and scary as hell.

I ran a hand through my spiked brown hair, and looked my mirrored image in his bright green eyes. And though I felt ridiculous talking to a mirror, it was one of the small things that helped me get past my father's deadly words.

"You will not kill Sam." I told him. "I won't let you."

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, I've been focusing on another story of mine called "Blackout". I do appreciate any followers, favorites or reviews!