Yesterday Once More

Disclaimer: Try and sue me! What do you want? My GCSE revision books?!

A/N Sorry the paragraphs came out much bigger than I intended. This is a long one for me, but my muse stole this idea, drained it of momentum and shouted at it until it cried. Just suspend your disbelief for this one 'kay?

Dedication: All of my reviewers/readers! I love you all! Especially aquaesulis76, irishgirl9, NikkiCee and julsus.

Rating: T

Genre: Angst, hell yes.

Dean: 17 Sam: 13

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Endlessly

God he hated silence. The way that it sucked all of the energy and life out of everything around it, and then seemed to settle over its surroundings, somehow sounding louder than any noise could ever be. Dean hated it. His fingers itched to reach for the radio, to fill the unnatural stillness in the car with the pounding beats of classic rock, country, blues, metal, soul, jazz, Hell! Freakin' disco music! Anything to shut up the voices talking incessantly in his head, clambering over each other, dragging up thoughts he always kept locked away at the back of his mind, where not even he could find them sometimes. But he didn't want to wake up Dad or Sammy. So he sat on his hands, and the silence echoed around him, spreading out from the car, and reverberating through the graveyard. God he hated stakeouts.

Another town, another hunt, another pissed off spirit - evil was starting to blend into one ominous creature for him now, an immense cloud of darkness that they chased across the country, tackling it one water droplet at a time. He felt tired. Screw that, he felt exhausted. Sammy had hit puberty with a ferocious bang, and everyone was caught in the blast. Dad didn't exactly react well to defiance or attitude, and Sammy was shovelling them at the old man by the bucket load, which was causing problems to say the least. Dean glanced at the rear view mirror, in which he could see the two most important people in his life, not arguing for the first time in weeks, united for the time-being by the power of unconsciousness. That's what this is all about really. What he can never bring himself to face. What he can never think about for more than 5 minutes before forcing his attention elsewhere. The fact that Dean Winchester hadn't slept a wink in over 12 years.

Most of the time he couldn't even admit it to himself, saying that he went to bed every night and closed his eyes like a 'normal' person. But what he got wasn't rest, he didn't slip into an oblivious slumber, never lost control of his thoughts, didn't allow his muscles to slowly relax into the peace of sleep. No. He went to the place he'd created in his head. Carefully crafted over a lifetime of insomnia, an empty, blank space inside his mind, where he could fall into a form of hibernation, removed from himself in some way. But reality always clawed at the edges of his little bubble world, grounding him in his body, not letting him completely float away, keeping him conscious of the happenings around him. Awake. Always. But sometimes dreaming.

Sam stirred briefly in his sleep, and Dean froze. Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up. He heard his pulse speed up and he didn't have a clue in Hell why. Isn't that what he wanted? What he'd been praying for only moments before? Noise, interaction, life? But for some reason the idea of having to face Sam, to watch him wipe away the sleep with envious eyes and to force his ever-present mask back over his face with heavy hands was just too much for him to bear. Perhaps it was the masochistic side of him, the part of him that wanted him to sink into his thoughts and suffer. As if now that he'd started to drown he was too goddamn stubborn to clamber to the surface. He held his breath, and Sam merely turned over and nestled into the leather of the seats before stilling.

He let out his breath in a long sigh and collapsed backwards into the soft cushion of the car, his head lolling back, looking upwards through the roof to the stars he knew were above. He could still remember that night. The fire, the heat, and then carrying Sammy out the front door. But that was just bits and pieces, a merging of chaos and confusion. What was really stuck with him, what was burned in his memory forever, was that night.

"Daddy?" A beat of silence and then broken eyes slowly moved upwards to meet that of his son.

"I can't sleep" They were the first words he'd said since it happened. He didn't even know what 'it' was. He just remembered the look of ruin in his Daddy's eyes, the pain, and he knew that whatever it was, it didn't deserve a name.

His Daddy just blinked slowly, and his focus seemed to drift around the room, never once coming back to rest on Dean again. He felt himself fidget nervously.

"Daddy?"

"Go back to bed Dean." His voice was so hoarse he could hardly make out the words. "Please. Just go back to bed." Dean followed his first ever order.

A moan escaped his lips, and he curled into the doorframe as he tried to escape his own memories. He'd been a good boy and gone back to the room he shared with Sammy, shuffling over to the cot and grazing a kiss across his baby brother's forehead before sliding beneath the covers of his own bed. But sleep would not take him. He had tossed and turned for hours, knotting the sheets around his legs and counting the wooden planks in Sammy's crib. He didn't know why, but a pit had formed in his stomach, a sense of foreboding stinging at his senses. At the time he couldn't understand it, and he wanted his Mummy to come and whisper reassuring words in his ear, sing a lullaby to ease him away to another place. But she wasn't there. Just him, Sammy, and the silence.

The first few nights had come faster than he could follow, a blur of sympathetic glances and whispers of "poor boy" that they thought he didn't hear, were the only intervals between his quiet moments in the darkness. Sometimes Dad would come and stand in the doorway, and Dean would pretend to be asleep, purposely slowing his breathing and making the occasional incomprehensible noise, until he heard the door close again.

Of course he'd felt the effects of his constant wakefulness. His body had slowed down to a lethargic rate, it exhausted him to speak, so he barely did. His eyes developed a heaviness that almost pained him to lift after performing a ridiculously drawn out blink. He constantly found himself zoning out from everything around him, and inevitably, people had started to notice.

He crept down the stairs to get a glass of water, it wasn't like he had anything better to do at night anymore, and he'd felt like the darkness was suffocating him up there. However, his slow legs weren't working how they should, and he slipped, grabbing the banister at the last moment and clutching to it as he waited for his brain to register that he hadn't fallen, listening to the blood pump in his ears. When he felt calmed enough, he pulled away from his support and straightened cautiously, he felt fine. Better than fine. Well, better than he had been since it happened. His body had gained some sort of balance that he hadn't had before and his eyes were wider, adjusting to the dim light of the hallway. He didn't get it.

"John!" The loud exclamation made him jump, and only his new awareness stopped him from tumbling off the step he was standing on. The voice sounded like Daddy's friend Mike, and it had come from behind the kitchen door where he could now hear low muffled sounds. He didn't want to interrupt Daddy having a grownup conversation, but he wanted to know what they were doing up in the middle of the night, so he padded over to the door and pressed his ear up against the wood, covering his other ear with his hand to stop any outside noise.

"… and you can't go on like this! What are you doing in your room all day, huh? I've seen some of the books you've got in there John! Crap about ghosts and monsters and God knows what … you've got to snap out of this, start going outside again … come back to the garage. Maybe workin' a little would do you good, get your mind off things ya know?"

"Get my mind of things you say?" His Daddy sounded more tired than him, and he had no idea what Mike was going on about, but he wished that he'd stop.

"Just carry on like nothing happened right?"

"That's not what I said John! I-"

"My wi-" His voice broke for a moment "My wife has just died, and you want me to what? Go back to the garage? Just walk around like everything is fine? That everything's okay? Well I can't, I can't … You have no idea what it's like! …how can you possibly understand?"

"I'm not saying that I can! I just want you to do what's right, for you and the boys-"

"DO NOT TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY SONS!" The roar was so ferocious that Dean jerked away from the door, falling backwards.

"I am their FATHER and I know what's best for them! I have to…" When his voice faded again, Dean crawled back over to the door, desperate to understand what was going on.

"…need to work out what happened that night, have to do more research."

"What are you talking about? Nothing happened that night! Electrical fire in the wall or ceiling or something… this is what I'm talkin' about! You've got to pull yourself together. No matter what you say John, your boys are suffering."

"You trying to-"

"JUST LISTEN TO ME! Folks are startin' to talk. Sayin' that you've been going to see some psychic…sprouting nonsense. You hardly spend any time with Sammy, Dean's the one that calms him when he cries, and well, he's in no state to be carin' for anyone! Have you looked at him lately John? Seen how pale he is…doesn't talk no more, bags under his eyes, and God, no kid should have eyes like that."

Dean lowered his head, did he really look like that? He never really looked at himself in the mirror anymore, but he didn't want to get his Daddy into trouble. He was so confused; he didn't know what all the other things they were talking about meant, but it sounded like bad stuff. But he liked looking after Sammy, why didn't anyone understand that? There was movement behind the door, so he tuned back into what they were saying.

"All I'm saying John, is that we all wanna be sure you and your family are okay, and we wanna help you. But if you can't get it together, then we're gonna have to do something."

Those words twisted in his gut. What did Mike mean? Would they do something to his Daddy? Were they gonna take him away? Would they take him and Sammy away? Was it because of what Mike said about him, how he looked bad?

He pulled back from the door, noticing that his movements were back to being sluggish again, and snuck back up the stairs. One thing was for sure – he wasn't going to let his Daddy down. He'd be better. He wouldn't let anyone else see what was wrong with him, wouldn't let anyone know about his 'problem'. He was a big boy, 5 next month! He'd just deal with it himself.

Dean tensed at the memory. Looking back on it now he could see how easily everything could have gotten screwed real fast. Luckily John had sensed the danger to his family and hustled them all into the car and out of Kansas the next morning. But if he hadn't . . . social services, psyche evaluations, interviews – Dean physically shook himself to get the thoughts out of his head, sitting forward in his seat, the leather squeaking at the movement.

From that point onwards he had made a special effort to listen and talk to people, made sure to smile and laugh, and nobody had suspected a thing, 'cos c'mon. Who thinks a 4 year old is lying to them? John never said anything about his sudden change and Dean was glad – he didn't like lying to his Dad, and he wasn't sure if he would have held up to an interrogation.

He had tried even harder to get some sleep. Dean couldn't repress a little snort as he remembered lying in bed, screwing up his face in concentration and forcing all of his muscles to be completely still, but nothing had done the trick. His fatigue had increased steadily, making him work harder and harder to keep up his charade, to keep his body alive. In retrospect Dean's sure that he should have collapsed, or lost senses or something. He was running on empty, but all he could remember feeling was tired.

24 hours a day, 7 days a week, he was tired. Just going through the motions. All he had looked forward to was those moments of awareness. After the night on the stairs he had those feelings again every few days or so, when Sammy almost rolled off a table, when Dad threw a bottle against a wall, when he'd walked onto the road and almost gotten clipped by a car – he felt it. That buzz that spread through his body, awakening his nerves and recharging his mind. Of course he was too young to know what was causing it, he just knew that he liked it, and he wanted more.

God. He had been one screwed up kid, unwittingly wanting something bad to happen, just so that he could get a few minutes of respite. The thought sickened him, and he wanted to hit something, break something into little pieces, but he knew he couldn't, and the hush of the cemetery laughed at him.

A growl escaped his lips, as if telling the silence to back the Hell off, and then he allowed himself to settle again, focusing on the steady breathing of his family, until all he could hear was heartbeats in the night. It reminded him of years in his bedroom, gradually laying the foundations for his inside world. His body had adapted, draining the last ounce of energy out of everything he ate, every drop of caffeine he drank, stretching the after effects of those moments until they snapped. But it wasn't enough. The blurring in his mind had thickened, and he had simply needed more.

"Dean. Are you watching me? You gotta pay attention son. This is important." He dutifully put all his effort into tracking his Dad's movements, watching as he twisted his body into the correct shapes.

"Didya get all of that? I know it looks hard, but once you're used to it, it'll come naturally." Yeah he'd gotten it, even with his brain on autopilot for the first half; it didn't look that difficult really. However, there was one thing he didn't get.

"Why are you showing me this Dad?"

A crease appeared at the corners of his eyes and his lips seemed to tighten fractionally. "Because it's important Dean. You're 7 and a half now, and you're gonna need to know this stuff."

"But why?"

"Because I'm telling you to!" The last part was accompanied with an angry finger pointed in his direction and Dean took an involuntary step backwards. This small action seemed to do something to Dad, as his expression immediately softened, and something akin to guilt sparked in his eyes. He crouched down in front of Dean and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry dude. I just really want you to get this duck and weave manoeuvre down okay? It might be really useful in the future." He had no clue why he would need to know this – none of the other kids at school had talked about learning it. But the look in his Dad's eyes was so intense that he desperately wanted to do it right.

"Okay Dad. I think I got it." A small smile caused the bristles on Dad's chin to brush against each other as he stood up.

"Alright. We're gonna do a little practice okay? Nothing serious. I'm gonna take it real slow and you just go through the moves I taught you and you'll be fine. Don't worry about the first time 'kay? I'd never hurt you."

He nodded his head once as he quickly ran through what he'd just seen. Truth was, despite Dad's words, he was nervous. His body seemed to do what he asked it to a second or two later, and his limbs had gone sort of numb the last few weeks. If he messed this up then Dad might start asking questions, and then he'd find out about his problem. The idea frightened him, as his mind went back to the bits and pieces he'd heard behind the door so many months ago. But he had no choice, and he really wanted to do this good for Dad. So he stood in front of Dad and got into the stance he'd been shown.

"Ready? Here it comes."

As his fist started to move towards Dean's head, time slowed down around him and that glorious rush surged up from somewhere deep in his stomach and burned through him, filling his chest with electricity. Suddenly everything around him went into overload. He could hear a woman laughing outside, could see that the ends of the wallpaper opposite hadn't been joined up right, could taste the burger he'd had for lunch, could feel the scratch of denim against his legs, and most importantly, he could see his Dad's carefully placed punch parting air in front of him. So he did what was instinctual – he got out the way. He didn't even realise he was mirroring his Dad's movements only seconds before, until he was standing a foot away watching Dad's face morph into confusion as he pulled the punch at the point where the tip of Dean's nose would have been, only to find nothing there.

It had never been this strong before. He could practically feel his body humming with energy and it took all of his self-control not to rock back and forth on his heels. This was. .this was. . this was good. He just knew that this one was going to last for days and days. The prickling at the back of his neck told him that Dad was staring, but when he looked up he saw that he also had a huge smile across his face, and the way his gaze was caressing him, he just wanted to bask in it forever. Yeah, this was good.

When Dean came back to the present he found a similar smile gracing his own lips, and subconsciously his eyes had drifted to his Father's slumbered form. That had been one of the best days of his life.

He'd been a bright kid, he'd made the connection, even though he didn't understand it. He'd begged his Dad to give him daily training sessions, and although a little bemused, he'd agreed. For the first time in years he didn't have to work to simply keep going and he'd loved it. The smiles had come easily and his laugh had become lower and longer. He'd been so wrapped up in his happiness that he'd virtually forgotten about his problem, or perhaps that's just what he'd told himself so that he didn't have to think about it, kind of like how he dealt with it now. Even now at the age of 17 every part of him was screaming to just let it go, that if he ignored it, with a poof of smoke it would disappear. But that deeper, darker side of him was in control now, and he'd be damned if he was gonna argue with it.

Adrenaline. That one word floated to him across the dashboard. It was the only answer. If you could call it that. It hadn't been until he was a teenager that he learnt the word and he instantly knew that was what he'd been experiencing. Dad had just been recounting how he got a rush of adrenaline on the last hunt that had saved his life, and something had just clicked. It wasn't like he'd felt the hormones being released into his blood or anything, it was just that it was exactly how he felt – all pumped and ready, the 'fight or flight' response, except that in his case Winchesters weren't taught to run away.

He ran a hand over his face and up through his hair, a nervous habit he had yet to get rid of. God knows Adrenaline didn't magically sort it all out, it was like trying to heal a bullet wound with a band-aid. Wasn't adrenaline supposed to work its way out of your system in a few hours? He didn't know, he'd never had the guts to look it up, afraid it would give him answers that proved him to be the freak he'd always thought he was. The simple fact of the matter was that people can't exist without sleep. It was impossible. But he dealt with things normal people would call impossible every day, things that most people thought only existed in science-fiction, maybe he was just another freak of nature. He wasn't even sure if that was a good or bad thing.

His stomach rumbled lowly and he rolled his eyes, yet another lovely side-effect of his insomnia making itself known. His Dad often grumbled about Dean eating him out of house and home, but it wasn't exactly a walk in the park for him either. Being awake nearly twice as much as was normal, meant he had to eat nearly twice as much as was normal. Living on a steady stream of M&Ms and Beef Jerky didn't the hunter maketh. Hell, combine that with the few gallons of coffee he had to drink every day (just for that extra kick) and it's amazing his heart is even still beating with all the crap it has to pump round.

Well, unless he was going to stoop to a new low and eat the rest of the Twinkie that had been sitting in the glove compartment for nearly a year, then his stomach was just going to have to suck it up. Maybe that's how he achieved this science-be-damned trick. He was doing it to himself, controlling his body so sternly it did whatever he asked. Perhaps some gut feeling had been woken that night, warning him that his family was in danger now, and that he had to protect them, keep them safe, watch over them, all the time, never resting, and his body responded.

His Dad tried to make him a perfect soldier. He had no idea how well he'd succeeded.

"Dean." He near jumped out of his skin at the voice.

"Sam! Don't do that!" He hissed. Shooting a glare towards the back of the car.

"Sorry." He said gently, giving Dean a curious look as he climbed into shotgun, careful not to wake Dad as he moved. "I didn't mean to." He slid into the seat, leaning up against the window as he turned to face Dean.

"Yeah whatever. How long you been awake?"

"Long enough to see you sitting there looking like you're sucking on a lemon. What's up?" and there it was. A perfect opening. He could tell him. Get this damn weight off his shoulders. He probably wouldn't tell him everything. Admitting you're some kind of weirdo freak who's been lying to everyone he cares about isn't the sort of thing you can get out in one go. Maybe he'd start with something small, seemingly insignificant. Maybe those words he'd tried so many years ago, "I can't sleep", would be a good start.

But he knows he can't. Knows it would open the floodgates and everything would come pouring out. Knows he'd have to look into those brown eyes as they fill with confusion, hurt and worry. He'd have too much to explain, too many secrets to tell, and he knows Sammy. He'd want more. More reasons, more answers, and he'd probably never forgive him for keeping it from him. He couldn't handle that.

It's why Sam will never understand. Ever since he learned to speak he's wanted better than this life, a normal life, and he's never understood why Dean doesn't. Of course he does. No-one in their right mind wants to see the things they see. But he's got no choice. Even if he didn't have to stick around to look after Dad and Sammy, even if they manage to finally kill that yellow-eyed son of a bitch, he's trapped in this life. Adrenaline. He needs it. He's not ashamed to say he's addicted to it. Without it he might as well be in a coma for all the difference it would make. He'd go back to that half-dead feeling he's tried to shut out from his childhood. He doesn't want this life – he needs it.

"Nothing Sammy. I'm fine."

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A/N Hmm . . . . I'm sure you can pick a hundred holes in this, but it just would not leave me alone! I know I SOB'd John a little more in this shot, but I figure that he was going through a lot, and someone said I was kinda soft on him last time S This is only my second time writing angst and I'm still trying to sort out the style, so any comments, good or bad, would help me greatly for next time. x