Author's Note: OKAY! I finally got my laptop back, and I am ready to fill you in on Sam and Jessica's messed-up relationship.

Chapter 10

Cleaning was exhausting. There was a lot to clean, you understand. And we never did make those cookies. Still, we had a lot of fun. Sam talked, which was a miracle if you ask me. It took about an hour, but finally, all the food was scraped away, and everything was cleaned up. So Sam and I settled down on the couch, buried under some blankets while we decided on a movie. Before I could even get a movie into the DVD player, though, Sam had fallen asleep. He had an uncanny ability of doing that sometimes.

So while I settled down beside him, I pressed play on the Runaway Bride. I snuggled close into my boyfriend and tucked an arm under my head, getting comfortable and ready to watch the movie. But with the stable drone of the television, Sam's steady breathing and warmth behind me, and my perfectly comfortable position tucked underneath his arm, I drifted off before the beginning credits even finished.

What feels like hours later, I wake up to Sam twitching behind me. Groggily, I sit up and turn to look at him, blinking with sleepy eyes. "Sam," I moan, shaking his shoulder. "Sam?" He doesn't wake up, but his twitching gets more intense. "Sam, I'm serious!" I say, giving him a shove. He mumbles something and twitches again. "What, are you having a seizure or something?" I mumble. "Cute, Sam, seriously. It's not funny."

A few moments later, he hasn't opened up his eyes. Confused, I poke his chest.

"Sam?"

"Deeeean?" Sam mutters in his sleep, starting to toss more violently than before.

"No, Sam, it's… Sam, what is going on with you?" I ask, giving his shoulder a shake. "Oh!"

Sam's arm darts out and smacks mine away. And when his arm finishes its full swing, he's smacked me clear across the face. I fall off the edge of the couch, clutching at my cheek while he starts screaming bloody murder, back arched, like he fighting off a shooting pain running through his body. His hands are clutched so tightly around the fabric of the couch that he could rip holes out of it. I scoot back across the rug, crawling backwards, hand pressed to the bridge of my cheek. Sam is yelling as loudly as he can now, saying nothing at all, just screaming.

"Dad!" I screech. "Dad, come quickly! Dad!"

My dad sprints down the staircase as fast as he can and stops in the living room where he sees me on the floor with a splash of pink across my face and Sam shaking and screaming on the couch. "Jessie?" he asks, kneeling on the ground beside me to look at my face. He reaches out gently to touch it, but I tear myself away.

"Dad! Sam! Look at him! Stop him! Make him stop!"

Dad stands up and cautiously tries to reach out to my boyfriend when all of a sudden, Sam darts straight up, eyes wild, face shining with sweat. "NO!" he roars. For a moment, the room goes silent, the only noises Sam's heaving breathing and the murmur of a newscaster, talking about the sudden disappearance of so-and-so from the Summit Mall (Runaway Bride is apparently long over). Sam blinks wearily into the dim light flashing off the television screen, taking deep breaths until he composes himself enough to get another word in edgewise. "I… What happened?" he asks a bit breathlessly.

"You… you started twitching," I say, shakily getting to my feet with hot tears blurring my vision. I can't help it. It's hard to see my boyfriend like this. And it hurts to get smacked in the face by a man that was as strong as Sam. "I thought it was just another one of your bad dreams, thought I could just shake you awake. So I tried to wake you, and you… wouldn't wake up."

"Jessie yelled for me, and I came down," Dad finished my story, sensing how upset I am. "Son, are you all right?" he asks Sam carefully, eying my boyfriend as he runs a hand over his face.

Sam doesn't say anything. He just nods and slowly pans his gaze across the room, as if somehow, while he was sleeping, the furniture rearranged itself, and something was out of place. When he finds what he doesn't know that he's searching for, his jaw drops open a fraction, and his eyes widen. "Jess, your face—!" he exclaims, fumbling out of the folds of the throw blanket and jumping off the couch.

"It's fine," I tell him, turning my face away and placing a hand on my red cheek. "It hardly hurts," I lie.

"Shit, Jess…" Sam whispers, gently reaching out to me.

To my horror, my dad steps in between us.

"Sam, I think it would be better if you and I had a talk outside for a minute," he says quietly. He's not angry or accusing. He sounds worried, concerned for Sam's well being but mostly for my own.

"Dad, he didn't—," I start to say.

"Jessica, please. It won't take long," Dad cuts me off. Dad and I both stare pointedly at Sam, both of our eyes begging him for different responses. Sam, always a sucker for authority figures, casts his gaze at the ground.

"Of course, Dr. Moore," he says and starts towards the kitchen where he can exit through the back door. I grab my dad by the shoulder and pull him back, tear-filled blue eyes shining, worried.

"Daddy, he didn't mean it," I tell him quietly. "Honestly, we were just sleeping. I don't know what happened."

"Well, maybe he does," Dad says and tries to start off to the kitchen.

"Daddy, wait," I say. He stops and turns to look at me. "What are you going to say to him?"

"I'm just going to ask him what happened, Jessie," Dad says. "Sweetheart, what I want you to do is getting some ice for your cheek and go and call your mother, okay?"

"Dad—"

"Jessica Lee, do as I say," he says sternly giving me that look that makes me feel like I'm five years old all over again.

"Yes, Daddy." I hang my head and stomp to the kitchen. I open up the freezer door and grab out one of our ever-handy ice packs and place it to my cheek. When Dad looks at me, I gave him the most sarcastic smile I can. He shakes his head and walks outside to meet Sam. When the door clicks shuts, I let out an angry growl and chuck the ice pack at it. "You big jerk," I mumble while grabbing the home phone. I dial Momma's number, though I'm not sure how I remember it because I'm so mad. And I wait. I strain my ears to listen for something outside, but there's only a low murmur from Sam and Dad. I can't understand a word they're saying. "Momma, it's me," I say quietly, just in case Sam says something loudly. I don't want to miss the opportunity to hear it.

"Hello, Jessica," Mom says. She sounds busy, with all this bustling in the background. I can't believe that Dad is making me bother her for something as little as this."Do you need something, sweetheart?"

"Dad says you have to come home," I say, leaning slyly to the side to see if I can get a look out the window at my boyfriend and my father. "But you don't really have to."

"Why? Did something happen?" Mom puts her hand over the receiver, but I can hear her say, "Ashley, I'm going home now. Something came up. Can you handle everything?" I roll my eyes. She doesn't need to come home. I just told her that. "Is everything all right, Jessie?"

"Everything is fine," I say tensely. "Dad's freaking out over nothing. There's nothing wrong."

"Well, that doesn't sound like your father, does it?" Mom says. I hear her car keys jingle in her hand. "He normally doesn't make mountains out of mole hills, does he?"

It's true. Dad's the calmest man I've ever met. All those years in the ER have trained him to deal with most situations with the most serene attitude ever. It's something that I need to learn because I tend to blow up at the slightest crisis. But this time, there is no crisis, which is why I'm not a blubbering mess on the phone right now. I trust Sam. He would never have done something like this on purpose. It was a bad dream, right? Just a bad dream.

"Yeah, well, this time he is," I say noncommittally. "Maybe he's getting soft with his old age."

"Jessica, would you like to tell me what's going on?" Mom asks as I hear her car door slam, and the engine on Dad's old pick-up truck rev. Mom needed the heavy duty car to get through the slush on the roads safely today.

"Mom, seriously, I think you're taking this a bit too far," I tell her with a roll of my eyes that I know that she can hear in my voice. "Dad just asked me to call you, so I am. We have a bit of situation that is completely under control and can wait until you get home. Sam had a nightmare—"

"Oh, is he all right?" my mom asks, like she's concerned about her own child.

"Yes, Momma, he's fine," I say, "but when you get home, can you not listen to a word that Daddy says? He's really over reacting. I'll tell you the real story after you get back from work, but don't let Dad fool you."

"I'll tell you what," Mom says, always ready to make a compromise to make everyone happy. "I'll go run a few errands that I didn't run earlier and then I'll come home."

I sigh. It's better than nothing. "Fine, but take your time."

"Jessica, wait, before you go, what's Sam's favorite color? I think I'm going to knit him a scarf for Christmas," she says absently as she charges her hand noisily through the depths of her purse. I can hear Dad's murmurs out the door; I'm desperate to get to Sam and my father's conversation.

"It's blue, Momma," I say, "and his favorite cookies are chocolate chip," I tell her before she asks. "I have to go pee. Love you, Momma, bye!" Then I hang up, and I rush up to the back door, straining my ears to listen to what Sam and my dad have been saying.

"…Sam, you know I need to ask you what really happened back there," Dad says. Just in time. Dad's already buttered him up with his usual "I'm-Going-To-Be-Really-Nice-And-Then-I'm-Going-To-Drop-A-Bomb-On-You" talk, and now he's getting to the awful part. I'm not listening for Sam's answer, not entirely. If I've learned anything at all this trip, it's that I can wait for Sam to be ready to tell me. It's my dad I'm mostly listening for. If he says one thing out of line, just one thing, I'm going to storm out there and throw the nearest thing I can get my hands out at him. Which I'm pretty sure is a charcoal grill, so he better hope he stays in line. But then I have to remember that it's my dad that I'm stalking. He's never done anything out of line in his life.

"Yes, sir," Sam murmurs.

"What happened back there?"

"I think I just had a bad dream, sir," Sam says quietly. I bite my lip. He's nervous as hell. The only time he uses "sir" this often is when he's really scared about something. He did the same thing when he went to talk to his economics professor about the exam results.

"You think?"

"Well, I don't know," Sam says. "I had no idea that I was going to wake up and… I swear, sir, I would have been no where near Jessica if I had any idea that I was going to hit her."

"Samuel, enough with this 'sir' thing. I'm not your drill sergeant," Dad says gently with a quiet laugh. He's trying to put Sam at ease. He can tell my boyfriend is anxious, but I don't think anything is going to work on him today. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just trying to help you out."

"There's nothing wrong," Sam tries to convince my dad.

"I'm going to have to disagree with you on that one," Dad says. "Considering what I just saw, I'm going to have to guess that something is wrong."

"There isn't, though."

"Then I'm just going to have to assume that you're dangerous and ask you to leave my house." Silence. "You know, you're lucky that you didn't do anything worse, or you and I would have a big problem," Dad says agitatedly. See? Not as easy as it looks, is it, Pops? Sam says nothing. I'm pressed so hard against the door, I feel like I have splinters in my ear. Dad sighs and says gently, "This is strictly between you and me, Samuel. I'm not going to tell Jessica or anyone else if you don't want me to."

Sam hesitates. I feel like he knows I'm listening.

"I just want to know what I can do to help," Dad pushes easily. "I'm concerned about your well-being. Because whatever happened back there doesn't seem like it's going to be very healthy in the long run, does it?"

"They're just nightmares," Sam mutters.

"I can see that," Dad says. Then he waits patiently for more that Sam probably won't give him. I feel my dad's frustration. This is an everyday battle with Sam and me.

After a moment of intensely awkward silence, Sam says, "And that's it. I don't see how you can help with that. Everyone has nightmares, Dr. Moore."

Dad hates being called Dr. Moore, but he ignores it for now and goes on. He determined to figure my boyfriend out. I mean, really, you can try, Daddy, but you're not going to get too far. Sam's a brick wall of emotion. You'll never get anything out of him. "Not everyone wakes up screaming."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"Son, if you're dating my daughter, you're part of this family, whether you want to be or not," he tells him with an edge of laughter in his voice. "We just want to make sure that you're okay. We're not attacking you, Samuel. We want to help."

"I appreciate it, I really do. But there's nothing wrong," Sam insists.

Dad sighs. He's giving up, which is weird. Dad never gives up on anything. "Then I'm going to have to ask you to sleep in the guest room for the rest of your visit, Samuel," he says, defeated. "I can't have you hurting my daughter. I know it was an accident, but it's not going to happen again, you understand." He wasn't being bossy. He was being as gentle as he possibly could, and part of me agreed with him. That had hurt. It was still stinging like a bitch. But still, wasn't that my decision if I didn't want Sam to sleep near me again?

"Dr. Moore—," Sam starts.

Dad cuts Sam off. "I'm sorry, but if I need to do my job as a father, I can't let her near someone who refuses to get help."

Dad's a manipulative little bitch. Is no one else seeing this?

I hear the crunch of snow as he paces around the thin layer on our porch. Impatiently, I find myself breaking my promise to him. I'm listening for his answers instead of asking. I'm stalking and prying, and it's wrong, but a selfish part of me knows that this may be the only chance I get to get a look inside my boyfriend's mind. I can't miss this opportunity. I know I can't.

"I've had nightmares since I was little," Sam admits with a sigh. "Really… awful, vivid nightmares." He pauses, as if that's all the explanation he's going to give, but apparently Dad has silently urged him along, and he speaks uneasily once more. "I don't remember when they started. My brother says I've been having them for almost as long as he can remember. Sometimes I wake up screaming, sometimes I wake up crying, and sometimes I wake up without doing anything at all. Jessica knows about them," he tells my Dad. "She's woken me up from a couple. I've told her about them." Yeah, barely.

"Do you have any idea what causes these dreams?" Dad asks patiently. I swear, if he wasn't such a renowned cardiologist now, he would make a great psychologist. "Any triggers that make them happen?"

There's a long pause. Sam mutters something that I can't hear, and Dad quietly presses for an answer. It's a few moments of hushed conversation before I finally hear Sam say, "I just… don't feel comfortable talking about this, Dr. Moore."

Anxiously, I squeeze closer to the door to hear better. "Fair enough," Dad says. He always knows what issues to stop pressing. "Though if you don't mind my asking, can you tell me what the dreams are about?"

Sam's silent. I'm practically clawing my way through the back door in eagerness for his answer. Somehow, I restrain until I hear Sam's choked voice through the crack. "I don't really want to talk about that either, sir."

"How often do you have these dreams?" Dad asks, pretending that he never asked the last two questions so Sam doesn't have to feel awkward about not being able to answer them. He's pretending to be considerate, but I can see right through that. My dad is a manipulative dick.

"Not very often," Sam says, though one can't be too sure if that's the truth. Just because he doesn't wake up screaming or crying doesn't mean that he doesn't have the nightmares on other nights. "A few times every couple months, I guess."

"Are they always like this?"

"Absolutely not, sir, no," Sam says instantly. "I've never done anything like that. I've yelled before, I guess. At least Jessica told me that I have. But I've never… been violent." If that was him being violent. He didn't mean to hurt me. He was just swinging his arm out.

"How long has this been happening?"

Factual history questions seem to put my boyfriend at ease today when normally they would have him running for the hills. Then again, Dad's gone the whole emotional route, and I'm sure these cold had facts are easier to talk about then how Sam feels.

"Since I was really little, my brother told me," Sam admits. "When I was really young, I'd just… I'd shake and cry, and no one could wake me up. Doctor called them night terrors, I think, but we never really knew if that was right."

In my mind's eyes, I can see Dad nod sagely. He knows all about those. "Sierra had those when she was about two years old," he says knowledgably. I could remember those days. Sure, I was only about five, but they were pretty frightening. She'd shriek at the top of her lungs. She'd shake or thrash in bed, and no matter what we all did, she just wouldn't wake up. So I spent a good couple of months sleeping in her room and going over to soothe her sleeping body while she whimpered. "Have you tried to get help for these? Have you seen a therapist? Or a sleeping clinic, maybe?"

A therapist? Dad, you're funny.

Sam, as I can imagine, shakes his head. He says, "I mean… well, truth is, ever since I met Jess, they got better." In spite of this nasty situation, I feel my heart warm a little bit. "I've never… I've never hit her before, Dr. Moore. I swear," he promises again, desperately.

Dad sighs. "I don't doubt you, Samuel," he says. "But now I have to doubt whether or not it will happen again in the future."

"Sir, I would never—"

"Not on purpose, but it seems that these are pretty random," Dad points out. "What if this happens when it's just you two in your home? What do I do then? I can't knowingly put my daughter in that danger." Not again. He was livid when he found out about Clay. Wouldn't let another boy look at me until I left for college, and even then, he was a bit crazy. A mixture of Sierra's constant reminders that he could go to jail and Mom's gentle but stern prodding got him to let go of that, lucky for Sam.

"What do you want me to do?" Sam asks earnestly. "I'll do anything."

"I think you and I need to have a nice long talk, Samuel," Dad says with a sigh. "About you and your father's relationship."

"My dad—?" Sam starts, confused.

At this, I'm scrambling, wrenching the door open. Dad isn't supposed to know what I said about John. I wasn't supposed to talk to him about it. I told Sam that I wouldn't talk to anyone ever again about Mr. Winchester, and right now, I really just don't want to upset Sam any more than he probably already is.

He has a point, though, now that I think about it. Now that I know for sure that Sam's dad was abusive, it would make sense that his dreams would have a connection. Maybe talking about it is all that Sam needs. Get it off his chest, and the bad dreams go away? It could work, or it could completely backfire. It just sort of depended on what mood Sam happened to be in when my father spoke to him.

"Momma's on her way home," I say when both men remain silent for a moment. "Do you want me to set the oven, and I can start a frozen pizza for lunch or something? Sierra should be home soon, and you know how hungry she gets."

Dad slowly takes his gaze off my boyfriend. "That sounds great, sweetheart. Thank you. Sam, why don't we talk later, all right, son?"

Sam nods slightly. "Yes, sir."

Author's Note: A really long update? Forgive me for the long period between chapters... Again.