Part 10

Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006

As Dean saw it, he had two options—run for the room and weapons, or stand his ground and wait to see what the figure at the bottom of the stairs had in store for him. Screaming out for his brother was a third option, but it didn't occur to him.

Straining eyes into the dark, he stood his ground. He didn't smell ozone, he didn't smell sulfur, and even if he had he might have still chosen what he did—retreat being a difficult concept for him even in the worst of times. Not that he wasn't ever willing to do it—the run and hide back-up plan had worked for him before and eventually he'd draw on it again. But it'd take more than this unknown entity at the bottom of the steps to provoke it.

He stepped closer to the railing, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. And whether his brain accepted it or not, his brother's name built itself into the back of his throat.

Below him, the face angled, moonlight catching the fine features. It looked like—

"Charlie? Is that you?"

—Sara?

Dean relaxed faintly, settled his hand on the banister and took a step down. Still wary, because the hair on the back of his neck was tingling upright, itching. "Sara?" he questioned aloud.

"Dean?" The hushed-harsh whisper of his name drifted up the stairs sharply.

"Yeah," he returned, moving farther down, sweeping his tired eyes into the shadows through the vastness of the large room. He didn't have Sam's 'weird vibes sometimes' but he had his own feelings—whether gut or experience he didn't know and didn't care. Even when the empty room testified to nothing but calm silence he kept his muscles tense, maintaining a vigilant stance all the way down to the base of the staircase where he could see, more or less, that the swaying female he'd seen from the top really was Sam's quiet friend.

"Didn't mean to startle you," he said to her, voice as hushed and harsh as hers had been—rough, with lack of sleep.

Close up, he could easily make out the mousy color of her ponytailed hair. Could see she was barefoot like he was—dressed in a t-shirt and some form of printed pajama-pant. From the moonlight through the arching sun-optimized windows above the front door, he could even see the goose pimples rising across her arms.

But he couldn't really see her eyes. For some reason, that bothered him.

She was still swaying. That part hadn't been his imagination. And she held a beer in one hand—which surprised him. Not that the average person wasn't allowed to grab a cold one in the middle of the night but, so far, Sam's friends had shown themselves to be comparatively tame and pretty much exactly what Dean expected—so not the party crowd. These were the students that bonded over corn chips and Ho Hos during weekend study sessions, regularly met together at the same table in the school library, played Saturday morning basketball while quizzing each other for Monday's exam, and were more likely to use a mug of warm milk—not cold beer—to cure insomnia.

"What are you doing up?" asked Sara, lifting the glass bottle to her lips, tilting liquid into her throat.

Dean could see her swallow. "What are you?" he countered—habit. Never answer a question you don't want to if you don't have to—especially when it's too tiring to come up with a lie—and too easy to deflect.

"Can't sleep," she admitted, turning her back to him as she sat on the bottom step, settling the bottle next to her foot.

"Why not?" he questioned, seating himself guardedly at her side.

The shadows in the room deepened. Dean looked up through the windows to see clouds moving over the moon. A faint wash of cool air ran across his arms, ruffling the loose hang of his t-shirt and he checked his head slowly, glancing left, right, and behind him—back up the stairs—because it bothered him when he couldn't tell where a breeze was coming from.

Feeling a little paranoid, he turned back to Sara. The residual moon glow caught her eye-whites. She was watching him.

"You'll laugh," she said softly. It took him a second to remember he'd asked her a question.

"How do you know I'll laugh?" he shrugged. "You don't even know me."

"Ah—" she hissed, "but I know your brother. And if you're anything like him, I'm betting you're pretty well based in reality."

Dean had two thoughts simultaneously. You don't really know my brother—and—I'm nothing like Sam. He felt his stomach tighten and his throat constrict. He hated that her statement brought his thoughts to the one wearisome thing he'd actually been able to avoid thinking about through his wakefulness—namely, the wonder of what Stanford-Sam had been like. The wonder of whether Stanford-Sam might have really been better off without his family.

It bothered him that there were years of Sam's he couldn't touch and might never fully comprehend. Just as there were vast parts of himself Sam wouldn't ever totally grasp. The irony and hypocrisy of this being that Dean felt he was supposed to hold some of himself apart. Sam wasn't.

He'd listened to the stories Sam's friends had shared that evening with a touch of disbelief. He'd felt Sam wanting him to listen, wanting him to know—but it'd left him with questions. It'd left him wanting the picture to be completed, wanting to know more about how Sam had been and what he'd been like—those years away. The years he'd somehow pretended away the supernatural, his family's obsession, even his family itself. The amazing aspect of each story becoming evidence that somehow during those years, the supernatural had left Sam alone as well—as if it had pretended him away—returning to Sam only when Dean had.

The whole idea of normal—all those intimate details Sam's friends had revealed—it was like a fairytale to Dean. More out there than anything he could imagine, because he was sure, if he'd ever tried for normal the way Sam had, the supernatural would have followed him. No question. It didn't matter if the belief was irrational. It was something Dean knew—intrinsically.

He was Dean Winchester.

No matter how far he ran—if he were ever inclined to—the supernatural would find him. It always did—sought out his worst fears and forced him repeatedly to confront them. Like it knew him. Intimately. Better than anything or anyone.

All this—Sam's Stanford life, his friends, this girl sitting next to him who talked with Sam about the grossness of hotdogs and studying for the LSAT—this was unnatural. This was the fairytale. So no matter what Sara said, Sam wasn't all that well based in reality.

Which brought a third thought to Dean's mind—that depends on what you call reality. This thought was safe enough to verbalize and after another half second, he did.

Sara's eye-whites flashed in response, holding stationary long enough for Dean to see she was evaluating his statement. "If you laugh," she tempered, "I get to say I told you so."

"Okay," he answered—easy.

"Tonight—in the canyon?" She played with the glass bottle, rolling it in her hands, thunking it inadvertently against the corner of the wood step. "Before all the fog came in… I thought I saw… something."

Dean's eyebrows twitched. The rest of him stilled. "What did you see?"

Her shoulders whispered upward in a shrug. "I'm not certain." She fidgeted with apparent indecision, then, turning more fully to him, continued, "Fog can play tricks on you."

Though eyes were mostly shadow to him, and white with wide, Dean could tell she was waiting for confirmation. He dropped his chin downward in vague agreement, staying silent. Yes, fog can play tricks on you… sometimes those tricks are deliberate, he thought.

"There was a sound, before the fog… like a radio turning on or… white noise?"

The EMF meter—Dean knew—she was referring to the EMF.

"And then Sam told everyone to hang onto each other. And the fog came. But just before it covered us I could swear there was this… person… this face… right behind you."

Dean blinked, groaning internally. Standing behind them? There'd been something standing behind them? Could this damn ghost scenario get any more complicated? He ran a hand over his short hair, openly frustrated, reviewing his memory. He remembered, before the fog covered them, the ghost—whether man or woman—had disappeared from the log. It was entirely possible that it had reappeared behind them—behind him or Sam, ready to pull them apart, take Sam into the haze. He cursed himself for not sensing it.

Reining in his reaction he looked back at Sara. "Male or female?" he asked, trying to make the question casual enough for Sara not to start viewing him with the fear of insanity she felt was already in her.

She didn't answer right away.

The room was brightening, blue in hue, clouds splitting around the moon, releasing it from cover.

Dean could see Sara better now and was instantly disconcerted to see she was smiling at him. "Sara?" he questioned warily.

Her head tilted to the side, features continuing to sharpen in the moonlight. The smile stayed. "I don't know," she whispered, "if it was a man or a woman… but it looked lonely and—" Sara's eyes caught his, and though it might have just been a trick of the moonlight, they glowed darkly as her voice deepened and taunted, "it was really mad at you."

Dean tightened his hands on the lip of the stair below him, ready to push himself up, thinking of a dozen fight or flight scenarios, and his run and hide back-up plan. And he was wondering if he and Sam shouldn't have been brushing up on their exorcism and ghost expulsion rituals. Then again maybe this wasn't possession. Maybe this was just the way Stanford kids reacted to seeing ghosts.

Maybe they were all just this… creepy.

But his thoughts on the subject went no further. Unexpectedly, his attention was drawn urgently upward by an abrupt and aching shout splitting the air above him, around him—echoing, pierced and anguished.

"Sam," he recognized.

Because Sam's subconscious was Sam's subconscious, it couldn't leave his dream—his nightmare—at mere memory. Even if that memory was bad enough all on its own, his subconscious just had to change it, twist it, and give it the worst ending possible. And though Sam, even in the throws of his dream, could recognize where myth and reality diverged, he couldn't stop the terror the new twists sparked within him. He couldn't stop how real they felt.

So when he found himself sitting in the audience of Roy Le Grange's tent watching Dean being healed, he knew he was dreaming—remembered distinctly how it had gone before—and knew with certainty it wouldn't end like it had in real life.

"Sammy, what are you doing here?"

Sam peeled his eyes away from Dean on stage with Roy's hand at the side of his head to see his father sitting in the seat next to him, in the chair that Dean once occupied. He knew he wasn't real but—"Dad?"

"I asked you a question, son."

Sam stared and sound blinked out behind him—as though someone had pressed the mute button on everything but them, leaving Sam capable of hearing only Dad. "Yes, sir," he answered, feeling himself straighten. "I called you. I told you—Dean got sick. They said he would die and I… I brought him here to make him better."

John Winchester looked at him, smiled, then gave him the proud look Sam secretly felt was usually Dean's. "Good job, son—good thinking."

On stage Dean had dropped to his knees, at which point, in reality, Sam had started to panic. In this version he felt himself start to relax—felt his dad's arm settle strongly around his shoulders. "There's just one problem," said John, close to his ear, before squeezing his shoulder and standing, walking over to where Dean was now collapsing.

Wary, heart sinking, Sam followed.

John looked down at unconscious-Dean, then back to Sam, shaking his head. "He won't wake up now."

"What?" The tent, Roy, the crowd, they'd all faded to background—faded to black. Sam's world was himself, his father, and Dean at their feet. "Dad—I don't understand."

John set a hand on Sam's shoulder. "It's what comes after that you should worry about—what's in here," he said, tapping Sam's breastbone. "I think," said John, nudging Dean with his foot, "he's dead now."

Sam looked down at Dean, stunned by the casual pronouncement.

He dropped to grab Dean's sweatshirt, wanting to scream 'say something' like he had in reality, but something—something cold—latched onto his ankles and yanked, just as the words were trying to emerge. Viciously, Dean was wrenched in the other direction. Sam felt the material of Dean's sweatshirt sliding from his fists. "Dad?" he tried.

"Don't lose him now, son."

"Dad?"

Sam couldn't hold on. The grip of Dean in his hands vanished as they were ripped apart, leaving Sam feeling torn, fighting, and watching powerlessly as Dean was dragged away.

When he cast desperate eyes up, his father too disappeared.

Sam was left in darkness.

He opened his mouth, and with all his might—screamed.

Nightmares were nothing new for Sam. Waking from nightmares was nothing new for Sam. Everything about it too familiar—the feeling of disorientation, the readjusting seconds it took to remember where he was and what was actually real. The nearly always vibrant recollection of his dream's every detail lingering heavy in every limb.

Screaming out loud from a nightmare, however, was something new for Sam. He wouldn't have even realized he'd done it if it weren't for the raw feeling in his throat—the vibration of it lingering in his teeth, the echo of his own voice sounding in his memory, in the hollow of his ears. Once that piece fell into place the rest of what was happening started to make sense—helped him understand why he was tangled in bedcovers squinting into the bright at Blake who was standing next to the light switch on the wall with Garrett and Kim hunched in the door frame behind him—all three wearing expressions of the stunned-awake.

Sam groaned shakily, feeling every bit of what made this situation so not good. Yet the embarrassment he felt warred with panic when he realized Dean's face wasn't one of the concerned onlookers. Though he realized he was being fed by panic from his dream, he wanted Dean with him—urgently. And the only thing that kept him from crying out his brother's name was the basic instinct most kids develop by age eight which tells them they can no longer shout out for Mommy or Daddy or big brother in front of their friends without getting seriously made fun of later.

"Sam? You okay?" Blake took a step toward him.

Sam struggled upright, discovering his disorientation hadn't totally left him.

By the door, Garrett and Kim were suddenly shoved aside, and Dean appeared, breathing heavily. Sam caught his gaze and they stepped into one of those moments they would never talk about later—silently communicating—taking simultaneous breaths in relief of the other's apparent safety.

When the moment passed, Dean shook his head at Sam—rueful—then stepped into action, ushering the concerned onlookers out by the sheer weight of being Dean. Sam didn't know what he said to them, would maybe worry about it later, but when Dean closed the door, restoring their privacy, he was simply immensely glad everyone else was just gone.

"Thanks," he said, sliding his elbows out from under him to flop tiredly back to the mattress, trying to blank his mind of… everything. He closed his eyes and didn't even open them when the weight of Dean sunk the bed at his hip.

"Was it important?" Dean asked, after a minute—cautious—like he feared Sam could be sending them back to Lawrence come morning.

"No," he answered.

Silence, then, "You don't usually scream like that."

Sam swallowed. "I know—just a nightmare," he said. But he was remembering the way Dean had whispered 'just dizzy' in his ear, both in his dream and in reality, and he shuddered at the casual of his own voice.

"Sam," —warning.

"It was about you, okay?" he admitted, knowing nothing would get Dean to back off quicker, simultaneously angry with himself for capitalizing on the trait in Dean he found most frustrating—angry with himself for exploiting it, augmenting it—angry with himself for being grateful for it.

But Dean didn't say anything. The weight of him on the bed froze rather than shifted. Sam realized he'd have to say more this time before Dean would drop it—could hear Dean's voice in his head echoing from the time his dream really had sent them back to Kansas. Well tough—I'm not going anywhere until you do.

"Look," he said to Dean's silence, "it was nothing significant. Most of it was just—bad memories."

"About me? Impossible," Dean said easily, voice soft.

The exasperation and humor built in Sam even though he didn't want to let it. He was amazed again at how well Dean could do this to him, for him—turn terror into nothing. The corner of his mouth turned up involuntarily and he finally opened his eyes—caught Dean's serious look, and let the emotion built into his chest come out in a huff vaguely similar to laughter.

Without having to move much he smacked the pillow not under his head into Dean's sudden smirk.

"Hey," Dean grabbed the pillow away, holding it in front of him as he shifted position, turning away from Sam's hip, sliding his back up against the headboard, "I just tell it like it is—you're the smart one, I'm just pretty."

Sam found himself sliding up, sitting against the headboard along with him, shifting over unconsciously to make more room for his brother, reflecting on the fact that Dean's snarky clichéd comment couldn't be further from the truth. Dean didn't always tell it like it was, he was often the smart one, and right then he wasn't looking all that pretty. Sam bit his tongue against commenting on the last part, because even if Dean did look awful, he didn't want to fight.

Regardless, Sam's mood turned serious with the realization and Dean's mood seemed to follow suit.

"So—dreams about me that left you screaming. Shapeshifter?" Dean questioned softly, and Sam realized there was safety in sitting side by side, in not looking into each other's eyes.

"No," he denied.

"But you screamed," Dean insisted.

"You were dying," Sam shrugged, shoulder brushing Dean's, reality all to recent for it to feel like a dream.

"And?"

Sam chewed the inner part of his cheek—a growing bad habit. "And I couldn't stop it." He hoped Dean would leave it at that, because he didn't know how to explain the rest of it, and they'd probably just end up fighting about Dad.

Luckily, Dean dropped it. "Can you get back to sleep?" he asked.

"Can you?" Sam shot back, sliding down in the sheets. There were other things he could have asked, like, 'have you even slept yet?' or 'where were you when I woke the house screaming?' but he let those stay silent—the things he couldn't explain making him more sympathetic to things Dean probably thought he couldn't explain. But he watched as Dean got up from the bed, as he flicked off the light switch on the wall and returned them to semi-darkness.

He noticed then that the bathroom light was on but didn't comment on it, and he didn't comment when Dean pulled the EMF meter from one of their bags and set it on the desk near the door already turned on.

He watched Dean until Dean lay down—till he settled, till it seemed he was at least trying to sleep, before he closed his own eyes to try it again himself.

tbc