Title: Perchance to Dream (2/6)
Author: geminigrl11
Rating: Gen
Spoilers: "Nightmare" (very vague)
Genre: Angst
Summary: Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.
Author's notes: Thanks again to wonderful Faye, who made this so much more than it was.
Disclaimer: The mistakes are the only things I can truly call my own.
Perchance to Dream Part II: And in That Dreaming, Wake
Sam came awake with a start, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down in confusion, unable to remember having gone to bed. The 60-watt lights gave off a strange glow, leaving most of the room in flickering shadow. Everything looked right: the matching green paisley bedspreads, the water- and who-knows-what-else-stained carpet, the motel standard non-paintings hanging in cheap frames on faded blue walls. But something felt off. He searched his mind, trying to figure out what had awakened him, but there was nothing.
Dean sat on the opposite bed, methodically cleaning and oiling their rather impressive collection of guns. He glanced over as Sam vaulted into a sitting position. "'Bout time you woke up, Francis."
Sam blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. "Dean? Is everything ok?"
Dean didn't look up, his attention still focused on the weapon in his hand. "That really depends on your definition, doesn't it?"
Sam stared at him in bewilderment. "What do you mean?"
Dean didn't answer right away. Instead, he held up a pistol - the Glock .357 - testing its sites and making sure the chamber was empty before he snapped the trigger once, twice, three times, a fourth.
Sam cocked his head, studying his brother uncertainly. Dean was fastidious with their weapons. He kept several large, soft chamois cloths to lay them on for cleaning and storing. He never chanced scratching them – or having gun oil soak into cheap sheets, creating the need for late-night washings or early-morning explanations. To see the guns piled loosely on the nubby bedspread rather than laid out on chamois on the floor, sized biggest to smallest, as always, was just – wrong.
"I mean,"Dean enunciated slowly, as though he were talking to a child, "it depends on what you consider to be ok."
Sam blinked again, still trying to figure out what the hell Dean was talking about. His brother didn't usually go for this Cheshire cat, "Who are you?" kind of conversation, and Sam had no idea what could have provoked it now. Maybe they'd been talking about something before he fell asleep? He tried to remember, but the harder he tried, the more elusive his memories became. He vaguely recalled being in the car and driving, endlessly driving, to a destination he couldn't place. And the persistent, inconsolable ache in his head that muted out everything else. He shook his head tentatively, and realized the pain was gone.
That's what's wrong, Sam thought trying to find some sense among his muddled thoughts. No headache, but no vision, no dreams. No answers. Sam was usually reluctant to share what was going on inside his head until he had at least started to figure it out for himself. But this time, it was what wasn't going on that was unusual, and Sam didn't know what to make of it. "Dean, my headache's gone."
"Thanks for sharing." Dean sounded bored – possibly even annoyed that Sam had mentioned something so trivial. He picked up another handgun: this time, the .9 millimeter. He aimed it at one of the nondescript watercolors hanging on the wall. Again, he slid the chamber open to make sure there was nothing in it and then fired. One, two, three, four. The repetitiveness of his actions was starting to bother Sam, and he flinched in spite of himself. Dean never fired guns – even empty – indoors. Just in case. It was a safety measure their father had drilled into their heads from the moment he had first let them handle firearms.
"Why are you doing that?" Sam finally had to ask. He felt himself holding his breath as he watched Dean's unusual movements, almost afraid to hear the response.
Dean sighed exasperatedly, as though he couldn't believe Sam was asking a question with such an obvious answer. "Gotta make sure they don't jam at an inopportune time, now, don't we, Sammy? I wouldn't want to be stuck with a gun that wouldn't fire."
Something about the way he said it, the way he kept firing each gun four times . . . Sam's eyes widened, and he was suddenly back in Roosevelt Asylum, standing over his brother's prone form. " . . . go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it." He shivered at the memory and wondered again just what was going on with Dean. Sam had never seen him like this before – even that night. He was so detached, so cold, almost . . . menacing.
"What's more important is that you haven't answered my question. Let's stay focused, shall we, college boy? Is everything ok? This life working for you? After all, you left once. Was it worth coming back? Living out of places like this again -" he gestured to the paint-peeled walls and worn carpet with the gun, "- no friends, no ties to anyone, nonexistent father and more bad guys after you now than before you left?"
Sam's jaw dropped open. His heart raced with a dizzying mix of shock and confusion and the beginnings of a healthy dose of fear. This wasn't Dean.
"Who are you?" Sam could barely force the words from his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry. He looked to the pile of guns, wondering whether or not he could reach one before this - whatever it was - turned on him. His mind turned to thoughts of possession and shapeshifters and how the hell he was going to get out of this without a weapon.
Dean laughed, a low chuckle. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Now, I realize we haven't been exactly close these last few years, but you really should recognize your own brother."
Dean set the .9 millimeter on the bed and raised a shotgun, flipping it open to again reveal empty chambers. He tested the trigger just as he had with the others. Click. Click. Click. Click. The empty reports goaded Sam into action. He slowly started to back away, sliding across the rumpled sheets of his bed and easing his feet to the floor, one at a time. He was poised to run or fight, and expected the need for one or both to come instantly.
Dean merely looked at him, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly cocky way he'd perfected as a teen. "A little jumpy, there, aren't you, little brother?"
"Cristo." Sam all but hurled the word, and was utterly floored when Dean didn't flinch and his eyes didn't change.
Instead, he shook his head and laughed that low chuckle again, as though Sam were the most amusing thing in the world. "Now, really, Sammy, if someone's a demon here, do you really think it's me? Start using your head for a change." Dean tapped the barrel of the shotgun against his temple for emphasis. "That's just poor logic. Looks like someone needs to do a little more research."
Sam continued to back up without turning, hand fumbling for the door. He kept his eyes on his brother, but Dean didn't make a move toward him. He just moved on to the next gun, unfazed by Sam's growing panic.
"This isn't real." Sam's voice was just a whisper now, its uncertainty betrayed by a quiver he couldn't suppress. "You're not real."
Deanpulled another trigger– four quick snaps as the hammer closed.
"Whatever makes it easier for you to sleep at night, bro."
Sleep. Sleep. I'm still sleeping. This is a dream. It's just a dream. The words became almost a prayer as Sam struggled for control. Finally, his hand grasped the door handle. He turned it carefully, still wary of the form on the bed. He pulled the door open, still not looking behind him, and stepped back into the darkness.
Sam moaned softly in his sleep. Dean watched him for a moment, but Sam didn't move and the sound wasn't repeated. Hopefully, that was a good sign.
Dean wasn't used to seeing his brother rest so quietly, and he silently thanked his father for leaving the pills behind. They certainly seemed to be working a miracle this night, and Dean was grateful almost as much for himself as for his brother. It had been hard for him to sleep, knowing Sam couldn't, and he was fighting a healthy dose of fatigue himself. They'd both needed to recharge. This was the perfect opportunity for Dean to get a good night's rest, knowing his brother was safe, at least for the time being.
Dean stretched, raising tired muscles over his head with a satisfied groan. The guns were cleaned, the weapons sharpened, and he was ready for bed. He changed clothes and stood over Sam for another minute, drawing comfort from watching his brother's slow and steady breaths. He pulled the bedspread up where it had slid off Sam's shoulder, and then switched off the light. As he lay down, he slid his hand under the pillow, reaching for the familiar coldness of the steel blade he kept there. His fingers wrapped around it and he was asleep.