Title: Perchance to Dream (5/6)
Spoilers: "Nightmare" (very vague), plus the show up 'til now
Summary: Dean helps Sam sleep, with unexpected consequences.
Author's notes: With ever-increasing gratitude to Faye, who has been the engine behind this train. Heartfelt and continued thanks for all of the kind reviews! Glad you all arestill reading!
Disclaimer: The mistakes are the only things I can truly call my own.
Perchance to Dream Part V: Into the Fire
Sam surfaced slowly, agonizingly, pulling his way toward consciousness as though he were moving through quicksand. His eyes wouldn't cooperate – first one would open, and then the other, but they wouldn't rise in tandem or show more than slits of light. His body wasn't cooperating either. His head still felt detached, his arms and legs pinpricked and heavy. He groaned as he tried to push himself up, all of his energy going into simply not sinking back to the welcoming warmth of the bed. He had to get up, had to move, had to not be sleeping anymore. That was paramount.
His energy gave out halfway up, and his head dropped back to the pillow, arms still flexed as they tried to hold him. He swallowed, then swallowed again, trying to rid his mouth of its dry, cotton-filled feeling. It didn't quite work . . . His whole body didn't quite work, but he wasn't giving up yet.
Time passed – maybe a few minutes, maybe quite a bit longer – and Sam felt some of the tingle, the buzzing just below the surface of his skin, fade.
Again, he attempted to sit up. Somehow, he managed to rise enough to not only keep his head up but maneuver his legs so that they were in front of him, his back to the room. The bed was still spinning in slow arcs that made him drag his hands up to his head to try to hold it in place. He brought his knees up and under his chin to rest his head there. He didn't have the strength to hold it up without support.
At least I'm finally awake, he thought, and a sob suddenly rose from his chest. He bit his lip hard to keep from letting it out, and tried equally as hard to block out the memory of the nightmares he'd had. They were still so vivid. He still see them, could almost reach out and touch –
He didn't want to remember. The dreams had never been that bad before. Any one of them, on their own, would have been enough to haunt his waking moments, but altogether . . . Dean, Jess, Dad, Mom . . . oh, God. The litany of names kept repeating itself over and over in his head, each one more painful than the last.
It didn't take much for him to connect the common threads between them. All of them, the four people he had ever loved, the only ones who had ever loved him back, saw him as a demon. You are the destruction. You are the destruction. You are the –
"No!" Sam covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the damning words. He wouldn't believe it, couldn't believe it. Because if he was, if he truly was what they said, if he was responsible for the deaths and the pain and the devastation of his family . . .
"Finally starting to figure it out, there, eh, Sammy?"
Dean's voice was whip-sharp, cutting through Sam's lingering haze. There was no confusion this time: Sam knew that this wasn't his brother.
Sam's still-recovering body couldn't keep up with his brain, though, and he only managed to twist on the bed rather than jumping up the way his nerves were commanding.
"You – you –" Obviously, his mouth wasn't keeping up either, and it took him several attempts to sputter, "You can't be here. I'm awake. You're not here anymore."
Dean barked a laugh. "You know, kid, I really gave you far more credit than you deserved. Big, bad college boy with his Stanford education and his law school aspirations and he still doesn't get it."
The .9 millimeter was back in Dean's hand and he was tapping it against his forehead again, punctuating his last three words.
Sam finally lifted himself off the bed. His whole body tensed, trying to prepare for what was coming next.
But there was no way to prepare for it.
"What do you think we've all been trying to tell you, bro?" Dean advanced in slow, patient steps, as though he was trying not to spook his brother. His measured approach had the opposite effect.
"I don't know." Sam retreated equally slowly, his eyes frantically scanning the room and marking exit paths. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"You are the destruction, Sammy. It's been you since the day you were born. We all knew it. Maybe we didn't want to believe it, but there's really no denying it, is there?" Dean was just so damned conversational about it. He could have been talking about the weather or the Super Bowl or the versatility of table salt versus rock salt. Rock salt packs a punch, but table salt is so much more portable, and by the way, you know you're it, right? The thing we've been hunting? Funny how life works out that way. But instead, he was talking about Sam, about Sam being the force behind the evil the Winchesters had warred against with for 23 years.
It was Dean's tone that halted Sam in his tracks, even as Dean continued to move forward. If there had been even a hint of malevolence in Dean's voice, Sam would have moved. Would have gathered whatever wits he still had left and galvanized his tired body into action and run.
But Dean went on, kept talking like it was the most natural, normal thing in the world to say these things, to mean them. "Think about it, Sammy. Mom, Jess, me – you killed all three of us."
Sam shook his head in mute denial, but Dean overrode his objections. "Come on, little brother. I mean, I'm still here, but we both know you pulled the trigger. Shoot to kill, right? Aim for the heart. Dad taught us well."
Dean brought the gun back to his temple, gently cocking and squeezing the trigger. "Mom. Jess. Me. Who should the fourth one be? Dad?"
Sam still said nothing and Dean raised his eyebrows. "Is that it, Sam? You want more blood on your hands? Round things out with the old man? I know you have your issues with him, but I've got to say, I'm surprised."
Dean shook his head, gently chiding. "I told you you were a selfish bastard. Guess I was more right than I knew, huh?"
"What are you talking about?" Sam felt like the words were wrenched from him. "I'm not going to kill Dad! I didn't kill anyone!"
"Sam, we've been over this. You know I'm telling the truth. You know it. Why do you think you keep dreaming about it? Night after night, the same dreams. Night after night, you kill us all. You know. You've always known."
Dean was standing next to him now, and Sam couldn't even breathe. Any thoughts of this just being a dream, something he could wake up from, run from, hide from – all had disintegrated. Dean leaned in, his mouth inches from Sam's ear, and Sam knew what he was going to say even before he started speaking.
"You. Are. The. Destruction." Dean's whisper was sympathetic. Almost.
All of Sam's defenses crumbled. He had nothing left.
"I am the destruction." Guilt. Agony. Acceptance.
Dean shifted, bringing his forehead to rest against Sam's. Sam's eyes slid shut. He was so tired. Empty. Worn through to his very bones.
"You know what you have to do, don't you?"
And Dean nodded with him.
"It's got to end, right? And there's only one way to end it."
"I know." Sam swallowed thickly. If he had thought about it, his calm in this moment would have surprised him. But there was no fight left in him. He almost felt . . . at peace. At last, there was a way to atone for his sins.
He felt Dean place the gun in his hand, felt him wrap his fingers around the grip. They nodded again, as one, and Dean backed away.