Chapter Five: In my mind's eye

Sam looked around his surroundings and frowned. Something was off.

He recalled vaguely the events of the last few days, no real clarity came with the memories, for he couldn't sort out what had actually happened and what he had dreamed – or hallucinated, as the case may be – it was all one big jumbled blob.

All he knew for sure now was that he was standing in a motel room, two identical twin beds in front of him and a small table to the left of them next to the standard motel room door.

The place held an air of familiarity, but he couldn't pinpoint where exactly he was, in which state he'd seen this room before.

He realized seconds later that it scarcely mattered.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean spoke quietly, and when Sam turned his head, the shorter man was right in front of him, where only thin air had been moments before.

"Dean…" He trailed off questioningly and before he could regain any sense of clarity, his big brother's arms were around him; a protective hug that he hadn't felt the security of since childhood.

Sam took a deep breath and relaxed against the elder man, letting his head fall against his shoulder and balling up the material of his shirt tightly in his palms, he took a few deep breaths and the world was suddenly alright again.

Dean had always had that power.

They stayed like that for much too long, much longer than they would have in the real world, anyway. They stayed like that until Sam no longer felt like the weight of the world had come up and placed itself on his shoulders, mocking all that he had lost.

The moment Sam loosened his grasp, and took a steadying breath, Dean pulled back slightly, questioningly. Only letting go entirely when the younger man nodded and lifted his head.

They sat down simultaneously then, each perching themselves on the edge of a mattress. The beds were close enough so that, when they leaned forward, their knees were only a few inches away from touching.

Sam spoke first. "So, I'm dreaming?"

Dean chuckled slightly. He still looked the same; he looked as Dean always did. Before his death, and when he was appearing to Sam. Healthy, Sam put a name to it, Dean looked healthy.

"What gave it away?" He was smirking slightly, and Sam felt in that moment that everything would be all right.

"The chick flick moment was a tip off," he announced, smiling slightly himself. "The abstract motel location and the fact that I can barely remember anything that's happened in the last few days really gave it away."

Dean's smirk changed suddenly to a frown, and Sam was a little taken aback.

"I can vouch for you on the first two," his voice was more serious, but not quite angst ridden enough to have Sam more than mildly concerned. "But the memory thing, that's kinda on you."

"Howdya figure?" Sam inquired.

"You might remember more when you wake up," Dean sighed, "But you nearly died the other night, Sammy."

Sam's gaze drifted off slightly, a glaze formed over his eyes, he looked back to Dean some undetermined amount of time later. "The cold."

"That would've beenthe snow," the elder reminded him lightly. "You sorta passed out in it."

"Yeah…" Sam remembered now, and the girl – the bartender's – words came back to him. "But you were there, you kept me safe."

Dean chuckled a dry, humorless chuckle. "I kept you alive," he edited and Sam's face screwed up slightly. "Safe…well, you haven't really been safe in a while, kiddo."

"Sure I have," Sam insisted, "I've been…I mean…its not like…"

Confused suddenly, he looked to his big brother for help, and Dean yielded without complaint. This whole situation, while Sam had realized logically that it was a dream of some sort, didn't feel like such. The dream aspect was simply floating around them pointlessly, a fact that both were happy to ignore.

Dean gladly interrupted his brother's fragmented sentences, filling them in with full thoughts.

"You can barely remember anything that's happened since," he took a breath, "Since the night I died, right?"

Sam cringed but answered without pausing, "Not right now." He admitted. "But you said it yourself, when I wake up…"

"Sammy," Dean cut off gently. "Ever since…since that night, something's been happening to you, something…not so normal."

"You're dead and I've been talking to you?" Sam guessed, because that he could remember with ease.

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "But do you know why?"

"Why?" Sam's thoughts muddled at the word. "What…what do you mean, 'Why?' Because you died and your ghost came…" Dean started shaking his head and Sam grew irritated. "What?" He insisted. "What else could have…"

"What do you remember about my funeral?" Dean questioned.

"What sorta morbid…" Sam's angry words were halted once again.

"Come on, little brother, just think about it for me. What do you remember?"

"Everything." Sam snapped then, because he wished more than anything that he didn't. "I remember everything. Why? What does any of this matter?"

"Because you've been fooling yourself, Sam." Dean told him in a steady, almost sympathetic, tone. "You don't remember."

"Stop saying that." Sam demanded. "Of course I do. It was your funeral. Of course I fucking remember."

"Sammy…"

"No," the younger man cut off this time. "I remember your coffin getting put in the goddamn ground, okay?" Tears clouded his words, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't believe anything else. "I remember watching it and trying so hard not to think anything, because I didn't want to start crying, because you would hate that."

Dean smiled slightly, but Sam went on, watching as the scene played out in his memory. "I remember talking to all of Dad's friends, all the people we knew when we were kids…I talked to them because dad didn't want to, and it would've been too rude to just ignore them after they flew all the way to Kansas, for…"

Sam took another deep breath, '…for your funeral' they both finished silently. "I remember Missouri being there…" he trailed off again, because he couldn't remember the specifics of that particular event.

He could tell his brother was a breath away from commenting on that so he continued quickly with, "And I remember seeing Cassie," Sam went on, ignoring the way Dean's sad eyes darted away from his at this point, he knew it was better than discussing his lost words with the psychic. "I didn't think a girl that strong could breakdown so completely, and I remember thinking, that if we had just stayedwith herafter that hunt, none of this would have happened, and you might be happy right now."

"Sam…" Dean tried then, because Sam was bordering on hysterics, but he couldn't stop. Not now.

"No," The younger man bit angrily. "I remember it all Dean. The people, the rain, Pastor Jim's eulogy. Caleb's wife couldn't stop crying, and I still don't know of she was just overly emotional or if you two have some sort of history…"

"I saved her life a few years back." Dean shrugged slightly. "Werewolf hunt gone wrong, nothing major."

Sam nodded, storing away the information before continuing. "I remember Dean, I remember it all."

"What happened when everyone left?" The elder man asked after a few moments of respectful silence.

"Huh?"

"After everyone left, when the funeral was over," his voice was gentle yet firm and Sam was having a hard time comprehending his words. "What happened then?"

The younger man didn't understand, and he shook his head slightly indicating such. "Nothing," he said as if it should have been obvious, his emotions were still winding down after having essentially relived his brother's entire funeral. "Me and dad stayed there for a while, then he left and…well, then you showed up."

"Sammy…" his voice was so laced with sadness; it made Sam want to cry just hearing it. "What did you and dad do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sam snapped, hands grasping his knees firmly, trying to release some of his building tension through the tightening grip.

"Yes you do," Dean instated softly, leaning slightly so that he was eye level with his younger brother. "You've just been blocking it out."

A vision of red-hot flames leapt at him then, and Sam jumped back instinctively.

"What…?" He was frightened now, and Dean was doing nothing, just staring steadily. Sam felt alone again as the heat came closer. He closed to his eyes to try and escape it, to hide from whatever was happening, and that's when he saw.

Sam was standing next to his father. Both of the remaining Winchester men had grim looks etched onto their faces, visible only by pale moonlight streaming through the graveyard.

"It's what your brother wanted." John spoke in a hallow tone and Sam didn't respond. He thought instead of the empty coffin they had lowered into the ground just hours ago, wishing with every thought he had that that had been the end.

When his only remaining son refused to answer, the eldest Winchester lit the match with shaking hands.

John had wanted to use Dean's last remaining silver Zippo lighter, thought vaguely that it would be more fitting; but Sam had already pocketed that particular item. Just as he had already fastened Dean's ever present leather chord, charm necklace around his neck, and slid the silver ring onto his own finger.

He had his brother's leather jacket folded around his ceremonial dagger in the backseat of the Impala, and already planned to slip both under his pillow as soon as he picked a motel to stay at that night.

Of course, sunrise would find him still at his brother's grave, but he didn't know that yet.

So when John Winchester lit the match, all Sam allowed himself to think was that he was glad it hadn't been the Zippo. He needed that Zippo much more than Dean's corpse did.

The flames burned bright and big, as if angry about having to take such a man away from the world – physical or spiritual – and that Sam could understand. For once he sided with the fire.

Dean shouldn't be taken away. Not like this. At the hand of his father. John had assured that Dean would never return to them, an assurance he had forgotten to make with his wife, a mistake he would never make again.

"It would hurt more to have him come back, Sammy." John spoke with a gentle tone and tears in his eyes - as if apologizing - but Sam didn't hear him. "It's better this way. It's right."

But Sam still blocked it out. Heard nothing but his own repeating thought. 'I want my brother back. I want my brother back.' He had wished, prayed even, for a miracle. Thought surly that he could make it happen. He had provided Dean with a miracle once before after all, what was stopping him from doing it again?

So what if he was standing right here, with his father, watching Dean's body burn to ash before his very eyes? What did that have to do with a miracle? Miracles overlooked this sort of thing.

He would get Dean back, he was sure of it.

And when his father finally left, after many failed attempts to get Sam to accompany him, the youngest Winchester remained where he stood, until Dean appeared at his side.

"That's what happened that night," Dean said softly when the vision was over and Sam couldn't help but wonder if his brother has seen it too. "That's what you've been blocking out."

"How…?" God he felt lost. So lost that he thought maybe he'd rather stay in this dream world forever, rather than try to sort through anything else.

"I can't explain it very well," Dean warned, running a hand though his hair the way he always did. "It's what Missouri tried to warn you about, what you still can't remember."

"I don't…" he recalled the aging psychic's saddened face. 'A tragedy.' She had said, but that's all Sam could hear in his memories. He knew they talked for longer, discussed something important, but it was gone now.

"I know," Dean reached forward slightly and grasped Sam's knee reassuringly. The unexpectedness of the physical contact brought Sam's attention back fully to his brother. He watched Dean's eyes grow clouded as he began to explain.

"It's actually pretty ironic," he smiled a smile that held no humor. "Your psychic wonder boy thing…"

"I haven't had a vision in forever," Sam defended immediately, thinking maybe if he argued enough he could reverse the outcome of this talk.

"I know," Dean said patiently. "Because the part of your brain that give 'em to you has been preoccupied."

"What are you talking about?" He asked harshly.

Dean pulled back then, using both hands to rub at his face. Sam ignored the empty feeling that the loss of physical contact brought him.

"I'm talking about your…powers, I guess." He said, trying obviously to find the right words.

"I don't have powers." Sam scoffed. "I just…ya know, see stuff sometimes. Stuff that directly links to the demon, by the way." He added harshly. "And we know that that didn't kill you, so I don't see what they have to do with…"

"Damn it, Sammy," Dean snapped. "Will you just listen to me?"

Sam, slightly taken aback, was silent, listening instead to his brother's stressed words. "I told you I didn't understand it exactly, I only know what Missouri said."

Sam bit his lip to keep from commenting and Dean took it as a sign to continue.

"The part of your brain that lets you have those visions is a something that everyone has, but no one can use. Ya know, unless they're a freak, like you."

Sam smiled at the teasing quality if the words and was thankful to Dean for breaking the tension of the atmosphere, if only slightly.

"That's me." Sam said softly, smiling. "Freak boy."

Dean looked saddened that he had to continue. "Yeah," he sighed largely. "So basically, when I died…something happened to that part of your head. Your visions gave way for hallucinations."

"I was thinking that earlier." Sam said, half to himself, half to the dead man in front of him. "But it doesn't make sense. Not really. Hallucinations aren't…they're not like you were - are. They're fake. You're real."

Sam had just paved the path for Dean's final words of explanation, possibly subconsciously; the need to understand had always been a strong one for the youngest Winchester.

"No, Sammy." Dean sighed and Sam thought that absently he had been doing that a lot lately. "Your freaky little head made me real, brought part of my spirit back to life. But it was never really real, and you knew that."

"No…"

"Yes, Sammy." Dean insisted. "That's why we never really talked about my dying. Its why you never wanted to let the conversation go there."

"Dean…"

"I'm not gonna lie Sam, and I told you, its hard to get. But I have been with you. The part of me that was always with you. The part that'll never leave."

Sam didn't bother with attempted words; just shot Dean a look that demanded an explanation.

"Okay," Dean sighed, "But I'm warning you. Death can make a guy sappy."

At Sam's expectant expression, he went on. "Okay, you know how they say that when someone dies, they never really leave you, a part of them is always with you…?"

"The carp they put on Hallmark sympathy cards?" Dean's nod confirmed it and Sam went on, "What about it?"

"They're not wrong." Dean said simply.

"Come again?" Sam said steadily, eyes boring into the depths of his brother's.

"It's less of a sappy and more of a spiritual thing," Dean explained. "When you know somebody, have any connection to them at all, a part of their spirit sort of…rubs off, into you."

Sam's look was speculative and Dean kept going, speaking with a factual tone, underlined with something like hope.

"It keeps them alive to you. Makes them part of you, actually. And the stronger the connection, the more prominent that spiritual…marker, is."

"And when you died…"

"When I died, your powers – and yes, that's what they are – took that place inside you, and made it real again."

"It brought you back." Sam said, a certain sad understanding now present in his voice.

"Yup," Dean spoke softly.

Sam eyes lit up suddenly. "Then why can't it just stay that way?" He sounded excited by the prospect. "You said that part of your spirit was there anyway, in me. And they're my powers. Why can't I just keep…"

"Because it's killing you." He cut off.

Sam didn't even flinch. "Fine," he agreed. "No more drunk sessions with naps in the snow, I promise."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleaded. "You know it's not that easy."

"Why not?" He snapped, sounding like a petulant four-year-old.

"Because that's not what I was talking about." He said angrily. "It's everything that's been going on, the stuff you can't remember. The shit you'll never remember."

"Dean…" Sam tired, but was again cut off.

"Using that part of your brain like that, it's like a drug. An addictive, deadly drug." He spoke with concerned anger and Sam was forced, by the intensity if it, to listen. "It blocks out other stuff. Real stuff."

"Like my visions?" Sam guessed. "Like when I have visions and can't see anything else?"

Dean nodded, looking relieved that Sam was finally getting it.

"Yeah," he said. "Every time I appear, every time you want me to appear even, your brain blocks something else out. That spirit in the cemetery, you don't remember how your arm got hurt, do you?"

Sam's gaze drifted, trying fruitlessly to pin together recollections that didn't involve his big brother.

"Or the poltergeist in Tennessee that nearly strangled you, or the Wendigo in Dallas or the ghost in South Dakota, or the one in Arkansas or…" He must have seen Sam's face then, because he stopped and when he spoke again his words were sad and purposeful. "You don't even remember how much time has passed, do you? Since I died."

"A few months," Sam approximated, grasping for mental images that wouldn't form.

"Ten months." Dean clarified.

Sam's eyes widened impossibly. "No," he objected. "It couldn't a been…"

"Almost eleven, actually." Dean took a deep breath. "You don't remember how many times you nearly died. How many people almost died in the crossfire because you weren't all there." These words were harsh and made Sam noticeably cringe. "No one died." He assured, and Sam couldn't help but feel the relief. "But there were so many close calls."

"I don't…remember…any of it…"

"I know, Sammy." Dean assured. "It's not your fault. But it's gotta end."

"I don't know…"

"Listen to me, Sam." Dean spoke firmly. "If you keep this up, you will die. Your brain will shut down completely. That is if you don't drive into a tree or something first, which you've already almost done a dozen times."

Sam cringed. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well," Dean half-smirked. "If you'd hurt my car, I woulda killed you myself."

"You've been helping me though, haven't you?" Sam asked, remembering the bartender's tale of the safety in the bright light. "Keeping me safe? Protecting me?"

"I've been trying," Dean admitted, "Your powers gave me some powers...it's all mixed up. Hard to understand, but yeah, I've been helping you out."

"Thanks." He whispered.

"You won't be thanking me pretty soon."

Sam was silent for a few impossibly long minutes, staring stubbornly at the wall on the other side of the room. If he didn't say anything, didn't look directly at his brother - although he could see him clearly in his peripheral vision - then this conversation wouldn't have to continue and they could stay together.

"Sam..."

"How are you here now?" Sam cut off, looking back at the other man. His entire being screamed of the need to stay where he was, with his brother.

Dean sighed and focused on the question - Sam was grateful. "You mean, am I..."

"Am I doing this?" Sam spoke clearly. "Like I've been doing? Or is this something...else?"

"It's something else." Dean answered honestly.

"But...if me and dad really did..." he didn't finish the thought, not willing to meet those images again.

"I don't know what this is, Sammy." Dean spoke honestly. "I don't know what caused this or how it can even be happening. All I know is that I'm here, and its as real as it can get."

And Sam knew it too. Felt it in every single part of himself - from the experienced psychic, receiver of prophetic messages, to the scared five-year-old kid who wanted nothing more than to crawl into his big brother's bed, knowing that it would chase away the demons of the night - he knew that this was Dean.

"But..." Sam met his brother's eyes and felt the tears begin to form. "You're dead."

Dean had tears in his eyes as well, but ignored them as Dean always did. "And when you wake up from whatever this is, that's still gonna be true."

Sam opened his mouth.

"No, you can't stay here forever." Dean answered.

Sam tried again. Sounds didn't have a chance to form.

"Because people need you. Dad. That girl from the bar."

Sam raised his eyebrows, and when Dean didn't speak immediately, he risked a word. "What does she..."

"She's gonna be part of your future." Dean cut off, smiling genuinely. "I can feel it."

"I thought..."

"You're still the psychic, don't worry." He spoke through Sam again. "But I'm dead. I can sense these things."

"Can you sense that I'd really like to..."

"Finish a sentence?" The smirked lied to none but toyed with all. "Yeah, I got that."

The two had a brief staring contest then. Serious faces dissolved into an annoyed eye roll and bright grin, respectively, after mere moments, and Sam had proved victorious. Claiming his prize, he spoke again.

"You want me to start dating?"

"Never said that." Dean held up his hands defensively.

"It was pretty clearly implied," Sam pointed out.

He shrugged, foregoing the double talk. "So what if I do?" He said. "I think it'd be a good idea."

Sam took a deep breath and gave his brother a half smile. "Maybe," he agreed, not believing it at the moment but thinking perhaps the time for such thoughts would role back around eventually. "What about hunting?"

"You're retiring." Dean informed him, and Sam couldn't help but chuckle.

"And you have a say in the matter?"

Dean's face got suddenly serious, and by default, so did Sam's. "If you keep hunting...I'm gonna keep appearing. Your brain's not gonna be able to shut that part out."

"But it'll be able to if I stop?" That seemed unlikely, illogical even.

"You'll be able to make it," he informed. "Easier, anyway. That's what Missouri said. You need to go see her when this is all over, too. There's some stuff she knows that can help you. Get this power under control."

"So you might come back?" He tried not to let his hopefulness show. "While I'm trying to get this under control?"

Shaking his head, the elder man admitted, "Maybe. But it won't be like this. It'll just be the part of me that you have anyway."

"Right." Sam snorted, fed up with the repeating mantra. "The part that's not really there. I can't talk to that part."

"I'm dead, Sammy." He spoke with an apologetic air of finality. "Talking's not really in the cards anymore."

"I hate that." He spoke evenly.

"You and me both, kiddo." A few seconds later, Dean patted his knee, speaking with an attempted lightness. He ended up sounding simply confident. "Hey, I'll always be around. You gotta know that by now. I mean, physically, not so much, but other than that..."

"Yeah," Sam smiled. "I know."

Time passed and gazes drifted. Limbo, Sam decided at some point. This was truly limbo. A place where dead and alive souls could commingle. A place that made everything alright again. Or, at least, provided the opportunity for people to make it that way themselves.

Eventually - time had no absolute meaning here - Sam felt himself drifting away. It felt something like a growing and unalterable exhaustion, slowly creeping up on him, ensuring that sleep would overtake him soon. And there was nothing he could do to fight it. A simple blink would be his downfall.

Only instead of sleep, he was succumbing to reality. A world in which Dean no longer lived and breathed. His immediate reaction was subconscious, but both brothers felt it after only moments.

"Don't fight it, Sammy." Dean soothed gently. "You gotta go back."

Sam looked at his brother, wanting to protest but knowing he couldn't. He spoke weary words, feeling the tug of the inevitable. "No goodbyes..." he swayed slightly.

Dean looked on, with reassurance written on his face and confidence present in his eyes. "Never." He swore. "I'll never say goodbye, Sammy."

TBC...