TITLE: The Burden of Sight AUTHOR: Darkbird36

SUMMARY: Sam is tired of seeing things he doesn't want to see.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Otherwise there would be no break between seasons – and Supernatural would be on every night, and twice on Sundays.
WARNINGS: Bad words. Disturbing imagery, some adult themes.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: SN fic number two, chapter 2! Another short one (damnit!)but chapter 3 is nearly done as well. Sorry for the long wait, but I couldn't load any documents for DAYS. I had to make this a txt document to get it here, so if the formatting is a little off... sorry. Thanks for all the encouraging feedback. :)

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Sam woke to the oh-so pleasant sound of Dean shouting "Rise and shine, Party Animal!" as he whipped back the curtains, allowing obscenely bright sunlight to fill the room. His head throbbed painfully at the noise and the light, and he was pretty sure something had crawled into his mouth and died while he was sleeping. He groaned and buried his head under the pillow. What the Hell had he been thinking? Come to think of it, what the Hell had happened? He remembered ordering his fifth beer, Dean effortlessly hustling a group of tipsy locals, then…. Puking in a ditch? Oh, shit… Dean's never gonna let me live this down…

"Up'n at 'em, Champ!" Dean shouted, far louder he needed to. Sam felt him yank the covers off of his body. Yeah… this is gonna be a LONG day… Gritting his teeth, he tossed the pillow aside and rolled to a seated position. His belly seemed to keep rolling for about ten seconds after the rest of him stopped, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, determined not the throw up. Again.

"Fuck off." He managed to mumble in what he hoped was a sufficiently threatening manner. Ignoring Dean's knowing smirk he wobbled to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom.

"Oh, by the way, Sam…I think I used all the hot water. I was a little gross… you know, from cleaning up your vomit last night," Sam glared from the bathroom doorway for a moment before slamming the door shut, wincing as the abrupt sound sent a spike of pain through his temples. Bright, Sam. Really smart.

Leaning over the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth before hazarding a look at his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale and nauseous – his eyes were dull. God, he felt terrible. He hadn't had a hangover in a long time, and he'd nearly forgotten how fucking miserable they could make you.

At least it wasn't for nothing… he thought, rolling his head on his shoulders to ease some of the tension there. He hadn't dreamt at all last night – or, if he had, he couldn't remember what he'd dreamt. And that was well worth the feeling of waking up with the taste of puke in his teeth. Anything was better than the things he saw when he did dream.

For two months now, he'd been having them – they were nightmares, visions. He knew that they were real, just as he knew that there was nothing he could do to save the people in them. The things he saw had all happened before Sam bore witness to them. Sometimes decades before. And most of them weren't supernatural in nature, either – a distressing number involved acts of violence perpetrated by other people – rape, murder, child abuse, men beating their wives. Two weeks ago he'd even 'seen' a boy drown a litter of kittens in his toilet.

When he did have premonitory dreams of things that hadn't occurred yet, he woke gasping, alarmed, and often screaming. Dean always roused as well, vigilant enough even in sleep to recognize the sound of Sam in distress. But his big brother had slept through roughly a hundred of these new visions over the last two months – because when Sam woke from them, he was silent and still. There was no sense of urgency, no drive to save anyone. Whatever macabre film was playing in his head would wind to a stop, and he would open his eyes, awake and fully aware of his surroundings. Fully aware of the fact that it was too late.

Clenching his fists in frustration, he clamped down on that train of thought – he was far too hung over to think about it right now. Resigning himself to a cold shower he stripped and scrubbed down as quickly as he could, trying to rid himself of the gritty feeling that clung to his skin.

Ten minutes later, having brushed his teeth and donned clean clothes, he exited the bathroom to find that Dean had packed up both their stuff and was ready to go.

"Ready to hit the road, Sunshine?"

"Dean, really… I'm sorry that you had to deal with my drunkenness and everything, but could you just lay off a little?" he pleaded, hefting his bag with a grimace and following his brother to the car.

"No can do, Sammy boy. You made an ass out of yourself last night, and as your sibling it's my right to shove your face in it. Plus, who knows when an opportunity like this will come around again? I haven't seen you drink like that since the party in high school, you know, when Shelly Cleaver dumped you and told the whole school you were a bad kisser."

"Gee, thanks, Dean. Humiliating memories of high school are just what I need right now."

"Yeah, well, you sure got even with her…" Dean chuckled, firing up the engine and pulling out on the road

"Somehow I don't think getting wasted and puking all over her counts."

"Dude – did you see her face? I thought it was going to turn into a scene from Carrie or something. And then you tried to wipe it off and ended up fondling her boob…" Dean laughed, "I've faced creatures from Hell less frightening."

Sam groaned in embarrassment and leaned his forehead against the window. He did, indeed, remember her face – and the slap she'd given him that had knocked him on his wobbly ass. Thank god they had moved again soon after that.

It was so typical of Dean to torture him with this kind of irrelevant knit-picking when all he wanted to do was curl up in a dark, quiet place and nurse his rapidly growing headache. Squinting against an increasing pressure in his skull, he fumbled the glove box open and rifled through it, looking for the bottle of aspirin that they kept there. Where the hell is it… Dean was still chuckling in the driver's seat, oblivious. Sam shifted uncomfortably, feeling abruptly flushed and lightheaded.

The car hit a small pothole and sudden agony lanced through his sinuses. He couldn't help the moan that hissed through his teeth as he pressed a hand to his forhead. He felt the car decelerate slightly, heard Dean's voice, questioning, suddenly void of any teasing tone. He felt the familiar surge of light and pain blooming behind his eyes and had time to think – a fucking vision… - before he fell out of awareness and into someone else's nightmare.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for all the feedback! I'm hoping to do at least 1 chapter a day for the next few days, and it keeps me going. Boy, poor Sam is getting a little more whipped than I originally intended… but he's just so cure when he's miserable… :)