∞∞∞

Dean wore a digital watch, but at the moment, he heard a distant tick, tick, ticking sound. His eyes were closed, and he was sure he was sleeping, or at least he had been sleeping, but that persistent tick, tick, ticking sound worked as an anchor. It tugged him back from his nirvana of speeding cars and scantily clad women, which irritated the hell out of him.

"What are you doing up?" Warm breath licked at his ear, and a thousand chills scampered down his spine. The soft feminine voice sounded so familiar and so unfamiliar at the same time. In a beat, he was sitting up in a chair, and someone was leaning against him, a comforting arm draped around his shoulders. "Come to bed…" Her voice suggestively urged with a purr. Tick, tick.

"I'll be there in a few minutes." The promising words that passed through his lips weren't his. He'd be there in a few minutes? Dean Winchester was pretty damn sure he never said that, thought that, or will ever say it. He felt lips press against his temple in a sweet kiss. His heart skipped a beat as his pulse raced—why did this feel so right and so wrong at the same time?

"Don't keep me waiting." Oh, sweetheart, I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously. Flames of confusion ignited, dancing around tauntingly. Tingles of déjà vu crashed like waves on a beach in the back of his mind. Soft blonde tresses swayed, brushing against his cheek as the body hesitantly pulled away from him, giving his shoulder a tight, compassionate squeeze before leaving him completely. Tick, tick.

What was this heartache he was feeling? He felt himself grasping something in his hand, and he opened his eyes to a room of darkness. He could make out an entertainment system, a plant, and a picture frame on the wall. Nothing felt familiar; none of it meant anything to him. He blinked a few times, wrinkling his nose up a little. What a terrible dream.

Then he looked down at what he was holding and saw that it was a cell phone. He pressed a button so that the screen would light up, and his breath caught in his chest when he saw the contacts list—his name highlight. Now he was sure something was off. His thumb touched the key to make the phone call, but he suddenly found himself putting the phone aside. Tick, tick.

"I know you said you'd be there in a few minutes…" That voice was back, and he felt heat boil up in his lower abdomen. Why was he feeling like this? What are you…? Fingers threaded through his hair, the touch so soothing, and the woman saddled his lap. Oh, okay. "But I missed you." Moist, velvet soft lips crushed against his. He closed his eyes.

"What would I do without you?" A voice asked in the background, echo, echo, echoing. There was that tick, tick, ticking. There was the feeling of being loved, of loving someone. Panic finally set in, and his heart thump, thump, thumped painfully against his ribcage.

A whisper of, "crash and burn" tickled his skin, and the phrase was repeated over and over again. Crash—crash—crash—and, and, and—burn, burn, burn. Burn. It was no longer the jeering whispers that tickled his skin, now was heat—flames. Something wet dripped onto his face. He opened his eyes, and that was something he suddenly regretted. Tick, tick.

A body pinned like a butterfly to the wall, flames waving jauntily at him while circling around the woman's body. Mom? He first thought, but then heard, "Jess!" He wrinkled up his nose in confusion. Jess? No… wait, Sam's Jess? Jessica? Why would he… about her? "Jess, no!" He let out a sharp exhale of air like he'd been sucker punched in the stomach as the range of emotions hit him dead on. There was this newfound guilt poking at him with such fierce persistency.

Dean shot up in bed with a breathless grunt. Pain jolted up his stiff neck, lingering in various places of his throbbing head. He pressed a palm against his heaving sore chest while scratching the back of his head with his other hand. What the hell was that? He looked to the right, where his younger brother slept, tossing and turning like he was lost in an eternal hell.

God, I need a beer. Or, you know, even three—or five. He pushed himself up, checking the time. It was three o' five, and yes, ante meridiem. Dean pulled back the covers with a yawn, even though he didn't feel tired at all. He felt wide-awake, sore, and, well, confused. He was all for trying new things, but that? An experience he didn't care to have again.

A day had passed since their run in with the demon. Dean had wanted to leave the town the following morning, but Sam, using his powers of persuasion (read: puppy dog eyes), talked him into staying the weekend, at least until he, Dean, felt better, although the headache gods were not kind to neither one of them.

"Dean?" A groggy voice called out, and the fine hair on the back of Dean's arms and neck stood straight on edge once the next few words were mumbled out. "What are you doing up?" His head snapped to the side. Sam was propped up on one elbow, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his other hand.

"You… I… got to piss."

"Then why don't you?" How long had Sam been lying there, watching him? Dean wasn't even sure how long he sat there, dazed, deep in thought.

He flung a leg over the side of the bed. "I'm working on it." The cool air slapped against his warm flesh, and he shivered. When did it get so cold in here? Sam hadn't sounded convinced, and asked if he was all right. I'll get back to you on that. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

As Sam tried to get comfortable under the sheets that he had managed to become entangled in, some shuffling was heard. "You never know." He finally settled, shutting his eyes.

Dean eased his leg back onto the bed, and turned around onto his stomach. His hand slipped under his pillow, his fingertips brushed against the handle of the knife he had under there. "Yeah." He admitted, grunting into the soft pillow. "You're right."

The brunette's dark eyes snapped open. I am... I am? He heard Dean yawn loudly, and utter out another, "yeah," and a stressed out, "'night, Sam," that served as a warning to shut up and go to bed—or else… the wrath of Dean! Ooh, shudder. Sam chuckled softly, closing his eyes yet again even though he was wide-awake.

Just a nightmare—that's all it was. Just a dream…

Sam wrinkled up his nose. Oh, shut up.

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Va·ca·tion

n.

1. A period of time devoted to pleasure, rest, or relaxation, especially one with pay granted to an employee.

2. A. A holiday
B. A fixed period of holidays, especially one during which a school, court, or business suspends activities.

3. Archaic. The act or an instance of vacating.

It seemed simple enough, or at least the very idea of it had. It was all Sam wanted. Only Dean had reminded him that they didn't get paid vacation leave, but the younger brother pointed out that they received no pay to begin with. Dean chuckled in response, and told him that wasn't what he meant.

"Coordinates."

Sam's shoulders slumped forward. Oh, boy. It only took that one—one—word to set him off. He set down the book he had been reading, and crossed his arms over his chest, a sign that he meant business. "No." He stated sternly, his eyes shooting daggers at the cell phone Dean held up, the small screen lit up. "No."

"Coordinates, Sam."

Was it too much to just want to relax for one freaking weekend—three days and two nights? Dean reminded him that in their line of work, the supernatural didn't take vacations—it didn't wait for anyone, especially not for the "two cool dudes" who could "tear it a new one." But Sam stood firm on his decision—no freaking way, José.

"Fine, then I'll do it solo."

A shiver swept down Sam's spine. No, no—he had to watch Dean, look out for him. He needed to make sure his nightmare stayed a nightmare. Those six words had done it—had changed his mind. He let out a defeated sigh and glanced down at his sock clad feet.

"You know, other fathers, they'd—"

"Not all fathers have had their wife killed by a demon." He flipped his cell phone shut, lifting up his hardened gaze to meet his brother's. An unrecognizable emotion flickered in Sam's eyes, making Dean suddenly avert his gaze, as if he knew what Sam was about to say.

"And not all sons have had their girlfriend killed by a demon."

Dean rubbed his chest uncomfortably, the curve of his thumb digging into the slowly healing flesh wounds through the thickness of his shirts. He cleared his throat. "It's a long road, Sammy. We going or not?" He knew Dean already knew the answer, but he nodded anyway, clenching his jaw.

"We're going."

Dean smirked.

"But I'm driving."

Dean no longer smirked.

∞∞∞

"Okay, that last one? You hit purposely." Dean's narrowed eyes sent Sam one message: I'm on to you, bitch. He'd been glaring the message for the past four hours at Sam since they drove through a large puddle, and the smartass had commented, "what, do you want me to get out and lay out my jacket over the next puddle so water won't splatter all over your soot-covered car?" Yeah, Dean hadn't been very happy with that remark.

"Dean, man, there's barely any road between the potholes in Pennsylvania." Honestly, Sam was a good driver—given his family, he was genetically destined to be, although genetic differences have already been proved—and Dean trusted Sam, but it was everyone and everything else Dean never trusted. He had to look out for his baby brother… and his luscious 1967 Chevy Impala. "I'm glad the Great One sent us here. The scenery of cows is awe-inspiring. Maybe we're here to track down a possessed cow tipper?"

"I'm getting quite sick of that sarcasm, Sam." Dean warned him, and while Dean was his brother, he had taken a parental tone. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't ever be the last. The tension between them, if possible, got thicker, and it certainly didn't help when Sam had to strive to get the last word in.

"I could say the same thing. Pots and kettles, you know."

He'd been slouching in his seat, looking over a folded map and some papers they had printed out, but now sat up straighter, allowing the mess of papers in his lap to slip onto the ground. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" He demanded to know.

"It means I'm sick of you always brushing me off with some smart-aleck comment. It's getting old, Dean." There was a look in Dean's eyes that made him accidentally excel on the gas pedal. Oh, no. No. He couldn't piss off Dean, not now. What if pushing him away led to… wait, what was happening to Dean in his vision? Was it… something… something with his head? Had to be. Still waiting for what Dean had to say about that, he glanced over, only to find Dean staring at him, hard. His gaze pierced through him, making him shiver.

A beat later, Dean blinked, confused, and looked away, his jaw slack. He shrugged a shoulder, unsure, his mind elsewhere. "Yeah, well, it's the summer. Expect repeats." The tone of his voice was off, maybe different, perhaps lower. He impatiently drummed his fingers against the door handle. "Huh—cows and horses. Maybe we'll get a taste of the Headless Horseman?"

Sam suppressed a frown that made his lips twitch. He was facing forward, gripping the steering wheel, but his eyes lingered sideways, studying his brother. "Maybe." He timidly answered, drawing out the 'y' sound.

∞∞∞

They found a motel outside a rural area that felt like it had been half the size of Russia, but it's a small motel, with even smaller rooms. The beds took up most of the space, and were practically shoved together. Dean smirked at the sight, while Sam frowned deeply, ducking as he entered the room to avoid hitting his head off the top of the doorframe.

"Small beds." He commented dryly, dropping the knapsack he kept thrown over his shoulder. He carefully set down Dean's laptop, because while it wasn't as infamous as the car, it was equally important. He kicked off his sneakers, and started to unbutton his blue plaid shirt.

"Yeah, so keep to your own side. If so much as a cold toe wanders over, I'm stabbing it." And to emphasis his threat, Dean slid out a knife from their bag and walked over, picking up the pillow off the bed. He set down the knife, and put down the pillow, giving it a light pat before turning back to Sam, who scoffed.

"Thanks. But you know, when someone usually says that, they end up being the one who does it." He lifted a brow up challenging, but Dean waved a hand at him.

"Oh, you wish you could cuddle with my toes, Sammy." He sat down on the edge of the bed, raising a brow at how much it drooped, but paid no attention, and unlaced his boots.

"Yeah, I dream about it nightly." He didn't notice Dean look up at him as he walked past the beds to the bathroom, holding a paper bag that contained their bathroom necessities. He didn't hear the deep inhale that took place before Dean hesitantly asked him what he has been dreaming of lately. The fluorescent light above his head flickered. Did Dean know? No, no… he couldn't. He attempted to keep his voice even and calm. Nothing was wrong—nothing, nothing, nothing. "Why?"

"Don't know—just curious. Looks like you've been sleeping better lately. No more…" Then came the sound of him lazily dropping his heavy boot. "Nightmares?" He began to unlace the other, his fingers working quickly, almost anxiously. The miniature room already began to make him feel claustrophobic.

"Nightmares?" An image of Dean falling to his knees flashed in front of his eyes. He blinked rapidly before shutting them tightly—no, no, not again, not now. I got it the first time.

Dean opened his mouth to say, 'yes nightmares, Sam, you know, the reason you've avoided sleep—the reason you've willing watched freakin' infomercials until you've memorized each cheesy line,' but he wasn't in the mood to play games. "Don't play stupid with me."

"Like you've said, Dean, I've been sleeping better lately." Yes, that was his answer. It wasn't completely a lie; he was just restating what Dean thought. But panic still stuck in the pit of his gut—he knew something was going to happen to Dean, and he still didn't know how to stop it. How was he going to stop something from happened to Dean without Dean knowing that he was trying to stop something from… oh, god, what? Confusion steamed up, and he sighed a warily and weary sigh.

Dean dropped his other boot, and fell back with a restless yawn. A spring poked into his back, but he didn't care. A headache had taken toll on his mind, and he swore he could feel it rallying up into a migraine. His neck and shoulders were stuff, and it even hurt to blink. His mind felt almost… fuzzy, like the antenna broke on a television and the screen was now all snowy.

Got to tell… save… won't lose… can't… not now… ever…

His chest burned, and bolts of pain hammered again inside his head. He bit down hard on his tongue, the metallic taste never registering. His eyeballs moved erratically under closed eyelids. Why the hell was he… was he hearing Sam?

Lies… vision… truth… protect from… oh, Dean…

He rolled to his side, and then onto his stomach. He had slid off the bed a little, and now his hips dug into the side. He buried his face into the thin quilt, inhaling the wrong scent of bleach that made something in the back of his head tingle, and nausea trembled in his stomach.

This sucks out loud… this is the suckiest thing to have ever sucked. Oh, okay, yes, his voice. That's what he wanted to hear.

In the background, he heard the faucet running, and Sam brushing his teeth. He had struggled not to make any noise, but now, just as soon as it had started, the attack was over. Dean took a few extra seconds to regain composure before he undressed until he was clothed only in boxers and an undershirt, and he climbed into the bed, and under the covers.

Oh, god, he felt so physically tired. His body wanted sleep--it demanded sleep, but his brain, oh his stubborn brain, just wouldn't allow it. The room light flicked off, and he felt Sam on the bed next to him, on the bed not even three inches away. So close, too close—the pain still pulsed in his head, quickening and throbbing even more when Sam reached over to give his arm a little shove before whispering, 'good night.'

Dean scooted as far to the edge as he could without falling off, and shifted so he was on his side, his back facing his brother. Oh, yeah, no way he was getting any shuteye tonight. No, sir, he just couldn't, or rather, wouldn't. It sounded nice, to rest, and the vacation Sam had wanted now sounded like such a marvelous idea.

"Dean?"

"Go to sleep, Sam."

"Are you—?"

"I'm fine."

Sam sighed lightly, trying to hold in his aggravation. You're always fine.

"Damn straight dude, I am always fine." Even at a late hour, Dean was still Dean, and Sam, who mumbled, "and damn near impossible," was still Sam. Dean turned onto his back, and nodded up at the ceiling, puckering up his lips in consideration, like, 'yeah, sure, maybe.'

It was like a delayed realization reaction for Sam. He relaxed, stretched out his tired limbs, closed his eyes… and then snapped those eyes wide open. Sam sat straight up, griping a fistful of the pale blue sheets. He looked over at his brother, staring hard at the back of his head, almost expectantly, like he expected Dean to realize that… realize that… he just read his mind? Is that what he did? He brought his other hand to his forehead—no fever, okay. There was no way in hell he imagined that.

"Dean?" His voice cracked, and he continued to glare at Dean's head, practically boring holes there. His mind raced with questions, and he needed answers. Sam was more than sure he hadn't said anything out loud. He reached over, tightly grasping Dean's shoulder. "Dean."

Dean responded with a grunting groan. "Goddammit all Sam, has anyone ever told you that you think just way too freakin' much?"

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