It hadn't taken Sam long to dismiss and forget the odd dream. Let's face it, his memory wasn't exactly what it used to be. He did, however, feel increasingly uneasy around Angelina as the weeks passed by.
He hadn't mentioned that to Dean, though, hadn't even told him about the dream. The elder finally had a reason to let Sam die, and, besides, visions could be unreliable.
Still, Sam kept his distance from Angie.
It had been three weeks since that weird, midday dream, and the numb place on the old man's face had finally faded away to nothing more than a tiny pinprick that he had trouble even finding. Better yet, he hadn't had another vision since that day.
Things were definitely looking up for Sam, who only had to wait a week for freedom, as he dug through the fridge for something to eat during the movie he and his brother had rented.
"Hey," Dean called, "hurry it up, Gramps, or I'll hit play without you!"
Sam grinned, shaking his head. "Whose idea was it to eat subs while watching 'Ten Inch Hero,' again?" he called back, pulling the necessary ingredients out of the fridge and placing them on the countertop as his head began to ache. "What do you want on it?"
"Ham, pickles, bacon-"
"Dean, I'm not making bacon!"
"Fine! Just slap a bunch of olives on it."
"We only have green olives."
"That's all right."
Sammy wrinkled his nose, but went back to the refrigerator just the same. He pulled open the door and searched for the jar as the headache got steadily worse.
Finally, he found the olives and pulled them out, heading for the counter to start making lunch. He didn't get far before the dull pain in his head became a blinding throb and the room around him flashed with viciously bright lights.
o0o0o0o0o
The cemetery was still and silent, the perfect place for a body to find peace. Dean crossed the grounds from the gate, heading to one stone in particular. He knelt down, running his fingers softly over his brother's name.
"I finally found it," he whispered meekly, "I found it, Sammy, and it paid. I got it back for you, and for Angie, for everybody it's killed since that day. It took a century, but I did it." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a familiar antique gun. "I got the gun back, too. Not that it does me any good now, but I got it back, man."
He began digging a hole, shallow but long, near the headstone. "I should have locked it up," Dean apologized, "I should have watched her more closely. Man, I should have known. What good are these wings if they can't help me pick out the evil people who can't die from the good ones, huh?"
He dropped the gun into the hole, where it landed with a hollow thunk, and began covering it up as the whole scene shifted and spun, flashing and jerking until the angel had landed out behind a grimy motel and pulled his jacket back over his wings.
Dean walked around to his room, and entered it slowly, eyeing the two queen sized beds for a moment before scanning the room for something else. He found his duffel bag, full of weapons as always, sitting on a chair. He began to dig through it, obviously searching for something.
He straightened suddenly, clutching his prize tightly to his chest before walking to one of the beds. It was the bed closest to the door, his appointed spot, something that wasn't going to change even 100 years after his brother's death.
Slowly, Dean raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, sending blood and tissue flying to the walls. His body hit the bed, weapon falling from his dead fingers, as gore slowly dripped down the gaudy wallpaper.
The room fell silent, but it didn't stay that way for long. No ordinary weapon could kill the tired, broken man that now lay on the bed, sobbing loudly at the way his life had turned out.
o0o0o0o0o
The first thing Sam was aware of was his brother's voice. He opened his eyes slowly to find Dean hovering over him, a look of concern written plainly across his face as he pulled his hands, still glowing, from his littler brother's head.
"What happened?" Sam asked, sitting up as his brother backed away to give him room to breathe. They were both sitting on the kitchen floor, and there was some sort of smelly liquid on the tiles.
"You, uh, dropped my olives," Dean said softly, "and I think you had a stroke."
"What?"
"I heard the crash," the elder explained, "and when I came in, you were lying on the floor. Your eyes were open, but you weren't responsive. The whole left side of your face looked kind of droopy and your eyes were all bloodshot. Your nose was bleeding."
Sam reached up and absently wiped the blood from his face. "I didn't have a stroke," he said, "I had a vision."
Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A what? Are you sure that's what it was, because it's been a while-"
"I know how long it's been, but there's no mistaking it," the old man defended, "it was a vision."
"Well, what happened?"
Sammy sighed, struggling to his feet and grabbing a mop to clean up the mess. "I think you need to call Angie. We're gonna need all the help we can get."