Stranded Dreams
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Summery: A series of one-shots that are missing scenes from Supernatural.
Chapter One
Season One, Episode Two (Wendigo)
Sam: You know what? Maybe we shouldn't have left Stanford so soon.
Dean: Sam, we dug around there for a week; we came up with nothing.
First night at Stanford after Jessica's death
"I'm fine, Dean. Let go off me!" Sam mutters under his breath as he pushes his brother away and staggers towards the bed. He sways a little more and then loses his balance and falls down, head hitting the crappy lamp post with a loud thud in the process. Dean swears as he walks towards the drunken young man and grabs him by the arm pits, pushing the giant body toward the bed. Sam falls on it ungracefully as he groans loudly. Dean takes a deep breath and flexes his arm muscles. When did Sam get so frigging huge anyway? He swears he wasn't this tall when he left two years ago. Oh, well, Sammy's height isn't the only thing that has changed over the past two years.
Sam's already snoring, his feet dangling off of the side of the bed. Dean sighs and sits on the other bed in the motel which was far away from the now burnt house at Stanford. Sam doesn't need to see the ruins the yellow-eyed bastard has left behind and. frankly, neither does Dean.
He gets rid of his heavy boots and lies down on his side, facing Sammy, his little brother, and his stomach churns painfully. He likes to blame it on all the booze they had consumed earlier tonight, but he knows it's more than that.
"Guh, drinking wasn't a brilliant idea." He mutters slowly and burps, but he honestly didn't know what else to do. Sam had been quiet all day. Well, he's always been quiet, but today he was freaky quiet, searching everything around the house with a vengeance that left Dean almost scared. Dean gets why Sam's acting like this; he really does, but it doesn't mean that he has to like it. A part of him feels guilty for everything that has happened; maybe if he hadn't come to Sam…, maybe if Sam had stayed home with his girlfriend instead of coming with him, but Dean pushed the taunting voice to the back of his mind. He has a little brother that's not so little anymore to think about and he can't afford to think about anything else.
Sam's not in a restful sleep and Dean sadly thinks that this is also his fault. Sam's never been a champion at drinking. He's not like Dean. Dean's solution to everything is booze and chicks, and what do you know? It always works for him, but Sam has to go all Freudian and analyse everything; thinks about everything so much that he sometimes loses touch with reality, gets all depressed and moody, and Dean knows it's hard for Sammy, but they can't frickin afford this. He needs Sam sharp so they can find Dad.
He knows staying here is pointless. The God-damn bastard never leaves a trail behind, but Dean knows that Sam needs the comfort; he needs to know he did whatever he could to find that thing, and Dean can't take this away from him. He's gonna stay here for as long as Sam wants them to. Hell, he's even gonna play along.
Sam's making small whimpering noises and Dean swears it's like they are teenagers once again, back when Sam had found out that monsters were real, and he would always wake up screaming, not Dad's name, but his, and Dean would climb into his bed, the macho guy act forgotten, and press Sammy's head to his chest, promising he'd protect him forever.
"Bang up job on that, so far." Dean murmurs and sits up on the bed; listening to the whimpers getting louder and louder and not knowing what to do about it. He stands up and walks toward the other queen bed, looking at his brother's disturbed face and scratches the back of his neck. "What the hell should I do?" He asks the empty room and kneels on the floor. Well, he could wake Sam up, but then he'd pretend he'd rested enough and would wanna go out searching, which sounds like a brilliant idea, or he could let him sleep, but then again that doesn't seem to do Sammy any good either. It was a lose-lose situation.
"Oh, man!" Dean shakes his head and rests a hand on Sam's arm, and that's when Sam screams "Jess!"" and he bolts up on the bed, his hands thrashing around and one hits Dean right across the face.
"Jesus mother-fucking Christ, Sam!" Dean screams as he grabs his nose that is now throbbing in pain and glares at his brother. Sam, though, looks out of it. He looks around dizzily and then he lurches forward, throwing up whatever he had eaten on Dean's bare feet, and then he falls onto the floor in a kneeling position.
Dean wants to be angry; he really does, because, dude, that was just gross, but Sam looks so pitiful, so small suddenly, that Dean just lays a hand on his shoulder impulsively. Sam moves away though and glares at his older brother, daring him to ask if he's fine, and Dean knows better than that.
"What time is it?" Sam asks as he walks to bathroom and washes his mouth, grimacing at the bad taste.
Dean sighs, defeated, and glances at his watch. "About twelve."
"Great. There's a bar next to our…house that we should check out. They're open all night. Maybe they've seen something." Sam is trying so hard to look refreshed that it's almost painful. He's tempted to say it won't do them any good, but he knows it's better to stay quiet when Sammy is acting like this, let him get whatever it is that's bothering him out of his system.
Sam runs a hand through his messy hair. "Dean, ah, you don't have to come with me. I can do this on my own." He looks guilty and lost, standing in the doorway, trying his hardest to act fine and Dean gives him a fake reassuring smile. As if he'd leave Sam alone.
"I'm fine, Sammy. Let's just go." Sam nods his head twice and walks out the door, still slightly swaying but managing to keep his balance. Dean rubs his sore nose and stands up, picks up his bag from the bed and turns the lights off.