Weaver, chapter 9

Sam knew the adrenaline could fade fast, and he hurried over to his brother's side. He hoped like hell the Dog was down for good, and that Dean was just pinned by it and unable to move, not motionless because of some other reason. He reloaded the shotgun just in case, clicking the barrel back in place just as he reached the gruesome scene. The creature had fallen right on top of Dean, its giant head covering most of his torso. He needed to get that thing off, the sooner the better. He poked at it with the barrel of the gun, and got no reaction. Dean still didn't move.

"Dean?" he said, and almost wished this was a dream. "Hey."

He intended to ease down to his knees, but just sort of collapsed to them instead. The Black Dog had to weigh over two hundred pounds, and could very well be squeezing the air right out of Dean's lungs. Sam set the shotgun down and rubbed his adrenaline-clammy hands down the front of his jeans. His muscles were already starting to return to their previous shaky state. He looked at Dean all limp and quiet, and a small resurgence of adrenaline hit him. He shoved at the Dog, the action pulling at his already sore ribs. He managed to roll it off to the side and immediately turned his attention to Dean.

The shotgun lay across Dean's chest, and there was blood everywhere. Sam couldn't see any evidence of new injury, which he hoped meant the slick wetness covering Dean's shirt was from the Dog. The scratches on the jaw had reopened, but that was it. He could see Dean breathing. He reached out, pulled the gun away and then slapped Dean's face gently. At first, Dean's head just lolled, but then he started to show signs of waking. Sam sagged down off his knees and onto his butt. He switched to shaking Dean's shoulder, until he saw Dean open his eyes a crack.

"You okay?" he said.

"I think." Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "But I'm not really sure I know what happened."

"You shot it while it was on top of you." Sam jutted his jaw toward the corpse. "They're both dead."

It occurred to Sam that he hadn't actually checked the one he'd shot, but it hadn't moved. Dean sat up, picking at his shirt with a disgusted expression on his face. Then he looked at the dead Black Dog and his expression got even more disgusted. He rubbed the back of his head and confusion mingled with the disgust.

"I did."

"Yeah. Good thing, too, because I didn't have much of a shot from where I was."

"So it worked?" Dean said, sounding a little too relieved for Sam's liking. He raised his eyebrows. Dean automatically sat up straighter. "Of course it did; Bobby's the man."

"Bobby's the man," Sam repeated. Dean continued to rub at the nape of his neck. "You sure you're all right?"

"Just hit my head, no big deal."

Sam relaxed, but he was starting to feel like crap again. If he thought about it, he'd felt like crap for a solid week. Tired despite sleeping, listless. All signs he really shouldn't have ignored, because in the back of his mind he'd known. He decided not to aggravate Dean by admitting that. First things first. The actual hunt might be over, but there were still things to be done. He eyed the corpses, surprised they hadn't vanished like so many supernatural beings seemed to do.

"Do you think we should dispose of the bodies?"

"We can't burn them, it's too dry out here." Dean chewed on his lip for a second. He sounded tired, and stood up slowly. "I'll go get a shovel."

"Maybe it can wait until morning."

Sam wanted to get it over with, but he wasn't sure he'd make it back to the car without feeling like passing out. He didn't think Dean was really up for digging a hole big enough for the Dogs, either. A few hours of rest would do them both good, and if not rest, then at least painkillers. He was just bruised, but it hurt like hell nonetheless.

"What difference would that make?"

"I could probably help then."

Dean looked down at him skeptically. Sam took a deep breath just to show Dean he wasn't going to double over in pain or anything. It was just another kind of discomfort he was already so used to again, one of many things he was growing accustomed to in his new-again lifestyle. He'd get over the weakness. He just needed some time. He reached up a hand, and Dean not only gave him that but also an arm around his shoulders and a whole lot of pull. Dean didn't even think about it, and Sam fought the instinct to shrug off the help in an unspoken "I'm fine."

"You're still going to be sore."

"Yeah, I know, but that's not the point." He'd be much better in a few hours. He would. "Do you really feel up to digging a hole right now?"

Dean didn't say anything, but his jaw clenched in classic annoyance. Sam sighed.

"Look, man, I'm not maligning your manhood. I just want some more damn Tylenol or something."

"Maligning? Why can't you ever talk like a normal human being?" Dean gave him a flip smile. "It seems to me you're maligning your own manhood, which you don't really have to do around me, Sammy. I already know you're a pansy, you don't have to testify."

Obnoxious as it was Sam was glad for the abuse. It beat the overt worrying and pacing Dean had done before. He doubted this was going to go down like any other hunt. It was far too personal, but if they could keep each other from getting too weirded out, then that would only help them figure it all out. Sam snorted.

"Okay, I'm a pansy who needs more than Tylenol. Dude, I feel like I sprained my whole body."

"Ouch." Dean lost a little of his flippancy, and he leaned over for both shotguns. He winced when he stood, the only evidence Sam was going to get that his brother wasn't one hundred percent either. "I really need a shower anyway. Blood itches when it dries. We'll want to get back here before sunrise, though."

"Someone might spot the bodies and call wildlife," Sam said, nodding.

"I'd prefer the things on our asses be demonic in nature."

Oddly, Sam actually couldn't agree more with that statement. Not so oddly, he thought. If he stood any chance of getting back to school, he had to keep his name as clear as possible. He had to keep his fake names as clear as possible, too. The moral difficulty of being a con artist was as painful for him now as it ever had been as a kid. He didn't know how Dean just accepted it. Sam shook his head, not sure where the tangent had come from. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked slowly toward the car, a familiar, resonant sound.

"Gimme the keys," Sam said after Dean had stowed the weapons. "I think I should drive."

"With cracked ribs?" Dean frowned at him. "I don't think so. Not my car."

"Bruised. And, Dean, if I sit down right now and don't have something to focus on, I'm going to fall asleep."

"Oh," Dean said, and gave him the keys without further ado. "Right."

And that right there reminded Sam that no matter how blasé Dean acted, he was not okay with any of this. Not just about the dreams of late, but the very idea Sam was different. He felt displaced in all aspects of his life. His intention might be to return to a safe life once they found their dad and the demon was dead, but how could he really do that as this freak who sometimes saw things before they happened? He had to stop losing himself in these thoughts.

They climbed into the car and fell into the post-hunt routine, just a fraction more tensely than usual. There were things they needed to discuss, though neither of them wanted to. Now that it was more than suspicion he was being preyed on, Sam tried to think of beings that could potentially control or feed off of dreams. He came up empty, except for…One, two, Freddy's coming for you. He gave a small laugh, just as he pulled the car up in front of the motel door.

"What the hell could you possibly find funny right now?" Dean said, breaking the silence Sam hadn't even realized they'd held during the ride.

"Nothing, just…" Sam opened the door and slid carefully out of the door. Dean did, too, and they walked to the motel in synch, his brother slowing down to keep snail's pace with him. The necessity of keeping upright and stiff had been exhausting. He pressed his fingers against his sternum and winced. "I just had a thought. It's stupid. But what if Freddy Krueger were real, somehow?"

Sam started laughing softly again, almost happy when doing so made a wave of pain ripple through him. The ache, in his chest at least, kept him awake. Without it, he'd just be too exhausted to function at all. It wasn't really funny, though, the Freddy Krueger thing. The means might be different with the demon – he wasn't being hacked to pieces or anything – but the end result seemed to be the same. There might come a dream he'd never wake from, no matter how hard Dean tried to make that happen.

"That's not exactly hilarious, Sam." Dean glared at him as he made a beeline for the bathroom. He didn't shut the door all the way.

"It is a little," Sam said toward the cracked door, but then his chuckles faded. "Our lives are like one never-ending horror movie."

Dean didn't answer. Probably couldn't hear through the noise of the shower. Sam headed for the coffee maker. He wasn't convinced keeping himself caffeinated would help that much, but right now it seemed the best option. Once he got a fresh pot brewing, he turned his attention to the computer and began the search. He set up the laptop on the table instead of sprawling on the bed. He stared at the screen so long he forgot to blink, trying various key words. He came up pretty much empty, and he wondered what the chances were that they were dealing with something undocumented anywhere. It didn't seem very likely to him. He just wasn't going about it the right way, but his brain seemed fuzzy.

He gave up the computer and decided to try to sketch the thing he kept seeing in his dreams. Maybe leaf through their dad's journal to see if anything sparked recognition. Sam closed his eyes for a second, conjuring up an image of the recurrent female figure. As always, she looked familiar. He opened his eyes and grabbed a small notepad out of the journal. He wasn't a great artist, but he managed to rough out a decent etching of what his memory supplied.

"Dude, why are you doodling a picture of Bloody Mary?"

He jumped, heart pounding. Dean stood right behind him, already dressed and his face was rebandaged. Sam hadn't even heard the shower stop. Dean peered over his shoulder with an odd expression on his face. Sam looked back down at the notepad. It did look like Bloody Mary. He frowned. He should have made that connection a long time ago. It was obvious enough now.

"I…this is…"

"Hey, relax and spit it out, Sam," Dean said, pulling the other chair out and sitting down. "This is what?"

"This is who I eventually saw in my dreams."

Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam toyed with the corners of the notepad, folding the paper up slightly. He dropped the pen, let it roll across the table.

"That doesn't make any sense. She's gone. It can't be her. And even if it could, she wasn't the type to mess with dreams."

"I know all that. But it's her."

"You said eventually."

It was impossible. Sam's stomach felt cold, and his throat burned with it, as if he'd just swallowed a large ice cube. Whatever plagued his dreams also toyed with him. It fed him horrible images of Dean getting hurt or dying and disguised itself to boot. The information was not going to help them figure things out. If anything, it set them back.

"Sam?"

"Oh. Hmm?"

"Who did you see in the dreams before Bloody Mary? Maybe that's where you need to focus."

"At first, it was…" Dean tilted his head. Sam cringed. "It was Jess."

Dean mirrored his cringe, and Sam concentrated on toying with the notepad's edges again. They just sat there for a minute or two.

"Okay, so what does this mean?" Dean sounded as unflappable as ever. Sam looked up. His brother's eyes gave it all away, though, and so did the fact he averted his gaze the second Sam made eye contact. "It's just another thing it can do. We already know it manipulates."

"Yeah." Did they? Frankly, Sam was no longer sure of anything. He was afraid he could be dreaming at this very moment. "Maybe. It seems to be able to get in my head somehow."

"So we look up demons associated with sleep. And mind control. There has to be a connection somewhere."

He'd already searched. He didn't stop Dean from sliding the laptop over. Sam didn't think he could do much of anything, actually. He had an overwhelming sense that they were screwed, and it wasn't a good feeling. He stood up and started pacing, stopping only long enough to get himself a cup of coffee. He poured one for Dean, too, and stuck it on the table. Sam's mind raced to nowhere.

"You don't really think that, do you?" Dean said suddenly, eyes focused only on the computer.

"Think what?" Sam said.

"What you said before. That our lives are an unending horror movie. Because they're not."

Sam sat down again, hard. Coffee sloshed out of the cup onto his hand, hot but not scalding. Dean's voice was low and careful. Sam rubbed his coffee-damp hand down his face, pinched his nose to ward off a headache that hadn't started yet but probably would soon.

"We go from place to place fighting evil things most people don't believe in, and most of the ones who do only believe because it's happened to them. That seems like horror to me."

"There's a difference you're overlooking," Dean said, leaning toward him with eyes narrowed and dark. "We don't get dead like they do in the movies."

Dean said it more like a desperate vow than a statement of fact. Sam didn't want to tell his brother that he'd always thought the real horror, even in movies, was left to those who survived the monsters.