Weaver, chapter 13

Sam was so tired. Some small part of him had actually enjoyed being on the road with Dean, but mostly he was just glad to be home. The smell of fresh baking permeated the apartment and he had to smile. Dean had been right about one thing – sometimes Sam thought he really didn't deserve Jess. He'd ditched her for the weekend without explanation, and she still baked his favorite cookies. He took one and munched on it absently, then went off in search of Jess.

When he stepped through the bedroom doorway, Sam was hit with a tremendous sense of foreboding. He'd been here before, done all this. He tossed the remainder of the cookie on the nightstand and squinted around the room. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, but somehow nothing looked right. The shower was on. There were no splashing sounds and he knew that was right and so wrong as well.

A disparate, internal clanging reverberated through him. He remembered now. Sam struggled to wrap his head around the idea of finally being aware of his dream state, and tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming. He did what he always did in the dream, mirroring what he had done in reality. He closed his eyes and fell down on the bed, and told himself it wasn't Jess up on the ceiling and it wasn't the memory of her either. If he could control the reactions he had every single time this played out in his brain, then maybe he'd have more success fighting the succubus.

Blood dripped on his forehead, one drop. Two. Sam pictured being out of his apartment, envisioned some place innocuous. An open field with short grass and yellow flowers, harmless blue skies. When he opened his eyes, that's what he would see, not Jess. Not again. It was his dream, his decision.

It didn't work that way. Jess was beautiful and grotesque, pinned above him with the expression on her face that would haunt him all the days of his life.

"No," Sam said. He surged up, unable to stop himself. "No, Jess!"

Jess laughed. The succubus laughed. The room wasn't suddenly engulfed in flames and Dean didn't rush in and pull him from the fire. Sam choked, heart in his throat and pounding through his chest at the same time. Impossible. This was a dream, a dream. His dream, his decision. He closed his eyes and again tried to imagine a neutral dreamscape. It became more and more difficult for him to breathe, and he knew on some level that Dean would wake him up at any moment.

"Come on, Sammy, don't pull this shit again," Dean's voice said, terse, disembodied and hollow.

Dean. Sam reopened his eyes, and found his brother wasn't there. The succubus, still in Jess' form, hovered right above him, eyes swirling darkness. He tried to surge up again, buck away from the thing, but he couldn't. He wondered why Dean hadn't pulled him out of this horror.

"Oh, he can't," the creature said pleasantly. "Not this time. This time, you're mine."

Sam wilted against the mattress as Jess pressed so close her nightgown brushed against him. She never wore nightgowns. The succubus even manipulated scents. Jess smelled as good as she ever had, fresh and clean. He buried his head deeper into the pillow, turned his face away. He took shallow breaths, finding he could actually breathe more easily that way. In a situation where he didn't have much control, something that small was huge. Jess stroked a finger along his jaw line.

"Stop it."

"Aww." Not Jess. Not…it blew in his ear. "Don't you miss me at all?"

"Stop using her face," Sam said. "You've got me, right? You don't need tricks anymore."

It didn't answer him, and for several minutes Sam simply lay there with his face averted. He focused on keeping his breaths shallow and even, because he knew as long as he could still breathe he was okay. He relaxed, but not completely, and attempted again to make the dreamscape change. When he was a kid, they'd stayed in a small town in Michigan long enough for him to start to enjoy it. Not far from the motel was a sparse park, with a lone swing set and monkey bars. He'd beg Dean to take him there every day, and sometimes Dean actually would. When it was safe. For some reason, the memory of that place struck him with a pang now. He wanted to go there. He recreated the park in his mind's eye. His head started to hurt.

"Hey, you can wake up now," Dean's voice came again, no less hollow but definitely less upset.

The bed moved softly. Sam opened his eyes and turned his head. Jess was gone, he wasn't in his old apartment. He wasn't at the park, either. He allowed a small frown and squinted around the familiar motel room. Something felt off. He had no idea what. Dean had the phone receiver in his hand. Sam cleared his throat, and watched his brother jerk, then drop the phone.

"Good, you're awake," Dean said, relief evident even through Sam's hazy vision. "I couldn't get you up for a minute or two."

"Why'd you try?" Sam said. His head was muzzy, as if he'd been asleep for several days instead of several minutes. "I think I might have been getting somewhere."

"You had some kind of seizure." Dean ducked his head, but Sam saw a dark, haunted look in his eyes before he got a view of the top of Dean's head. "I figured it was better to err on the side of caution."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I was about to call for help. Drag your sorry ass to the hospital."

Dean was definitely worried. Sam felt a stab of regret. It couldn't be easy. He felt like shit and probably looked it, too, but even though he was the one living through it, he didn't envy Dean having to watch. Sam wouldn't like it either. He stared at his brother, wishing Dean would stop studying the floor. He took a deep breath, ended up coughing and wheezing.

"I don't need the hospital." He closed his eyes briefly, knowing the whole hacking up a lung thing didn't really back that statement up. His eyelids clicked when he peeled them back open. Dean hadn't moved. Sam frowned. "It worked, though. I dreamed about Jess. I knew it wasn't really happening."

Dean finally looked back up, a slow smile spreading across his face. Sam's feeling of unease grew exponentially with each tooth Dean revealed. There was no reason for a smile like that, the toothy grin filled not with relief so much as inappropriate mirth. Oh, shit. Sam struggled to get his elbows underneath him, managing only the right. He propped himself up shakily, and scooted up the bed until his shoulders rested against the headboard.

"That's good news, Sammy," Dean said. "I'll bet next time you swim laps around the bitch. I have complete confidence in you."

"Dude, I've told you a million times not to call me that." Sam tried to keep his voice light, but he was afraid it shook. His stomach was a tight bundle, full of unfounded nervousness. He tried to sit up, and failed at that as well. It took too much energy, left him panting for breath. "I think next time will be the last."

"Yeah, you think so, Sammy?"

Dean sounded almost excited. When Sam had gone to sleep, Dean had been worried. Now he was jovial. This was all wrong. Sam couldn't catch a breath; he only couldn't take in air very well in the dream. He was still in it. He thumped his head back hard, utterly wasted. This was the last.

"Only Dean gets away with calling me Sammy, and I hate it even when he does it," Sam said dully. He attempted to glare. Judging by the succubus' amused smile, he didn't do a very good job. "You don't really need anything. It can be as boring as hell, you just need me to dream."

"There was never any way you could beat me," it said, shrugging Dean's shoulders. "Believe it or not, you're not the first who's tried. Most people are endearingly clueless about my existence, but every once in a while I'm surprised. Those are the best kinds of meals. You've been very satisfying, Sammy."

"Well, I'd tell you I'm happy for you, but…" Sam frowned. "Why are you telling me all this?"

It shrugged again, then raised a hand and pointed in the air. It tilted its head slightly, as if waiting. Sam couldn't figure out what for, and couldn't stand to look at Dean's face being manipulated by this evil thing. There was no reason for the charade other than simple torture. It was probably just an extra boost to have its victims suffer nightmares instead of just dreams. The more anxiety he suffered, the more it probably took from him. That might explain why he always started with a normal dream and escalated to a terrible climactic nightmare, and why it was happening more often. It had exhausted him and was trying to get every last ounce out of him.

"Are you sure?" Dean's voice. The real Dean, out there somewhere far away. Sam cringed at the desperation he heard in the tone, something Dean would never let him hear if he were awake. That just made it all the more painful. "There's got to be something."

"I've never been able to hear him before," Sam said, more to himself than his demonic bedside companion. He looked up, as if expecting to also see his brother, and then immediately felt like an idiot for following the succubus' cue. Dean wasn't up anywhere.

"Consider it a final gift. Most don't get this, either."

Lucky him, getting to listen to Dean sit at his deathbed. Lucky him for being on his deathbed. This was nuts. Sam hadn't even fought yet, he wasn't going to lie here and die without a whimper while this thing sat there and leering at him, wearing his brother's face. He just didn't quite know how to fight, and he could only hope he had enough time to figure it out.