A/N: I just wanted to say a quick Thank You to all of those who have been kind enough to review this story - I know my updates are on the slow side, and I apologize for that; but I do try to make the chapters long, to make up for it. I hope it's worth the wait.
Also, I've taken some liberties as far as the timeline of the show is concerned. Spaced some things out, added things here and there. I think it all fits together, if you just ignore how long Sam's had his cast - In my defense though, the show's doing the same thing. Damn Jared Padalecki for getting hurt in real lifeJ
Thanks again, now on to the story...
Mad World
Chapter Five: The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
The scene was typical enough.
So typical, that Sam didn't even notice he was dreaming at first. But he was nothing if not Champion of the Nightmare World, so it didn't take long for it to click.
He was dreaming.
He was standing next to a grave, shovel slung carelessly over his shoulder - and honestly, that was his first tip off. He had no cast, no bandages, and he was pretty damn sure that if he were to stop and take stock, he wouldn't have any cuts or bruises either. So yeah, this was defiantly a dream.
Then he looked down at the grave he was standing at - and it became a nightmare.
Jessica Lee Moore
Sam saw her smiling picture - as bright and alive as the day she died - and he turned away, lost in mockingly familiar grief. He tried for a few seconds to fight against the nightmare, to wake up. He pulled jerkily at the proverbial ropes his subconscious tied around him, but it was fruitless, so he gave up rather quickly.
Residing himself to the fact that he was stuck there, at least for the moment, he looked around. Anywhere except Jessica's headstone. That's when he saw, up ahead, a funeral already in progress, and he knew - with that inarguable nightmare knowledge - that he should be there.
And as soon as he accepted that knowledge, that's where he was. Despite the fact that the procession was all the way on the other side of the rather large graveyard, he was there in an instant. Nightmares are nifty like that.
He saw Dean first.
Mostly because he happened to turn his head and be right in front of his brother, but also because of that face.
There were other people around them, many other people, but all Sam could see was his brother.
He had that hard, emotionless mask of a face on and Sam instantly wanted to comfort him, make him talk about it. Whatever it was. Just as he'd done - to the best of his ability - after dad had died. As he always did, because that had been his role since childhood.
To be the emotional one of the two, to keep his brother anchored to his feelings - no matter how hard he fought against it - to make sure he kept living. As more than just a breathing, eating, fighting machine.
Only now, he couldn't. He couldn't follow his strongest instinct and reach out to his big brother. He couldn't do it, because he wasn't really there.
Desperate for knowledge, any sort of understanding as to what was going on, he looked up at the headstone that was the center of this large group's - and most importantly, his brother's - attention.
And there, etched in hard stone -
Sam Winchester
1983-2006
He didn't want to believe it, but one glance at his brother had pretty much sold it.
They were at his funereal.
He was dreaming his funereal.
Sam woke with a slight gasp, sitting up quickly in bed, eyes desperately devouring the scene around him.
"Dude," he heard his brother's groan from the motel bed next to him, and was grateful for the distraction. "What the-"
"It's nothing, Dean," Sam assured, trying to convince his own pounding heart of just that. "Go back to sleep."
"Nightmare?" He mumbled questioningly, already following Sam's orders, half escaping back into the wonderful world of subconscious bliss.
"Yeah," he admitted easily, because after a year on the road with his brother - after all the grief, heartache, awkwardness, fighting and loss - familiarity had kick in, and things had gotten back to some semblance of right between them. And Sam could confide the presence of nighttime demons to his big brother again.
"Bad?" He seemed slightly more awake, but he'd laid his head back down and his eyes remained closed. That was typical of Dean, though, avoid as many awkward moments as humanly possible.
"Nah," Sam shook his head, "I'm good."
There was a long pause, in which Dean stayed so silent and still, that Sam almost believed he'd drifted back off to sleep. But he knew the elder man, had known him as his protector since birth - and knew he was awake and listening for the slightest sound of distress - so Sam kept his breathing purposely steady.
"Alright," Dean agreed after a while of silent contemplation. "Go back to sleep."
"Sure," Sam agreed, watching Dean roll over and slipped his arm under his pillow; the younger man knew that his fingers were closing around the handle of his hunting knife - his security blanket. "Just gotta take a leak," he mumbled.
He got up; throwing the twisted together sheet and blanket off him, beyond glad that Dean was unable to see how badly he was shaking.
He'd closed the door to the bathroom, locking it behind him, before he allowed himself a pseudo-therapeutic deep breath. He couldn't stop his breathing from coming out raspy as he ran a hand through his shaggy hair tiredly, turning around and starting up the cold water. He tried not to, but he couldn't help catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
It was a good thing his brother hadn't been able to get a good look at him in the dark - Dean would have been suspicious in an instant. His skin was pale, the shadows under his eyes standing out almost frighteningly.
There were steady beads of sweat on his forehead and Sam dipped his head down, splashing his face with the ice-cold tap water.
It wasn't a vision. It wasn't a vision. It couldn't have been a vision.
It was a nightmare.
Sam had been living with the knowledge that he was going to die for over a week now. He'd been fighting down the terror of the possible impending symptoms that might go along with this illness.
The migraines, which the medical website he'd found promised would be the most excruciating he'd ever experienced. The memory loss, the muscle spasms, the loss of motor control.
He'd read all about it, but hadn't really accepted it yet. As far as he was concerned, it was happening to someone else, or it was happening to a different him, a him in some parallel dimension that he didn't have to be concerned with.
And he was okay with that denial - as messed up and illogical as it was - because he doubted he could deal with much more.
His subconscious obviously didn't agree, and those two parts of his mind were warring - thus, nightmare.
Not a vision.
Because Dean hadn't looked any older in his nightmare than he had yesterday - and Sam was damn sure that he wouldn't be dying anytime soon.
In fact, the way his impartial mind deduced it, hunting would take him out way before this tumor had a chance to. It wasn't his life expectancy he was worried about at all; it was those possible symptoms associated with this illness.
But still, the possibility of death must have been weighing heavily on his mind, without his consent or knowledge. Why else would he have such a nightmare?
It was a nightmare.
He glanced up at his reflection again, hoping beyond hope to convince himself of that truth. His eyes were haunted, though. Haunted by foreknowledge that he should not have been in possession of. Haunted by guilt, the thought of leaving his brother alone, after everything the older man had already lost.
They were haunted with denial, because he had not - refused - thus far, to accept the truth of what was happening to him.
He looked in the mirror and saw a young man's face. So open that you could see right into his bruised and battered soul.
Sam looked into that mirror, and he saw death.
A Few Days Later
They'd gone back to the Roadhouse, because what else could they do?
"Anything?" Ellen had asked as soon as they'd sauntered in late one evening, light from the setting sun following them in until Sam closed the door behind them and shadowed them all in smoky darkness.
"Oh yeah," Dean said, sounding enthused as he shrugged his jacket off and took a seat at the bar. "We passed the world's second largest ball of twine. And people wonder why we love our job so much."
Sam couldn't help but smirk at that.
"Well you were gone long enough," The older woman snapped, and Sam caught Jo smiling at the way Dean's playful expression disappeared at her mother's tone.
Dean was scared of Ellen. That knowledge alone was enough to put Sam in a better mood-make his headache seem less pronounced.
"We ran into one of our undead playmates," the older Winchester explained, with more somberness in his tone.
"Couple of 'em, actually," Sam took a swig from the beer bottle Jo presented him with gratefully - at least tomorrow, he could blame it on a hangover.
"Well, glad to see ya came out of it as cocky as ever," the cranky woman sneered after giving them a once over.
Dean just tipped his own beer bottle in her direction, a silent thank you.
"So what about that girl Ash told you about?" Jo was as impatient as her mom - and as direct too. She looked Dean straight in the eyes and raised her brows at his How is that your business? expression.
"It was a bust," Sam found himself lying easily, while his brother and Jo had their little silent conversation. "She didn't know anything."
"That's too bad," Ellen shook her head, "But Ash can't get 'em right every time. He'll keep lookin'."
Sam nodded but said nothing. He'd learned all he needed to know already, and hoped that Ash would never provide him with anything such as that ever again.
"In the mean time, though," Dean smiled at Jo, "Could we get some a that Whiskey?"
Glad he didn't have to ask for it himself, Sam simply nodded when Jo held up the shot glass in question. He saw Dean shoot him a confused glance after he downed the first shot and gestured for another, knowing his little brother wasn't much for hard liquor.
Sam just shrugged, and waited until Dean became thoroughly distracted by Jo before having another - Ellen was kind enough to leave the bottle on the counter next to them.
He didn't feel like thinking, didn't want to contemplate or dissect his own life; was glad that Dean had gone across the room and was now shooting darts with Jo.
The younger man did briefly wonder about that - Jo's relationship with his brother. What was going to come of that? Jo wasn't like any girl the Winchester's had ever encountered before, and Sam wasn't quite sure what to make of her.
She was as tough as Ellen, and Sam knew that loss had hardened her at a young age - a trait her and the brother's shared. But there was something big in her that was innocent too, and Sam didn't doubt that Ellen had kept her well sheltered after her father died.
Stories from the weathered hunters that drifted through here probably as close as she ever came to real action. There was something her eyes, her personality, that Sam recognized - something he himself had been a carrier of for such a long time.
A need to get away. To out run the life you were dealt.
Only with Sam, it had been a craving to escape the supernatural, live a normal and safe life. For Jo, he believed it was the exact opposite.
From his seat at the counter, Sam saw Jo laughing at something his brother had said, Dean was smirking and looking down, almost shyly. Sam hadn't seen the elder man act that way in a long while - so unreserved and carefree with a girl. With anyone, really, and Sam had missed that.
There was a growing fear though, the more he thought about it, that Jo was just using Dean, using him as a way to escape the protective environment that Ellen had created and trapped her in.
It wasn't something he wanted to believe, but he couldn't help but compare himself and the younger girl. When Sam was in her position...well, he would have done almost anything to get away.
He'd possessed a tunnel vision that had blinded him frighteningly.
He just prayed that Dean wouldn't get burned by that again.
TBC...
A/N: Thoughts?