vBay View Cabins

Palo Alto, CA

November 15, 2003

6:18 am

"That's Mom."

The words hung in the air like a grenade on the down swing, and both brothers sat silent, waiting for the explosion, staring at the more or less innocuous piece of paper.

It felt like hours had passed when Dean finally spoke.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked quietly, "And don't just say it's mine. Where did it come from, Sammy? Who drew this—this—that!" was the only word he could come up with.

"I—I did," Sam shrugged and winced at the glare he got from his brother.

"YOU drew this? Bullshit," Dean scoffed. "You can't draw much better than I can, Sammy, and I can barely do a stick figure.This," he frowned, and gingerly picked the paper up to shake it under Sammy's nose, "was drawn by an artist. Sure the fuck didn't come out of you."

"But…it did," Sam shrugged again and sat on the end of the couch, across from Dean. "At least, I think it did. I haven't been able to come up with any other explanation."

"You THINK?"

"Well, I found it in my journal," Sam admitted. "I can't think that anyone else would've added it."

"Your…you keep a Hunter's Journal?" Dean frowned.

Sam snorted. "No! I mean, yeah, sure, when we hunt, but that's not this."

"You journal?" Dean said, disbelievingly. "Dude, you write in your diary? When did you become a 13 year old girl, Samantha?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's not…Look. Maybe I should start at the beginning," he sighed,

"That would be good," Dean agreed. "I'm all on pins and needles to hear how your little pink diary led to this," he assured his brother, brandishing the page again.

Sam sighed, and let the sarcasm go. "Okay," he said and took a deep breath. "It's kind of a…a long-ish story, so just…It'll make more sense if you just let me finish before you ask questions, okay."

Dean shrugged. Sam — correctly — took that to mean that Dean would try, but made no promises.

"Okay, then," Sam exhaled, knowing that was as good as he was going to get. "It started just after Christmas break, when I got back to the dorm. I had this…this nightmare," he admitted, and stared at Dean's knee. "I kind of woke up yelling," he said sheepishly, "and I've never been so happy to have a single in my life. Anyway, I could barely remember the dream, but I knew it had something to do with Brady. A couple nights later, I had what I thought might be the same dream. At least, I had the same reaction to it — woke up yelling, worried about Brady. When I had the dream the third time, and still couldn't remember anything about it, I went to the library and looked up dreams and dreaming," Sam explained, carefully ignoring the muttered of course you did, "and found that some experts said that if you keep a notebook by your bed, you can kind of…train yourself to write down the details of a dream either while it's happening, or before you fully wake and the dreams fade. So I tried that, and after a few more times of that dream, I found a notation in the notebook. It wasn't much — just a couple words — but it was enough to trigger my brain into remembering the dream properly, and when I did, I added that to the journal, too. I had the dream one more time after I wrote it down, and got one more detail, then the dream just…stopped." Sam glanced up and saw a familiar look on his brother's frowning face. "What?" he asked cautiously, acknowledging the angry, slightly betrayed look on his brother's face.

"You were having nightmares, and you didn't tell me?!" Dean snapped. "You should have told me, Sammy, I could've helped."

"20, Dean," Sam countered with a mild bitchface. "I'm 20. I can deal with my own nightmares. And you're one to talk, anyway. I know perfectly well you have nightmares at least every couple of weeks, and I don't see you coming to me for help."

"Because you're the little brother," Dean countered. "It's not the little brother's job to take care of the big brother. That's not how it works. I take care of you, not the other way around."

"That's seriously one of the dumbest things you've ever said," Sam shook his head. "Of course I….You know what, no. We're not doing this now," he decided, "but just know, this discussion isn't over."

"Oh, I assure you it is," Dean countered, crossing his arms over his chest, "because there's nothing more to discuss."

Sam rolled his eyes, but forced himself to stay on track. "Anyway," he continued, "the last time I had the dream was the beginning of March, and that last time, it was so vivid; so real. And weird."

"What was it," Dean frowned.

"Brady and I were walking to Old Union to meet a couple people for dinner. I remember, in the dream, I had this envelope to mail — I thought it was a letter to Bobby, I wasn't sure — and just as we got to the blue box, a couple of girls went by on a tandem bike, of all things!"

"Oh a tandem," Dean smiled. "It's always hot girls on a tandem. Were they hot?" Dean asked hopefully, and looked away when Sam just glared another bitchface and tipped his hands to the side in a seriously? gesture. "Sorry. Continue," Dean nodded.

"So these girls go by on the tandem bike, and I stop at the mailbox to drop the letter, or whatever, and Brady keeps going. He gets to the corner, like maybe six feet away, steps off the curb and then BAM!" Sam yelled and Dean jumped just a little. "This big black SUV comes ripping around the corner and just…runs him down. Knocks him to the ground, goes straight over him with the right tires. Bastards didn't even stop," Sam said, brokenly, and sniffed before giving himself a little shake.

"Damn, Sammy," Dean frowned. "I get why you woke up yelling, seeing your friend literally run over. Damn!"

Sam nodded, a little jerkily. "And, I just kept having it, too, you know? Over and over. In one of my psych classes, we learned that dreams are either the way the subconscious processes the events of the day, or a manifestation of our desires, and…I just kept thinking, what kind of sick fuck was I to keep dreaming about my friend, one of the best friends I've ever had, getting killed, you know? Over and over." he asked, his voice breaking.

"Hey!" Dean reached across and put a hand on Sammy's shoulder. "I don't care what any hyped up academic douchebag says. You are not sick, Sammy. Fuck psychology, anyway. They think that the shit in people's nightmares is all just…nightmares. We know better. Shit in people's nightmares is Nature's half-assed way of telling them to watch out, because it's not all in their heads. That shit exists. Right?"

Sam nodded and shot Dean a small, but very grateful, smile. "Yeah," he nodded. "I'm over that, really," he promised. "It's just…I remember how much it screwed with my head, you know?"

Dean nodded and shifted over the couch, where he could be nearer his increasingly upset little brother. The pair resettled, facing each other, with one hand on the back of the couch, one foot on the floor, and the other tucked up against the edge of the cushions, mirror images of each other.

"Anyway," Sam sighed. "A couple weeks later, end of March, Brady and I are walking across campus to the Old Union. Which we've done half a dozen times since the dream started, so I'm not freaking out about it, or anything. By this time, I haven't had it for a couple of weeks, and I've mostly forgotten it, you know?"

Dean nodded, and Sam continued. "And I've got this letter to Bobby that I'm going to mail on the way, right? And just as I get to the blue box, these two girls go by on a tandem bike! And it all comes back, every detail of that stupid dream. I realize that Brady's wearing a new jacket, one I hadn't seen before that day, but it's the same one from my dream. And I turn, and I call out to him to wait for me, and he looks back over his shoulder, and he's stepping off the curb, and…" Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't even remember how I got to him," he admitted, opening his eyes again to look into Dean's. "One minute I was next to the mailbox, and the next, I was grabbing him by his new jacket and yanking him backwards, and…I'd barely got him back on the curb before that damn SUV comes whipping around the corner…" His voice trailed off as he shook his head in amazement.

"Your dream came true," Dean breathed.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "I started paying a lot closer attention to my dreams, after that."

"I bet!" Dean chuckled. "Damn, Sammy, that's…that's just…man that is fucked up."

"Oh it gets better," Sam laughed a little breathlessly. "Or, worse, depending on your point of view."

"You had more?" Dean marveled, and kept himself from adding and didn't tell me. Yet.

"Yeah, but this next one…I wasn't even in the next dream. Like, the first one, I had it a couple of times, and each time there was more and more written in my dream journal. I don't…mostly I didn't even remember writing it, there were just new entries the next time I looked at it, you know? I mean, my handwriting, and live alone, so…"

Dean nodded his understanding, and looked briefly at the drawing he'd set down on the couch between them.

"The next dream," Sammy continued, "was about these kids, maybe six or eight of them, I'm not sure. They were all young, like maybe 8, 10 years old, and they were sledding down this hill."

Dean smiled nostalgically. "I used to love that," he sighed. "You did, too!"

Sam frowned. "I…don't remember sledding. Like, ever."

Dean's smile morphed from pleasantly nostalgic to sad and slightly bitter. "You wouldn't," he admitted. "You were two, maybe three when Dad stopped it. Said it was dangerous, that anything could grab us on the way down, or the bottom of the hill, or climbing back up again, and he was too busy to go with us, so…Yeah. You wouldn't remember."

Sam shook his head. "He really totally fucked over your childhood, dude."

"MY childhood?" Dean scoffed. "Dude, I'm not the one he beat up on the regular."

Sammy smirked. "Well, it goes without saying he fucked up my childhood," he said wryly, and continued his story. "Anyway, there's this one kid, and he looks kinda familiar, but also, not, you know? And he's got this Flexible Flyer he's been dragging around, and he gets on it, lying down, face first…"

"Like you do," Dean nodded, and Sam gave a little laugh.

"If you say so," Sam said agreeably. "So this kid is whipping down the hill, and the sled goes over this bump, right, and the fucker just takes off, completely airborne, now, and the kid falls off, right? Face first, sliding down the hill, but he's kind of sideways, and then he gets out in front of the sled, which hasn't landed yet, and then the sled hits, comes down, the front of the runners right on this kid's back, on his shoulder blades, and keeps going and the kid is screaming, and all the other kids are yelling, and the sled's cut straight through his coat, through his shirt, right down to the skin, and there's just blood all over the snow, and…" Sam stopped and shrugged. "And then I wake up."

"Wow," Dean said quietly. "That's…dude, that is just…way messed up."

"I know!" Sam agreed. "And I mean, it had the same feel as the Brady dream, right, different from other dreams I have, it's just…I know it's something…woo-woo, ya know?"

Dean nodded and Sam raised an eyebrow at the slightly sick look on Dean's face. "Just…maybe don't call it the Brady dream, dude. That just…sounds wrong."

Sam laughed softly and shook his head, a look of tolerant affection on his face. "Only you," he sighed, and continued. "So anyway, I have the dream 3, 4 times, and then one day one of my study groups is sitting outside in the Main Quad, and it's stupid hot for the end of April, and this one guy in the group, Trevor, he's wearing a sweatshirt and just melting in the sun, you know? So he takes his sweatshirt off, and I'm not paying any attention, but then I hear a couple of people kinda gasping, like in shock, you know, and a couple other people are all "dude, what happened?" and I look up and Trev's turned around and there are these two parallel scars running like 14, 16 inches apart straight across his back, the top one right over his shoulder blades, and I fucking know what he's going to say. And he does. Oh, that? Got that sledding when I was like nine, and then he tells the whole story, and it's exactly like my dream," Sammy concluded.

"So, now your dreams are prophetic, forwards and backwards?" Dean wondered.

"I guess so, yeah," Sam admitted. "Although, I don't think backward prophetic is a thing. I think that would be just, like…memory or something."

"Yeah, but they're not your memory, are they?"

"No."

"So, you're like a…memory prophet? Memophet? Prophory!"

Sammy shook his head, that tolerantly affectionate look back. "Not everything needs a name, Dean. At least, not a mashup name."

"Sure they do," Dean countered. "It's both clearer and more efficient."

"How is that more efficient?" Sam challenged. "You'd have to stop in the middle of any conversation and explain what the fuck you're talking about."

"Not my problem if people can't keep up with the evolution of the mother tongue," Dean shrugged.

"Evolution of the…you been watching PBS again, dude?" Sam laughed.

"No! Blue haired bullshit, I would never…Maybe," he admitted, looking away from his highly amused brother. "Sometimes. Reception sucks and it's the only thing I can get some nights."

"You have satellite," Sammy reminded. "150 channels, dude. Admit it," he challenged. "There's a little blue hair in there somewhere."

"Shut up," Dean snapped. "And don't change the subject."

"You're the one who started randomly naming shit," Sam said drily.

"Whatever," Dean waved any guilt away. "Whatever you call it, Sammy, you're having dreams about shit that will or already has happened, and you. Didn't. Tell me."

At least Sammy had the grace to look guilty at that.

"I just…I'm sorry, okay?" Sammy said, forcing himself to look Dean in the eyes. "It's just…It was all so…random. Brady getting hurt, I mean, that kind of makes sense, kind of a — an extension of the way I learn things from the earth…"

"You mean, when you use the Force," Dean corrected, and Sam wasn't sure if he should be amused or alarmed at the perfectly matter-of-fact way his brother said that phrase.

"It's not…" Sam started, and made himself take a breath, reminding himself of the futility of starting that argument now. The Force or Not the Force argument never went anywhere. At least, nowhere constructive, and there was enough going on right now. "Whatever," he snapped and rolled his eyes at the smug look on Dean's face, who was clearly taking Sam's unwillingness to argue as total capitulation. "The point is, the first dream, that just seemed like a — an extension of what I can already do. And then, the dream about Trevor, that…we'd been spending a lot of time studying together around the time I had those dreams, and I just…" He sighed and shook his head.

I figured it was part of the telepathy thing, Sammy's voice said inside Dean's head.

"And I just…" Sammy said aloud again, shrugging. "I mean, why would I tell you about something we already know I can do?"

Dean sighed and nodded. "That almost makes sense," he acknowledged with a sigh. "Until we get to this," he added, shoving the drawing under his brother's nose again. "In what world do you think it's okay to not TELL ME that you're dreaming about…THIS?!"

Sammy sighed and leaned back against the arm of the couch. "No world, Dean," he admitted.

"You're Damn RIGHT No world!" Dean yelled

"Why do you think I'm here, Dean?" Sammy yelled back. "I came here TO tell you about it, dammit!"

"Yeah?" Dean challenged, not in the slightest bit mollified. "Well, based on what you said about the other two dreams, you've probably been having this dream for weeks, Sam. Why am I only hearing about it now?"

"BECAUSE I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS MOM!"

Dean blinked and swallowed. "What now?" he asked quietly, all the fight suddenly gone out of him.

Sammy closed his eyes and shook his head. "You're right, Dean," he admitted softly, letting go of his frustration now that Dean seemed willing to listen, "I've been having the dream for weeks — but only parts of it," he added, meeting Dean's gaze again. "That's the thing with these dreams, I get…" Sammy shrugged. "It comes in pieces at first. The journal helps a bit, but…it's not until I've had the dream a — a few times that I ever really get the whole thing."

"Okay," Dean nodded and leaned forward so his fingers lightly touched his brother's on the end of the couch. "Tell me."

"It started with…just…sounds," Sammy explained, closing his eyes again, trying to bring back the details of that first dream. "I don't think I actually saw anything, the first time I had the dream," he admitted. "Somebody yelled Go, and I heard this…this crackling noise. And smoke. I could smell smoke. And then I woke up."

He opened his eyes slowly, and relaxed a little, seeing that Dean was listening, really listening to him. "The next time, there were…more sounds, but also…feelings."

"Feelings?" Dean repeated. "Like, fear."

"No, no, not…not feelings, I guess more…sensations."

"O…kay."

Sammy sighed, frustrated. "Okay. First, I had the…I remember…I felt…" he looked away, embarrassed.

"What?" Dean wondered. "High? Horny? Hungry?" he suggested and bit back his grin when Sammy shot him a bitchface. Sammy had been getting upset, and if there was one thing Dean knew in the world, it was how to get his little brother back on an even keel.

"Somebody kissed me, okay?" Sammy snapped, and looked away. "Like, on my forehead," he added, still not looking up and so missed the way his brother froze so completely that, just for a moment, Dean was sure he'd stopped breathing.

Good night, Sam.

Dean swallowed heavily and ran a hand over his face, trying to keep it together, and made himself take a breath again.

"And then, that voice again…GO. And then…it's like…it's like I'm…I dunno, bouncing. Moving."

Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now, Dean. Go.

"Carried," Dean said quietly.

"Yeah," Sam nodded and looked up at Dean, grateful for the understanding. "Dean?" he said quietly, finally noticing how still Dean had become, how he'd pulled his arm away from Sam's, and seemed to be withdrawing into himself.

"Then what?" Dean asked, keeping his voice level and calm, like this was another hunt and he was interviewing some civilian witness. He kept his gaze locked on the upper corner of the back door, over Sammy's left shoulder,

"Umm," Sam faltered a minute, frowning at Dean's response.

"It's okay," Dean assured him. "Then what?"

"Then, uh…cold. And um…noise. A…a…an explosion," Sammy shrugged, still watching his brother closely while trying to pull the memory of the dream back. "Dean, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean said firmly and made himself look at his brother again. "Then what?"

"Umm…I…I had the dream a couple more times. Uh…about a…a week ago, I woke up in the morning, and I looked in my journal, and I'd added….I guess I remember…someone standing over me. Like, in the dark. I…I don't think I knew them. That's…that's what I wrote, anyway. Standing over me. Dark. Stranger. And then, uh…We - Wednesday night," he continued and started to mimic Dean, pulling himself back from his brother, withdrawing into himself without noticing. "I…I could feel…I felt…heat. I heard…fire," he admitted and shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, then quickly opening them again on a little gasp. "And laughing," he said so quietly Dean almost missed it.

"Did you…Laughing?" Dean repeated. "Is that what you said?"

Sammy nodded and just mouthed the word yeah.

"The demon, then," Dean said quietly, and Sammy nodded.

"Must've been," he admitted, his voice breaking. "And then, last night…" his breath hitched and tears started to fall unnoticed. "I saw…I…she was…and when I woke up," he continued, "I found…" he waved his hand towards the drawing that Dean had dropped at some point, so it was lying between them.

Their mother, mouth open in what could only be a scream, bleeding from the gash across her torso, surrounded by lines that could only be fire.

"And I c—," Sammy continued, his voice hoarse and broken with his falling tears, "I came here. As soon as…soon as I woke up, and I saw the…the drawing, and…I just…"

"Sam," Dean breathed and opened his arms and then the brothers were clutching each other, neither sure who was comforting whom.

"I just needed…" Sammy whispered brokenly into Dean's shoulder. "I just…I was gonna tell you. I swear I was. I just…I needed…I — I wanted to wait…until…I don't know. Daylight, I guess," he half-laughed. "Like daylight keeps the monsters away."

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean whispered into the mop of hair. "It's okay."

"It's not," Sammy countered, shaking his head.

"No," Dean agreed and pulled Sammy closer still. "It's not," he agreed. "That's never gonna be all right," he admitted and pressed his tear-stained face against the top of his baby brother's head.

Neither could have said for sure how long they stayed that way, giving and receiving comfort in equal parts, like they always did. Eventually — and pretty much simultaneously — the brothers pulled away from each other, each looking away as he wiped his own tears; each giving the other the grace of pretending not to notice while they did so.

"So," Dean sighed after they had both retreated to their respective ends of the couch. "Prophetic dreams. That's a new one."

Sam nodded, shrugged. "I guess. I mean, I thought…I don't know. Is it a..an extension of what I've been doing or something new?"

"Yeah, I don't know," Dean agreed. "I think we need to treat it as something new. Keep track of it, see if we can figure where it comes from. Not," he admitted reluctantly, "that we've ever figured out where anything else you've done comes from or anything."

Sam shook his head and sighed. "I think we both know where it comes from," he countered, lightly tapping the drawing between them.

Dean shook his head. "I'm not ready to concede that," he argued back. "Bobby thinks you're a natural witch. If that's the case, then it could as easily come from that as the…other."

"Demon Blood," Sam said softly, shaking his head. "Five years you've known, and you still can't say it, can you? I have Demon Blood in me, Dean. That's where all this…all the…all my power crap comes from."

"We don't know that," Dean repeated.

"Okay," Sam shrugged, "so tell me one other witch that can heal themselves, or talk to the planet…"

"Use the Force," Dean corrected, innocently.

Sam shot him a bitchface before he continued, "or crumple up cars with their mind, all without casting a spell."

"We don't know that you don't cast a spell," Dean argued.

"Actually, Dean, I'm pretty sure I'm not. You know, as the one who's actually doing it."

"You could be doing it subconsciously."

"Subcon… Right. Okay. So name a witch who can do that, cast a spell without even knowing they're doing it. Name one witch, or any piece of lore about witches, that says any of that has ever occurred," he challenged, crossing his arms and raising one eyebrow as he watched Dean squirm slightly in his seat.

"Well?" Sam prompted after a minute or so. "You can't, can you? No, of course not, because it doesn't exist."

"Hey, it could just be that I don't know any because I'm not that good at research," Dean challenged with a sharp nod, as if that made him more right.

Sam lightly rubbed his forehead, up and down the middle like he'd done every time a headache was starting since he was eight or so. "That is so fucked up," he said quietly and sighed.

"What is?"

Sam shook his head and huffed a little laugh. "That, even as much as you hate witches, it's still preferable to the demon blood having an effect."

"Well, the worst thing being a witch is gonna do is turn you into a douche," Dean snapped and froze, his eyes widening as it occurred to him what he'd just said. "Sam…"

Sam leaned back, hard, against the arm of the couch, crossing his arms defensively almost hugging his own sides. "As opposed to my turning into a demon, you mean," he said quietly.

"Sam, I — I didn't…I don't think," Dean bit his lip and made himself look his brother directly in the eye. "I really don't think that, Sam. I don't. I know…I know you won't go darkside, Sammy, it's not in you. Me, maybe," he conceded and ignored the surprised look and sudden rapid blinking on his brother's face, "but never you, Sammy. Never you."

"Right," Sam scoffed.

"That's not what I meant, Sam. It really isn't."

"Okay, Dean. Then what? What did you mean. What will the demon blood do, if not turn me into a demon, huh? What's your theory?"

"Sammy…"

"No, seriously," Sam frowned. "Everything else aside, Dean. I know you've thought about it. I know I have, and so has Bobby. God knows, Dad did. I know what everybody else thinks. John thinks I'm already a demon. Bobby…Bobby and I agree; at some point, somewhere down the line, there's gonna be something that'll just…" he shook his head and looked away from Dean. "I'll be so hurt, so angry, and just...hopeless…" he closed his eyes briefly, trying to suppress the image of the one thing he and Bobby thought was sure to turn him into something dark — life without Dean. "I'll be just…one day, it'll all be too much, and I'll just…slide out of being human. But I don't know what you think. So, in all seriousness, Dean. Tell me. Please. What do you think the demon blood's going to do to me? Because it's gonna do something, Dean. If it didn't…then what was the point of giving it to me? And Demons…they never do anything without a reason. The reason may be as simple as causing chaos, but there's always a purpose. Every time. So, what do you think that purpose was, huh? Why did old yellow eyes break into our house and feed me his blood? Why, Dean? What's it going to do to me."

Dean looked down at the drawing still lying on the couch between them, and inhaled and exhaled deeply before raising his head to meet his little brother's questioning gaze. "I don't know," he shrugged. "I don't know what he had in mind. I think you and Bobby are probably right. I think it probably was meant to turn you into some kind of Hunter Sith Lord, or whatever. But I also think it's gonna fail. It's not in you, Sammy, it just isn't. No matter what. What I'm worried about," he admitted, "is what it'll do when…what will happen when you don't turn? When John and Bobby and all the other Hunters of that generation are gone. When some hunt goes bad, I finally die bad and bloody. When you're all alone," Dean whispered the words, blinking to hold back the tears at the thought — not that he and everyone else they knew would die; he'd always known that. Hell, Dean was pretty sure he'd never see thirty. Some days he wasn't sure he'd see 25. No, what brought him to tears wasn't his own death, it was the idea that he'd one day, inevitably, leave Sammy alone. "When there's no one left but you, and you still don't turn. Because you won't," he assured his brother and the certainty in his voice was almost enough to convince Sam, too. "But when the blood fails? When you…just stay you. That's what I worry about."

"I don't understand," Sam shook his head. "If you honestly believe I won't turn, even after…even if I'm alone. Then…What are you afraid of, Dean? What do you think the demon blood's gonna do, if not make me a demon?"

"Sam, I don't…"

"Look, the picture you just painted of future me is already pretty fuckin' bleak, Dean. Might was well take it all the way."

Dean sighed, and closed his eyes, almost visibly trying to find some calm in his racing mind. He opened his eyes and looked at his brother again. "I think it'll kill you," he said flatly and Sam flinched just slightly at the words. "I'm sorry," he continued quietly, "but you asked. I think it'll kill you. I think that if the demon can't turn you — and he never will — if the demon can't have you, I think he'll make sure that nobody can. I think that one way or another, he'll just…I don't know, burn you out from the inside, maybe? The reason I prefer your powers coming from being a witch, instead from the blood? That's because, honestly, Sam; the demon blood scares the crap out of me. Not because I think you'll go dark. I've never thought that. Not for a single second since I found out about what the demon did to you have I ever even entertained the idea that my little brother would go bad. That you would, in any way, ever purposefully endanger anybody else, or deliberately hurt someone. You just won't. That ain't what scares me," he assured Sammy. "What scares me, what fuels my nightmares — I mean beyond the day to day monster shit we deal with, and all the close calls, and the way things can go bad, and…" he glanced at the drawing still taunting him from the cushions between the brothers, "that," he admitted with nod to the paper. "I ain't afraid of monsters. GIve me anything and tell me how to gank it, and I got no problem. A Vampire-Werewolf-Wendigo hybrid? Sure. I'll take it on, no sweat. I'll use a flaming silver machete to take its head off, no problem. But eh demon blood…that shit turning into some kind of…biological timebomb. Fuckin' yellow-eyed bastard using it to kill you?" Dean shook his head and wiped at the tears pooling in his eyes. "Knowing he could decide any day. That fucker could just…figure it out, that he's got no chance to make you evil, none at all. And he flips some kind of remote control blood switch or something, and I just… that one day I could wake up and you're…Wakin' up without you in the world?" he whispered. "That, Sammy. The demon blood doing that, while I'm still here to see it? While I have to just keep going, but without you?

"THAT scares the fuck out of me."

=======SPN=======SPN========SPN======SPN=====

A/N

Well, That got all kinds of angst, didn't it? Wasn't expecting that.

Explanations:

Sam's "single" is a single dorm room; that is a dorm room with only one bed and one desk, etc. In many U.S. University's, it's not uncommon for upperclassmen (those students in their 3rd or 4th year of study, also known as Juniors and Seniors, respectively) to have a single dorm room. That's particularly true of difficult majors, like Pre-Law or Pre-Med, because it's felt that the upperclassman needs quiet and privacy to study more.

The "blue box" Sam mentions is not a Tardis (more's the pity), but a large blue painted box provided by the U.S. Postal Service to collect mail. In 2003, there were many more of them than there are now, and in a college setting it was not unusual to find them outside of important buildings or heavily trafficked areas.

A tandem bike is a bike with two seats, two pedals, and two handle bars. The boys are shown riding one in the "theme song" for the comedy Supernatural in the episode Changing Channels (5x08).

Old Union is a building on Stanford's campus (obvs). Most US colleges have a "Union". It's where students can hang out or study when they have time between classes, but not enough time to walk to their dorm which may be the other side of campus.

A quad is an open square of land, usually grassy, sometimes partly paved or with a fountain, surrounded on all four sides by buildings.

A Flexible Flyer is a brand of snow sled in the US. It has two metal runners about 16 or so inches apart, held together by thin, narrow planks of wood on which a kid can sit or lay. What makes the Flyer unique is that at the front, there are two smaller runners with a single slightly bowed piece of wood between them about 4 inches in front of the main runners. By pushing with your feet ( or hands, sometimes pulling on a rope attached to the front board) you can change the angle of the front runners to the main runners, to ( and I use the term very loosely here) steer the sled. (Almost invariably, the sled is not properly dried after the last ride of winter, and the connections of the front runners to the rest of the sled rust, so the following winter you have to either press much harder against the front board to steer, or just learn which way the sled will pull and make sure no one else is on that side of you)

PBS is the Public Broadcasting System in the US. It only has advertisements for other shows on PBS, and generally only between programs, and receives some funding from the government, and some from supporter donations. It's a broadcast network, free to anyone within broadcast range, and always include in the cheapest cable or satellite TV packages. It tends to run documentaries and historical melodramas and mysteries, most made in the UK

Blue hair is a derisive term for someone with a, supposedly, more "intellectual" mind, usually meant to indicate a person only listens to classical music, frequents all types of museums, and (if they have a tv at all) only watch documentaries and "dry" shows about people living in the past. PBS is famous for running both in the evenings.

"The Force" is from the Star Wars series. In the original Star Wars (A New Hope, episode IV), Obi-wan Kenobi describes it as "an energy field created by all living things". (adding this one here, since I forgot to do so in Chapter 10. Just in case there is still anyone in the galaxy who has not yet seen the Star Wars saga)

Dean calling an evil Sam a Hunter Sith Lord is yet another Star Wars reference. The Sith are the order of Jedis who have embraced the Dark Side. Sith with more skill are Lords, as in "Lord Vader".

CorvusVeritatus Yeah, Sammy's dreams about Mary are going to have a significant impact as we move forward, even beyond the emotional fallout here. Glad I could solve the Sam I Am mystery for you; always happy to help :)

As for how long this will run — honestly, your guess is as good as mine! My record (another fandom, many years ago) was 47. I actually killed off the main character in that one, and then kept going for another 20+ chapters, dealing with the fallout. Actually, I'd love to hear how everyone feels about it, because I'm a little conflicted. Part of me wants to take it to the edge of the series, or maybe the end of the Pilot, and stop this one there, then pick up in another story. Part of me just says screw it, let's get all 15 seasons (and then some) into this mess. Part of me wants to rehash the major, important points in the show (John's death, Cold Oak, Dean in Hell, etc,, etc.) but I also don't want this to turn into a series of episode rewrites (not that there's anything wrong with that, but it's not for me) — and yet, in some cases, I think I almost have to, if I take this (in this story or a follow up) into the Series because powers!SamWitch would have a significant impact on some events. Interested to hear your thoughts (and the thoughts of anyone else who cares to comment!)

Princess of the Fae Welcome, your highness, glad to have you aboard! And yes, Poor Dean indeed. Seems like an physically beat up on Sammy more, but I do psychologically torture Dean in this, don't i? Sorrynotsorry. Dean is just soooo full of angst and self-loathing and self-doubt, he makes it easy!