A/N Sorry for the slow start to this chapter, but I left some loose ends from Chapter 23 that I had to wrap up. Stick it out, and we'll get to more angst and powers as soon as possible. As always, explanations are at the end.

Also, my apologies for how long this one took. Honestly, for some reason, this chapter was a stone bitch to write. This is my FOURTH attempt, and I'm cutting it off here just so I can say it's done and move on to the next bit. That shouldn't take so long, honestly, it's all in my head (unlike this one).

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Bay View Cabins

Palo Alto, CA

December 23, 2003

2:48 a.m. and

Dean woke suddenly, his hand reflexively around the grip of the gun under his pillow, glanced at the clock with a groan, and gave himself a second or two to pull his brain further out of sleep.

He knew what woke him up, of course. It was the same thing that had been waking him up almost nightly since they'd returned from the nearly fatal (for Dean) and life altering (for Sam) hunt in Vegas.

Sam.

On the surface of it, they should have come back to Palo Alto triumphant and happy. The hunt had been successful — the Frat Brat ghost had been put to rest and they'd even addressed the second haunting that they had heard of out in the Toiyabe National Forest, where something had been whipping up sandstorms to flay alive anyone unlucky enough to stumble into the area. That something apparently also liked turning their own bones into javelins to pin Hunters to trees, but hey, no hunt was perfect.

Sam had asked for help from The Force (it's not the Force, Dean) in finding the bones of the ghost that had attacked Dean, and had been led to a mass grave. Before he'd had the chance to salt the bones, a group of Native Americans had suddenly showed up — Dean still wasn't clear how — and gratefully gathered up the bones of their ancestors for proper burial.

In gratitude for Sam finding the bones they'd been looking for for years, the tribesmen had helped Sam carry Dean, still too weakened from losing what Sam estimated to be a quart and a half of blood, back to the Impala, parked a good six miles from where they'd finally found and confronted the ghost.

The brothers had stayed in Vegas for nearly a week after that, while Dean "recuperated" from his blood loss by enjoying the suite of rooms at the Treasure Island that the hotel manager — whose son happened to be one of the frat brothers they'd saved from death-by-frat-pledge-ghost — had comped them. And of course there was no way Dean was turning down the $1000 in free chips that came with the suite. Dean had hit a poker table, clearing an additional $3000 over the comped chips, before Sam — who had stood silently all evening at Dean's shoulder "monitoring Dean's health", which Dean had decided was just "hovering like a Pissy Pirate Parrot" — had pulled him away from the table before he could either lose all the money or get too drunk to pronounce Pissy Pirate Parrot.

They'd even made it to the new Zumanity Cirque du Soleil show at New York New York, the night after the hunt (despite Sam's insistence that Dean should be in bed that soon after losing nearly a quarter of his blood volume) keeping the very expensive tickets for themselves after all.

Overall, a successful hunt, but it had been a solid three weeks before Dean really felt like himself again after the near-fatal incident. And Sam…

Sam hadn't been the same since they'd come back from Vegas.

The only way Dean had been able to convince his brother to stay in school at all was One, to let him stay at the cabin with Dean every night, so that his telekinesis couldn't cause issues for other dorm residents while Sam slept (not that the telekinesis had ever caused problems while Sam slept when they'd lived at Bobby's or, so far as Dean knew, anytime since his little brother had first developed he ability); and B, to solemnly promise that they would head back to Bobby's over Winter Break to re-do the binding ritual.

Unfortunately, Winter Break took place in, well, winter, and that particular winter had dumped nearly two feet of snow at Singer Salvage in the week before Sam's finals, on top of the nearly 12 inches already on the ground, with another couple feet expected over Christmas. There was no way to get back to Bobby's before New Year's, at the earliest and, from the way Bobby said the weathermen were talking, maybe not until sometime in March or April.

Which left Sam with what he called an unexpected moral crisis and Dean called unwarranted stress and depression.

It had all just gotten worse in the last couple of weeks before the end of the term/winter break, when Sam started on another round of nightmares.

For the first three or four days, Dean had climbed the wrought iron spiral stairs in the corner of the living room up to the loft-office-turned-bedroom that Sam had been using since they'd returned from Vegas, when Dean had decreed (with perfect reasonableness) that there was no way Sam was staying in a cabin of his own where Dean couldn't keep a decent eye on his little brother.

Sam had had nearly six months to get used to having his own space, and balked at being forced to share a cabin with his brother, but since Dean was in charge of the cabins and all the keys, there wasn't anything Sam could do about it.

Eventually, Dean had insisted on Sam moving back into the master bedroom to share Dean's king sized bed.

Sam had, of course, fought Dean on the move, but Dean had (rightly) pointed out the danger of him having to get up in the middle of the night to climb the narrow iron staircase in little to no light to check on his brother, and so soon after nearly dying at that (because, if it kept Sammy safe, Dean wasn't above using any dirty tactic he had to).

Sam had, naturally, immediately told Dean he didn't need to check on his little brother, Sam was old enough to take care of himself and his own nightmares.

Dean hadn't even dignified that ridiculousness with a response.

They'd managed to get two or three decent nights' sleep once Sam was again sleeping at his brother's back, but the last week or so had been…not good.

The first couple of nights when Sam's distressed breathing and kitten-like whimpers had woken Dean in the hours before dawn, Dean had carefully woken his brother and offered what comfort he could until Sam was again calm enough to try to sleep.

Five nights ago, the fourth night in a row with interrupted sleep for the brothers, Dean had slightly changed tactics and, after calming Sammy down, he'd started pressing for details.

"So," Dean said softly, smoothing his brother's (still too long, dammit) hair from Sammy's sweat-dampened forehead. "What are we looking at here, Sammy? Greatest Hits from The Life of a Hunter? The Return of the Angry Dad? Or are we looking at the start of a New Nightmare? We need to pull the Dream Warriors together, figure out what the Force is trying to tell you in your sleep?"

Sam rolled his eyes, and pushed his brother's hand away. "It's not The Force," he frowned. "And it's not..It's just…just a nightmare, Dean. Just an average, ordinary nightmare," he said quietly, almost to himself and Dean didn't miss the slight shakiness in his voice. "Doesn't mean anything."

"Right," Dean agreed. "But if it weren't…if it was a — a — premonition dream? Would you tell me?"

Sam sighed. "There's nothing to tell, Dean. It's a regular dream," he repeated. "Just…maybe… a little more…fragmented than usual. It's nothing," Sam lied.

Dean knew Sam lied that night, and Sam knew Dean knew he lied, and Dean knew Sam knew Dean knew Sam had lied…but Dean let it go, that night. And the night after that. And the night after that.

The sixth night of Sam's nightmares, last night, the dream, whatever it was, had left his Sammy shaking in his arms, and Dean had enough.

"It's okay," Dean soothed. "It's okay, Sammy, you're all right. I got you, little brother. I got you."

Slowly, Sam calmed and finally pulled away, angrily wiping away tears he would never admit to (and Dean would never mention), nodding shakily. "Yeah," he nodded. "I'm all right. I'm all right now."

Dean nodded and let Sam pull away to settle on his back, staring at the ceiling trying to get his shaky breathing under control. Dean waited not quite patiently for Sam to calm down before he spoke again.

"I think maybe it's time you told me what this dream's about, Sammy," Dean said, keeping his voice soft and calm, but with an underlay of enough steel that Sam knew his brother wouldn't let it go.

Sam shook his head. "There's nothing to tell," he insisted and Dean gave an inelegant snort of disbelief. "There's not," Sam insisted. "It's all just…it doesn't make any sense," Sam admitted. "I'm not even sure it's one dream. And it keeps…it changes. Every time I have it."

Dean frowned. "I thought that was how these dreams work," he admitted cautiously. "You just get a fragment, then another fragment gets added, and another…until you see it all. Isn't that what you said?"

Sam nodded and shifted to lie on his side, facing his brother who slid down in the bed to mirror the position. "Yeah, but this…this isn't that. This is…it's like…there's two parts, yeah, but they aren't always the same two parts. It's like….I…it's like there're two versions of each part and I…I can't make any sense of it! I can't explain it to you, Dean, if I don't know what the hell I'm seeing, you know? I don't…I'm not trying to be difficult, but…I just…" He flopped back onto his back and pressed the heels of hands to his eyes. "I can't tell you what I don't know, Dean. And this..I don't know what I'm looking at. So just…Can you let it go? Just for now?"

Reluctantly, Dean nodded. "Okay, Sammy. For now."

Tonight, though. Tonight was…different.

When Dean turned his head to look at his brother, rolled over to offer comfort…Sam wasn't there.

Dean sat up, pulling the gun out from under the pillow and leaned over to look at the floor by the bed.

No Sam.

He slowly swung the bedroom door open, and cleared the bathroom — no Sam — and the hallway.

Still no Sam.

Dean moved silently up the hallway to the great room, gun leading the way, just in case.

"I didn't mean to wake you. Just go back to bed."

Dean lowered his gun, frowning, hit by a sense of deja vu. Had it only been just over a month since he'd found Sam on the couch? Since he'd found out Sam was dreaming about That Night? About her?

Dean shook the thought away and slipped his gun into the back of his sweats. Slowly he approached the couch and lowered himself onto the coffee table in front of his brother, and gave Sam a quick visual check.

The Jayhawks blanket still hung on the back of the couch, its comfort replaced with a beer Sam periodically took a small sip from. Sammy was clearly agitated, but lacked the near-terror he'd shown the last time Dean had found his baby brother in the great room in the middle of the night.

"Same dream?" Dean asked gently.

Sam shook his head, took another pull from his beer and looked away from this brother towards the sliding doors leading to the small back porch.

"Sammy," Dean kept his voice soft and gentle, slightly coaxing, as he reached out to put a hand on his little brother's shoulder — and pulled back slowly, swallowing down the hurt when Sammy pulled away.

"I'm okay," Sam said evenly, and met Dean's gaze with solemn eyes such a dark blue they almost looked black in the night.

Sam had once told Dean he could see Dean's every mood by the shades of green and gold in his eyes. (Admittedly, they'd been pretty drunk at the time.). Dean hadn't told Sam he could judge the same with every change of color in his baby brother's eyes.

Eyes that dark a blue sent a chill through Dean's soul. The last time he'd seen that color had been back at Bobby's…

Eyes that dark a blue, on Sammy, were what Dean had come to think of as Witch Eyes.

"Sammy, you gotta tell me…"

"I need a favor," Sam continued as if Dean hadn't spoken, setting his half-empty beer — his second, Dean now realized — on the coffee table beside Dean.

"Okay," Dean said cautiously — not promising anything, but agreeing to listen.

"I need you to leave this alone."

Dean shook his head. "Sam, I—"

"Just till after Christmas, Dean," Sam clarified, the barest hint of pleading sliding into this tone. "It's just a few more days. Just…give me until then. I—I'll tell you everything you want to know. After. Just…let us have a nice Christmas, okay? Please?"

Dean hesitated, grabbed Sam's beer, finished it in one go, his eyes never leaving his brother's face, taking in the worry and the pain and what Dean was unsettled to realize was desperation in his eyes.

Dean set the empty beer beside its predecessor.

"Okay," he nodded slowly. "You have until after Christmas."

"Thank y—"

"You put me off again," Dean continued, "or I feel like you're not telling me everything, and I will kick your ass into 2005, you hear me?"

Sam nodded solemnly. "I hear you. I promise."

"Fine," Dean nodded and stood with a sharp exhale. "So if you're all done stirring up drama, princess, can we get back to bed?"

Sam huffed a laugh. "I told you to go back to bed when you got out here," he reminded. "You're still up, that's on you."

Dean nodded and started towards the hallway, stopping with a frown when he realized Sam was still sitting on the couch. "You comin'?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah. I think, um…I think I'll be up for a while," he admitted, in a casual tone that would have fooled anyone not Dean. "Go back to bed, Dean. I'm fine."

You're so far from fine, you ain't even in the same hemisphere.

Dean left the deja vu unspoken, and nodded. He knew the lie for what it was, knew Sam knew he knew the lie, and they both silently agreed, again to let it stand.

"Okay. Don't drink all the beer," Dean called back over his shoulder as he headed towards the bedroom.

"You just bought a case, you damn alky. I think we're good."

"Whatever, bitch" Dean shrugged, and paused where he could just still see his brother sitting quietly on the couch staring at nothing.

"Good night, jerk."

Dean nodded and returned to his room.

Two hours passed before he accepted that Sammy wasn't coming back to bed.

For weeks, Dean had been complaining about the way Sammy kicked in his sleep and snored.

Damn if he wouldn't have given his best knife to wake up to a bruised leg and a familiar snort.

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A/N. Treasure Island is an actual hotel in Las Vegas, and was there in 2003. Zumanity was a famous show by Cirque du Soleil which actually started its run at the New York New York casino in Las Vegas in 2003. Trust me when I tell you that the tickets were not cheap for the time.

The Winter of 2003-2004 in Sioux Falls was actually surprisingly mild, all things considered, but that doesn't work for me, so boom! Fictional snow dump.

When Dean asks Sam if he has a New Nightmare, or if they need to pull the Dream Warriors together, he's referring to movies # 7 and 3, respectively, of the Nightmare on Elm Street horror movie franchise by Wes Craven.

The Jayhawks are the name of the sports teams (more specifically, the mascot) for the University of Kansas, apparently, according to Chuck in the voice over from Swan Song (5x22) the boys' favorite team.