Click 1/1
I know. I should be sleeping. But this kept me awake. I saw this scene in "Dream a little dream" and it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this. Maybe now I can go to sleep.
The first time he saw his dream-self, he had been sitting at a desk, clicking the light on and off.
He hadn't thought anything of it at the time - too busy with his dire warnings of what he would become.
He forgot all about it during his torture and the hell of the next few years.
But when it was over - even after Sammy had returned to him - he began to dream again.
And always, whenever his dream-self would appear, he would be sitting at a desk, clicking the light on and off.
Always, it was a portent of no good.
The hunting life resumed. The brothers were stronger and deadlier than ever.
The wendigo had gotten the drop on them in Idaho. They had prevailed, but both were injured. Sammy was sleeping - at last - while Dean had been awakened by renewed aching in his face.
"Damn brute," he groaned, staggering into the bathroom to wash his stinging cheeks and eyelids. He'd managed to close his eyes before the claws had hit, so he had thought he was safe.
But now it stung. Badly.
He washed his face, then frowned at his reflection in the mirror. His head tilted and he frowned deeper.
Then he was gasping, "No.....no....nonononononono!!!" and stumbling out of the bathroom. He raced to the main room and just stood there, watching his little brother sleep.
Watching him until the darkness took him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sam was awakened by a strange, mechanical sound. "Dean?"
No answer. Just the same strange noise.
He sat up and found Dean sitting, ramrod-straight, at the desk in the room. One hand was on Sam's closed laptop.
The other was methodically clicking the desk light on and off.
"Dean?"
No answer. No movement except the clicking of the light.
Sam got out of bed and crouched down beside Dean. ".......Dean?"
"Sammy." The voice was a choked whisper, so full of fear - of vulnerability -- that it was physically painful to hear.
Sam studied him closely. Dean was stiff - too stiff. His tearing eyes - too wide - were huge.
Blank.
Fixed straight ahead.
Sam's breath caught as he realised what had happened. "Dean...." he whispered. "Dean....c-can....can you see?"
Dean's right hand kept clicking the light.
Off. On. Off. On.
His eyes never shifted. But his breath hitched.
Sam clutched Dean's shoulder and bowed his head. He wanted to say they'd fix it. He wanted to say they'd get help.
But the words were swallowed up by the horrible sound that just kept coming, that Dean couldn't seem to stop and that Sam couldn't bring himself to make him.
Click....Click....Click.....Click....
END
The first time he saw his dream-self, he had been sitting at a desk, clicking the light on and off.
He hadn't thought anything of it at the time - too busy with his dire warnings of what he would become.
He forgot all about it during his torture and the hell of the next few years.
But when it was over - even after Sammy had returned to him - he began to dream again.
And always, whenever his dream-self would appear, he would be sitting at a desk, clicking the light on and off.
Always, it was a portent of no good.
The hunting life resumed. The brothers were stronger and deadlier than ever.
The wendigo had gotten the drop on them in Idaho. They had prevailed, but both were injured. Sammy was sleeping - at last - while Dean had been awakened by renewed aching in his face.
"Damn brute," he groaned, staggering into the bathroom to wash his stinging cheeks and eyelids. He'd managed to close his eyes before the claws had hit, so he had thought he was safe.
But now it stung. Badly.
He washed his face, then frowned at his reflection in the mirror. His head tilted and he frowned deeper.
Then he was gasping, "No.....no....nonononononono!!!" and stumbling out of the bathroom. He raced to the main room and just stood there, watching his little brother sleep.
Watching him until the darkness took him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sam was awakened by a strange, mechanical sound. "Dean?"
No answer. Just the same strange noise.
He sat up and found Dean sitting, ramrod-straight, at the desk in the room. One hand was on Sam's closed laptop.
The other was methodically clicking the desk light on and off.
"Dean?"
No answer. No movement except the clicking of the light.
Sam got out of bed and crouched down beside Dean. ".......Dean?"
"Sammy." The voice was a choked whisper, so full of fear - of vulnerability -- that it was physically painful to hear.
Sam studied him closely. Dean was stiff - too stiff. His tearing eyes - too wide - were huge.
Blank.
Fixed straight ahead.
Sam's breath caught as he realised what had happened. "Dean...." he whispered. "Dean....c-can....can you see?"
Dean's right hand kept clicking the light.
Off. On. Off. On.
His eyes never shifted. But his breath hitched.
Sam clutched Dean's shoulder and bowed his head. He wanted to say they'd fix it. He wanted to say they'd get help.
But the words were swallowed up by the horrible sound that just kept coming, that Dean couldn't seem to stop and that Sam couldn't bring himself to make him.
Click....Click....Click.....Click....
END