Through My Eyes 1/1
Idea inspired by and title taken from a line in Boston's "Higher Power". Specific inspiration lyric posted at the end.
It was Andy's fault, Dean decided.
"I guess," Sam casually mentioned over pizza one night in August, "one good thing came out of all this deal mess."
"Yeah?" Dean asked. "What would that be?"
Sam grinned slightly. "I've not had a vision since Cold Oak. Three months vison-free. That's the longest stretch since they started up again with Max."
Dean just looked at him. "What was your last one?"
"The one I forced," Sam said. "The one I had Andy send to you."
Dean's eyes closed and he slumped. "Shit."
"Wow, Dean. I thought you'd be happy that I'm not so much of a fr--" Sam broke off, reading Dean's expression. "Dean -- what is it?"
"Before they started comin'in the day -- when they were just dreams -- they'd repeat, right? Beginning to ending, exactly the same?"
Sam nodded slowly, not sure where this was going.
"And you could see and hear and smell -- but not taste or touch."
Sam frowned deeper. He'd never told Dean that. "Dean..."
"And when you woke up -- your head would pound and your stomach would clench and it'd take a second for your sight to clear--"
And it slammed into Sam's gut like Dean had punched him there.
"---but when it cleared, everything would start to settle down. And you'd lay there for a few minutes just trying to catch your breath, but you'd have to move and it'd start up again..."
"Oh, G-d." This couldn't be happening. "Dean....no.....please tell me you're not--"
Dean let out a huff of laugh as he gained his feet and paced for a second. "Great," he groaned. "Just. Freakin. Great."
"What..." Sam couldn't believe he was seriously asking this. "What....are you seeing?"
Dean blew the air out of his cheeks and turned so he was looking out the window. Sam could only see him in profile. His voice was shaking as it just spilled out of him.
"Battles. Huge ones. You -- both of us -- doing horrible things. You...you becoming the monster Dad feared you would. A near-vampyre, Sammy....addicted to blood, of all damn things. It makes you powerful -- at the cost of your goodness. And me..." He wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered, hard.
Sam crossed the room and lay his hand on Dean's shoulder. "And...you?" he prompted, his voice soft and gentle.
"I'm alone," Dean choked out. "My soul's torn in two. I can't trust you, I can't be with you.... and I end up alone. Completely....alone."
Sam gently turned Dean to face him. "When does this start?" he asked.
Dean raised his eyes. He was visibly haunted by what he'd been seeing. "When you try to become me," he whispered and the raw, naked truth in his eyes and voice hit Sam hard. "To survive this damn deal by becoming hard. You lose your way, Sammy. You lose you."
A muscle in Sam's jaw worked. "I never told you that was how we were gonna get me through.... you really are seeing this...."
"I blame Andy," Dean growled. "Forcin' that vision on me--"
"--gave you them," Sam groaned. "Dean, I'm so sorry. I never meant--"
"S'fine. I'll be okay." He took a deep breath. "Trouble is, how do we fix this?I mean, this isn't something we can salt and burn!"
Sam shook his head. Then his eyes widened. "I think....I think I know where to start. But you have to trust me."
"You aren't him yet, Sammy. I trust you."
And Sam was so relieved by that he didn't call Dean on the nickname.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Over the next few months, what Dean had been seeing slowly began to unfold. At the same time, Dean's dreams grew even darker and more torturous. Apocalyptic, he described them as. "And G-d, Sammy, I wish I was exaggeratin'."
Sam had a gut feeling about Dean's dreams and who would kick the events off. Almost like Sam was being -- groomed -- to become the monster Dean saw him as.
So, whatever Ruby would suggest they'd do -- they didn't do it. They found other ways to achieve the same results.
Slowly, Dean's visions altered as, one by one, the threads of Apocalypse dissolved.
In February, Sam spent six months in his own personal hell after an ambush by a Trickster. But he kept tight hold to what Dean had been seeing him become -- and fought against it with all his might. He managed not to become cold, hard and jaded. He held onto himself until he found the Trickster and returned home.
But he still gave Dean the hug of his life when it was over.
Dean had seen Hell in his visions -- over and over. He'd seen himself break. He'd seen himself return to a bitter, blood-dependent Sam.
He would smell sulfur for days after one of those. He'd check himself for scars, unable to believe such torment as he'd witnessed wouldn't leave some kind of mark on his body.
But -- all too soon -- the year was over. It was time.
The only measure of comfort they could draw was that Dean's visions had shown over and over that he would be back.
"Don't break," was Sam's whispered goodbye in his ear as the demonness -- for an extra measure of cruelty -- allowed them one final hug. "I swear, Dean, I'll be me when you return. I won't be him. I swear."
"I know," Dean said. "I trust you, remember? I don't trust him. But I trust you."
With that, he stepped back, bit his lip, and surrendered to his fate.
Only to have the hellhounds whine in confusion and retreat.
It took the demonness most of the night to realise what had happened. And when she did, she was enraged but impotent.
Dean would not be going to Hell, after all. The demonness had no claim to his body or his soul.
Dean had already served time in Hell -- through the visions. He had, already, gone to Hell.
The deal had been fulfilled.
As they both drove away from the crossroads, relief making them both giddy, Sam grinned over at Dean. "Hey, sometimes being a psychic freak comes in handy, huh?"
"Bite me, Francis!" But he was grinning too broadly to care.
There were no more visions of Apocalypse after that night. It was over.
The lyric that inspired this story:
Let me love you.
Take me home to your religion for the night.
Let me touch you.
Teach me how to see your vision through my eyes.
It was Andy's fault, Dean decided.
"I guess," Sam casually mentioned over pizza one night in August, "one good thing came out of all this deal mess."
"Yeah?" Dean asked. "What would that be?"
Sam grinned slightly. "I've not had a vision since Cold Oak. Three months vison-free. That's the longest stretch since they started up again with Max."
Dean just looked at him. "What was your last one?"
"The one I forced," Sam said. "The one I had Andy send to you."
Dean's eyes closed and he slumped. "Shit."
"Wow, Dean. I thought you'd be happy that I'm not so much of a fr--" Sam broke off, reading Dean's expression. "Dean -- what is it?"
"Before they started comin'in the day -- when they were just dreams -- they'd repeat, right? Beginning to ending, exactly the same?"
Sam nodded slowly, not sure where this was going.
"And you could see and hear and smell -- but not taste or touch."
Sam frowned deeper. He'd never told Dean that. "Dean..."
"And when you woke up -- your head would pound and your stomach would clench and it'd take a second for your sight to clear--"
And it slammed into Sam's gut like Dean had punched him there.
"---but when it cleared, everything would start to settle down. And you'd lay there for a few minutes just trying to catch your breath, but you'd have to move and it'd start up again..."
"Oh, G-d." This couldn't be happening. "Dean....no.....please tell me you're not--"
Dean let out a huff of laugh as he gained his feet and paced for a second. "Great," he groaned. "Just. Freakin. Great."
"What..." Sam couldn't believe he was seriously asking this. "What....are you seeing?"
Dean blew the air out of his cheeks and turned so he was looking out the window. Sam could only see him in profile. His voice was shaking as it just spilled out of him.
"Battles. Huge ones. You -- both of us -- doing horrible things. You...you becoming the monster Dad feared you would. A near-vampyre, Sammy....addicted to blood, of all damn things. It makes you powerful -- at the cost of your goodness. And me..." He wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered, hard.
Sam crossed the room and lay his hand on Dean's shoulder. "And...you?" he prompted, his voice soft and gentle.
"I'm alone," Dean choked out. "My soul's torn in two. I can't trust you, I can't be with you.... and I end up alone. Completely....alone."
Sam gently turned Dean to face him. "When does this start?" he asked.
Dean raised his eyes. He was visibly haunted by what he'd been seeing. "When you try to become me," he whispered and the raw, naked truth in his eyes and voice hit Sam hard. "To survive this damn deal by becoming hard. You lose your way, Sammy. You lose you."
A muscle in Sam's jaw worked. "I never told you that was how we were gonna get me through.... you really are seeing this...."
"I blame Andy," Dean growled. "Forcin' that vision on me--"
"--gave you them," Sam groaned. "Dean, I'm so sorry. I never meant--"
"S'fine. I'll be okay." He took a deep breath. "Trouble is, how do we fix this?I mean, this isn't something we can salt and burn!"
Sam shook his head. Then his eyes widened. "I think....I think I know where to start. But you have to trust me."
"You aren't him yet, Sammy. I trust you."
And Sam was so relieved by that he didn't call Dean on the nickname.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Over the next few months, what Dean had been seeing slowly began to unfold. At the same time, Dean's dreams grew even darker and more torturous. Apocalyptic, he described them as. "And G-d, Sammy, I wish I was exaggeratin'."
Sam had a gut feeling about Dean's dreams and who would kick the events off. Almost like Sam was being -- groomed -- to become the monster Dean saw him as.
So, whatever Ruby would suggest they'd do -- they didn't do it. They found other ways to achieve the same results.
Slowly, Dean's visions altered as, one by one, the threads of Apocalypse dissolved.
In February, Sam spent six months in his own personal hell after an ambush by a Trickster. But he kept tight hold to what Dean had been seeing him become -- and fought against it with all his might. He managed not to become cold, hard and jaded. He held onto himself until he found the Trickster and returned home.
But he still gave Dean the hug of his life when it was over.
Dean had seen Hell in his visions -- over and over. He'd seen himself break. He'd seen himself return to a bitter, blood-dependent Sam.
He would smell sulfur for days after one of those. He'd check himself for scars, unable to believe such torment as he'd witnessed wouldn't leave some kind of mark on his body.
But -- all too soon -- the year was over. It was time.
The only measure of comfort they could draw was that Dean's visions had shown over and over that he would be back.
"Don't break," was Sam's whispered goodbye in his ear as the demonness -- for an extra measure of cruelty -- allowed them one final hug. "I swear, Dean, I'll be me when you return. I won't be him. I swear."
"I know," Dean said. "I trust you, remember? I don't trust him. But I trust you."
With that, he stepped back, bit his lip, and surrendered to his fate.
Only to have the hellhounds whine in confusion and retreat.
It took the demonness most of the night to realise what had happened. And when she did, she was enraged but impotent.
Dean would not be going to Hell, after all. The demonness had no claim to his body or his soul.
Dean had already served time in Hell -- through the visions. He had, already, gone to Hell.
The deal had been fulfilled.
As they both drove away from the crossroads, relief making them both giddy, Sam grinned over at Dean. "Hey, sometimes being a psychic freak comes in handy, huh?"
"Bite me, Francis!" But he was grinning too broadly to care.
There were no more visions of Apocalypse after that night. It was over.
The lyric that inspired this story:
Let me love you.
Take me home to your religion for the night.
Let me touch you.
Teach me how to see your vision through my eyes.