Out of Reach, for supernarttu, 2/2
The answer had come to Dean, not surprisingly, in a dream. In his subconscious, the elder Winchester remembered a moment, shortly after making his deal, when Bobby had taken some African Dream Root, a powerful herb which had the ability to produce a dreamlike state, allowing one to take a journey through the mind of one unconscious. The brothers had taken the root and followed their surrogate father on an incredible journey, one in which they became face to face with not only Bobby, but twisted versions of themselves, including a demonic version of what Dean would ultimately become after an extended time in Hell. In his dream, Dean is walking beside his brother on a clear autumn day: leaves are falling, the sun shining brilliantly on the nearby lake. And Sam is going on about some of the psychology courses he had taken in Pre Law, of how amazing it was to be able to look into someone’s mind, to be able to use that knowledge to help others.
When Dean awakened from his restless sleep, he already knew what he has to do. Without hesitation he left Sam’s bedside, headed off on a mission to collect the ingredients to make a dose or two of the powerful concoction. When he finally returned to his brother’s room, it is well after dark, the hospital silent. ´Good, Dean thought to himself, settling comfortably (or at least as much as possible) in the chair hospital staff had been kind enough to bring him. The fewer people around, the better. The last thing Dean needed was someone to find him, try to bring him back.
“Well, Sammy, here goes nothing.” Breathing deeply, Dean downed the disgusting liquid in a few gulps, grimacing at the horrible taste. Within minutes, he is under, body limp in the chair, glass slipping from his hands and rolling across the linoleum floor.
spn
Sam stood alone in a dense forest, eyes darting around his surroundings cautiously. He had no recollection of his whereabouts, a feeling which Sam found unsettling. Though not always sure of the exact location he has been to during hunts, the hunter had always had some knowledge of what was going on, even if it was only narrowing down a specific state. But now, standing alone amidst the foliage, the only sounds being the whispering of the wind as it rustled the branches, Sam felt more than a little uncomfortable, despite the beauty of his locale. For despite the grim ambiance of the place, the sun still manages to dapple from between the branches overhead, its rays casting shadows on the greenery below.
Instinctively Sam reached for the hilt of his knife, not fooled by the peaceful setting. Anything could be lurking in the shadows, poised and ready for the kill. “Shit, Dean, where are you when I need you man,” he muttered, taking a few cautious steps ahead. It hadn’t taken the younger Winchester long to realize that the older brother was nowhere to be found. Great. That’s just awesome, he thought to himself, and suddenly chuckled at how just like Dean he had sounded. Man, the guy isn’t here and I’m thinking like him. Guess we really are co-dependant.
Quickly Sam snapped back to the present, continuing his journey through the thicket. After a few moments of uneventful travel, the hunter stopped, eyes wide in surprise. There are no memories of Hell tormenting him at every second, no hallucinations of Lucifer, still wearing Nick’s vessel, singing “Stairway to Heaven” in his off key baritone or tossing firecrackers around just for kicks.
He felt at peace.
“What the hell,” Sam muttered, as before him the forest disappeared before his very eyes; in its place was a series of heavy, wooden doors, stained in a cheap cherry coloured varnish. He felt his grip on his weapon tighten as he approached the door farthest from the right and hesitatingly reached for its brass knob. Should he really take such a risk? It would be foolish to walk blindly in an unknown situation, a rookie mistake for any hunter. Hell, this situation as a whole was messed up on so many levels. Ignoring the instincts from years of hunting with his father and brother, Sam slowly turned the knob; the door opened with a creak.
Before him was a cramped, dingy looking motel room, one of the many clones of sleeping establishments the boys had inhabited since childhood. The room was surprisingly neat considering the fact that its occupants were a five-year-old boy ad and his nine-year-old older brother. The children were the only occupants, John having gone out on a recent hunt. An old black and white TV was showing a re-run of Inspector Gadget, the sound blaring as the older brother tried to watch his program.
“Dean,” five-year-old Sam whined, pleading up at his brother with big hazel eyes, “please, please, please tell me what my first word was!”
“Stop bugging me, Sam, or seriously I will end you!” Dean pushed his brother gently to the side of the couch, eyes still glued to the screen as the intrepid, yet not so bright Inspector Gadget called out “go go Gadget binoculars!”, the dog Brain looking up in sympathy when a pinwheel protruded from his cap instead.
“But Dean, you promised you’d tell me my first word! You promised!”
Adult Sam stood at the doorway, watching the scene unfold before his very eyes. He knew what his first word had been, remembered this day as if it had happened yesterday. Why had he not had this memory years earlier, when the brothers had shared their heaven following their murders by Walt and Roy? Feeling the nostalgia welling in his chest, like a nice shot of whiskey, Sam leaned back against the doorframe and continued to watch as the memory unfolded before him.
“Why do you care so much, anyway?” Dean grunted, and Sam could tell that his brother was about to cave; he could see him reaching for the remote to switch off the TV. He’d seen this episode enough times anyway. Sam looked up at his brother in anticipation, watching as Dean tossed the remote carelessly on the nearby recliner.
“Because I just wanna know,” Sam answered in a matter-of-fact tone, and Dean rolled his eyes. He loved Sam dearly, but sometimes the kid was too persuasive for the older brother’s liking. “You promise you won’t tell Dad,” he warned, “or I swear Sammy, I won’t tell you anything ever again!” Sam nodded in agreement, and snuggled on the couch next to Dean. In the background, adult Sam closed his eyes briefly, suddenly remembering why his brother had tried so hard to keep his little brother’s first word a secret.
“It was ‘Dean’, Sammy,” Dean admitted, not looking his brother in the eye. Beside him, little Sammy’s face lit up. Of course his first word had been Dean! After all, the kid had not only practically raised him, but had been his idol, the one he had looked up to since he was four. Dean finally smiled a little, secretly pleased to see his kid brother’s reaction to the truth behind his first word. “Well, it was more like “D’e,” the boy admitted, ruffling the mop of hair the kid had had even as a kindergartner. “You’d go around the place laughing around and yelling “D’e” at the top of your lungs. Drove Dad nuts.”
Watching the scene before him, adult Sam felt a tear slide down one cheek. He remembered now why Dean had been so adamant on not telling him his first word: because his father had been more than a little upset that his son’s first childhood lisps were not of his own father, but of his older brother. No “Dada” or even “juice” or “milk”, but Dean. His brother did not want little Sammy looking back on those moments and thinking that his father’s anger had been his fault. Granted, the fears were a tad irrational, as the events had happened four years earlier, but Dean had always had a protective instinct around him. “It’s my job to protect you,” he had told Sam on more times than he could count on both hands.
As the memory faded before him, a horrible thought suddenly hit Sam like a ton of bricks. Am I dead? Is this why I’m reliving all these memories? Sam felt a horrible tightening in his chest, as memories of recent events played before him: his stint in the Cage, receiving his soul back after months of roaming the country as “Robo Sam”, Lucifer’s wall crumbling, the torment by the evil angel himself...
…Dean running to his side in fear as he collapsed in their motel room.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, feeling a wave of panic fighting with the intense grief. “God, Dean, I’m so sorry man, so sorry you have to see this….” Fighting the urge to be sick, Sam, once again finding himself back in the forest, leaned against a tree, closing his eyes as he fought off the wave of nausea. Memories of the times he had seen Dean on the brink of death flashed before him: lying comatose after the possessed trucker had T-boned the Impala; that horrible time loop in which Dean had died so many horrible deaths for days on end; his brother being ravaged by the Hellhound which drug him to Hell. Yes, Sam Winchester knew how devastating it was to watch his brother die, and the thought that Dean was about to endure the same thing was too much.
“Sammy…”
Sam paused, looked up in surprise. He could have sworn he had just heard his brother’s voice from the shadows. His eyes scanned the thicket, certain that he had been only hearing things but desperately wishing otherwise. As expected, there was nothing but the whispering of branches dancing in the wind.
“Sam!”
No, that was definitely his brother’s voice. That had to be Dean. Feeling slightly hopeful, Sam once again looked around him. This time, he thought he could see, running through the trees, his brother, a look of relief on his face. But in a flash, he was gone. Sam once more found himself alone.
“What the hell.” Was the image of Dean just that, a manifestation? For a moment, Sam remained rooted in place, not wanting to miss another opportunity to steal a glimpse of his brother. But, when after several minutes nothing reappeared, the younger Winchester decided that it would be foolish to stay in place. Perhaps he was dead, but there was also a chance that somewhere, he was still alive, and that the visions of his brother was his subconscious, an image of what was going on in the real world.
Visibly shaken by the sudden vision of his brother, but determined to get to the bottom of whatever was happening to him, Sam tentatively walked toward yet another wooden door, the previous one having vanished once the memory had passed. What lay beyond the wood panelling before him? Hopefully another pleasant memory of his childhood, but knowing Sam Winchester, there was bound to be trouble. Hell, it seemed to follow him wherever he went, so why would there be an exception within his subconscious? For a moment, he hesitated, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the knob. But then, he thought of his brother, no doubt nearly losing it with fear of his brother’s wellbeing. Sam had read somewhere that if one followed the doors of the mind while in a death like, or comatose state, there was a possibility that one could rejoin the land of the living. Granted, that had been the situation while a Reaper was on one’s tail, and at the moment, Sam seemed to be at least free of that unpleasant occurrence, but it was most certainly worth a try. After all, there was definitely more harm in sitting on his ass, waiting for random visions of his brother to pop into view.
Drawing a deep breath, Sam turned the knob and pushed open the heavy door.
spn
When Dean came to, he found himself lying in a thick wood, his face brushing against a pile of fallen maple leaves. For a moment, he was unaware of his surroundings, or what had happened in the first place to cause him to wake up in the middle of the goddamn woods. And then, it came to him, as clear as the flashing from a marquis sign: Sammy is in a coma. Took some African Dream Root to try to haul is pain in the ass little brother back to the living. For a moment, Dean shuddered, scanning his surroundings with anxious green eyes. This place was freaking huge! It sure as hell wasn’t going easy to find Sam, Sasquatch or not.
Fortunately, his hunter instincts had kicked in practically as soon as his senses had adjusted to his new surroundings. Sitting up carefully and gingerly rubbing his aching temple, Dean scanned the forest floor in search of any clue which could pinpoint Sam’s whereabouts, or at least the direction he was headed. “Ok, Sammy, hope you left me something,” he muttered.
It hadn’t taken Dean long to find the first clue in his search for his brother. Lying practically in front of him, as if screaming to be found, lay a silver lighter, the initials S.W engraved carefully on the device. “Bingo,” Dean murmured, bending to pick up the lighter; he stuffed it in his pocket, next to his own, and continued to follow the trail that Sam had subconsciously left him. A few things were scattered here and there along the make shift trail: a few coins which seemed to have conveniently fallen from his pocket; footprints, their size a perfect match for Sam’s enormous feet. Perhaps these signs were a tad too convenient, but Dean decided to chalk it up to something good actually happening for once, and followed his “yellow brick road” further into the woods, determined to find some sign of his younger brother.
Not three minutes into his journey, Dean stopped dead in his tracks, jolting his head quickly to the left. “Sam?” In a voice barely above a whisper, lest he startle any other creature lurking in the dense thicket. No reply, and Dean listened, in hopes of somehow being treated to a repeat performance. No such luck; the woods were silent.
“Shit.” Dean kicked at a stone in frustration before gathering his bearings and continuing along the path. Of course he wouldn’t find Sam as soon as he arrived at wherever the hell he was. Nothing in life was easy, especially if your last name happened to be Winchester.
“Hang in there, Sammy,” Dean muttered, pushing his way past the barrage of branches along the overgrown path. “I’m coming, little brother. I promise.”
spn
“You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.”
Sam shot an icy glare at his father, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. There was he was again, trying to force him into a life he had never truly felt he belonged in in the first place. Dean, he had embraced the life of the hunter, as if it were his true calling, the sole purpose of his existence. Admittedly, it was possible that the reason for this love of the job was stemmed from his devotion to his father. In fact, it was pretty damn likely. But regardless of his intentions, Dean would always be eager to hunt down a Wendigo or travel hundreds upon thousands of miles for a simple salt and burn. Not Sam. He saw a bright future ahead of him, one that featured a nice office, a wife and kid or two, family barbeques in the backyard of a nice suburban home.
A life of freedom.
Beside him, Dean shot his brother an equally angry look, but there was something else in those green eyes, something that made Sam nearly drop everything. Was that sadness? Trying to keep his resolve, Sam found himself looking down, the speck of dirt on the toe of his sneaker suddenly fascinating. “I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, the anger suddenly drained. Without another word, he turned and headed out, the front door slamming behind him.
“Oh, shit.” Sam knew this memory like the back of his hand. It was the night he had left his family for Stanford. Years earlier, the young man would have marked this as one of his better memories. Hell, it was the day he had told off his drill sergeant father, stood up for himself, and kick started his four years of independence in California. But now, the memory was far from pleasant, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Because this was the night he had hurt his brother in the worst way possible, even more so, in a sense, than he had by failing to save him from his deal. Because on this night, he had nearly lost not only his father, but his older brother as well.
He wanted to leave, tried to head out the door which somehow remained visible behind him, but felt his feet glued to the ground. Surprise, surprise. Sam Winchester fails his big brother again. He feels the sudden urge to vomit, but somehow manages to keep from voiding his stomach contents on his shirt.
“Sam, don’t do this! Come on Sammy, I’m your brother! It’s my job to look out for you! How am I supposed to do that when you’re god knows where?”
“California, Dean.” Sam didn’t turn to his brother, who had followed young Sam out the door, attempting some last ditch effort to convince him to stay. But he did stop dead in his tracks, and Dean relaxed for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t go through with it. Maybe Sam might come to his senses and get his ass back in that piece of shit house where he belonged. Was Dean proud of his brother? Hell yeah. Did he want him to head off to some preppy college or whatever, hang out with a bunch of filthy rich douchebags? Not in this lifetime. And he especially didn’t want his brother exposed to whatever supernatural shit was out there without him, Dean Winchester, there to keep tabs on him. Overprotective? Sure. But at least then he’d be sure Sammy was safe.
“Sam?” The awkward silence was proving too much for Dean. He continued to stare at his brother’s back, watching as his shoulders tensed. He was about to say something, anything, to break it when Sam finally turned and spoke. “I’m sorry, Dean, really I am, but I have to do this. I just can’t take it anymore. Dad and I can’t go ten minutes without a shouting match. He’s stressed, I’m stressed, and you’re about to explode. I just…”
“Just what, Sammy?”
“I just want to be normal for once.”
“What, so Dad and I are abnormal to you?”
“You know what I mean,” Sam answered, trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. “For once in my goddamned life I would like to do something without worrying about vengeful spirits and shapeshifters. Is that too much to ask?”
Sam cringes, knowing what’s about to happen next. This night has been one of the worst in his life, other than Bobby’s death or watching Dean being torn apart by that Hellhound. He wishes that the memory will fade away and let him move on, but the scene plays out for another five minutes before Sam finally storms off down the dimly lit street, his brother yelling after him before heading back inside, slamming the door behind him. Sam feels moisture coming from his hazel eyes as the memory finally fades. No wonder Dean was so upset with me that time in Heaven, he thinks, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of a hand. Shit, I’d be pretty pissed myself.
Still haunted by the ghosts of his past, Sam continues his way through the thick brush, until he comes across a neatly packed dirt path. As he walks, Sam realizes that he has literally found himself reliving his years at Stanford. Along both sides of the pathway, he find reminders of happier times: laughing with friends at the local watering hole, drinking piss warm beer and listening to drunken karaoke; celebrating the end of exams with pizza and drinks (only a few for Sam, of course), the first time he met Jessica and their first date. Sam relishes them all, and the pain of the last memory begins to dissipate, from a sharp intensity to a dull ache. But it is always there. Sure, he was happy as a college student, and had met the love of his life there (though if he had known what the outcome was to be, he would have never taken Jill Hudson’s advice to ask her out). But as good as those memories were, they are nothing compared to those shared with his brother. Even if it had taken Jessica’s death to reunite with him.
Dean. It had to be him. There is no way that he would mistake his brother’s voice. As Sam continues along the path, his college memories fading away with each step, he scans his surroundings, looking for any sign of his brother. A part of him hopes that he sees him, because, well, he misses him. So much. Dean is more than just his brother, but also his rock; his best friend. He’s home. And if there is ever a time that he wants to be near him, it’s now, especially after the rather unpleasant reminder of his past. But then again, if his brother is here, that could mean possibly two things: Dean has died, just like Sam has, and has once again found his way into his Heaven (well, they are soul mates, according to Joshua), or Sam is somehow still alive and is hallucinating. Because there’s no other possible explanation for this…is there?
Sam decides that he doesn’t care; he just wants to see his brother. Eyes peeled, Sam continues his journey, hoping that somehow Dean is waiting around the corner.
spn
“Wow, Sammy, your mind is messed up.”
Dean groans a little as he continues along the mind of Sam Winchester, still searching for his brother. With every step he is reminded of just how much of a Geek Boy Sam really is, as images of his brother’s college years pass before him like a freight train. He pauses as he watches Sam in a massive library, chewing absently on a pencil as he flips pages in a massive volume. The building is empty; it’s dark outside. Clearly the kid is staying well past any normal hours, researching something. And Dean feels a lump forming in his throat. The kid is happy, or at least not completely miserable. He has an astronomically large cup of Starbucks coffee at his side (“It’s called a Venti, Dean,” he remembers his brother chastising him shortly after picking him up from Stanford that October, to which Dean had replied, “still douchey, Sam.”). Dean has to chuckle at the sight. Wow, his brother, the same one who hunted Rugarus and shapeshifters, drinking Starbucks?
Dean shrugs it off, continues his search. He hasn’t found Sam yet, and while that is not a complete surprise, considering how vast Sammy’s brain seems to be, it still makes the older Winchester a little anxious. What if he never does find him? What if this trip in his brother’s noggin is a wasted effort?
No. It isn’t. We saved Bobby that time before, I can surely find my pain in the ass little brother.
Dean sighs, remembering the time he and Sam had both taken African Dream Root to save a comatose Bobby. It had been a tough time, with Dean having to face the demonic version of himself, a small taste of what life in Hell was going to be like. Despite himself, Dean shivers at the memory. As tough an act as he has put on for his brother on many other occasions, he feels a little less confident at the moment. Pushing aside any negative thoughts, Dean continues along the path, searching for something, anything, which could lead him to Sam. He has no sense of time in his brother’s mind, and perhaps had only been trapped here for a few hours, but it seems like days. A thought that is more than a little unsettling to Dean Winchester, the one who has always been by his brother’s side, always found a way to make it right, to protect Sammy at all costs, is at the moment failing miserably.
“Come on, man, where are you? You’re not exactly helping me out here.”
And then, Sam’s voice in the distance, urgent, calling for help.
“DEAN!”
spn
Up to this point, Sam’s journey through his mind has been, while definitely unpleasant, not exactly frightening. He has undergone his share of unpleasant memories, ranging from epic fights with Dean to that horrible, and yet somehow also gratifying, night he had left for Stanford, but there were also some pleasant ones as well: Dean initiating a prank war of massive proportions, rivaling the one years earlier from that Hell House job in Richardson; eating take out suppers on the hood of the Impala and watching the stars for what seemed like hours on end, Sam identifying the constellations and Dean playfully rolling his eyes as he stuffed himself with a bacon cheeseburger, but secretly enjoying his brother’s geek talk; watching hours of cartoons as kids while Dean tossed M&Ms at him, hoping to score one in his mouth. That one had made Sam laugh out loud. It had been ridiculous, eleven year old Dean whacking his kid brother on the forehead with the candy and Sam rolling his eyes before popping it into his mouth. Those were the days.
And then, as the memory faded, Sam felt the telltale moisture from beneath his lashes. Damn, he misses his brother. He needs to be with him, to listen to his terrible music, even hear of the latest young barmaid he has seduced with that typical Dean Winchester charm. It still bothers him that he has no sense of time and space, that he has no clue if his brother is hurt or even alive. And as comforting as those glimpses of his brother are, despite the fact that they are fleeting, it still also gives him a lingering feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sense that something is deeply wrong, and not just with Sam. He needs to find Dean, if he even is here, to somehow put his mind at rest.
Sam walks, continues to call out for his brother, eyes peeled for any sign of him in the distance, when suddenly, the scenery before him changes. The forest disappears and instead, Sam finds himself standing in a dark, freezing cavern, its rough walls foreboding in the shadows. Stalactites hang from the roof of the cave, dripping eerily on the dirt floor beneath. As Sam’s eyes desperately try to adjust to the darkness, he finds himself staring at himself, hazel eyes wide in horror and pain. He is chained to the wall, clothes torn and bloodied, his face twisted in pain. Beside him, Lucifer, no longer in Sam’s vessel, or even Nick’s, stands before him, torturing him as he plays a series of mental images before him, not of Sam or any of the regrettable acts he has committed over the years, but of Dean, his big brother, tied to a massive rack and being slowly carved into little pieces. The other Sam squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to watch anymore, and Lucifer laughs, forcing the young man’s eyes open with a simple touch. Oh, you will watch, Sammy. You did this. You brought this on your brother, so you better damn well WATCH!
“No!” Hell Sam screams, once again tries to close his eyes, but this time, is unable to. For several horrible minutes the tortured man watches as his brother endures god knows what in the hands of Alistair. Watching the scene before him, present Sam feels his knees weaken below him, and he leans against the cavern wall, dry heaving. He remembers the event all too well, one of the constant reminders of his stint in the Cage. Of all the torture he had endured at the hands of Lucifer, watching Dean endure his own was by far the most painful, worse than any physical pain the Devil and his minions could throw at him.
“SAMMY!”
Sam blinks, and slowly the picture before him wavers a bit, like a television screen out of focus, before settling back to where it was before. Apparently the Powers that Be or whatever wanted him to relive this horrible moment. But it doesn’t matter; nothing matters, because Sam swears he hears his brother’s voice in the distance, calling his name in a tone just slightly under panic. Or is it an illusion, a horrible trick of the mind provided by Lucifer himself, to add to the torment of the scene before him? Sam blinks, and for a moment, believes that he really had only imagined his brother’s voice.
Until he heard it again.
“SAM!”
“Dean?” Sam barely has the strength to call out, is almost afraid to, just in case his brother wasn’t real. But he has to take the chance. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he had missed Dean because he was too stubborn to believe he was there. And, as a reward, he hears Dean call his name again, and in a moment, there he stands, his favorite Colt 1911 poised and ready to kill any supernatural being in his way. At the sight of his brother, however, he lowers the weapon, relief overwhelming him. Moments later Dean is at his brother’s side, wraps him in a tight embrace, and relishes the fact that Sam is here, with him, even if only trapped in his brother’s subconscious. Equally relieved, Sam leans against Dean’s shoulder, taking comfort in the scent of blood, sweat, and cheap cologne. Dean is here, with him, and if anyone can get him out of this mess, it’s his older brother.
“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam finally releases his grip on his brother, gestures with a quick shrug at the scene still playing before him. At this point, Sam is no longer suspended, but secured tightly to a gurney, as Lucifer forces him to replay the night Jessica died, over and over again, like a broken record. Sam is squirming in his bonds, screaming his late girlfriend’s name, squeezing his eyes shut as a sudden brightness fills the room. Fortunately, caught up in seeing his brother again, present Sam is oblivious to the scene before him. Thank God for small mercies.
“You’re in a coma. All that insomnia shit and Lucifer was making you go all Jack Torrence. Without the homicidal tendencies, of course.”
Sam is somehow not surprised. What better place to relive one’s memories, good or bad, than when the body is in a permanent state of rest? The Greatest (and some, err, not so great) Hits of Sam Winchester. But if he is in a coma, then why is Dean here? Oh god…
“Dean? Are you ok? If I’m in a coma, then why are you…?” Please don’t be dying. Please, Dean, you can’t be dying too…
Dean senseshis brother’s anxiety. “African Dream Root,” he replies promptly, and Sam somewhat relaxes. “Couldn’t live seeing you like that, Sammy. So I remembered that time when Bobby was in that weird coma and we took that stuff. Forgot how freaking nasty it is.” Dean grimaces in remembrance, and Sam lets out a faint smile. Good. Just what Dean wanted to see. Not a brother on edge and unable to focus. One who can help get the both of their asses back to reality.
“So how do we get out of this?” Sam’s voice brings Dean back from his reverie. He pauses briefly, trying to remember that last time the brothers had been invading each other’s dreams. And then another memory, from years ago, when he had been attacked by the Djinn in Illinois: his mother, beautiful as always, offering the promise of “comfort” and safety; Jessica, alive and happily engaged to Sam; a beautiful girlfriend who loved him for all of his flaws; and Sam, a brother who was finally getting the happiness he had craved for years. All were there, begging Dean to let go, to come with them, live a happy, pain free life. But it had been all a lie, a fantasy created by the Djinn to comfort (torment?) him while the life was slowly draining from his body. And the only way he had escaped that curse was to stab himself in the stomach. To die in a dream meant to wake up in the real world. Dean cringed a moment at the thought. As much as he didn’t want to see his brother die before him, Dean knew that it was the only chance he had to bring them both out of this mess. And at least they could make it quick and painless.
Sam seems to have already understood his brother’s plan, and nods in affirmative. “It worked for you, right?” He forces a faint smile and outstretches is arm, waiting for Dean to hand him a weapon. Reluctantly Dean hands his brother his favorite Taurus (one blessing of being in this horrible dream state was access to virtually any weapon imaginable), eyes filled with anguish, and yet grim determination.
“You know I’m going to wake up on the other side, right? You’re not watching me die, Dean.”
“Yeah.” Dean does know, he’d done it himself when he had stabbed himself before his “family” in that abandoned warehouse. But it sure as hell didn’t make it any easier. Taking out his own gun, Dean cocks the weapon, cringing to hear Sam do the same. God this sucks. “Count of three, right? One, two, three…”
<>spn
Dean sits up with a jolt, not on the cold floor he had been on earlier, but in a hospital bed of his own, thankfully beside Sam’s. He gasps for air, struggling to control the painful heaves of his chest, tears of strain trickling along his cheeks. After a few minutes of painful gasps, Dean finally regains control of his breathing, but not the anxious pounding in his chest. Is Sam awake? Did his crazy plan to bring his brother back actually work?
A quick glance at the bed beside him answers Dean’s question. Sam is also sitting up, gasping and struggling to breathe despite his intubated throat. In a heartbeat Dean throws his blankets aside, frantically pushing the “call” button at his bedside. There seems to be no response, and Dean is about to get up and find someone on his own when a nurse rushes in, surprised at the sight before him. Not only is the mysterious coma patient awake, but so is his younger brother. The one whose prognosis had been bleak only half an hour earlier. Stunned, she stares at the two for a moment before Dean glares at her. “What are you waiting for? Get the doctor,” he snaps and the nurse hurries away, grateful that someone else will be in charge. In an instant Dean is out of bed, at his brother’s bedside, grabs his brother’s hand and looks at his brother, hoping to ease the fear in his hazel eyes. “It’s ok, Sam,” he murmurs in a choked voice, tears of relief threatening to spill. “It’s going to be ok, I’m here, Sammy.”
It worked. His plan to save his brother actually worked. Dean watches in awe as Dr. Anders examines Sam, gives him a clean bill of health. “It’s incredible,” she murmurs, flipping through Sam’s chart. “I’ll have to conduct an MRI to be sure, but it seems as if your brother has dodged quite a bullet, Mr. Jones. No signs of any brain damage and I bet that your MRI results will show little, if any bleeding or swelling in the brain. You’re very lucky, young man,” with a smile and a pat on the shoulder to a still rather bewildered looking Sam. “As for you, Mr. Jones,” flipping through charts which must have been Dean’s after being discovered unconscious on the floor, “we believe you’ve been suffering from acute stress related exhaustion. We administered a sedative and an IV for fluids, and looks like it did wonders.” The doctor smiles, flips her charts closed. “You really should take better care of yourself, Mr. Jones.”
“Thanks, doc,” Dean mutters, waiting impatiently for Dr. Anders to leave. She does seem to take the hint, and in a few minutes, the Winchesters are alone. Sam looks up at his brother, still trying to piece together what has just happened. Before Sam can even open his mouth, Dean answers for him.
“You were in a coma dude, for a week or so. Took some African Dream Root to bring you back.”
“You did what now?” Sam’s voice is still weak, hardly above a whisper, but the thought that his brother had deliberately induced a coma like state to save him… what was he thinking?
It would be the same thing Sam would have done if the situation was reversed.
Sam sighs. Sometimes he wonders if they should give up with the martyr act. One look at his big brother is answer enough: not in this lifetime.
“So I’m guessing it wasn’t stress and over exhaustion that knocked you out, then?” Sam smiles faintly and Dean nods, flashing a grin of his own. “My body’s a temple,” he teases. “Wouldn’t go through that for my pain in the ass baby brother.” But one gentle squeeze of Sam’s hand says it all. Dean would do that, and more, for Sam. In a heartbeat.
“So what was it like? In my mind?”
“Weird, dude. Didn’t see much, just this huge forest. Like in Maine or someplace like that. It was kind of like the yellow brick road of Sam Winchester. Followed your trail and it led to you.” Dean conveniently doesn’t mention Sam’s horrific vision of Lucifer. If his younger brother can’t remember what happened while stuck in limbo, then Dean chalks it up as a win. “I have a feeling that you were reliving your past. Kind of like that time we were in Heaven.”
“That’s it? I’m wandering in the woods? Kind of weird, man.” Sam doesn’t remember anything of his so called trip into his mind, or reliving his greatest hits or whatever. Part of him is relieved: who knows what horrible memories he’s been repressing, that conveniently resurfaced while he was asleep? On the other hand, it is also a disappointment. Because with the horrible memories, there are bound to be some pleasant ones, too. Memories which now will fade away, with Sam none the wiser.
“How are you feeling, anyway? Do you need some water? Something soft to eat? I can get the nurses to bring some pudding or some other hospital shit.”
Sam smiles. “Nah, I think I just want to sleep.” As if on cue, Sam yawns, leans back on his bed, closing his eyes. “Thanks, man.” A silent I love you.
Dean smiles, gently rubs his brother’s shoulder. “Any time, Sammy.”
I love you too.
spn
“You want anything? Bottled water, energy bar, rabbit food?” Dean grins devilishly as he places the nozzle back at the pump and twists the gas cover on the Impala’s tank. Truth be told, Sam is still not quite hungry, his appetite returning only in small degrees, but a bottle of water does sound nice. “Sure. Water’s good. Maybe a muffin too.”
“Dude, you get crumbs in my car, you’re a dead man.” But Dean returns with a warm carrot oatmeal muffin, fresh from…well, the microwave. Sam accepts it with a smile, spreads a small amount of butter on one side as Dean slides in the driver’s seat, a bottle of Coke and a bag of plain chips in his hands. “Breakfast of champions,” he grins, uncapping the soft drink and taking a liberal swig from the bottle. Sam turns up his nose in disgust. “You do know it’s 9AM.”
“And I haven’t eaten in about 24 hours. This is my supper, Sammy.”
Shrugging, Sam uncaps his water, downs a quarter of it, and nibbles on his muffin. Dean is liberally downing his greasy “breakfast”, tossing the empty chip bag into a plastic grocery bag before turning the Impala’s engine.
Only to hear Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.”
Sam chuckles, trying to hide his laugh with another drink of water. Dean glares at him, immediately pushing one of his cassettes in the tape deck. Over the opening chords of “Ride the Lightning” Dean grins, the familiar, comforting words Sam knows too well, slipping from laughing lips.
“House rules, Sammy…”
The End