When they pass by the first Florida state sign, Sam’s lungs shrivel into the size of raisins. His fingers fidget themselves over his knees, until they settle into balled fists around the fabric of his jeans. He tries to mentally tell himself that he’s just being stupid, that it’s been nearly ten goddamned years since he was anywhere near this god-forsaken, piece-of-shit state and that everything is fine--just fine. But if he has to look over into the driver’s seat just to reassure himself of that, no one would be privy to it, except for himself.
Dean had told him that they’d be in out, that it’d be a piece of cake hunt, that they’d be back home before he knew it--no harm done. The case file was spread out on the table, the news articles of cannibalistic murders all over the Pinecrest, Florida area, highlighting Dean’s sense of urgency. And in response, Sam moaned and groaned, trying to get his way out of it--even tried scouring the internet for a bigger case closer to the bunker, but his results came up empty again and again. Of course when that failed, Sam tried to fake food poisoning, tried for a full eight hours to convince his Brother that they could just call another hunter to take care of it. But eventually Dean called him out on his bullshit, sitting down on the edge of Sam’s bed and gently squeezing his shoulder, knowing without having to hear it, what the huge charade was all about. He was quiet for a second, but then proceeded to tell Sam that it was just a simple Rugaru hunt, that they’d be in and out and on their way back to the bunker in no time.
Less than half a day later they hit the road and Sam’s been taking shallow breaths ever since. His heart squeezing tighter as it sinks further into his pelvis with every city sign they fly by, the map on his phone indicating that Pinecrest is just a breath away from the place-that-shall-not-be-named. The back of his neck breaks into a sweat, his molars worry a nasty sore into the side of his cheek, and his eyes pace endlessly back and forth between the windshield and Dean. As though, if he doesn’t keep an eye on his Brother, he’ll just up and disappear into thin air.
“Quit worryin’,” Dean coaxes, sensing Sam’s growing anxiety in the passenger seat. “It’s fine, Sammy--I promise.”
“I know it’s stupid, Dean. I mean, the practical part of me knows that, but you have to understand what it was like to...to have to live through that. I ca-- I can’t do that ever again.” Sam’s words hang in the air between them and they look just as horrible as they feel to say.
Dean’s hand reaches over and tangles itself effortlessly around Sam’s. Dean’s thumb soothingly makes circles on the back of Sam’s hand, before giving a gentle squeeze. “I know, Sammy. Sorry you had to go through that back then, but you gotta know that was so long ago and I’m here, right here. Nothing’s gonna happen, no funny business.”
“The sooner we can gank this son-of-a-bitch, the sooner we can get out of here.” Sam clings to Dean’s words of encouragement and gives a soft squeeze back to Dean.
‘I never meant to be so bad to you, one thing I said that I would never do….’
A distant sound, almost song-like hangs in the air as Sam trails behind Dean. Both of their guns are firmly pitted against the palm of their hands, up and pointed, ready for whatever may greet them. There’s a hallway before them and it’s pitch black at the end, but it seems to go on forever. Strange noises sound within the darkness before them and both of their backs stiffen with anticipation.
‘One thing led to another, we were young, and we would scream together songs unsung.’
Sam’s chest squeezes tightly as his ears begin to make out the words of a song he swore he never wanted to hear another day in his life. He stops in his tracks, his raised hand falling to his side, finger still on the trigger. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut and tells his mind to knock it the fuck off, there’s no time for this highlight reel through one of the darkest times of his life. And when he finally opens his eyes again, the darkness before him seems even more menacing, the shadow of his Brother’s body barely detectable.
He tries to make a sound to catch Dean’s attention, but Dean just raises his left hand and points him further into the hall. The hunter instinct in Sam has his feet pacing forward again, the claws in his stomach digging deeper with every step he takes. Something from Dean’s left catches his attention and Sam watches as Dean raises his left hand and tells him to hold up, before he disappears from the hallway. Sam’s ribs constrict even tighter as he swears worryingly under his breath, “Just-in-and-out, my ass…”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Dean shouts loudly, his gun firing off on the tail of his words.
Sam’s spine jolts, his stomach falling straight out of his body as his heart stops beating. “Dean? What--” But his words are cut off from his mouth when he rears around the same corner his Brother had, his feet shuffling on the floor.
To his shock, Dean lies in a heap on the floor, his right hand clutching at his chest. “Dean! Hey?!” He runs forward, his attention solely on his Brother, the rest of the world around him fading into a blur. And as the edges of reality become less and less defined, the clearer in sound that horrible song gets. Sam’s barely got his hands on Dean, barely has got a good look at the damage, when the screeching music gets louder than his eardrums can handle.
‘'Cause it was the heat of the moment, telling me what your heart meant. The heat of the moment shone in your eyes.’
Dean’s hand reaches for Sam’s shoulder, his fingers digging bruises, but the music is so loud that Sam can’t even see through the blind panic it’s sent him into. His heart is stalled in his ribs and his arms shake around the heaviness of his Brother’s body, the scent of death is bold and raw around him. He tries to tell himself to breathe, but the more he tries to find focus of his breaths, the more he loses them in the noise of the music. The world in front of him blurs to white and his lungs seize with the mighty swing of desperation.
“No-no..not again--NOT AGAIN!” Are the only words that break free from his lips. He repeats them over and over, repeats them until his tongue feels like cement in his mouth--until he feels his body falling backwards.
The chorus of the song stretches in pitch and slows. ‘’Cause it was the heat of the moment, telling me what your heart meant.’ And with it is an indistinguishable yell that Sam can’t quite make out.
Sam’s head slams against something hard and his eyes slam open, as though they’ve been closed the entire time. The minute they open, the music shuts off and the yell becomes crystal clear.
“Sam-Sammy?!” Dean’s voice is rough and filled with worry. “Hey--hey, there you are...there you are.” Dean’s bruising fingers move from Sam’s shoulder and come to cradle his face, Dean’s calloused fingers sweeping loose hair from Sam’s eyes.
The world around Sam starts to sink in, his bedroom walls surround him, his bedside lamp on and toppled over. His legs are tangled in bed sheets and there’s an undeniable layer of sweat drenching his entire body. And then there’s Dean, alive and well, breathing and looking down at Sam like he always does when the nightmares come back again. There’s sorrow in his eyes, but comfort in his voice when he repeats soothing lines, bringing Sam slowly back to center.
“It was just a dream. I’m here-I’m here.” Dean’s voice lulls, his arms pulling Sam’s body away from the edge of the bed and aligning it next to his. Sam moves easily with Dean’s instruction, laying his head in his Brother’s lap, the heat of tears stinging the back of his eyes. “It’s been awhile since you’ve had one this bad; couldn’t get ya to wake up.”
Sam just clings to Dean’s legs and tries to let the soothing motion of Dean’s fingers smoothing his hair back, pull the rest of the dream off his body. And he wonders quietly to himself if he’ll ever feel safe again, or if his life will always be in shambles--with either reality or dreams trying to take the one thing that has ever mattered to him, away.
“I’ve gotcha...I’ve gotcha..” Dean says over and over. And when Sam starts to cry, Dean doesn’t flinch, just moves his hand to Sam’s back and draws protective sigils. Does it even though they both know the dreams will still come, knows that if it’s not this one, then it will be The Cage. Or a burning ceiling. Or angelic possession. Or any other number of things that have haunted Sam’s dreams over the years.
Sam focuses on Dean’s voice, on the delicate movement of his fingers at his back, hoping and praying that when his eyes do close again--it’ll be those things that will carry him through the fire of his mind. That they’ll plant him safely on the other side of it all, and finally let his weary mind find some much needed peace.
52 Weeks of Sam & Dean (Ao3)
buticancarryyou vs @whoaeasytiger
Prompt #30: Another Tuesday (Ao3)
See Rose’s Version (Ao3)
