Disclaimer: Not mine. Highly unlikely it'll ever be.
A/N: I'm trying to climb over my writing block the size of Andrew Jackson's two-ton block of cheese. Questions, comments, critiques are most welcome.
Lots and lots of love for Em, my beta, for her everlasting patience and for spoiling me rotten, even when she has way more important things to do.
---
I. Where what's to be, they say will be
Wait! No no no no no. Come pick me up first.
Nah, I'm pretty sure it's nothing. I just want to take a look around.
Sam stares down at the phone as he considers calling Dean again, before dropping it onto the table. It's just routine recon work – either of them could do it in their sleep, but unease makes his skin crawl. Nameless and vague. Restless idle like air before a storm and he isn't sure why.
He checks outside for cops again. Then he picks up the book on Persian-Period Djinn legends, goes to his bed and settles against the headboard with a sigh.
Might as well be comfortable – Sam glances at his watch – if he's spending the night waiting up for Dean.
---
II. So if you wake up with the sunrise
He wakes up sneezing.
Pushing the musty book off his chest, Sam's stomach dropped to see a dawn-gray sky through threadbare curtains, and no brother in sight. Not a wrinkle on Dean's bed – he didn't come back last night.
His watch reads 5:06 AM.
When Dean doesn't answer his phone, vague unease coalesces into sharp bitter fear.
Sam's hands shake only a little when he hotwires a Toyota with an out-of-town plate five minutes later. He watches out for cops, and starts with the closest ruins on their map.
Dean's fine. Sam will find him and Dean will be fine.
---
III. Catch the wind, see us spin
In the shadows, Sam crouches low behind some crates as he watches the two patrol cars drive by, sirens ablaze. His heart pounding, but he feels calm. Focused.
Four cups of coffee, dozens of unanswered calls and nine hours later, Sam finally hits the jackpot – he's so relieved to find the Impala outside a boarded-up factory, gleaming black in the sun, he could kiss it. Not that he would, of course – Dean's the car-dork.
Sam says a quick prayer of thanks as he opens the trunk, arms up, telling himself that he's not too late.
He can't be too late.
---
IV. Take my hand, child, come with me
I got you. We're gonna get you outta here, okay? I got you. I got you...
"I can take her, Dean."
His brother looks up at him, almost as if he's forgotten about Sam standing right beside him. Their eyes meet. There's so much on Dean's face – it hits him like a slap and he can't help but look away.
"I got it, Sammy," Dean says, blinking tiredly, "I never called you Sammy."
He wants desperately to ask questions but knows better – the girl's fading fast, and his brother's not far behind. He can't carry both. Sam touches Dean's shoulder.
"Hey, let me carry her for you, okay?"
After a long moment, Dean nods, "Yeah, okay."
---
V. And all your dreams are still as new
"So, what happened?" Sam asks as he presses the bandage to Dean's neck, voice forced nonchalant like he's asking for the time.
"It got the drop on me." Dean shrugs.
"And?"
"And nothing."
"Dean."
"Sam."
"You were strung up like pig in a slaughter house, with a needle stuck in your carotid artery. Draining blood. You looked…" Sam remembers how his breath caught and his heart skipped a beat when he saw Dean, hanging limply from bound wrists, face grey and barely breathing. He remembers thinking, for a moment, that he's too late. "Unresponsive."
"The Djinn did something to you." An educated guess, but Dean's face tells him what he needs to know.
His brother glances away. "Dude, just -"
"Didn't it?" He catches Dean's eyes, not willing to let go.
Eventually, Dean caves.
"It put me in this dream where my wish came true."
"Your wish?"
"I wish Mom didn't die in the fire." Dean stands up. "We done now?"
Mom, alive. In their lives.
Sam knows better. He really knows better, but he can't help the question.
"What was it like?"
"I'm going to bed." Dean snaps off the light. He falls asleep with his back to Sam.
---
VII. And if I say to you tomorrow
It's been a ridiculously long day, but Sam can't sleep. Dean a dark shape on the other bed.
Mom's beautiful.
It starts slowly. Disjointed words, pieces of another life, trickling out of his brother like drops from a leaky tap.
I had a guitar... and a gigantic plasma-screen TV.
He should stop Dean. He knows better than to have asked.
Mom's hair smells like almonds.
Both of them need to sleep. He should tell Dean to get some rest.
...living in our old house... She makes awesome BLTs.
Shouldn't reminisce about what they never had.
He can't help but listen, soaking the words up.
You were in California. Stanford Law School... with Jessica.
Dean's voice drifts like dusts in the dark, barely a whisper.
She's freakishly tall, too.
We met at intramural basketball, Sam almost answers. Almost smiles.
You look good together. Happy. Engaged, you know?
It isn't real, he tells himself.
You were all so happy.
Blinking hard, he refuses to grieve for something that's never been.
But I had to end it. Coming back. I had to...
He listens on in the dark.
When the words finally run out, bleed dry, he says, "I'm here."
"I know, Sammy."
---
IX. Happiness is what you need so bad
"Dude! What the hell?" As soon as the waitress walks away, Dean hisses at Sam with all the self-righteousness of a man deprived of his coffee. "Strawberry milkshake?"
"We've no idea how much blood you lost. It had you for over twelve hours – could've been draining your blood for most of that time. You're dehydrated, and coffee's diuretic. Not to mention you hadn't eaten anything since the day before." He pushes bottles of water towards of Dean. "Now drink up."
"No."
Sometimes, he forgets that Dean can do an excellent impression of a three-year-old throwing a fit.
"You can have a coffee after a couple of bottles."
"No."
"I took your car keys when you were in the shower."
Sam suspects he'd probably gotten tackled, if Dean wasn't still exhausted.
"Fine." Dean glares as he grabs a bottle. "Bossy Bitch."
"Jerk." Sam answers without thinking, and is almost startled by the intense relief flashes across his brother's face.
"Dean?"
"It's nothing." His brother looks down, too much on his face to be read, then he gives Sam a quick smile. "Bitch."
He isn't entirely sure what's going on, but he smiles back at Dean. It can wait.
"Keep drinking, Jerk."
---
X. But What Is And What Should Never Be
Dean's dreaming, Sam can tell, as he has been lately. They haunt him, not because they are nightmares of blood and death, but because they aren't. Dean dreams of green grass and clear sky, of family barbecues and squirming toddlers. Of Mom, of the smell of almond in her hair. Of Jessica laughing. Of Sam, coming home to his family after a busy day at the office, to his yellow house with white picket fence. Of happiness and content. They haunt him.
He sits against the headboard on his brother's bed, a hand's span between them. Within touch. Standing guard.