Fallacious Dream:

Summary: When Sam has recurring dreams of Jess dying, he makes a fatal error in not acting on his uneasy feelings.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I'm writing this as a fan, not for profit.

Author's Note: I suppose you could call this an interpretation of Sam's internal monologue of the days leading up to Jess' death, until the day she dies. I will only be touching on the events in "Pilot" as you already know what happens; it does not need a descriptor.

Also, this is my first tentative step into Supernatural fandom, so I'm still refining my writing style for it… and working on characterisation.

The first night he had the dream, he didn't worry too much about it.

Even though he was attempting to pursue normalcy, it wasn't unheard of for him to have nightmares of his old life. Some people remembered childhood traumas, Sam Winchester remembered monsters that most people would say didn't exist.

The monster in his dream – a demon, to be precise – wasn't something altogether unfamiliar. He couldn't recall it himself, but he had known that this was how his mother had died – pinned to the ceiling, burning. He couldn't remember anybody telling about it, but he supposed somebody must have. His dad, maybe. He couldn't think of a reason Dean would mention it.

He hadn't thought about his family in a long while.

He told himself that it wasn't unusual. He was planning on proposing to Jess. She would be his family, so family was on his mind. It made sense that he'd think about them.

He thought of Jess, a bright and happy girl, and her expression in his dream. The shock. The horror.

He thought, it should be disturbing that he dreamed of his girlfriend dying in such a way. He certainly wouldn't want anybody to try and psychoanalyse it. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

Even as he thought of her expression, of his own shock, he told himself it was just a nightmare. Nothing more.

Then he had the dream again.

The second night he had the dream, he hesitated.

He didn't understand why he was thinking about all of this now. He and Jess weren't a new couple – why was it now that he was having these dreams?

He was beginning to think it was as much to do with his planned engagement as the sudden shift of his thoughts towards his family. Perhaps he was scared of getting close to people, with his mother dead over his crib, his father having delivered a denouement. He could stay, or he could leave for good.

Sam had left.

And Dean… he didn't even know where he stood with Dean any more. Dean wouldn't say a word against their father, after all. Essentially, their father had driven a wedge between the brothers. He probably hadn't intended to.

He'd done it anyway.

He toyed with the idea of calling his brother. Dean, at least, would know he wasn't dreaming of made up monsters. It existed as surely as Sam did. Sam hadn't even seen it, but he knew it was there, a mix of logic and a gut feeling that seemed to come from nowhere.

He dismissed the idea almost immediately. He didn't even pick up the phone. He hadn't spoken to his brother for too long, and, besides, Dean would probably come barrelling up there with their father, talking about danger and demons and death.

Sometimes dreams were just dreams. Subconscious worries. They were nothing serious. He'd have a better bet asking Psychology students about the matter.

He didn't, though, because it was too personal.

He was still trying to figure it out when Jess came in, interrupting his brooding. She seemed to think he was stressed about the interview he had the following week. She smiled and it was infectious.

She was beautiful. She was perfectly fine. He convinced himself of it.

She didn't notice his fist clench at his side.

The third night he had the dream, Sam was more than a little uneasy.

It wasn't so much the dream anymore. Jess, on the ceiling. The flames. The demon's presence. The blood (he could swear he felt it, and was having to fight not to swipe at his face when he awoke, checking for blood. There was none).

It felt… different. It was the same as the other dreams he'd had, dreams that had gone the exact same way. The same as everything had been for the past few days. He could barely remember what 'normal' dreams felt like, but he was sure it wasn't like this.

Jess' face, burned in his memory. It was sharp, it was real. It didn't feel like a dream.

It had to be a dream. There was nothing else.

He didn't look at the ceiling when he woke up, as if, in the event of something happening, denial would stop it being real.

Jess was sleeping next to him. She was okay. She was fine.

He considered doing some research on dreams. It wasn't just a nightmare any more, it was a recurring nightmare. Who knew when it would end?

Each time he had the dream, the pit in his stomach seemed to grow deeper.

He could have researched the demon. He could have called his father. He would have the most extensive research. His father hunted the thing like a madman, and though they'd never come across it in their travels – and he assumed that his absence hadn't changed anything – he suspected his father had to have come up with something.

His father knew how to hunt, and he didn't know how to give up.

Jess' voice cut him off, talking of that night, of parties and Halloween, and though he hated the day, he agreed to go. He hated to admit it, but he needs the relaxation.

He didn't tell her so, just smiled sheepishly, answered her pointed questions that everything was fine. He felt like a damned liar. He had no idea why.

The fourth night, he couldn't remember dreaming.

He remembered waking up and feeling unsure, and then he heard a noise downstairs. Burglars, most people would have thought. Sam thought of the demon – nameless, shapeless – and headed in the direction of the noise.

It attacked him. It felt human. He wondered of possession, or whether he'd made a mistake and it was just a petty old burglar. The guy was strong. Sam didn't get a proper look at him until he was pinned against the floor, and the man spoke.

"Whoa, easy, tiger!"

The voice, the face, it's all familiar. He'd know the man even if he hadn't been thinking of him for the last few days.

He could have told him about the dreams, the way they were unsettling him. Explain the strange feeling - the instinct - that told him that it wasn't just a dream.

He'd feel like a child, admitting nightmares of monsters, when he'd left to be independent. To be normal. Hunting was chasing him in his dreams, but he couldn't let that man know. He wouldn't know what to say. It'd been too long.

"Dean?" he asked instead, because it asked so many things in one word, and told nothing of his own worries.

Dean told him about their father's disappearance.

Hunting chasing him in his dreams, chasing him when he was awake. He couldn't get away from it.

He argued with his conscience and his brother, and he lost. He went to help find his father. Even though they didn't always get along, he cared about his family.

Jess was still in his head. He remembered the blood in his dream. Her face, his. The fire. He was there. Nothing could happen if Sam wasn't there, everything would change, he thought.

So he left her to go on a road trip with a brother he hadn't seen in years.

When he returned from the hunt with Dean – no dad, of course – he was reluctant about parting with his brother. He'd actually enjoyed his brother's company, and he didn't want to go years without them speaking again.

But there was his life. His future. His girlfriend. None of them involved hunting.

Dean's life was hunting.

She'd left him cookies. He took one and went to bed.

There was a drip.

(A drop.)

Something falling on his face.

He opened his eyes, and… and and…

He couldn't think. He had no thoughts. He'd over-thought it already. He'd known for days and had done nothing, because his too-real dream had only been a dream.

And now it was reality.

He may have yelled. He couldn't remember. He remembered her face, the fire. The blood. He'd seen it before.

He felt the heat of the fire. He hadn't felt it before, or so he'd told himself. He could feel everything, right down to his bones.

He thought that maybe he'd have stayed there. Staring. No thoughts in his head.

But then suddenly Dean was there, and dragging him out, and then Sam knew he was yelling. As if he wouldn't stop.

The next night he had the dream, it was when he was dozing in the Impala. He hadn't actively decided to sleep. He recognised the dream, only it wasn't one any more. It hadn't been one in the first place. He wasn't sure what it had been, wondered if the demon did it somehow to mock him and his inaction.

It had been some sort of premonition, but now it was a memory. It would never just be a dream again.

Author's Note: In other news, this could really do with a stronger ending. However much I try and work on endings I can't help wondering if I'm actually making any progress... they still sound so awkward. Reviews much appreciated.