Fic: Linger Till Dawn, Gen, PG-13, Episode 3x10

[britomart_is]

Title: Linger Till Dawn
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: None, Gen. Sam and Dean and some cameos.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Episode 3x10
Word Count: 2100
Summary: Sure, Dean feels guilty. Not like it was a picnic having Sam tromping around in Dean's head, dreams like a soft underbelly exposed. But when Sam's coordination goes, slowing his reaction time on the hunt and nearly getting them both killed, guilt or no guilt, Dean has to do something.

Sam shouts aloud in his sleep sometimes. Dean thought this was over with, but ever since Dean's deal the nightmares are back with a vengeance. Sam's falling asleep in his breakfast every morning, and before long Dean is, too, because how's he supposed to rest when Sam's thrashing, sounding scared and like he needs Dean's help?

Sam won't say what they're about, won't open up; the least cryptic thing he says is that there are things Dean can't know. And that's classic Sam, right there, storing things away inside where they can torture him in his sleep. It's not healthy. It's not safe.

Sure, Dean feels guilty. Not like it was a picnic having Sam tromping around in Dean's head, dreams like a soft underbelly exposed. But when Sam's coordination goes, slowing his reaction time on the hunt and nearly getting them both killed, guilt or no guilt, Dean has to do something.

It's not hard to get a little of Sam's hair – there's so damn much of it, all Dean has to do is check his pillow. Sam just mumbles in his sleep and rolls over, away from Dean. It turns out you can get African dream root online, which pisses Dean off pretty royally.

Dean positions himself so he'll fall on the bed when it knocks him out, grimaces in anticipation of the foul drink and how pissed Sam'll be when he wakes up. He drinks it down.



The sun is bright to blinding on the sand and woodchips of the playground. It's quiet in a roaring sort of way, like Dean's ears are stuffed with cotton wool and he can only hear his own blood rushing through his body.

The sandbox is crowded with children, all around five years old. Sam, at five, sits on the wooden edge of the box, bending down to run his fingers through the sand. They build castles and destroy them.

There are the two girls, whispering and giggling together; two boys, one black and one white; the twins, clearly brothers if not identical; the curly-headed haunted-looking one. And Sam.

The whistle from behind is jarring, and Dean spins to see a very familiar stranger. The man's golden eyes are fond.

The kids are up and running now, going right past Dean like he's not even there, which perhaps he isn't, he's not sure how this dream thing works. Sam runs right by him, face young and hopeful and open. They cluster around the man's legs.

He leans down, smiling, and picks Sammy out from the crowd, hands under his armpits, lifting him up high. "Sammy," he says, drawing out the name, enjoying it. "You're my favorite."

Sammy practically glows with pleasure. The other children are discontent but follow all the same when the man says, "Time to go home."

Sam wraps his arms around the man's neck, clinging. He's staring back over the man's shoulder with an intent look, one very at home on Sam at that age, curious and sharply focused and a little too old.

Dean almost thinks Sammy's looking at him, but then he follows his gaze back across the playground, behind Dean. It's the swingset that he's staring at, and the family around it. Mary and John and Dean, happy and whole. The boy Dean swings while Mary and John lay out the picnic on the table.

Sammy keeps watching them, but the man carries him away.


The refraction of light off the sand gets brighter and brighter. The world fades out to white and back in again. Dean's standing outside of a Waffle House, and that's okay, better than the creepy-forest theme in Dean and Bobby's dreams.

He figures it's important, so he goes in, and he sees Sam's back, his Sam, stupid hair and hunched-over shoulders. Sam's in a booth, and opposite him, filling up the bench, are Mary and Ruby.

Dean is learning to take things in stride, so he slides into the empty space next to Sam, knee knocking against his, not sure if he's visible.

Sam turns and glances at him absent-mindedly. "Oh, hey Dean."

Dean tries not to stare at Mom, who is calmly cutting her omelet into small pieces with knife and fork. She looks up, an eyebrow quirk that's familiar, but he can't place it. "Don't give me that look," she says, wry but affectionate. "You would have done the same."

Dean jumps at the sound of Sam's fist on the table. "Mom. What did you know?"

Mary turns that look on Sam, a little sterner. "Don't make a scene, Sam."

"All in good time, Sam," Ruby says.

"You know, you aren't very helpful." Sam glowers at her. "I really don't like you."

Ruby pouts.

Mary puts her knife and fork down and reaches over to tuck away a bit of Sam's hair, though it just falls down again anyway. "Don't worry, Sam. There are things you don't need to know. Let me keep you safe." Sam closes his eyes, leaning into her touch. She pats his cheek and pulls back. "Now be a good boy and eat your breakfast."

When Sam opens his eyes, he looks so utterly downtrodden that it's almost cute. He doesn't seem to have any breakfast though, just a tall plastic cup filled with something red and viscous—oh, gross. Dean really hopes Sam's not gonna drink that. He's in luck, because Sam sighs and nudges him.

"Let me out."

Dean's thrown for a moment, then realizes Sam's meaning and slides out of the booth, letting Sam out, too. Sam seems to really look at him for the first time. "You're not usually here."

Dean shrugs, figures he'll play along as far as he can, hope to see something useful, not like that bizarre conversation.


When they push through the door of the Waffle House, the sunny parking lot is gone and they're in a corridor, surrounded by clean walls and linoleum.

"Oh, crap." Dean's spent more time than he'd like in hospitals, but he knows exactly which one this is.

Sam doesn't look too thrilled himself. "It's okay, I know where to go." He looks over his shoulder when Dean doesn't follow. "This way."

Dean pauses outside the door of the room. He's already seen this, not sure he wants to again. When he steels himself and enters, though, there's no comatose, breathing corpse on the bed. Just a tin box with a few small items in it, bones and dirt and a picture that's turned upside down so he doesn't know if it's him or Sam.

Sam's already sitting on the floor cross-legged, and Dad sits on the other side of the talking board. Sam's fingers are on the planchette, but he and Dad look right at each other when they speak. They're clearly already mid-argument and man, Dad looks pissed, like he did so often when Sam was a teenager, always riling him up on purpose.

"You should have told me. You should have told me everything!" Sammy's flushed, agitated, letting Dad get under his skin.

"You never should have found out at all. Maybe then you'd be trying harder."

"I'm trying, Dad, but it's designed that way, there's not supposed to be a way to break it—"

"So you're just gonna sit there and watch Dean die?"

"No, Dad, I—"

"Would you try harder for your real brother? Would you save Dean if you still thought he was?"

Sam looks like Dad just took a swing at him. "Don't. Dad—please, why do you keep doing this?"

"I'm not angry, Sam, I'm just disappointed." Dad sighs. "I should have smothered you in your crib."

Sam upends the talking board and Dean flees, pushing through the first door he finds, and it leads to a sunny apartment and fuck, Palo Alto, and Dean really doesn't want to see whatever happens here, so he opens up what looks like a closet and it's bad, it's really bad, muddy and barren and fucking Cold Oak, Dean doesn't want to be here, had enough nightmares here himself, but he's caught up to Sam, who's standing over a crumpled mass of desert fatigues and putting all his strength behind a length of metal, swinging again and again. Dean grabs Sam's arm before he can hit Jake again, not that Jake can feel it anymore, and Sam shakes him off, sending him stumbling backward and at some point Cold Oak seems to have turned into Lawrence, because they're standing in Sam's nursery.

The baby Sam is in his crib. This can not be good. Time to bail out.

"Sam, we gotta get out of here." Dean claps a hand on his shoulder.

Sam shrugs him off and moves to the crib. "Just one more thing." Sam shifts the metal bar in his hand.

"Sammy, what are you doing?" Dean's not sure he likes the way this is heading, actually, he knows he doesn't like the way this is heading.

"There's still time. We can stop it before he gets here." Sam strikes too fast, Dean can't stop him so all he can do is put himself in the way, forcing himself between Sam and the baby. The metal clips him on the forehead, hard, spinning him. The baby wails and Dean tries to blink the spots out of his vision, holding himself up by the rail of the crib. Dean must be bleeding, because fat red drops are spattering the baby's face, wetting his mouth.

Dean really hopes Sam isn't gearing up to hit him again, the killing blow, because he can't have Sammy waking up alone in the motel with Dean dead in his sleep, can't have that, not acceptable.

So he pulls himself up, turns. Sam's backed up against the wall, looking stricken. Dean goes to him, pulls the metal bar from Sam's loose fingers, curls a hand in Sam's shirt and he's not sure if it's to reassure or to hold himself up.

"Dean."

"Sammy, you need to wake up, man."

"Too late." Sam's staring at something over his shoulder and Dean has to look, knows better but has to anyway. A man is standing over the crib. Dean lunges, but Sam pulls back on him. "Nothing you can do."

Blood drips on young Sam again, and then a woman's voice calls, Sammy, frantic from down the hall, and no no no this has to stop now, "Sam, wake up, wake up!"

Dean gasps awake.

Sam sits up in bed, also panting, rumpled. He looks at Dean, confused. Dean expects that to change into anger as soon as he realizes what Dean's done, but instead Sam just looks scared.

"Sammy—" Dean says, but Sam bolts, only as far as the bathroom, where Dean can't reach him.

Dean lies back in his pillows with a huff of a sigh, the dream root still bitter in his mouth. Didn't do him much good, really, he's still got no idea what's true, just what Sam's afraid of. But that's something.

There's nothing but silence from the bathroom. Dean needs to fix this.

He goes to the door and knocks softly. There's shuffling from within, but no response.

"Sammy."

"Dean."

"Will you just come out of there?"

Miraculously, Sam complies, shuffling behind the door and then opening it, hanging back warily in the doorway. His eyes are red-rimmed, face tight with Winchesters-don't-cry, breathing fast and shallow. "Why did you do it?"

"Because you're my brother, and I take care of you." Dean says firm and slow, injecting as much end-of-story into his reply as he can. He holds Sam's eyes, won't let him look away.

Sam sags with relief, clutching the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him from falling. He clears his throat, nods. "Okay."

Dean pulls Sam to his own bed, where he can keep an eye on him, tucks them both under the covers, usually wouldn't do this but tonight's an exception. Sam's still a little twitchy, wide-eyed, so Dean shuffles across the sheets until there's not quite enough space, knees and ankles and elbows coming into contact if either of them moves just a little. Points of contact, grounding Sam so he stays right here in this room.

"Go to sleep, Sam. Seriously. Couple hours and then we'll go get breakfast." Can't say it—nothing's changed, Sammy, not after all this—so he'll have to show him. Dean closes his eyes, utterly trusting, and pretends that he can sleep tonight.