Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ A Sea of Waking Dreams ❯ Brief Interlude ( Chapter 6 )

Chapter 6

 

Things were just so…strange now. Dean was back, and that was…unbelievable. It was so unbelievable, in fat, that Sam found he couldn't believe it unless Dean was right in front of him, or sitting next to him, or talking to him. But when he was doing one or all of those things—well, Sam guessed it was probably a feeling somewhat akin to winning the lottery.

 

But Dean was worried about him. He saw that. It was probably because he didn't talk as much, or lie, or get angry, or anything like that. Dean probably thought he was “angsting,” or just crazy—and he probably was the latter, admittedly.

 

But he definitely wasn't angsting, if the word meant what he remembered it meaning. He just couldn't seem to get his mind wrapped around words as firmly anymore—not enough to have a real conversation. And as for the other stuff—well, he just couldn't bring himself to do it anymore. Not to Dean, who had, after all, come back to him and stayed with him even after he'd…

 

Well, anyway, he couldn't lie to Dean.

 

And he couldn't get angry, either. After everything he had gone though, Dean didn't deserve to have anyone angry at him—ever again. So Sam wasn't—he never showed it, and he tried his damnedest not to feel it.

 

It was the least—the least—he could do.

 

XXX

 

The flames had been inching closer for…well, Sam didn't know how long, but it had been a while. He thought. Maybe. Of course, time meant next to nothing to him now, so it was difficult to be sure. But Dean had told him to go to sleep at least three times so far, so it must have been a while.

 

Well, anyways, the point was, there were flames, and they were drawing steadily closer, and Sam…wasn't quite sure whether he cared or not.

 

Well, okay, so he cared. He had to care, considering what the fire had done last time. But he hadn't been able to stop them then, and there was no reason to believe he'd be able to now.

 

Dean probably could have. He should probably tell Dean. But every time he tried, it…well, it didn't work. The words just…didn't work.

 

And then he'd get distracted again, and the flames would recede to the corner of his vision, and he'd forget about them entirely—that was, until Dean stopped talking to him or he wasn't in sight at all.

 

Actually, that was the worst—when Dean wasn't in his sight anymore. Then the flames seemed to eat up the space between themselves and Sam. That time when Dean had called Cal and Niko, and been gone all day, they'd crossed the halfway point to him.

 

And now Dean was gone again, and Cal was with him, and what if the fire reached him this time? What if they reached him and Dean wasn't there?

 

And Sam felt afraid.

 

XXX

 

Sometimes, Sam couldn't remember what had happened the last time the fire had touched him. It was all fuzzy, like being tuned in to a really bad satellite connection. He remembered faces sometimes—some he knew, and a lot he didn't.

 

But four faces in particular stuck out in his mind. Two girl and two boys. He remembered their faces vividly—especially their eyes, and the life going out of them when he…

 

Well, anyway, those memories he couldn't seem to shed. They were with him night and day, day and night, hovering just on the ragged edges of his mind.

 

But the rest faded in and out, right up until the moment when he'd opened his eyes and Dean had been hovering over him, and he'd felt like the world was rocking on its axis until he'd grabbed onto something firm in the form of Dean's sleeve and the warm, solid, real arm within it.

 

And Sam really, really hoped it would stay that way, just as he hoped that he wouldn't have to find out what would happen if the flames touched him again.

 

But that hope was steadily fading, because the flames were growing closer by the minute.

 

XXX

 

When Dean wasn't there, Sam spent a lot of time thinking. He remembered that before Dean left, that had been pretty normal for him, so now he did it whenever he could.

 

But now, he could never seem to remember the things he thought about. They slipped away like water, easily and without fuss, but leaving a feeling that he was forgetting something he shouldn't.

 

He thought anyway, though, because thinking distracted him.

 

Tonight Cal had come over and Dean had left, and Sam had been deep in thought for about an hour. The T.V. was turned on, and Cal was probably watching it on the other bed, but Sam lacked the interest to check.

 

This was a rare night, actually, one in which Sam could actually remember what he was thinking about. Actually, it was more what he was remembering, he guessed. The memory was from when he was about seven or eight, and Dean, at eleven or twelve, decided it was about time Sam learned poker. Only Sam hadn't known it at the time, but Dean didn't have a clue how to play the game either, and was just mixing what he'd seen on T.V. with his own made-up rules.

 

It was a good memory, and Sam would let it carry him until he saw Dean again. If he did that, maybe he could keep the fire at bay.

 

He was still dwelling on it when he registered that something was different.

 

Actually, it was Cal who noticed it first. Sam just noticed Cal leaning forward in his seat, and then suddenly vaulting over the end of the mattress and leaping toward the open window.

 

The dart caught him in midair, and Sam watched, puzzled, as he dropped like a stone.

 

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Author's Note: Oh, my God, you guys! I finished my 1984 paper and got a good start on Pictures of Dorian Gray and caught up completely with all the poor—but incredibly patient—people who had stories waiting in my inbox to be beta'd. Isn't that awesome?

 

Also, I know this is a freakishly short chapter. Believe it or not, it's supposed to be. I decided to write it completely spur-of-the-moment when I realized that we hadn't made a dive into Sam's thoughts once in the whole story. Sorry if it disappoints, but I'll have a chapter of actual length pretty soon!