FicWad

The seconds ticked by, turning into minutes and then hours as Dean waited for his brother to awaken The seconds ticked by, turning into minutes and then hours as Dean waited for his brother to awaken. The knowledge Missouri had provided about Sam's mental state was tearing out Dean's heart. His baby brother had no quality of life, and had felt that way since he was twelve years old, at least. The hunting lifestyle had so harmed Sammy's psyche that he had begun fantasizing about suicide at twelve, and attempted it at fourteen. And, if he hadn't defied Dad and gone to Stanford against both of our wishes, he would have succeeded in killing himself at eighteen. If my brother had done what I wanted him to do, it would have killed him. He would have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger ... oh, God! The mental image of his brother doing such a thing was enough to cause a tremor of pure emotion and rage in Dean.

Missouri must have noticed, because she turned to face him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Dean, he's not dead. He's right here, asleep in this bed. Here, touch his hand. He gets calmer when someone is in contact with him."

Dean took his brother's hand, and immediately a flood of images assailed his mind. He glared accusingly at Missouri. "You did this on purpose! Get this crap out of my mind!"

The images began to organize themselves, flipping like pages in a book, and in the distance, he heard Missouri apologize. "I'm sorry, Dean. One of you needed to understand, and you're more likely to be around to help Sam than your father. It had to be you, Dean. You have to understand what the visions are doing to him. Something is wrong. Instead of experiencing visions of people who need to be helped, he's caught, in something like a net of visions. Possible realities are manifesting and broadcasting to me. It's like his mind is screaming at me for help."

Frustrated by his inability to concentrate, Dean glared at the psychic. "So why don't you help him already instead of uploading them all onto my brain, like I'm some kind of damn hard drive?"

"Sometimes things need to be experienced before they can be understood." Missouri ran her hand through Sam's hair, caressing his forehead with a gentleness that was almost motherly. She frowned at the sight of the fading bruising along his hairline and temple. "He's had a head injury recently. Where are these bruises from?"

Still struggling with the imagery that assailed his mind, Dean managed, "The fight with the Demon, and the wreck. He had a concussion."

Missouri gripped both Dean's and Sam's hands tightly. "Concentrate on what you see, Dean. I can't keep this up indefinitely."

Dean used his free hand to stroke his little brother's hair, no longer caring that he was wearing his heart upon his sleeve. "Hang in there, Sammy."

He saw Sammy, in a kneeling position on seedy-looking motel bedspread, a gun pressed to the underside of his jaw. The teenager's hands trembled as he tried over and over again to squeeze the trigger. Tears ran down his pale cheeks, and he let out a cry of frustration at his inability to pull the trigger. Exhausted, he wrapped his arms around his midsection and began to rock back and forth, muttering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," again and again.

An hour later, the sound of a car door slamming caused Sam to snap to attention, dashing the tears from his eyes, and rushing the gun back to the appropriate case. Dean came inside first, carrying half of the gear and covered in mud and werewolf remains.

"Hey, Sammy! The hunt went really good. Dad and I bagged the werewolf, and there were no mistakes, no injuries, no - geez, Sammy! Show a little enthusiasm, huh? Have you been crying? You look liked somebody just died!"

"Sorry." Sam moved aside, giving Dean enough room to slide past him.

John Winchester strode through the doorway, as muddy and disheveled as his oldest son, and frowned. "Sam! Why are you just standing there? Help your brother get the gear put away and clean!"

The teenager stood there for a moment, staring.

"Samuel, I don't have the patience for your attitude right now. I realize it's difficult to lounge around the motel room all day long watching TV while your brother and I do tedious tasks like killing werewolves, but do you think you could manage to lend a hand?"

Sam blinked, and then moved to take some of the equipment from Dean. While his father and brother took turns cleaning up, Sam cleaned and put away the guns. With a horrible sensation of deja vou, Dean watched as his vision/memory-self shivered at the look on Sam's face. He remembered this day! He remembered wondering what the hell was wrong with Sammy - he winced. He also remembered what he said next, and it wasn't nice.

"Knock it off, Sammy! You're creeping me out with the silent gun-cleaning act. Give it a rest, Norman Bates!"

Softly, his little brother replied, "I'm sorry, Dean," laid down the weapon, and went outside.

Dean remembered this day from his own perspective, and had he known then that his little brother had spent the day trying to kill himself while he was out hunting with Dad, he would never have said some of things he had said. He also hadn't known that Sam had gone outside behind the motel, sat in the dirt with his back pressed against the siding, and cried his heart out.

The vision changed, abruptly. Dean saw himself pulling up in front of the small cabin the Winchesters had been occupying for the last few days. He jogged up the walkway and into the cabin, calling out, "Sammy? Sam! You ready to hit the trail? Dad's got a new lead!"

There was no response, and he tried again, shouting from the living room, "Sammy? You hear me? It's time to pack up! Dad should be here any minute ..."

The sight that met his eyes when he entered the bedroom he had been sharing with Sam took his breath away. On the bed, Sam was sprawled out, unmoving, and there was blood everywhere ... so much blood. Sam's gun, the one their father had given him for his sixth birthday instead of the stuffed giraffe he had begged for, hung limply from his hand.

"No ..."

Dean fell to his knees, clutching his brother's hand. The gun was still warm. Sam's flesh was not.

"No! Sammy, no!"

The blood that was congealing all over the bedclothes had its origin under Sam's jaw line. The exit wound was in the top of his head. Dean clutched his stomach and heaved all of the food he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours onto the floor.

He heard the car door slam outside, and heavy footsteps in the living room.

"Dean? Sammy? Where are you boys?"

He couldn't answer. No matter how he tried, no words would come out. All he could do was stare at his brother's body in shock.

The footsteps were nearing the bedroom door.

"Sammy? Dean? We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow if we're going to find those bones and burn them. In fact, we've got a lot of prep work tonight -"

John Winchester stopped abruptly. "What the - ? Dean?"

"He's dead, Dad. He ... he shot himself ..."

Their father shook his head in disbelief. "No. No, Sammy wouldn't do that."

Dean shouted, "Yes, he would! He did. Look, there he is - bleeding out and still holding the gun! Oh, God. He killed himself!" Looking over the still body of his baby brother, Dean noticed a piece of paper clutched in Sam's other hand. His own hands shaking so badly that he could scarcely unfold the paper, he confirmed what both men had feared. "It's - it's a suicide note. Sammy killed himself."

"Why?" John took the paper from his son, reading aloud,

"Dear Dean,

If you're reading this, then I'm already dead. I'm sorry you had to find me the way you did. I'm sorry I had to do it, but I had to. Please understand that I had to do it. You know I've never been like you and Dad. I've never liked the hunt, and I hated the credit card scams, but that's not why I did this. The truth is, I've been thinking about it since I was twelve. That's when the dreams started. I thought for awhile if I could get away, go to college or something like that, then maybe the dreams would stop and you and Dad could stop hunting and be happy, but I was fooling myself. In the dreams, I see things. Things that are going to happen. The demon is after me, we all know that. It was my bed that Mom died over, and I think the dreams I've been having are more than just dreams. It promised me that if I were to die, I would belong to it, and it would leave you and Dad alone. I've come close to doing it before, but couldn't. Please don't blame yourself or Dad or even me. The only thing I regret is leaving you behind. You've been there for me since I can remember, and the only good memories I have all have you in them. As I write this letter, I feel lighter than I have in years. It feels like someone took a bunch of rocks off of my shoulders and I can finally stand tall, do something right, and help you and Dad for a change, instead of the other way around. Don't feel sad for me, Dean. I'm finally free, and now you and Dad are too. Be strong for each other, okay?

Love,
Sammy

Father and son stared at each other over the letter, a sense of utter horror dawning as the stark finality of what had happened came over them.

As suddenly as it had begun, the vision ended. Dean found himself flung in a different direction entirely. He saw a shy, unsure Sam making his way across a university dining hall. He held an empty tray, and got into line behind a blond girl. When it was his turn, the ladies who worked in the cafeteria placed a scoop of mashed potatoes, some steak, and a ladle full of Brussels sprouts onto his plate.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the greens. "What are the vegetables?"

The lunch lady looked at him askance. "What do you mean, what are they? They're Brussels sprouts!"

Flustered, Sam took the tray and apologized, "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to insult them. I've just never heard of them, that's all."

"You've never heard of Brussels sprouts? Your mother never made you Brussels sprouts?"

Sam shook his head. "No ma'am. My mother died when I was a baby."
The lunch lady's stern manner melted away. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry to hear that. Your daddy ought to have fed you some sprouts growin' up, but we'll forgive him. Here, have an extra helping of mashed potatoes. You're a skinny one for your height, son!"

Sam accepted the extra mashed potatoes with a shy grin. "Thank you, ma'am." He moved down the line to get his drink and a dessert platter of Jell-O.

In line behind Sam, the blond girl giggled, scooting her tray closer to Sam's. "Hi."

Startled, Sam replied, "Hi."

She extended her arm to shake hands. "I'm Jessica."

The shy smile was back on Sam's face as he said, "Sam."

"Well, Sam. Would you like to eat lunch with me?"

He nodded, picking up his tray and following her to one of the smaller booths in the dining hall.

While Jessica ate, Sam picked nervously at his meal.

"So, Sam. What's your major? I'm still majoring in 'undecided' at the moment, but my parents are okay with it. They told me to take my time and just take classes that interest me until I make up my mind. What about you?"

"I'm pretty sure I want to do pre-law."

She laughed, her smile lighting up her entire face. "Must be nice to already be so focused. I bet your family's proud!"

The expression that crossed Sam's face tore at Dean's heart. Jessica watched her lunch date with growing concern as he nearly choked on a Brussels sprout and struggled to reply.

"Not really. My family - my dad and my older brother - aren't much on education."

Her tone was one of incredulous surprise. "But - but you're obviously smart! I mean, you got into Stanford. It's not easy getting in here, surely they know that?"

Sam shrugged. "It wouldn't have mattered if it was Stanford, Harvard, Kansas State, or a junior college."

"Are they at least helping you financially?"

He shook his head. "No. I got in on a scholarship."
"A scholarship? To Stanford? And they're not proud of you?"

"They were pretty mad at me for leaving."

Jessica got up from her side of the booth and scooted in next to Sam. "Well, I like smart guys. A lot. Are you seeing anyone right now?"

Sam made eye contact and smiled. "I see you."

"Smartass. I was trying to ask you out tonight. Do you want to go to a movie with me? Maybe get coffee afterwards?"

"I'd love to."

"Good. It's a date!"

The vision ended, and Dean struggled to regain his breath. Missouri let go of his hand, and he let it fall limply to his side. Seeing the alternate future as it played out in Sam's vision was more than the older brother could bear. Tears stood out in his eyes, and hung there for a moment, as if they were afraid to fall. Finally, Dean understood the seriousness of his brother's dissatisfaction with the hunting life. He understood in glaring detail how it had chipped away at Sammy's confidence, and he understood how he and their father had not helped. He understood and he was determined to make certain that it never happened again.

Things changed now, here and now. Starting now, there would be no discouraging of talking about Sam's emotions. If Sam wanted to talk, then Dean would talk. There would be discussion, not barked orders. There would be nutritious foods, not greasy spoon /du jour/, and above all else, there would be love. Dean swore to himself that never again would his little brother be left alone, unsure of how much he mattered to his older brother.

"Missouri?"

"Yes?"

"I think I need to ..."

His words trailed off as he felt his knees go weak. Exhaustion pervaded his every movement to the point that if he hadn't already been sitting down, he would have fallen down. Was this how Sam felt after one of his visions?

Missouri didn't need for him to finish his thought. She scooted Sam's sleeping form into the other side of the double bed, then guided Dean's head to the pillow his brother's head had rested on. She removed Dean's shoes, and then tossed a light comforter over his body.
The two young men lay sound asleep in the bed, Dean still fully clothed. She left a lamp on, knowing that darkness was not what they needed. Rest, lots and lots of rest was Missouri's prescription for both of their ailments at the moment. If she had her way, the Winchester boys would sleep for several hours, undisturbed.

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