Showers lead to random plot bunnies of weirdness...

Supernatural belongs to people who aren’t me and they make all the money for it.

Season Two Spoilers!

Sometimes, Dean can see himself from the outside. That’s when he tends to see all the blood.

House in the Mist

He’s staring at himself lying on a bed and he thinks Huh, am I supposed to be doing this?

So he turns away and behind there’s nothing but mist. He’s not really sure why that’s there either but there’s gravel beneath his feet and he figures that’s more familiar than bleached tiled flooring so he’ll walk away.

And why can he hear Sammy? “Tofurkey isn’t overrated. You should try it…” Why is the kid so damn weird like that?

Through the mist is a white house, a really big wooden one, and he thinks I want it. I want one like that, with more rooms than I’d ever need and a cleaner to take care of it and a woman, a wife even, who really loves me and a couple of kids and the attic for Sam because it’ll probably never be safe to leave him alone for longer than five minutes…

“I’m serious. Tofurkey dude.”

The gravel’s been cutting into his feet so he brushes it away from his skin before stepping up onto the white house’s wooden porch. He knows he’s trailing blood but he’s been doing that for so long he doesn’t think twice. Vaguely he hears Mom “Sweetie, try not to make a mess. It’s still new” but new stuff always gets old so what’s the point even trying to protect it?

In the house he finds himself again but he doesn’t like hospitals and he doesn’t like seeing himself like that so he walks away, moving past the lounge and heading for the kitchen.

Sam’s at the table Since when was Sammy so… small? The little boy’s grinning. “Want some coffee? I made some. Promise not to tell Daddy?”

“Watch out for Sammy…”

He’s pretty sure coffee isn’t an immediate danger. “Why are you so small?”

“’Cause it’s better this way.”

“Yeah? Says who?”

The voice, the bigger Sam, is behind him. “You say so.”

He can’t help the smile, but it’s as limp as the him he keeps seeing on the bed. “I say a lot of things.”

“This one thing might be right,” the little kid says.

“Mm, I reckon so,” the older kid agrees.

“Oh honey, look at the mess you made.”

Is she talking about the blood? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t think he cares. And it’s not like he can see her. That doesn’t stop him answering though. “Sorry. I’ll clean up.” He’s talked to her a lot over the years. One-sided conversations can be fun sometimes. Mommy, I learned how to spell today. Mommy, I learned how to count today. Mom, I know how to shoot a gun now. Mom, you’d never guess what Sam did today! Hey Mom… You know Mom…? Is it okay Mom…? But Mom, what if we…? Mom, am I forgetting you? Mom, I graduated today. Mom, Sam graduated today and I know you’re proud of him. I’m sorry Mom… Mom, I couldn’t stop him. Are you okay with that? Mom…

“You still love me, right Mom?”

“Bathroom, young man.”

And he goes, leaves the big Sam to drink coffee with the little one. The stairs are carpeted cream and it’s a shame the blood’s running down them. It’ll never come out. Dad’s tried everything over the years. Nothing works.

Top of the stairs and straight ahead of him is a huge window. Night outside. That figures. He shrugs and moves on.

Damnit! He’s in the bedroom too. What’s a guy gotta do to stop seeing himself everywhere?

He opens the bathroom door. Slams it shut straight again. No. “That’s not our Dad.”

Hadn’t he been yelling the exact opposite at someone recently? Hm.

The house isn’t around him anymore. Did it all fall down?

The new place is more familiar than the house but crap, it’s a big parking lot. Where the hell is his car?

“When do I get to drive?”

It’s pretty damn weird looking at a Sam whose head barely comes over his knees. “Not today.”

Sam’s holding up his hand, eyes plaintive. He takes it and Sam’s happy again. “Is Daddy there?”

I wish he was. “Dunno.”

“I thought you knew everything.”

Looking up at Sam while holding onto the other Sam’s hand is way too many Sams for him. “There’re too many of you here.”

“There’s another you too,” they answer him, high and low.

“There’s not supposed to be.”

It’s the little one who’s more outspoken. “There are loads of other yous.” Maybe he hasn’t developed that helpful filter located between his brain and his mouth yet… “I wanna name them but they all want your name and if I number them, the one numbered two might get jealous.”

Where the hell is his car?

It starts raining. He’s getting wet. Sam and Sam are gone. The rain is water everywhere except when it touches his hands, because when it touches his hands its washing blood off and he’s probably got enough blood on those to fully replenish a fair few Sam-sized adults.

Could she still love me Dad? Can you ask her for me and tell me?

His hands are shaking. He thinks maybe his whole body is. The water on his face is from the rain but sometimes he wishes he could cry, do that full-on breakdown thing and just let someone else hold him together for a little while.

“You gonna stand out there all night? Didn’t you want to drive?”

The car’s engine is throbbing behind him but all he can stare at is his hands.

“It’s gonna go.”

He looks up, through the rain, and Dad’s there. At least, he thinks the figure is Dad. Hard to tell when all he can really see is a vaguely Dad-shaped silhouette against the mist.

When had Daddy become Dad? When had he become Sir?

He tries to run forward. He wants Daddy! because he wants to be held and he wants a hand to run through his hair and he wants a voice to say You did good but now you get to rest for a while because I know you need it and I can do this better than you…

“Fine. Guess I’m driving.”

And he turns in time to open his eyes and find himself staring at a lamp that hadn’t been switched on. It’s twilight. It felt good.

”Dean?”

He couldn’t answer. It was there, right behind his eyes, liquid sliding around to the front where it was free to gather and fall. His nose tingled. His clenched jaw ached. His lungs were ready. Deanwas ready to let it out. And he could. Oh he so could, and he wouldn’t have to be alone. His chest felt empty and he knew there was a way to feel full, feel comforted. His arms twitched, hope getting the better of them.

You don’t get to have that. Not any more.

And for a moment, all he can feel is rain all over and his hands are covered in blood.

“You okay?” Sam pushed back in his chair.

Dean rubbed the cut still fading away between his eyes. “Tofurkey?” It wasn’t sadness making his voice tremble. It’s sleep okay? Sleep, nothing else.

“You really wanna try it?” There was a surprised brightness in Sam’s tone.

He rolls over. “Don’t talk about it ever again.”

The surprise turned into amusement. “You dreamt about tofurkey chasing you?”

Dean pulled the blanket up over his head. “Something like that.”

End

If that made any sense to ya’ll, I applaud ye:D

Blame my English professor for the Tofurkey. If you don’t know what it is, it’s a vegetarian alternative to turkey :D My professor is awesome but a tad random. And, uh, dreams are supposed to be weird… or something :P

Thanks for reading!