Disclaimer : I own nothing but idea and the talent it took to write this. And even that's questionable.

A/N: I don't think this is really all that good... I have writer's block like you wouldn't believe, but this was just eating at me, so I had to get it out. I'll try to make the future chapters a little better. That is, if you think I should continue... puppy eyes Review... p-p-pwease?


'What do you fear?'

The voice came to him from nowhere, an assault that left him reeling.

Where had it come from?

He spun, eyes searching, but the graveyard was dark and a thick mist clung to the ground.


Of course, it wouldn't be that easy.

No, he was meant to search.

He moved forward effortlessly, as if being guided by some unseen force.

The night was still, silent. Not even a hint of sound from civilization or animal kingdom alike. Picking his way through headstones, his sneakers making no sound in the wet grass, he was kept company only by the sound of his own heavy breathing in his ear.


The voice came again, sounding almost thoughtful, and he realized with a shock that it in his head.

Not his own voice, but a sudden intrusion of someone else's thoughts being pressed upon him.

'...do you...'

The voice finished, the thought clinging to his mind like wisps of smoke curling around his brain.

He was overcome for a moment, with the desire to clutch his head and scream for whoever, whatever was inside to get OUT.

His legs propelled him forward, the mindless motion making him wonder if he really was searching, or being pushed forward by this intrusive, bodiless voice.

Fear gripped at him, but he couldn't stop, something was pushing him in this direction, and like it or not, he was meant to obey.


This word lingered as the mist parted in front of him, revealing a fresh grave, the dirt crumbled loosely around the base of a thick mass of stone.

His eyes were drawn slowly up the stone, the words blurry at first, but seeming to clear the higher he read, until it was the only thing he could see, the text chiseled into the granite with an alarming finality.

Dean Winchester

1980 - 2006


Sam awoke with a strangled cry, the scream that caught in his throat choked back as he realized he had been dreaming. He sat up in bed, the sheets falling around his waist, the night air chilling his sweat soaked skin.

Breathing heavily, he turned his attention to the bed next to him, half expecting Dean's body to be sprawled out on blood stained sheets.

He was greeted instead with a half-pissed, half-concerned look from his very much alive brother.

"Dude?" his groggy voice pressed in a tone that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd spoken.

Shaking off the last traces of the graphic dream, he offered a sheepish look.

"Did I wake you?" he asked apologetically

Dean raised an eyebrow. "No, I was up late crocheting. What do you think, Sam?"

"Sorry," he said, flopping back down in bed. "I -"

"Had a nightmare?" Dean supplied. "One that was bad enough to wake me up screaming, which woke up my brother and probably half the entire town?"

Sam blinked.

"It was just a nightmare, Dean," he said, pulling the blankets up. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Dean was still propped up on his elbow, staring at his younger brother. "I didn't say you did. You did, but I didn't say that. What'd you dream?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Sam said, rolling onto his side and tucking the covers under his chin.

"That's old hat, Sam," Dean said. "And I'm just gonna keep pushing at you until you tell me, so you might as well get it over with so we can both get back to sleep."

"No!" he said forcefully. "It's not important."

"Sam," his brother's voice cut across the room.

Tucking the covers under his chin, Sam refused to answer.


He thought about putting the pillow over his face to drown it out.


Or maybe putting a pillow over Dean's face.


And pressing down.




"Fine!" Sam shouted, pushing himself upright. "I dreamed you died!"

"See, was that so hard?" Dean said, shooting him a grin he could barely see.

"You are a persistent bastard," he grumbled. "And don't call me Sammy!"

"How did I die?" Dean asked, ignoring his brother's demand.


"How did I die," he said slowly, sounding out each word like he was talking to a child.

With a sigh, Sam laid back down. "I don't know. All I saw was your gravestone."

"Hmm," his brother said, not really sounding all that interested.

Sam heard a rustle of sheets as his brother laid back down and fell silent. He stared up at the ceiling, willing himself to fall asleep. He was almost there when Dean's voice brought him back.

"Hey Sam?"

"What?" he mumbled groggily.

"What'd it say, my grave?"

"Your name. 1980 to 2006."

If his brother was at all worried, he didn't show it.

"That's it?"


Again, Dean fell silent, and Sam rolled over, curling up and shutting his eyes.


"Ugh...what, Dean?"

"When I die, make sure my stone says something cool. Like, 'the chicks really dug him', or 'he saved the world a lot'. Okay?" Dean said in a voice that wasn't entirely joking.

"Go to sleep," Sam pleaded.