Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters. Does dreaming about them give me any rights? (Looks up legal stuff, sighs) Nope, didn't think so.

A/N: No spoilers, just takes place sometime before the ending arc of the first season. Thanks to Beautiful Ally for help in naming this fic and telling me to keep going and Penguita38 for encouragement as well. If you need something to read, they're both good writers. I've already read their stories and am waiting for more updates :)


night·mare (nit'mâr) n,

1. A dream arousing feelings of intense fear, horror, and distress.

2. An event or experience that is intensely distressing.

3. A demon or spirit once thought to plague sleeping people.

-From the American Heritage Dictionary

Chapter 1

Dean's mouth filled with water. He raised his head and shook it, spitting out the contents of the puddle he'd fallen in.

'Wish I had a beer' he thought.

Slowly raising himself up, he winced at the pain in his shoulder.

"Damn frisky poltergeist," he muttered.

He eyed the damp basement, not seeing the spirit or his brother anywhere.

"Sam?" he called.

It was silent, too silent, except for the constant dripping from the leaky faucet of the sink in the corner. It was stopped up and water continued to drip over onto the floor making a large puddle that Dean now sat in. He simply wasn't in the mood for this. It was supposed to be an easy job, and they were even going to get paid. The homeowners wanted to renovate and sell the place, but realized they couldn't until a certain problem was dealt with. Not knowing who to call, they had posted an ad in the local paper, which Dean had spotted as he and Sam stopped for lunch on their way to the next gig. Sam had been skeptical, but Dean had talked his brother into it.

"Hey, we get there, get rid of the ghost, get paid and get out. A couple of hours, max."

They were the first ones to respond to the ad, Dean assuring the homeowners that the spirit would soon be gone. Sam had argued with him.

"Dean, we don't have any research done on this house, we don't know the pattern, and we don't even know what we're up against."

"Look, the father said that the only place there was strange activity was the basement, and that nothing happened until they cleared out all the junk and started to renovate. Then things started flying around and the plumbing broke and they were too afraid to go down there. It's probably just a spirit that doesn't want to move on. We shoot a bunch of rock salt at it and see if there are any bones under the floor. Salt and burn, five hundred bucks. What's the problem?" he replied.

Sam had shaken his head but acquiesced. Now Dean was beginning to think his brother had been right. Not receiving an answer, he called out again.


A groan sounded, and Dean heaved himself up and made his way across the basement to where an empty bookcase had fallen over. A familiar jacket clad arm stuck out from underneath, and his brother moaned again.

"Hey Sam, I think I'll let you pick the next gig." Dean said, grabbing hold of the end of the bookcase and lifting it off of his dazed brother.

Sam blinked up at him and said, "Huh?"

"I said, next time we'll do some research first. You okay?"

Sam slowly sat up. "Yeah. Is now a good time to say I told you so?"

"No." Dean replied, giving his brother a hand up. "See where it went?"

Sam shook his head.

"Right, well let's see what this says about the floor," Dean continued, sweeping the EMF meter around.

He kept one eye on Sam, who was now sitting and rubbing his head. The EMF meter began to shrill, and Dean's attention was drawn to the dirt floor in another corner of the basement.

"Jackpot," he muttered. "Hey Sam, I found something."

"Dean, I really think we should leave and come back after we do some research."

"Or we can dig up the bones that are probably here and take care of this now, and be back on the road before dinner." Dean replied. "Hey, you could make yourself useful and grab a shovel."

"Fine," Sam muttered, "but then I'm driving."

"In your dreams," Dean grinned as he accepted the shovel Sam handed to him and began to dig.

Then he suddenly felt cold as the EMF meter beeped loudly and he heard his brother say "Dean!" in a warning voice.

"Shoot it and keep it busy, I'm almost there!" he said, digging faster.

No matter how hard or fast he dug, however, the hole wasn't getting any deeper. He grunted with effort, but the hole stayed the same size. He heard the blast of the salt-filled shotgun, and knew the only way to stop the ghost was to uncover the bones, but it was like digging through molasses. The shotgun sounded again, and his brother's cry of "Dean!" was abruptly cut off.

Dean immediately dropped the useless shovel and turned, his eyes widening in fear. Fear for Sam, who was hanging in midair, before he was thrown against another bookcase. The empty bookcase crashed to the floor along with his brother, everything seeming to happen in slow motion.

"Sam!" he cried, hearing echoes of his voice. Then there was silence.

He reached his brother's side not knowing how he got there. A cold dread settled over him, and he shook as he touched his brother's arm. The molasses feeling was back, and it took two tries to get the bookcase off of Sam. It didn't make a sound as it crashed back to the floor. Then Dean slowly leaned down and whispered, "Sammy?" His voice sounded tinny and small as he looked at his brother. Sam's neck was at an odd angle and his brother's usually vibrant gaze was fixed and unseeing. "Sam?" He began to breathe fast. "Sam?" He shook his brother, receiving no reaction. "Sammy? Say something. Please. Sam!" He gripped his brother's arm fiercely.

Sam just lay there, and Dean's anguished eyes looked around the now hated basement for anything that might help. The walls seemed to be swirling around him, a picture on one of them catching his attention briefly before disappearing. Then the coldness returned and he felt something tugging at Sam, trying to take his brother from his grasp. He fought the invisible spirit.

"NO!" he screamed, and bolted upright in bed. He was covered in sweat, and panting like he'd run a marathon. His chest felt tight.

Then a concerned voice was saying, "Dean! Hey, it's okay man, it was just a nightmare. Take it easy, you're okay."

Dean heaved in a breath and blinked, looking up into his brother's concerned eyes. His living eyes.

"Sam," he said gruffly, and Sam grinned.

"Here," Sam said, handing him a glass of water. Dean took it numbly. "That must have been some dream. You were thrashing around and woke me up. Uh, want to talk about it?"

Sam sat down on the edge of his bed, cocking his head and waiting patiently. Dean suddenly felt nauseous and quickly said, "Not right now," as he scrambled to get out of his bed and run to the bathroom. The cup fell on the motel's carpet as he hurtled to the sink and heaved his guts out.

"It's okay, you don't have to," Sam said as he picked up the fallen cup and looked at his brother in concern. He went to place a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder, worried even more when Dean let him.

He swallowed. His brother didn't spook easily, so this dream must have been bad. Usually it was him waking his brother up with his own nightmares, now Dean had awakened him in the middle of the night. Sam wondered what it could have been about; Dean had been through so much. They both had. Whatever it was, he was going to be there for his brother, the way that Dean was always there for him.


More to come soon.