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Real Life, methinks there's a bullet with your name on it stashed somewhere.

Spoilers for 2x22


SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS
Ripples

by Sade Lyrate

He dreams of it sometimes.
Enough for him to think he should have learned the signs, the routine of the dream by now.

It's always the same. One day, in a motel he can't really place, with the sun shining, rain falling, full moon bathing the world, whatever, in-between the fights with the hellspawn that fled through the Gate, Sam gives him this one look, hunched over his laptop, hovering above one of the books, coming out of the bathroom.

It's never anything more. Sam doesn't open his mouth, doesn't say a word, just gives him this look. And yet, he knows what it means. "I've solved it", it says. "I've figured it out", it promises. "I know how we can break that deal."

And then Sam's dead. No warning, nothing. First Sam's there, cross-legged on the bed, towering over the table, leaning against the wall. And then he's dead, meat rotting, the bones dry, the ashes gently falling on to the indistinct carpet.

"I told you...you try to welsh and weasel your way out, Dean-o, Sammy's good as gone."

He's learned to hate that voice. It's silk and velvet and scorpion's sting, slithering its way around him, curling and coiling, wrapping around his heart.

"I wish you a long, long life, love."

And yet, no matter how often he has that dream, he always wakes up in cold sweat and a cry caught in his throat, Sam alive close by.

He doesn't talk about the nightmare, but he makes damn sure to discourage Sam from finding a way out. And Sam never questions, just gives him this look.