Chapter Text
He moved fast and smooth, the way only a predator can move with prey slung over his shoulder. She was light, snoring softly against his ear, occasionally letting out a weak moan when her pretty head bumped harder against his muscular chest. The victim was thin, small, and quiet —and he smiled through clenched teeth, imagining the feast to come.
A thin layer of snow barely covered the frozen ground, so his bare feet felt the softness beneath him as he carried himself deeper and deeper into the woods. He didn’t feel the cold. He wasn’t human like this female, whose legs dangled limply against his back, drool running from her mouth onto his shirt. He wasn’t weak like her. And he wasn’t stupid like those hunters who still hadn’t given up, still trailing him. They didn’t show themselves. They didn’t make the slightest sound in the quiet, twilight forest.
He could hear the snow settling on his shoulders. He could hear the faint breathing and quiet moans of his prey. He could hear her heartbeat, and it made his own blood boil hotter. But he couldn’t hear them, and he couldn’t see them — credit where it was due, they knew how to hunt creatures like him.
Still, he could smell them.
Human flesh. Sweat. Skin. Gunpowder.
That was enough.
He wasn’t moving at full speed. He didn’t want to lose them. He walked just fast enough for them to keep their distance and think he didn’t know he was being hunted. He smiled wide again at the thought of the feast ahead. The girl had so little meat on her bones. Of course her body alone wouldn’t be enough.
They thought they were hunting him.
In truth, he was hunting them.
“I feel like it’s a trap.” Dean’s voice was low but steady. They’d been tracking the skinwalker through these woods for nearly two hours now, patience wearing thin, exhaustion creeping in. He kept his silver-loaded .45 close to his body, ready to fire at any second.
Sam ignored him, moving step by step — methodical and quick — silently grateful for the snow that softened their footsteps and made the skinwalker’s tracks easier to follow.
“You hear me? I think it’s a trap.” Louder this time. Sharper.
Sam glanced up, but Dean wasn’t looking at him.
“Dean, we don’t have much of a choice. The girl could still be alive.” Sam let out a heavy breath, allowing a fragile thread of hope to slip into his voice.
“Alive, my ass. You really think he hasn’t killed her yet? Or turned her? Don’t be stupid.”
Sam raised his eyebrows and stopped abruptly, irritation flashing in his eyes.
“Really? It was your idea, Dean.”
“Yeah.” Dean stopped to catch his breath. “My ideas usually suck.” He looked at Sam. “But you keep listening.”
Sam gave a faint smile and paused to breathe, too. They looked at each other, breathing hard, searching for strength in one another to keep going.
Dean motioned with his gun. “Let’s go. We can’t lose him.”
Sam sighed and pushed forward, driven by the hope that the girl might still be alive. That she might get another chance — unlike Max.
He tried to shove away every thought about what had happened in Saginaw. Especially the part where he realized he’d moved that cabinet with nothing but his mind. Especially the part where he'd seen Dean die. Shaking his head as if to physically throw the memories out, he lifted his eyes and moved faster.
They both picked up speed, no more talking, not stopping for even a second. Covering more and more ground, moving farther from the relative safety of the Impala parked by the roadside —and deeper toward the danger waiting in the heart of the forest.
Then, suddenly, everything slowed. The skinwalker — currently wearing the shape of a tall, muscular man, almost indistinguishable from human except for the fact that his bare feet stepped through fresh snow — stopped. He turned toward the source of the scent. As long as the girl over his shoulder was still breathing, they wouldn’t dare shoot. They’d try to save her. And that was his advantage.
Because he wasn’t trying to save anyone.
Sam and Dean exchanged a look and simultaneously slipped behind thick tree trunks, preparing to act. They could almost see him now. His figure blended with the trees, but the girl’s pink sweatshirt fluttered like a flag — a beacon in the dim forest.
Dean stood with his shoulder pressed to the tree, letting it carry most of his weight. His legs ached from hours of tracking. Snow fell softly onto his head, cooling his overheated skin, his breath visible in the freezing air. His body was begging for rest — but, as usual, it was ignored. His heart pounded hard and loud in his chest.
Slowly, Dean leaned out from behind the tree, his eyes locking onto the target immediately.
Shit.
He pictured the shot in his head but still couldn’t raise the gun. The girl’s body — the one they still hoped to save — was too close to the kill zone.
“Still can’t get a clean shot,” Dean whispered to Sam, lips pressed thin, eyes burning with tension and adrenaline.
“Dean, we can’t risk her. She might still be alive.”
“Or maybe not. And we’ll lose him. Again.”
The wind whistled through the trees, sharp and mournful. It would be dark soon. And then their chances against him would drop to zero.
“Fuck,” Dean muttered when the skinwalker stopped again.
They slipped back behind the trees, holding their breath, muscles coiled tight.
“Isn’t it about time we stop playing cat and mouse… hunters?” The voice cut through the winter silence — too human. Too calm.
Dean and Sam exchanged a look and stepped out from hiding.
“What, you getting bored?” Dean sounded almost relaxed, like he was talking to an old acquaintance, a faint challenge threading through his voice.
“You want to play? Let’s play. Just you and me. I won’t turn.”
Dean glanced at Sam, catching his surprised look, and said louder:
“What, the zoo close early tonight? I dunno — thought we were already playing.”
“You scared, hunter?” The words carried a malicious grin, even though the skinwalker was too far away to see his face.
“Just don’t wanna get my shoes dirty. Heard laundry service sucks out here.”
Dean heard Sam’s quiet shut the fuck up under his breath. He heard his own heart pounding. He even heard the snow settling softly on the frozen ground.
What he didn’t hear was the attack from the side.
An invisible force slammed into him, knocking him off his feet and hurling him several yards across the snow. Hard. His gun flew from his hand. The world went dark as his head hit the ground, the air punched from his lungs.
Dean lay facedown on the frozen earth, white powdery snow the only thing filling his vision. Coughing weakly, gasping for air, he tried to push himself up on his hands — but the unseen force struck his side and flipped him onto his back. The breath left him again, and for a few long seconds all he saw were black-and-red blotches swimming before his eyes. Blinking slowly to clear them, Dean made a few feeble attempts to inhale, but another violent wave of coughing bent him in half. His ribs burned like fire. His lungs felt wrung out, crushed like a sponge in a fist.
Dean blinked — and found the wolf’s jaws inches from his face. Thick black fur. Eyes yellow as flame. It breathed hard, its hot breath lifting Dean’s hair. Dean stared back coldly, trying to steady his racing heart, to quiet the ringing in his ears.
“Dean!” Sam cried, fear and pain tearing through his voice.
Dean turned his head toward the sound. Through the haze, he saw the Skinwalker fling the girl to the ground so violently that if she’d been alive before, she wasn’t now. He saw the man who had looked human a minute ago now snarling through the massive jaws of a wolf.
Saw it lunge at Sam and drive him into the snow.
“No!” Dean roared, shocked he had enough air left to scream.
He tried to get up. Tried to reach the gun lying useless in the snow. Tried to force his vision into focus, to push past the pain shooting from his skull down his spine.
Instead, something massive and crushing pinned him to the ground. The weight forced the air from his lungs, his ribs screaming under the pressure. A helpless groan tore from his throat. Black spots swarmed his vision. A deafening buzz filled his skull, drowning out everything but the frantic pounding of his heart.
He twisted beneath the weight, struggling. His hands shot up, locking around the wolf’s neck in a desperate grip, squeezing its throat with all the strength he had left. For a split second the world tilted toward black.
Useless.
The wolf was enormous — at least twice the size of a normal one. It stared down at him with bloodshot predator’s eyes, the look of something that already knew it had won. Dean could see his own death in those eyes. Still gripping the wolf’s throat, still straining beneath its weight, he turned his gaze toward Sam — and his blood ran cold.
He stopped fighting.
A massive black wolf was tearing his brother apart.
Its front paws pinned Sam to the ground while its jaws clamped onto his forearm, ripping flesh away piece by piece. Blood sprayed across the snow, across the wolf’s muzzle, intoxicating it. Sam’s left side was torn open so badly it looked like you could see inside him. His clothes were soaked dark with blood. The skin around the wounds had gone deathly pale. His head lay twisted at an unnatural angle, facing away so Dean couldn’t see his face. Drool hung from the wolf’s jaws. Its eyes were wild, bloodshot, hungry for human flesh.
“Sammy…”
He dragged in as much air as the crushing weight allowed and let out a raw, broken sound that echoed through the empty forest for miles. His eyes were wide, locked on Sam’s lifeless body in the snow.
Just kill me already.
The pressure on his chest increased. The wolf didn’t bite. Didn’t tear into him. It simply sat there, heavy as stone, its jaws hovering near his face, eyes fixed on his — watching.
Watching the life drain out of him.
Dean’s head grew light. His vision blurred. His lungs burned for air. His brain screamed for oxygen while his body lay limp and useless beneath the weight. He stopped trying to breathe. Stopped trying to struggle. Stopped trying to live.
Without looking away from the broken body in the snow, he spent the last of his strength trying to carve that image into his memory — the blood, the torn flesh, the shattered bones that had been his brother just a minute ago.
But even that image slipped from him. He tried to hold onto it by sheer will alone. Not with his body — only with his mind. He couldn’t. Everything blurred into a single wash of red. His eyelids grew too heavy to lift. And he let the darkness swallow him whole.
The first thing he became aware of was that his body no longer belonged to him. The connection was severed. Dean was left alone with the pain — and the pain had no intention of going anywhere.
Pressure consumed him. It was pulling him apart molecule by molecule, crushing him down, forcing him somewhere deep where the sun would never reach. His body begged for oxygen, for release from the iron chains that seemed wrapped around him, their metallic scent washing over him in waves.
The smell of iron and salt. The smell of blood.
There was nothing but the pressure and the smell. Only absence. The absence of air in his lungs. The absence of space to take even the smallest breath. The absence of strength in his heart to keep pumping blood.
The absence of Sam.
Dean’s eyes began to flutter open.
At first, he saw nothing and thought he’d gone blind. But then, as if through frosted glass, an odd shape began to sharpen — growing clearer, closer — and his nose caught another scent. Sharp. Heavy. The kind you only ran into in one place: a cemetery, when a grave had just been dug up. The smell of rot.
She was looking at him with dark eyes that held a predatory gleam. It wasn’t like the skinwalker’s haze. There was no competition in it. No calculation. Even the strongest monsters know they can become prey.
She never had.
In her gaze there was nothing but ancient patience — she had time.
He didn’t.
Her skin was bluish, drained of blood. It clung tightly to bone, though not everywhere — so in places the gray of her skeleton showed through. If Dean had been capable of feeling a greater horror than the one already swallowing him, he would have felt it then.
But all he carried inside him was the image of blood, torn flesh, shattered bones.
Sam.
Nothing else.
She was sitting on his chest. Waiting.
He watched her through half-lowered lashes. Dying.
And though it felt like his body had been crushed into the center of the Earth and chained to its core with iron links, in reality he lay on a bed in some random motel room in some random town in this big country. Nothing restrained him. Nothing prevented him from breathing. And yet he didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
If he’d been able to hear, he would have caught the traffic outside the window and the whistle of the wind. He would have heard a couple arguing in the next room, the crash of breaking dishes. Dean would have heard the door fly open and confident footsteps crossing the room toward his bed.
If he’d been able to hear Sam’s worried words directed at him, that’s all he would have wanted to hear.
But instead, his ears caught nothing but the rapid thud of his own pulse echoing through his body.
Sam felt his blood freeze when he saw Dean on the bed. The coffee cups he’d brought for both of them nearly slipped from his hands.
Dean looked pale, his lips faded from red to blue. His half-open eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused, frozen. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat.
He didn’t seem to be breathing.
With shaking hands, Sam set the cups down without looking and dropped — almost collapsed —to his knees beside the bed. Icy claws of fear clamped around his stomach. Barely holding back panic, he reached out with an unsteady hand and pressed it against Dean’s chest, right over his heart.
He let out a sharp breath when he felt a pulse beneath his palm. His voice sounded strange and unsteady to his own ears.
“Dean?”
No response.
Sam swallowed hard.
“Dean?! Wake up, man!”
Then his eyes widened as he registered how fast and erratic the pulse was beneath the thin fabric.
“Dean?! What’s wrong?” The note of panic in his voice was obvious — and Sam wasn’t even ashamed of it.
He stared into those half-open eyes that looked empty… almost dead. The world around him ceased to exist. There was only him and absolute fear. It felt like hours before Dean suddenly dragged in a sharp, ragged breath that whistled in the air.
His eyes flew wide, as if he’d suddenly seen everything at once.
Dean’s body jerked violently. Twisting onto his side, he began coughing and gasping for air, choking on it as if he didn’t know how to breathe anymore.
Sam didn’t move from where he knelt. He placed a hand on Dean’s back, rubbing firmly, feeling the tremor running through his entire body beneath his palm.
“Easy. Easy… just breathe. In and out.” His voice was soft, steady.
But Dean didn’t hear him. He just kept coughing, fighting for air. His eyes were glassy with moisture, red from strain. Keeping his head low, he clutched at his throat and dragged in air in greedy, broken gasps. Sam’s voice drifted closer, then farther away again, the words impossible to make out. There was only the familiar timbre — enough to soothe, enough to ground him. It had always been enough.
But not today.
Dean forced himself to calm his racing heart, to pull a full breath into his lungs. He was aware of Sam’s hands holding him, but it wasn’t enough to make his body settle.
It felt like hours before he finally managed a proper inhale. After that, the only thing he could focus on was taking the next one. Still lying on his side, he let his head fall heavily onto the pillow, closed his eyes, and let out a weak groan.
“Dean, can you hear me?!” Sam was almost shouting, like he was speaking straight into his ear. His mind was nothing but panic.
Dean groaned again and pressed his face into the pillow, as if hiding from the sound.
“Dean, please… say something,” Sam begged, his voice so small it made something inside Dean twist.
Dean swallowed hard and looked up into the frightened eyes hovering above him.
“Dean?” Sam waited.
“What?” The word came out short, husky, a little irritated — but Sam didn’t care. He let out a breath of relief and shut his eyes for a moment. The world still felt like it was spinning, and if his heart didn’t slow down soon, he was sure he’d end up with a heart attack. Sam ran a hand over his face and leaned back slightly, though he didn’t stand.
“What happened?” he asked at last, his panic finally under control enough not to shout.
Dean looked at him again, confusion in his eyes — and something close to a have you ever heard of personal space? attitude.
Sam opened his mouth to ask again, but Dean cut him off.
“I dunno.” He was still breathing hard, staring at the ceiling now.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You were suffocating. Your lips turned blue.”
“Hope you didn’t kiss me, did you?” Dean’s voice was rough.
“That’s so not funny.” Sam pushed to his feet. He spotted a bottle of water and handed it to Dean.
“Thanks.” The gratitude in his voice was unmistakable. God, he was thirsty.
Sam watched as — perhaps for the first time in his life — Dean drank plain water with actual pleasure, like it was a cold bottle of El Sol. The chill in Sam’s stomach finally eased, and he almost fully relaxed, his eyes searching Dean’s posture for answers. And somewhere deep down, he already knew he wouldn’t get them that easily.
The moisture had left Dean’s eyes, replaced by their usual stubborn spark. The wall was going back up, brick by brick — and Sam couldn’t stop it.
“You have to talk to me, man.” Sam felt the urge to look behind that wall while it was still unfinished, while Dean hadn’t completely buried the fear yet.
“I don’t know what happened, Sam.”
“You had a nightmare or something?”
“Nothing we're gonna talk about.”
“Dean —”
“Sam! Just stop.” Dean cut him off and pushed himself into a half-sitting position, facing him.
“No! One second I go out for coffee, the next I’m watching you choke for air! How am I supposed to just stop?” Sam’s chest tightened at the memory.
“Speaking of coffee —”
“Dean!”
“Alright, alright.” He raised a hand, palms up in surrender. “I…” Something flickered in his eyes—something vulnerable — but it disappeared just as quickly, thrown behind the wall. He continued more evenly, “I don’t remember, okay? I just… couldn’t breathe. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Just couldn’t breathe, huh?” Sam shook his head in frustration. “Dean, people don’t just stop being able to breathe without a reason.”
“Well, we’re not normal people.” Dean swung his legs off the bed and buried his face in his hands, massaging his scalp. Escaping this conversation was the only thing he wanted right now. Hiding his fear from those too-perceptive eyes that saw straight through him.
“I’ll grab a shower — if you don’t mind skipping another sixty-one questions.” Dean ran a hand over his sweat-soaked T-shirt, his expression full of disgust.
“Sure.” Sam waved a hand and dropped heavily into the chair by the table, sighing in frustration.
For several minutes he just stared ahead, trying to figure out what had really happened — and whether Dean truly didn’t remember… or was, as usual, hiding the truth.
Dean shut the bathroom door behind him with relief and leaned back against it, letting it take most of his weight. His legs were still trembling, and he wasn’t entirely sure they would hold him. Breathing hard and deep, he closed his eyes and tried to find an answer to the single question flashing red in his mind:
What the fuck just happened?
He remembered everything in precise detail. The hunt for the Skinwalker. He could still feel the force with which the wolf had knocked him off his feet. His chest still ached from the crushing weight of it pinning him down. And he still remembered the blood, the torn flesh, the shattered bones that had been Sam.
But Sam was alive.
That’s all that mattered.
Sam was alive — and all of that had just been a dream. An unbelievably vivid, realistic dream.
But then who had she been? A witch? A demon? Dean had never seen or heard of anything like her. She had looked like something caught between a ghoul and a ghost. The truth was, he barely remembered what she'd looked like at all — only how she had smelled of rot. And her calm gaze, in which he had seen his own death reflected back at him.
If she had wanted to kill him, why hadn’t she finished the job? Where had she gone?
Dean couldn’t remember anything except the smell and the flashes of color that had swallowed him in the moment he thought was the end.
And he had no idea what to do with that.
Dean leaned over the sink, gripping it with both hands. The image wouldn’t stop replaying in his head — the massive black wolf tearing into Sam’s shoulder, his legs jerking like electricity was running through them. The wolf’s muzzle slick with blood. Wild eyes. Animal saliva mixed with human blood.
Dean clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could. His hands tightened around the old porcelain sink until his knuckles went white, veins standing out with his pulse.
He turned on the cold water and started washing his face. Brushed his teeth. Shaved. Methodical. Rhythmic. Like another job that had to be done quietly and right. Like cleaning a gun.
Don’t let the hands rest.
Don’t let the mind wander.
He blinked rapidly, pressing his palms hard against his eyes, trying to chase the night away. Then he looked up at the mirror. Exhaustion and poorly hidden pain stared back at him. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and Dean decided that was the least of his problems.
Chicks dig worn-looking men anyway.
He grabbed the hem of his black T-shirt and yanked it off, then unbuckled his belt. His jeans and boxers hit the floor. Stepping into the shower, he cranked the water as far as it would go. Eyes closed, Dean let the hot water run over his shoulders and chest. Only then did he realize just how tense his muscles had been. His back ached from the bruises he’d earned when he’d slammed into the wall at Max Miller’s house. His temples throbbed with a steady pulse. He tipped his head back under the spray, letting the water wash away the sweat and warm his skin. Grabbing the motel shampoo, he worked it into his short hair, fingers massaging his scalp.
If only water could wash away that bone-deep helplessness. If only it could warm more than his body — reach the heart clenched tight with cold fear.
Dean breathed slowly, deeply, giving himself time to relax, to find some calm in his body. But the memories came back like wild animals, dragging that calm away and leaving nothing but emptiness behind.
He couldn’t stay in the dark. He needed a plan. More than anything in the world, Dean hated feeling vulnerable.
With the hollow ache still lodged in his chest, he leaned his shoulder against the cold tile and opened his eyes. Water streamed down his lashes, stinging as it hit. He blinked quickly, one single thought circling in his head — one that felt right.
Don’t. Tell. Sam.
He had enough on his plate. It had only been a few days since Sam had learned more about his abilities than either of them could handle. And the fear in his eyes earlier hadn’t been the easy kind. Sam was scared of himself.
No. Giving him another reason to worry would be selfish. Unfair.
Dean had to keep this to himself. Act like nothing had happened. Like he truly didn’t remember a thing. At the same time, he could do the research on his own. There might be something useful in Dad’s journal. Dean let out a quiet breath of relief as the fog in his mind cleared and the trembling finally left his body.
The water had gone nearly cold now, unpleasant. He shut it off, dried himself quickly and stepped out. Clean clothes smelled faintly of coffee and gunpowder. He dressed fast and roughly towel-dried his hair. The fogged-up mirror never showed him his face.
Fully dressed and a little more awake after the shower, Dean carefully stepped around every problem in his head — leaving room for only the case.
Sam was sitting in the exact same spot where Dean had seen him before going into the bathroom. His laptop was open in front of him, but he wasn’t really looking at it.
Dean cleared his throat.
“You find anything?”
Sam jerked slightly and looked up at him with that long, searching gaze — one that carried a million questions Dean either didn’t have answers to or didn’t want to answer.
“Find what?”
“The next case.” Dean put as much casual indifference into his voice as he could.
A pause of confusion filled the room. Sam stared at him, his brows drawing together as he searched for answers. Did Dean really think he could just jump into the next case after everything that had happened?
Sam truly didn’t understand how Dean could be so careless when it came to himself.
Trying to keep his voice steady and calm, without taking his eyes off his brother’s face, Sam said:
“I wasn’t looking for the next case, Dean. I was looking for something that explains why you couldn’t breathe in your sleep.”
Shit, Dean thought. Without turning to face Sam, he leaned over the bed, rolling a clean T-shirt into a tight bundle — military style — while tossing the dirty one aside. He made every effort to keep his voice relaxed.
“What is it?”
“Can you tell me — couldn’t you move?”
Dean went cold.
He started desperately searching for some way to dodge the truth. Why did Sam always have to dig into everything? Finding nothing and feeling irritation heat his blood, he answered in a low voice,
“I told you — I don’t remember a damn thing. You should’ve been looking for the next case, Sam.” He wasn't going to continue and he let his tone speak for him. Dean turned his back.
“You are our next case,” Sam said, licking his lips as he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Look, if you had trouble moving, I’m pretty sure I know what we’re dealing with.”
Dean exhaled loudly in frustration. So much for his plan of keeping Sam out of it and handling this alone. He had to take a few extra seconds to rein in the urge to lie — or to walk away. Without turning around, he gave in, his voice tired.
“Who is she?”
“She? Wait… you saw something?”
Dean turned and looked at Sam, who was staring at him with restless intensity. Dean sat heavily on the edge of the bed and fixed his eyes on the floor. His voice carried defeat.
“She looked like a ghoul to me… or some ghost-witch thing. I dunno. I’ve never seen anything like her.”
“So why the hell did you lie to me?” Sam’s voice cracked with disappointment.
“’Cause I don’t wanna dump my crap on you! This is my crap, and I have to deal with it!” Dean's voice broke into a shout, his eyes burning with stubbornness.
Sam stared at him, breathing heavily. His hands clenched involuntarily, his muscles tense.
“No, you don’t get to deal with everything alone. That’s our job, remember?”
“Since when?” Dean’s voice sounded like thunder, making the blood drain from Sam’s face.
“What?”
“Since when is it our job? Last time I checked, you hated this job so much you ran off to college the first chance you got.”
Sam went silent. His mouth went dry, his chest tight with hurt.
“Dean, you can’t be serious.”
“I am serious. This thing’s after me, so I’m the one who has to kill it.”
“God, Dean.” Sam shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Sometimes you can let someone help you. Let me help you.” His eyes were practically begging.
Dean stared at him for a few long seconds, feeling the wave of anger recede, leaving only exhaustion behind.
“Fine,” he said shortly, forcing his tense muscles to relax.
“Good.” Sam let out a breath of relief.
Then he opened his laptop again, typing quickly while speaking more slowly.
“So… if you saw her, maybe you can tell me.” He turned the laptop toward Dean. “Is it her?”
An old witch stared back at him from the screen, with a long hook-like nose, hairy arms and legs, claws longer than her fingers. Her eyes were small and vicious, thick brows hanging heavily above them. Her clothes were dull and torn, hanging in strips from her bony frame.
“Damn. Looks like she didn’t win the genetic lottery — that much I can tell you.” He licked his lip, then, meeting Sam’s questioning look, added, “C’mon, you know they never get the real picture. Could be some crap a kid drew in kindergarten.”
Sam turned the laptop back toward himself.
“Yeah, probably. She’s called a night hag, Dean.”
“Night hag? Never heard of it.”
“She basically causes sleep paralysis. I think it fits. You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You’re trapped inside your own body.” Sam's brows drew together the way they always did when he was deep in thought.
“Awesome. You got a way to kill it?”
“No. Not yet. But this is interesting.” Sam's lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight, his eyes shining with the thrill of discovery.
“What?”
“Sleep paralysis is considered a scientific phenomenon. A lot of people struggle with it. I never thought something supernatural could actually be behind it.”
“Well, glad I could bring a little more geek-boy joy into your life.” Dean pushed himself off the bed, his attention snagging on the coffee cups. One of them sat on the table, a dark stain of spilled coffee spreading beside it.
“Dude, you wasted my coffee!”
Sam didn’t look up from the screen. “Sorry. I just… got scared seeing you like that.”
Dean looked at him, his expression softening.
“C’mon, Sam. Let’s go grab some breakfast. I’m starving.”
“Go ahead,” Sam murmured.
“Not without you. Look, we’ve got all day to waste trying to figure out how to kill this bitch. Right now, it’s time to eat.”
“Research isn’t wasting time, Dean.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Sam snapped the laptop shut and shot him a sharp look, his jaw tight.
“You’re scared,” he said. It sounded more like a statement than a question.
“What? No, I’m not scared. I’m hungry.”
“You are, Dean. What was in that dream of yours?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah. Nothing, Sam. You comin' or what?”
Sam stared at Dean. Dean stared right back. Finally, Sam broke the gaze. He sighed, shoved the laptop aside like it had personally offended him, and headed for the door.
Dean smirked with his eyes only, satisfied that he’d managed to escape the conversation. His expression brightened when he spotted the Impala parked nearby.
They opened the doors and sank heavily into the leather seats at the same time. The familiar scent of the car calmed Dean. Only here could he almost completely shake off the relentless images flashing through his mind one after another — Sam knocked to the ground, a desperate scream full of pain, the wolf’s hungry snarl, his own helpless body pinned to the earth.
Dean closed his eyes and gripped the steering wheel.
“You okay?” Sam’s voice was soft, and suddenly all desire to argue drained out of him. For a brief moment, Dean truly wanted — really wanted — to tell him everything in detail, just to rid himself of the cold weight wrapped tight around his heart.
He looked at Sam, and in that look Sam caught something he had never heard out loud. Something that said, I’m really scared. But admitting it is even scarier. Especially to you.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
Dean shifted into reverse, twisted in his seat to look back, and backed out, steering them smoothly out of the parking lot.
The drive to the diner didn’t take long. The comfortable silence was filled with AC/DC blasting through the speakers and Dean tap his fingers lightly against the wheel in rhythm.
A young waitress with long golden hair approached their table to take their order. They each ordered a platter, and of course Dean couldn’t resist adding a slice of cherry pie. He also couldn’t ignore her big blue eyes or narrow waist, so he flashed his trademark charming smile every time their gazes met — and they met a lot. Sam rolled his eyes, annoyed — and at the same time relieved to see Dean acting like himself again.
They waited for their food, neither of them eager to talk. Dean tapped his fingers against the table in the steady rhythm that always seemed to live inside his head, while Sam stared holes into the surface.
“I used to have nightmares when I was a kid,” Sam said quietly, breaking the silence first without lifting his head.
The tapping stopped.
“Okay… random.”
“I can’t really remember what they were about now. Maybe a hunt that went bad. Maybe monsters. Or just the other crap in our lives.” He lifted his head, and their eyes met again. “But I do remember you. I remember your hand on my back and your voice — soft — trying to calm me down. To get me back to sleep.”
Dean stared at him. Sometimes he truly didn’t understand how his brother’s mind worked.
“What’s your point?”
“You did everything to protect me. And not just from monsters or Dad, you know.” Sam put everything he had into making his voice cut through every wall and land straight in Dean’s chest. “So why can’t you just let me help you once in a while?”
Dean cleared his throat, blinking more than usual.
“How?” His voice came out husky.
“For starters, tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me anymore. You can’t just pretend you’re fine when you clearly aren’t.”
“I’m fine, Sam. Really. Now can we skip the Dr. Phil show, please?”
“Dean —”
Dean cut him off, raising a hand.
“I get that you wanna help. I get it. But I don’t see how exactly this helps me kill this thing. So why keep talking?”
Sam shook his head in frustration and dropped his gaze. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair.
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
“It’s a gift.”
“You know, one day you’re gonna have to open up to me.”
“Hope that day’s not anytime soon.” A smirk touched his lips before he could stop it.
Their food arrived, and they ate quickly and mostly in silence. The diner wasn’t crowded — small town. That’s why they both noticed immediately when a father and son walked in.
From their appearance, it was obvious they were heading out on a hunting trip. The father was broad-shouldered, light-eyed, dressed in camouflage and tall rubber boots. The boy — maybe ten years old — wore an almost identical outfit and stood beside him like a shadow, staring up with blue eyes as if waiting for orders.
“Sit.” The father’s low voice commanded as he waved at the waitress.
The boy unconsciously mirrored every movement his father made. His eyes burned with anticipation, like he was waiting for something extraordinary to begin.
Dean’s gaze lingered on the kid a little longer. Watching how hard the boy tried to copy every move, to get it right, to make his father proud — Dean couldn’t help but relate. His eyes moved over their hunting clothes again, and the memories hit him. His lips curved slightly.
“What?” Sam felt his own mouth twitch into a half-smile, mirroring his brother.
“You remember when Dad took us hunting?”
“Which time?”
“Not our kind of hunt. I mean regular Bambi-hunt hunting.”
Sam’s arms shifted slightly.
“Yeah… I remember.” His eyes dropped to his empty plate, like it might crack open under the pressure.
“Dad thought it’d be a good training session. You know — run, stay alert, build endurance.”
Sam stayed quiet.
“He took it seriously. Gave lectures on tracking animal prints.” Dean smiled again, but that one was mostly for himself.
“Guess he didn’t want us chasing a bear instead of a Wendigo,” Sam muttered, shifting in his chair. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Dunno. Weird memory.” Dean stared into the space in front of him, seeing instead a memory suddenly pulled from somewhere deep in his mind. The recollection softened his gaze, warming the cold places where fear had lived before.
Sam waited patiently, watching as Dean’s face slowly turned serious. His hands lay flat on the table. His back straight.
“You were five.” Dean paused. “Five years old, and you could already do things most people don’t even dream about. You could’ve taken that deer.” he licked his lips, his voice turning harsh. “Hell, you probably could’ve taken Dad.”
Sam stiffened instantly at the words. He held his breath, waiting.
Dean kept going.
“But you didn’t. Dad was pissed. He’d spent all that time training us, and you backed out at the last second. ’Cause you didn’t want to kill that deer. You could’ve. But you didn’t.” He held Sam’s eyes. “You’re not a killer, Sammy. And you’re not gonna become one. Powers or no powers.”
Sam’s mouth went dry. A sticky burn gathered behind his eyes. His heart pounded hard against his ribs.
He remembered. Maybe the earliest memory he had.
That cabin deep in the woods. Dirt under his nails. Exhaustion. Endless lessons about how to hunt like normal people hunted. Sam loved learning. Just not that. And when the moment came — he couldn’t do it. His eyes had filled with tears he couldn’t stop.
Truth was, all these years Sam thought he’d failed them. Failed his family. Disappointed Dad. Disappointed Dean. Because his heart had been too big.
He cleared his throat, blinking the moisture away.
“Dean, I… I’m scared, man.” For a second, he sounded five again.
“I know you are.” Dean’s voice was low. Soft. Steady. It reached straight into the heart that had always been too big for this world — and stayed there.
Silence settled between them. Their plates had been empty for a while, but neither of them moved. They ignored the uncomfortable chairs, soaking in the fragile feeling of normal.
Dean looked relaxed. The memory of that hunt that never happened gave him the smallest flicker of hope. And now his green eyes were lit with it. Because Dean had been nine. And he hadn’t wanted to kill that animal either.
He just didn’t know how to disobey.
“So, we’ve got nada. Basically.” Dean scrolled through Sam’s notes on the laptop.
They had already spent several hours trying to figure out how to kill the Night Hag — and gotten nowhere. The air in the room had grown heavy, pressing down on both of them and leaving behind a dull headache.
“We’ve got something. We know the night hag’s afraid of salt. Iron. And sunlight.” Sam sat across from him with Dad’s journal open in front of him, flipping through the worn pages.
“C’mon, that’s weak and you know it. Spirits are scared of that stuff too, and it’s never stopped ’em from tossing us around like chew toys.” Dean was getting more impatient with every hour they spent in the cramped motel room, daylight fading, darkness creeping closer.
“I was thinking… when you’re dreaming, you’re not aware it’s a dream, right? You can’t tell it’s not real.”
“Exactly. Which makes this hunt even more screwed up. How the hell am I supposed to kill something in my sleep?” The irritation flew out of his mouth with every word. He stood with his arms crossed, rubbing his temple with one hand.
“Not you.” Sam’s voice was quiet but steady.
“…What?” Dean lowered his hand, confusion flashing in his eyes.
“You’re not doing it. I am.”
Dean stared at Sam like he’d just grown a second head.
“No way.”
“Why not? You said it yourself — you can’t kill it while you’re asleep.”
“I’m not leaving you alone to fight that freak while I’m playing Sleeping Beauty. She’s not after you. She’s on my ass, and I’m the one who’s gotta take her out.”
“So what, I’m just supposed to stand there and watch you choke to death because you’re too damn stubborn to accept that you’re human — and that you can ask for help?” Sam tried to pour all his logic into the words, hoping they would finally reach Dean’s ears and stay there.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Dean…”
“We do it together. Okay?” Dean cut him off, leaving no room for argument. Then he added more quietly, “I am not watching you die on me.”
Sam’s expression shifted.
“That’s what this is about? Are you ever gonna get tired of this crap? You’re not my savior, Dean.”
Then what am I? Dean didn’t say it out loud.
He went quiet.
He was tired — tired of trying to explain himself. Or maybe he just wasn’t good at it. To him, it felt obvious. How could Sam not see it?
If he wasn’t protecting Sam, then what was he supposed to do?
If he couldn’t keep him safe, how was he supposed to live with that?
If he wasn’t saving someone — what the hell was he for?
Sam tried again, calmer now.
“Dean. Just for once, let me help. I’ll watch you sleep. When she shows up, I’ll kill her. Iron, salt, light — something’s gotta work.” his chest tight, eyes burned with determination.
Dean blinked.
“Is it just me, or did that sound dirty?” He gave Sam a sideways look. “Watching me sleep?”
Sam shot him a flat stare. “Jeez, I’m trying to work here, man.”
“Fine.” Dean exhaled sharply. “I can’t believe I’m leaving you alone with that bitch, but fine. We’ll do it your way. Just don’t —” He pointed a finger at him. “Don’t try to be a hero. If things go south, you wake me up. Or I will kick your ass, I swear to God.”
“Yeah. You do that.” Sam allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He’d won this round.
Dean looked at him, his gaze full of mixed emotions. On one hand, he really didn’t have a choice — and he knew it. On the other… why was his heart pounding so heavily at the thought of tonight? And whenever he remembered the last encounter, his own body suddenly felt too tight to breathe in.
“For the record — I don’t like this,” Dean muttered, sitting on the edge of his bed, feet planted on the floor.
Sam sat on the opposite bed, their knees almost touching.
For the past five minutes, Sam had been listening to a detailed lecture on why his idea was terrible. He could practically feel each new line from Dean pushing his patience closer to the edge.
“It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not if we don’t have another choice. Stop bitching and just drink the damn stuff.”
They were as ready as they were going to be — salt, iron, holy water. Better safe than sorry.
And still, it didn’t feel like it would be enough.
Dean couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this. Ignoring every instinct he had. Putting himself completely in Sam’s hands.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him. Or didn’t believe in him.
He just wasn’t used to someone else taking the action part while he lay there trapped inside his own body — unable to move, to fight, to yell. Completely helpless.
Again.
The last case flashed through his mind — dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, no time to prepare. Alone in that house with Max and his stepmother, Dean had been ready to do anything. Anything to save a woman he didn’t even know. He’d stepped in front of his own gun without hesitation, without a second thought, running on pure instinct. Because that’s who he was. And now he was going against everything he was wired to do. And it felt deeply, fundamentally wrong.
“If you try something weird, I’ll kill you,” Dean said, eyeing the Sonata pills like they might personally betray him. Without them, he never would’ve agreed to this plan.
“For God’s sake, just shut up and take them.” Sam rolled his eyes, waiting.
Dean held the two green capsules in his palm, staring at them like he was weighing a life-or-death decision. Then he tossed them into his mouth and swallowed. Sam handed him a glass of water. Dean took it — though the truth was, they both knew how to dry swallow pills. A crappy lifestyle teaches you that real fast.
“Go take a shower or something. I don’t need you watching. That’s creepy.” Dean shifted, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy motel mattress.
Sam sighed and headed for the bathroom. He had maybe five, ten minutes for a quick shower. Knowing he’d be sitting up all night waiting for the Night Hag to show, this was his last chance. A long, sleepless night was ahead of him. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it — he was just as scared as Dean. Dean thought he was the one leaving Sam alone with the monster. But Sam couldn’t shake the cold feeling that it was the other way around.
He didn’t know exactly what Dean had been seeing in those nightmares. Maybe he was even grateful not to know all the details. But he’d seen the look in his brother’s eyes — the helplessness there — and it made him hate his own plan. He hated that Dean was trapped in a nightmare again, unable to move an inch. Knowing Dean, the loss of control — over the situation, over his own body — was a hundred times worse than the monster itself.
Sam remembered his own childhood nightmares. The cold sweat. His heartbeat pounding up into his throat. Dean had always been there. Now it was time to pay that back. And this was definitely not the time to let fear slow him down.
When Sam came out of the bathroom — jaw set, resolve locked in place — Dean was already asleep. With a wrench clutched in his hand. Sam allowed himself a small smile. “He never liked going in unarmed,” he muttered quietly. “Not even in his dreams.”
Dean carefully looked around the room he’d found himself in. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been here before. Something painfully familiar clung to these walls — the small child-sized bed, the posters that seemed to stare at him, silently urging him to remember. He just couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to remember. Or why he was here.
It was quiet. Outside the window, only the whistle of the wind cut through the night. The darkness was thick as ink — moonless, suffocating. His gaze drifted over the scattered toys, and something in his chest shifted softly.
Then he saw it. A small model of a blue 1970 Plymouth Superbird.
Dean had loved that car when he was little. The tiny sports car used to race across his toy track at full speed, never slowing down for turns. He’d always loved speed. Motion.
He crouched down and picked it up. And suddenly — he remembered. He wasn’t just anywhere. He was in his childhood bedroom in Lawrence. His chest tightened as if someone had sunk cold claws into it, and his mouth went dry.
“Sammy?” He couldn’t stop himself from calling out.
No answer.
Dean swallowed hard and stepped into the dark hallway. His eyes immediately landed on Sam’s nursery — and stayed there. But his feet refused to move toward it. They felt heavy. Weak. Like they might buckle under his weight. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something was screaming at him to run.
Instead, he blinked the feeling away and forced himself forward, toward the door his body didn’t want to approach.
Breathing became harder.
He could feel acrid smoke in his throat. Heat against his skin — though he saw no flames. He stood in front of the nursery door, lifting a trembling hand to turn the knob. His heart pounded violently in his chest. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His fingers shook against the handle.
Suddenly — the door burst open as if kicked in.
Dean stumbled back, his spine slamming into the wall. John stood there, a child in his arms. His eyes were wide with terror, his face slick with sweat. His voice was sharp. Commanding.
“Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back! Now, Dean, go!”
But instead of a baby, Dean saw Sam — maybe five or six years old. His face soft. Cheeks flushed. Hair thick and lighter than it would be when he grew up.
His little brother.
Dean didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward instantly and took the weight from his father’s arms. Sam felt light. Warm. He smelled like childhood. Dean looked up at his father — but John was gone. The door slammed shut. Black smoke began pouring from underneath it, curling thickly into the hallway, filling the air with choking heat.
Dean felt it claw at his throat, barely holding back a cough as his lungs seized, desperate for clean air. He clutched Sam’s small, limp body to his chest and moved down the hallway as fast as he could.
He didn’t get far.
All he would later remember was how each step grew heavier. How less and less air reached his lungs. The weight in his arms — not a burden, but an honor.
Then the world tilted. The floor vanished beneath him. He heard a sharp whistle and saw nothing but blur for a single second; the next, his body felt everything at once. A violent wave of nausea from the sudden shift. A ringing in his ears from his head slamming into the wall. The loss of the weight he had been carrying out of the fire.
The last of the air was knocked from his lungs, leaving him breathless. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the swimming floor, trying to lift his head — which suddenly felt far too heavy for his neck. There was a roaring in his ears. His heart pounded up into his throat, trying to escape his body. The air was thick. Crushing. Pressing down on his skull, his shoulders, his chest. His back was on fire. Every muscle. Every joint. Everything hurt.
Through the rushing noise in his head, he heard Sam crying.
Dean finally managed to drag in a breath, filling his abused lungs with precious oxygen. They burned. Stabbed. But he could breathe.
So he kept breathing.
Again. Again.
He didn’t dare stop.
His vision slowly clawed its way back. Through red and black spots, through smoke and blur, he saw — They hadn’t even made it down the stairs. Something had separated them. Pinned them to opposite walls.
Little Sam was across from him, crying, screaming for help.
“Dean!”
“Sammy…” Dean rasped — and was cut off by a violent coughing fit.
God, he was burning.
His lungs felt like they were on fire from the inside, refusing to pull in enough air. His breathing was shallow, fast — loud enough that in any other place, anyone would’ve heard it. Still struggling for a single full breath, Dean realized his arms and legs were pinned to the wall by some invisible supernatural force. He focused everything he had on moving even one hand.
Nothing. Not even a finger would budge.
The muscles in his neck strained so hard the veins stood out beneath his skin. He screamed from the pain and the tension tearing through his body as he fought uselessly against the dead grip holding him in place. Blood vessels burst in his eyes from the strain, flooding them so red there was no trace of green left.
Through pain and smoke and oxygen deprivation, he looked at Sam.
He looked smaller. Frailer. His hair plastered to his damp forehead like when he had a fever. His eyes shone with tears streaming down his pale cheeks.
Dean couldn’t take it.
He found whatever strength he had left, sucked in as much air as he could, and screamed — raw and desperate. He wanted to see his enemy. To look it in the eyes. To find a weakness and drive into it. To fight. To tear at something. Even if only with words.
As if hearing him, a figure materialized before him out of the smoke — the one whose gaze he would never forget.
The calm, murderous stare of the night hag.
Rage boiled inside him at the sight of her. Through clenched teeth, on a single ragged breath, he forced the words out:
“Leave him alone, you bitch!”
And immediately he was left without air again, gasping greedily for it. He lifted his eyes to her once more and forced himself not to flinch at the disgusting smile hovering inches from his face. Suddenly he was grateful for his unsteady vision, which mercifully blurred her yellow, rotten teeth and the green tongue inside her mouth.
The night hag waved her hand without taking her eyes off Dean. And suddenly, the temperature spiked violently. He searched for the source of the fire — but it was everywhere.
Sam screamed. Sharp. Piercing. It made Dean’s ears ring. Horror filled his vision as Sam’s small body began to rise up the wall — higher and higher — as if chained there by invisible hooks.
“Dean! Help! Please!!” Sam screamed in a thin, terrified voice, his eyes wide with horror, fire reflecting in his black pupils.
Panic wrapped around Dean like steel bands, squeezing tighter and tighter until there was no room for air. No room for blood. Only pain.
“No…” he breathed, barely audible.
Then he looked straight into the night hag’s eyes. She was still smiling sweetly. He drew in as much air as his burning lungs would allow and screamed:
“Leave him alone, you fucking whore! You hear me?! Leave him alone!!”
The response was immediate — just not the one he had hoped for. The witch’s body pressed flush against his. She tilted her head as if to whisper something in his ear — something he wouldn’t have heard anyway over the thunder of his own pulse. Then she pulled back and glanced at her gnarled palms. Slowly, with visible pleasure, she watched her claws grow longer.
With misty eyes full of hunger, the Night Hag drove her claws into Dean’s chest, dragging four long lines across to his left side.
Dean cried out in agony.
The searing heat turned everything white — then black. His heart raced wildly, as if trying to escape through the open gashes. Blood ran down his torso, adding even more heat to the inferno around him — the one he breathed in with every tortured gasp. He began gasping for air, greedy and desperate, each breath bringing fresh pain. His head dropped; he couldn’t hold it up anymore. His vision fluttered. Sweat ran down his face, dripping onto his shirt. The pressure on his chest became unbearable.
With a tired, fading gaze, he let his eyes drift from the Night Hag standing before him up to the ceiling — to where Sam was. Everything blurred — the floor, the stairs, his own blood — melting into one red haze.
He fought to stay conscious.
And he was losing. Slowly. Wearily.
If this was the last thing he would ever see — he wanted it to be his little brother.
Sam’s body was pinned to the ceiling. Tears streamed from his eyes. His mouth moved — he was screaming something that couldn’t be heard through the all-consuming roar.
Dean wanted to say something. To tell him it would be okay. To stop his tears. To tear apart the helpless terror in those wide eyes.
But all he could do was watch.
Watch in horror as Sam burned alive.
He heard Sam’s scream. He heard his own. He smelled burning flesh. His brother’s burning flesh. Thin tongues of flame devoured the small body, skin turning red — then black. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with sweat and blood.
And only then —
Did the world go black.