A/N: Remember back in January when I said I had a story that was begging to be written? Well this is it. I've been dealing with some stuff so it's been awhile (several months) since I've written anything at all. In fact, this is one of the first things I've written since "Mary, Did You know?" This takes place in Season 11, after The Devil Is In The Details, but before Into The Mystic so you can expect spoilers up through 11x10. The title of the story is taken from the Edgar Allen Poe poem Dream-Land. I thought it was fitting to publish this now just a couple days after Supernatural Day, which was September 13th, the day Supernatural premiered 11 years ago when I was just a 20 year old college student. Ah, the good old days.

A/N 2: I'd like to give a special shoutout to two of my best friends, Elena and Noha, who have been extremely supportive in helping me deal with a difficult time in my life and motivating me to keep writing. Thank you both.

Dream-Land

By each spot the most unholy—

In each nook most melancholy,—

There the traveller meets, aghast,

Sheeted Memories of the Past—

Shrouded forms that start and sigh

As they pass the wanderer by—

White-robed forms of friends long given,

In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven-Edgar Allen Poe

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. There were sirens everywhere, glaring lights bouncing off the buildings, and a bright neon sign that wouldn't stop blinking even though he couldn't read what it said. Then there was the noise, so loud that it hurt his ears, a cacophony of voices shouting and the blaring sounds of all the emergency personnel. He covered his ears with his hands, but then he couldn't cover his eyes and was forced to look at what was on the ground before him and that was even worse. There was a baby stroller, crumpled like an accordion, and baby items strewn all over the road. A car was also in the street, the windshield smashed, splintered glass like cobwebs. However, that wasn't the most macabre sight as a bit further down on the black tar behind the car was the real carnage, bodies covered with sheets, two of them, one big and one small, bright red blood soaking through the white. A woman knelt over them, a high pitched guttural scream coming from her throat, but it was more like it was coming from somewhere deep within, from her very soul as she mourned over whoever was dead on the ground.

"He was drunk!" She screamed, finally, lunging around police tape, at a police officer and away from the gruesome sight.

The police officer tried to hold her back but she was insistent, trying to get at someone just behind him. Her arms thrashed out angrily.

"I nev'r saw 'em," a man slurred, and even though he was some distance back, an observer watching the scene, he could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath, see tears glistening in his eyes, as remorse for his actions set in.

Then the slurring figure emerged slowly, hands cuffed behind his back. His face came into focus, blurry at first but then startlingly clear. He was tall, thin, and pale looking, the glow of the sirens enhancing how wan he looked. There was a distinct look of panic is his eyes, as they darted around at the chaos around him.

No it can't be.

It was Sam Winchester and he was under arrest.

oooooo

The deconstruction of Sam Winchester was something that happened slowly, like a flower that had finished blooming. What once was a majestic blossom now just sat there faded, torn at the edges with its head hanging, until finally it was too heavy, and drooped there lifelessly.

When Sam had been rescued from the cage, he had told his brother Dean, that he wasn't okay, "not even a little bit."

That was the first indication that something was going on.

Yet, then he seemed okay. At least okay enough that no red flags went up. He functioned as in got out of the bed in the morning, got dressed, and ate breakfast. He made small talk with Dean, mostly about the darkness. He didn't go into detail about what he experienced and although Dean tried, Sam seemed to genuinely not want to talk about it. Dean wasn't going to persist and throw salt in the wound. After all, there were many times, he didn't want to discuss his emotions and wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Maybe it was the same for his brother this time.

Yet, this was Sam. Alarm bells should have been sounding everywhere when Sam didn't want to discuss it, but maybe Dean was in denial then.

However, then there were signs, obvious ones. Whenever Dean asked Sam a question, he gave him a terse response, such as "yes," "no," or "okay." Then his replies became as simplistic as just nodding or shaking his head. He would stare off into space for moments at a time, his chin resting on his chest, a haunted look in his eyes. They had completed a hunt at a church though, so Dean wasn't panicking yet.

Still what happened during that hunt was the biggest warning of all. Sam seemed to zone out as if he forgot what he was doing for a second even as Dean was tossed into a wall bruising his hip. Sam never let him down during hunts, no matter what was going on, even when he had Lucifer himself shouting in his melon when the wall came down. He pulled up his bootstraps and pressed on especially when it came to a job so this was completely out of character. Sam did snap out of it then, expressing concern over what happened, making sure Dean was okay, but then later at the bunker, he had returned to the same solemn state.

Dean wasn't sure what woke him on that particular morning two days later, but he was pretty sure that he hadn't been sleeping that long. However, now he was awake and he knew he wasn't falling back to sleep any time soon so he rolled over to get up. Sure enough, as he looked at the clock, he realized it was only 6:30 AM, an ungodly hour for him.

He got up gingerly, his hip pulling painfully as he stood, still sore from their hunt.

As he shuffled into the kitchen, he heard the sound of someone moving around and he knew just who it was.

Sam.

This wasn't the first time he found his brother wide awake when most normal people were fast asleep. Besides his other new idiosyncrasies, Sam got up earlier than normal, even before dawn. However, this time there was something different about his appearance.

As usual, he was seated at the table, hunched over a laptop. However, instead of a mug of coffee in front of him, there were empty bottles of liquor on the table, and a shot glass of whisky in his hand.

Now that's new, Dean thought, concernedly.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean queried. He had to admit he was getting a bit tired of asking this.

"Fine," Sam replied, curtly, throwing back the drink, scrunching his eyes as the acrid liquid stung his throat. He grabbed the bottle to pour another. It was empty and Sam frowned.

Dean signed heavily over Sam's response. He was used to him being quiet and moody now, but the drinking was not something he could just disregard. He knew if he pressed Sam to discuss it, he would wave it off. After all, they had more important things to worry about, such as Amara. Dean knew that Sam obviously was hurting but he couldn't gauge how deeply, although it was most likely pretty bad if the drinking was any indication.

"Think you should have some food to wash down that breakfast of champions over there?" Dean asked, nonchalantly as he reached into a cupboard for some cereal. The motion yanked at his hip and he winced.

"Are you in any position to judge?" Sam shot back, in more words than he had used in awhile, without even looking up from the screen.

"I'm not judging. I just don't think the results are going to be pretty," Dean responded, taken aback, trying to keep his anger in check. Sam was really starting to get on his nerves now. Sure he could overlook, or at least try to overlook the bruised hip since Sam was so apologetic, but throwing cheap shots? No way.

"I'm a big boy. I can handle it. I learned from the best," Sam continued, pompously.

Dean felt his anger rise. What was wrong with him? It had been two weeks since the cage and he respected the fact that his brother had some heavy stuff to sort through, but he wasn't getting anywhere by acting like this.

"I'm not the one drinking at dawn, am I?" Dean said, gritting his teeth, setting the cereal down on the table, and moving to grab the coffee pot.

"Now, anyway," Sam replied, again refusing to look at him.

"Damn it Sam! What's your problem?" Dean yelled, whipping around, banging the table so hard that the cereal spilled out in front of him, unable now to keep his emotions in check.

Sam swiveled the chair to face him, his demeanor flat.

"Nothing. I'm just having some breakfast and doing some research," Sam shrugged as if the situation was completely normal. "You're the one blowing your top."

"Since when do you drink in the morning? Huh? You either want to talk or you don't."

Sam didn't respond, but he put his head down and rubbed his temple.

"If you aren't going to talk about it, then move on."

Sam again remained silent, but it was clear there was something simmering under the surface.

Dean bent down to look for the coffee.

"There's none left," Dean said, aggravated, realizing there wasn't any around. "You couldn't even go to the store, could you?"

"You just don't get it do you?" Sam said, finally, his voice rising.

"No, I guess I don't get the point in sitting around doing nothing and being useless. You were deadweight on the last hunt and I'm the one who paid for it! What are you so afraid of Sam? You aren't in that cage anymore. Lucifer's trapped and you're free!"

Sam got up then, angrily pushing in his chair and charging out of the room. Dean watched him retreat, making no effort to go after him.

oooooo

Sam headed back to his room, hearing the muffled sounds of Dean moving around in the kitchen. He was aware at some point that Dean had left. He guessed it was to go grab some coffee. He knew he wasn't treating his brother fairly and he had no idea why he was pushing his strongest support system away by acting like a jerk. It wasn't Dean's fault that he couldn't keep it together. Dean didn't understand how the brief time in the cage had affected him, how he had been triggered on their last hunt, and how he was so confused, about everything.

He felt like a building that had been ravaged by fire, the inside torn out and empty, so all that remained was a shell. Just how was that structure still standing? Damned if he knew.

Dean's words had stung but he knew they were true, had hit the point home. However, Dean said he was free, and that was a lie. He'd never be free. Never.

He realized he must have dozed off at some point, his head pounding as he awakened. Dean had been right about his morning drinking not ending well. He felt sick with his stomach being filled with nothing but booze, but he couldn't eat, knew he'd never keep anything down. He also had an underlying fear weighing down on him as if he dreamed of something horrid that he couldn't quite recall. He checked his phone and saw it was almost 3. There were no notifications, no texts, or missed calls from Dean. The bunker seemed eerily quiet so he imagined that Dean had maybe come in and went back out. He couldn't blame him. He probably needed a break from him. Hell, he needed a break from himself but that wasn't going to happen.

He got dressed, not even bothering with a shower. He was aware he smelled like a brewery but he didn't care. What did it matter? He spotted a coffee on the table, as well as a muffin, so he knew that he was right that Dean had come home at some point but now he was gone. He left the food sitting there as he headed out with his laptop. He decided he'd find a library with some free wifi and do his research there.

He figured he had better walk and he turned up his coat collar, bracing himself against the bitter January air. He realized that he'd forgotten his cellphone as he was walking but he didn't think it was a big deal. Dean hadn't been calling him before and he'd probably be home before Dean even got back.

He relished in the warmth when he reached his destination, walking through the library doors. He discretely pulled a tiny bottle from his jacket pocket and took a swig, suddenly hit by a flashback of when he had a flask that contained demon blood. For a moment he thought he could taste it and he bit back the sting of vomit, instead focusing on letting the alcohol settle and scrape the chill from his bones.

He was as comfortably numb as he could be, seated at a table, zoned into his research when he heard someone sit down across from him. He nearly jumped out of his chair when he saw who it was.

Sully.

Yes it was him, right down to the rainbow suspenders.

"Hi Sam!" He said, his usual goofy grin plastered on his face, although Sam could see a haunted look in his eyes. If anyone knew that look it was him.

For a moment, he questioned why he was there. Was he really even seeing him? Was this some alcohol induced figment of his imagination?

"What are you doing here?" Sam whispered.

"We need to talk," Sully said, and this time he sounded nervous.

"How do I even know you're here?" Sam whispered, trying not to draw attention to himself.

"Tickle fight!" Sully shouted and began poking him in the ribs.

"Stop!" Sam yelled, jumping up.

He suddenly detected every eye on him in the library, staring at him like he was nuts.

"Sorry," Sam said to pretty much everyone. "Short in my laptop charger. I got a shock."

They looked doubtful but looked away.

"Okay, okay," Sam whispered again. "You're here. Why?"

"I need your help or maybe I need to help you, or I don't know. It's all so nerve wracking," Sully rambled.

"Does it have something to do with your friends again, or what? Something to do with Reese?"

"You don't smell too good," Sully said, wrinkling his nose, and ignoring his question.

"Yeah and people are looking at me pretty funny. They must think I'm a drunk having hallucinations."

"Oh so that's what that is," Sully said, nodding. "Do you want everyone else to see me too? Make it easier?"

"No, that would not make it easier," Sam hissed. "Now are your friends dying again or not?"

"No they're not, but-"

"Well then, I think it's best you leave me alone," Sam said, hastily slamming his laptop, grabbing his jacket from the chair, and running out the door. He had enough crap running through his head, and he surely didn't need to add his imaginary friend from when he was a kid too.

Sam shivered from the cold once he was outside.

"You...you dropped this," Sully stuttered, handing him the small bottle. "You should really put your coat on. You might catch a cold," Sully said, sadly, putting his head down. "Do you want some marshmallow nachos? Might make you feel better than that other stuff. It's bad for you."

"Thanks," Sam said, grabbing it from him. He shrugged into his jacket and plunged the bottle into the pocket. "And no. I'm not hungry. I don't need a lecture okay."

"I'm sorry, Sam. It's just you're different... but I'm so glad that you aren't...aren't going to jail."

"Jail?" Sam asked, incredulously.

"Yeah, I don't know. I saw you getting arrested and I knew it couldn't be true. Sam Winchester is a hero. He'd never be in that kind of trouble."

"I'm not a hero," Sam said, matter of fact. "Never was."

"But you said..."

"Doesn't matter what I said. I was an idiot."

Sully bit his nails as Sam marched away from him. Seeing Sam looking relatively okay had reassured him that the accident scene he saw before had just been a horrible nightmare but now, he saw where he was headed, as the light around him grew dark. It was the bar just down the street. He saw the neon sign and again he saw it, all the awful things: the bodies, the woman screaming, and Sam being arrested. Somehow he knew it hadn't happened yet but it was going to. He'd had a vision, just like Sam. He had to stop his buddy, because if he didn't, Sam was going to kill people.

TBC

Let me know what you think.