Chapter One

A/N: Hi there all! Straight out of the fresh-hell that was Sherlock, I'm (sort of) recovered and ready to hate life all over again with Supernatural. I've never seen a single episode of this show until about a week or so ago so please no spoilers.

Enjoy! (This is set in season 2, since that's where I currently am in the series.)

Sorry if anyone is OOC, I'm still learning how to write their characters.

In Sam's dream, he's back home in Lawrence, in the house where he was born. He finds himself in the corner of a distantly familiar room, though it looks different nowadays.

The nursery is peaceful. Dimly lit with tinkling music playing from the mobile above the crib. The walls are baby blue and there are soft curtains decorated with colorful shapes hanging over the window. The baby in the crib-himself, he supposes-coos happily as footsteps in the hallway grow closer.

"Alright, let's say goodnight to your brother." Mom sets Dean on the floor and he runs to the cradle. Hanging over the wooden bars, Sam's big brother looks so tiny dressed in his grey pajamas with his shaggy hair.

"Goodnight, Sam," he says, leaning farther over to press a kiss to the infant's forehead. Mom softly pads over as well, looping an arm around Dean's shoulders as she reaches into the crib to caress Sam's head.

"Goodnight, love," she whispers.

"Sam..." Sam startles and looks up from the loving scene he shouldn't be able to remember, let alone dream about. He turns, half expecting someone else to be in the nursery, but the room is empty save for Mom, Dean, himself, and baby Sam. Still, he shivers. The voice sounded eerily familiar.

When he turns back, expecting to find Mom and Dean still at their place beside the crib, he finds the room completely empty instead. Them, the baby, even the furniture is all gone. Yet the music from the absent mobile continues to play, softly at first then growing ominously louder.

Sam spins anxiously, his heart suddenly cranking up a notch. It's a dream. Usually he can't tell but this time he can. So why can't he wake up? "Dean," he yells out, his voice echoing. "Dean?" No answer.

The room feels unnaturally small all of a sudden, claustrophobic. Pasted into his corner, Sam feels his chest grow tight and his limbs lock up. Only when a drop of sweat rolls down his forehead does he realize how hot it is in the empty nursery. Yet he feels cold to his very core. He tries to call for Dean again but his mouth won't work, none of his limbs will. He can barely breathe.

In the time it takes to blink, a figure appears in front of him. It's nothing more than a shadow, a dark splotch in the center of the empty room, yet seeing another presence somehow fills him with relief. His head reels and his pulse slows, muscles relaxing as if he's been drugged.

When it speaks, it speaks with Dean's voice. "You alright, Sammy?"

He could collapse under the weight of his relief. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Is that...really you, Dean?"

"Course it is. Who else?"

"How did we get here?"

Dean shrugs lamely. "Dunno, man, this is your head."

"It is a dream, then. Any clue how I wake up?"

"Yeah." Dean walks forward and every step he takes, Sam's head gets fuzzier and his limbs get looser. He feels...funny. Like that time he got his wisdom teeth taken out and the dentist pumped him full of meds. Also like that time, there's a coppery taste in his mouth. Blood, maybe.

Dean reaches around and pulls something out of his waistband. He hands the gun to Sam, who takes it without a second thought. This close, Sam can see Dean's face finally. He smiles crookedly and squeezes his brother's shoulder.

But his eyes are yellow.

"All you gotta do to wake up, Sammy...is shoot me in the heart."

Sam startles awake, his body lurching bolt upright in bed, sweat beading his face. His breathing comes fast and shallow. It takes a moment to realize his hands are balled into fists so tightly he's left thin cuts on his palms.

Instinctively, his eyes flick to Dean, sleeping peacefully in the twin bed on the other side of the motel room, blankets twisted around him. The boxy digital clock beside the TV reads 2:02 a.m. The only light to be seen is the unnatural purple glow of the motel sign just outside the window.

His head is pounding, specifically the welt under his left eye from their last hunt, and his mouth is dry as cotton. Kicking back the blankets, he stumbles out of bed over to the room's dingy kitchenette. The spigot squeaks and rattles, the water blasting out like a garden hose. Sam fills a dixie cup from the cupboard and drinks from it a dozen times before shutting off the tap and leaning over the sink, letting the sweat drip down his nose. Behind him, Dean flops over in his bed, giving a little snore. He jumps at the noise.

Jesus. What was that dream? Somehow, he can still feel the gun against his palm. He shakes his hand and grips it into a fist.

Get it together, Sam. It was just a dream, er, nightmare.

Straightening from the sink, he returns to the bed across from Dean's. Sitting down quietly on the springy mattress, Sam lays down on top of the blankets, too hot to cover up. For hours he lays in the dark staring at the ceiling, unwillingly replaying the nightmare over and over again.

The yellow eyes he can explain away easily. He's seen them before when the demon possessed Dad. No reason to think that was any more than just a dream. What he can't explain, however, is everything before the demon showed up.

The nursery had been so vivid, down to the tiniest detail. He couldn't possibly remember it after all these years, having been so little when it burned down. Maybe his mind just...generated the room. Maybe he saw it in a magazine somewhere.

Glancing sideways at Dean, Sam chews his lip. His brother is fast asleep, eyes moving behind their lids with dreams of his own. Hopefully his are better than Sam's, though he doubts it. Still, waking him now would be a dick move.

They can talk in the morning.

Sam forces his eyes to close and tries to relax, but every time he drops off there are yellow eyes, Dean's twisted, unnatural smile, and a gun waiting for him.

By seven o'clock, Sam has given up trying to sleep. Light headed and popping Advil like candy to fight off the pounding headache, he showers and dresses in the shoddy motel bathroom.

By the time he's done, Dean has roused and is sitting zombie-like on the edge of the bed. He looks up when Sam leaves the bathroom, trailed by a fog of shower mist, and yawns. "What are you doing up so early," he asks, standing and stretching his arms high above his head. "Usually I have to drag your lazy ass out of bed."

Sam pauses, decides against bringing up his nightmare so soon, and shrugs. "I'm gonna head down to that store we passed on our way here. You want something to eat?"

If Dean notices that he avoided the question, then he doesn't acknowledge it. "Actually I was thinking we might treat ourselves to something that doesn't require a microwave for once. That diner in town looked pretty good. You game?"

"Sure." Truth be told, he's not really in the mood to sit in a crowded diner surrounded by gossipy small-town people. However, he simply doesn't have the energy to argue. So a half hour later, the two are striding through the door of the quaint diner. The place looks like something straight out of the 50's-checkered tile floors and retro bar stools and all-and smells of maple syrup and bacon. Dean smiles at the cute hostess who goes a little red in the face and giggles as she's leading them to their booth. Sam follows behind like a shadow, rolling his eyes.

A bouncy blonde with a sparkling pair of blue eyes turns out to be their waitress and Dean grins at Sam like it must be Christmas day. Sam snorts and stifles a yawn.

"Hey, fellas. What can I get you to drink?"

"Coffee," Sam replies almost too quickly.

"Okay, coffee. And you, sir?"

"Uh, same." She marks it down on her pad-tactfully ignoring Dean's shameless wink-and flounces away, pony tail swinging as much as her hips. Dean watches her all the way until she hits the kitchen doors and then whistles quietly and flips open his menu. "We oughta come to these places more often," he says.

"I think the local fathers would disagree with you." Sam rubs his eyes, the words on the menu somewhat blurred from exhaustion. He yawns and rolls his neck. His head is really pounding. Eventually he gives up, shuts the menu and pushes it to the edge of the table. "Order for me, would you? I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

Dean looks up and opens his mouth like he's going to say something but then the waitress returns with their coffee and he shuts right up. Soon his flirtations are swallowed by the Elvis music playing over the honest to God jukebox in the corner and Sam pushes through the door marked with a stick figure man.

The bathroom is only slightly more modern than the rest of the place but fortunarely, the music and the chatter is muffled in here. It's a single stall so he locks the door and goes to the sink, closing his eyes against the pulsing in his temples. He squints down at his watch, the hands blurring together, and he wonders if taking six Advil in one hour would be a bad thing...

His whole body feels warm. Could be getting sick.

Sam turns on the water and cups his hands under the stream, splashing his face. He shivers at how icy cold it feels in contrast to his warm cheeks, and not in a relieving way.

"Ahh..." His face scrunches up, a stabbing pain behind his eyes. It's not until his knees begin to go weak and he finds himself sinking to the cold tile floor that this isn't a normal sleep deprivation headache.

Just as the first flashes of the vision begin to pierce through his head like a hot knife, someone knocks on the door.

A huge, dark room. Mud floors, block walls...

"Ahhh..." Sam clutches his head. The person at the door knocks again, harder this time. The handle rattles a bit.

There are people. Hundreds of people, all standing in the darkness, crammed together like sardines.

"Hello? Is somebody in there?"

Children too. They look scared. One woman hushes her crying child, but she herself does not look frightened. There's an errie calmness about her. She smiles as she wipes away her daughter's tears.

The knocking stops briefly, two voices are talking outside.

"Sam? You in there?"

A man is speaking but Sam can't make out his words. His speech is broken into fragments as the vision splinters and jumps. The people stand in loose rows, smiling at the unseen man with brightness and trust.

"Sammy?" Dean pounds on the door. "Zip it up, man."

The adults are passing something down the rows. Bowls. Incrested wooden bowls full of something small and white.

Pills.

"Sammy?" The door knob rattles again and Dean swears. "Talk to me, man. Are you alright?"

"Mommy, I'm scared..." Her thin accent is marred by tears.

"Don't be scared, sweety. We're going to a better place now. The prophet is going to take us to heaven."

"But-"

"Shhh, baby. Here, swallow this. It will taste bad going down but that won't last long, I promise."

"Ahhhh...ahh..." Sam groans. The floor is hard under his head but he can't move his body. Everything hurts. Dean is talking urgently with someone on the other side of the door. He hears the jingle of a key in the lock.

Everyone takes a pill. They swallow them dry then sit down on the mud floor and hold hands, singing hymns as one of them collapses to the dirt. Then another, and another, and another, and another until no one is left to sing. No one but the man who told them to die. Only the prophet is left standing.

The door bangs open. Dean's eyes are wide with terror and his face pales when he sees his brother. Sam is flat on his back on the bathroom floor, his hair frayed out around his head, eyes rolling, body convulsing.

"Call an ambulance," someone yells. Dean scrambles to his knees and grabs Sam's shoulders, shaking him.

"Sammy? Sammy!" He strips off his jacket and bundles it under his brother's head so he won't hit it against the hard floor again. "It's okay, Sammy. You're okay. Calm down."

The prophet's face is shrouded in shadow. Everything but his eyes.

They glow acidic yellow in the darkness.

"Come and find me, Sammy... Or all these people are going to die."

Sam's body suddenly falls completely still, his eyes fluttering shut. In that instant, Dean's heart stops. There's a crowd outside the bathroom, gawking at the horror show on the inside but Dean doesn't even hear them.

Sam doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

Dean's hand trembles as he shakes his little brother. "Sammy?" It comes out no louder than a breath. "Sammy?"

No, no, no...

Dean's hands hover uselessly, his eyes going bleary with panic. "No you don't, little brother. Come on." He grits his teeth and reels back his arm.

A woman outside the bathroom startles at the crack his hand makes slapping across Sam's cheek. But it works.

Sam surges back to life, sucking in a lungful of air, eyes snapping open. Instantly, his hand goes to his cheek and unfocused hazel eyes blink and look around as if searching for what hit him. They land on Dean and Sam gapes at him. "Dude. Did you slap me?"

Dean sits back on his heels, heart still hammering away in his chest. The people outside are suddenly murmuring among themselves. "Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair.

"Um, why?" Just as soon as he asks, however, Sam seems to realize where he is. He blinks and looks around, brow scrunching up almost comically. "Dean...why am I on a bathroom floor?"

"Because you had another one of your damned Mind Freak moments. Can you walk?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so..." Sam gets unsteadily to his knees, then sways and lands back on all fours. "Maybe not," he puffs out, suddenly out of breath. "Dean...we need to go...people are gonna die..." The vision comes back to him in pieces. All those people...

"Yeah, I figured. But let's keep that between us for the moment, huh?" Dean loops an arm around his brother's waist and hoists him to his feet, while the crowd of onlookers back away slowly and stare as if they're leppers. "You good?"

"Yeah..."

"Wait," someone says weakly. "That was a serious seizure! He needs to go to the hospital!"

"No, no, ma'am, I'm fine," Sam says breathlessly over his shoulder. "Happens all the time." They hobble to the car, stopping only long enough to throw a wad of cash at the register for their uneaten meals. Once both of them are inside the Impala, Dean peels out onto the road.

"Where are we headed," he asks.

"Um..." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, struggling to remember details. "I-I don't know yet, give me a minute..."

They stop at the motel and Dean throws open the driver side door, pausing. "You sure you're okay? That lady was right...whatever happened, that wasn't your normal 'That's So Raven' thing..."

Sam nods, rubbing his forehead. "I'm fine. It was just...a really strong vision, I think. It was so vivid..."

Dean frowns. "Well you just...stay here. I'll go get our stuff."

"Don't forget to pay for the room," Sam yells after him as he jumps out. Whether Dean hears him or not, he isn't sure. Doesn't really matter though anyway. He's got more important things to think about.

That room. What was it? Where was it?

It had...mud flooring and block walls. A basement, maybe? Root cellar? He didn't see any windows in the vision so that seems pretty likely. But a basement of what?

Dean returns with their duffel bags and tosses them in the trunk.

The woman and the child, they had accents. Southern. Texas? Or Tennesee?

Dean hops in and revs the engine. "Okay so where we headed, Tangina Barrons?"

Sam gives him a face. "I don't know, man. Usually there's some indication of where to go but this time..." He trails off, remembering the bowl.

"Sam?"

"Hang on. Where's my laptop?" Dean grabs it from the trunk and Sam fires it up. "The bowls the people were passing around. They were incrested with some kind of insignia. The Virgin Mary or something, with a halo of light behind her head and...something else." Dammit.

"What? People passin' around bowls? Sammy what kind of dreams are you having?"

"Shut up. Hold on." Dammit! What was it? Why can't he remember?

It hits him like a brick, suddenly and without warning. He taps out the description of the logo and finds the correct church, narrowing down its location by state which isn't difficult. The church only has two locations. "We're going to Arizona," he says, shutting the laptop.

"Alright..." Dean steers them out onto the highway heading west. "So you ever planning on telling me what the hell you saw?"

Sam swallows thickly. It's still sinking in for him so getting the words out is hard. His stomach squirms at the thought of that poor little girl, crying, begging her mom... "I think it was...some kind of mass suicide."