![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kassidy62Flashslash 62 prompt 2
He was sleeping, and the years fell away in his dream. He was... new. A baby - all feelings and hunger, succumbing to every whim of his body with a cry or a wiggle or a coo.
It was dark, the shadows from outside playing on the wall of his room, waving. He heard his mother. The sound was muffled, not a voice, not really. Just a noise, but he knew it was her. He stared up at the ceiling from his bed. Something dropped on his lip. He didn't realize what it was or what it meant, just waved his feet and looked up.
At his mother. Red, red, spreading all over her stomach. Flames burst out from her body, spreading along the ceiling. Her face was a frozen, pale mask.
Sam woke up screaming. Dean stumbled out of his bed and dropped to his knees beside him, grabbing his shoulders, shaking. "Sam! It's a dream, wake up. It's okay," and his voice was groggy, hoarse from sleep. Sam's eyes flew open and stared at Dean and didn't look away, holding to him like a lifeline until it sank in, the realization that he was awake.
Dean was here for him. Dean was always here unless Sam was running. Had been there for him for years. Sam knew how fortunate he was.
He wondered what Dean would say when Sam told him he'd dreamed about Jess, too. How she'd died. Just like his mother, pinned, bloody, face pale, frozen. Agonized.
Only he'd dreamed it before it happened.
wiggle, drop, years, fortunate