Chapter Text
Sam Winchester is no stranger to unusual dreams. It’s mostly little things, like when Sam dreamt of Jess finding the shirt she’d been missing for two weeks shoved under the couch, and lo and behold, the next day she found it exactly where it had been in his dream. Or when one night, he dreamt about Dean calling him, chalked it up to just missing his brother, only to wake up to the sound of their home phone ringing with Dean on the other end.
He always tells himself they’re easily explainable tricks of the mind. He must’ve seen the shirt while cleaning, and it stayed caught in his subconscious. And, obviously, he must’ve heard the phone ringing in his sleep, and he knew Dean was the only one who’d call that late at night. No matter how many times he repeats it, though, it just seems too good to be true that any aspect of his life would be a coincidence. He’s seen enough to know that coincidences are rare. When Sam dreams (if he dreams at all, sometimes he goes weeks without), it’s always the usual unusual.
Tonight is different.
It’s not like there’s anything wrong with his dream: Jessica resting her head on his lap as he strokes idly through her hair, watching the moon out the window. They are in their living room, nothing but the moon outside and the light from the silenced TV carving out shapes from the shadows. Sam is aware he fell asleep right here on the couch, is aware he’s dreaming, is aware Jess is really upstairs showering like she said she would before he dozed off, and yet this idea his mind conjured up is so real. Everything, from the smell to the textures to the air, is exactly how it would feel if he were awake.
Despite it all, despite the sound of Jess’s calm inhale and exhale and the feel of her cool breath on his thigh, he knows he’s dreaming. But there’s something in the back of his mind that he just can’t voice, something ringing alarm bells – Sam Winchester doesn’t dream of dull, domestic bliss like this. His dreams are predictions at best, foreboding warnings at worst.
(He thinks of flames nipping at his skin, of waking up unbearably hot, wiping the sweat from his brow as if he’d actually been burning up.)
Jess buries her head deeper into his leg, her fingertips ghosting across his knees. Sam’s hands pause as he thinks for a second, wondering if he should just accept this mercy for what it is. Between the endless work at the office and all of Dean’s messes, he hardly ever gets any time to catch his breath, dream or not. And, maybe this is like his other dreams. Maybe he and Jess will curl up together tomorrow night in front of the TV, just like they are now, and he’ll get to experience this peaceful fantasy twice.
Sam feels his lips fold into a small frown. When had he ever been that lucky?
His voice comes out too loud in the quiet room. “Why am I dreaming this?”
Jess doesn’t respond immediately, instead swirling her index finger in intricate patterns on his jeans. When she finally does, she turns and looks at him, brows pinched in worry.
“Do you not like it?”
“No, I… uh. I do, of course I do,” he remedies. “I’m just not used to my dreams being so normal.”
Jess cups a hand to his cheek, her palm colder than the metal of her engagement ring. “Then enjoy it while it lasts, Sammy.”
She smiles, so bright and loving, and although he knows it’s just a dream, Sam gives in anyway. He smiles back and pulls her closer in his lap.
“Alright, then.”
When he wakes up, early morning sunlight is pouring through the curtains. He hears Jess in the kitchen, scuffling around with pots and pans, the smell of bacon beckoning to him like a siren’s song. There’s a crick in his back from the awkward position the couch had forced him in, and his legs crack with each step he takes.
Jess turns around and smiles at him, eyes crinkling around the corners.
“I was wondering when you’d get up, Sleeping Beauty.”
Sam rolls his eyes playfully, though in the back of his head, he hears a twenty year old Dean pouring water on his head, saying, C’mon, Sleeping Beauty. These bloodsuckers ain’t gonna decapitate themselves. For just a second, guilt and fear and pain roll through him as he thinks of his brother, hiding in dingy motel rooms, still wrapped in a too-big leather jacket. Sam swallows back the shame and instead thinks of what’s right in front of him, now.
Jessica kisses him softly, shortly, yet with so much love he’s scared it’ll consume him whole. She intertwines her fingers with his, gently fiddling with his matching ring. In a year, this will all seem real, tangible. He won’t be doomed to die young and alone. He’ll be able to wake up, Jess right next to him, and not have to drink a six pack to get his morning started. Sam runs his hands through her long, blonde curls, and stares long enough that he’d be able to draw her perfectly with his eyes closed.
Jess takes a deep breath in, and then–
“Oh, shit,” she says, quickly turning around to grab the completely blackened bacon from the pan. Sam laughs as she turns off the stovetop and points an accusing finger at him, tongs gripped tight in her other hand.
“You,” she says, voice angry but face split in a smile. “You distract me too much. This is your fault!”
Sam only laughs more, Jess following suit a second later. This is the rest of his life, for the foreseeable future. No salt circles and sawed off shotguns. His mornings could be spent burning breakfast with his wife, his afternoons at work, and his evenings at a fancy restaurant for date night. He tells himself that this is what he was meant for. He also tells himself that denial is a river and he forgot to pack an inner tube.
A week passes before Sam has another dream.
It’s Valentine’s Day, which means he’s worriedly brushing his teeth in the bathroom five minutes before they have to leave to go to dinner. Did he have everything prepared? Sam goes through the list in his mind, running over everything twice. He has chocolates in the pantry for Jess after they get home. He has a card, signed by all of his law friends. He even has a cute stuffed bunny with a J embroidered into the foot. Okay, maybe it’s a little cheesy, and Dean would tell him he’s gone soft, but Jess deserves every bit of it.
It’s also February, which means it’s almost March, which means final exam cram season, which means Sam is almost done with the school year. A myriad of emotions well up in his gut, most of which are too dense for him to fully unpack right at this moment, so instead Sam adjusts his tie in the mirror and walks out of the bathroom. He can deal with that later, after dinner.
Jessica is wearing a powder-blue dress, which ends right below her knees. She slides her hands around his shoulders and frowns. “Stop worrying so much about tonight,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“I know you, Sam. And I know how you are about Dean, too.” She pauses and hesitates for a second. “I don’t know why you invited him.”
Sam looks away, guilty, as if Jess was getting onto him even though he knew she wasn’t. He wanted to defend himself, to defend Dean, like, if you were raised like we were then you would know I always want him around. Sam keeps his mouth shut, though, because the last thing he needs is to start arguments on this day that is, supposedly, full of love.
Sam runs a hand through his hair. “This won’t be like last time–”
“It better not be. If he pukes in the plant again he’ll be banned from our house permanently.”
“You don’t mean that,” and, after a long look from Jess, Sam added, “It won’t be like last time. Promise.”
Jess, somewhat convinced, smiles softly and leans up to kiss him. Last time all three of them went out together, about three months ago, Dean got so drunk that when they got to Sam and Jess’s apartment, he stumbled inside and puked in the first potted plant he’d run into. Jess had been majorly pissed, and for good reason. Dean… was not a nice drunk. It hurt Sam to see him like that, even if he’d never admit it.
When they get to the restaurant, Dean is already sitting at a table inside. He stands up and wraps Sam in a big bear hug, embarrassing him to no end, and regards Jess with a nice nod before turning his attention right back to Sam. How kind.
“So,” says Dean, that classic asshole smirk plastered on his face. Sam finds it comforting, like a reassurance that no amount of time spent with John can truly break his brother’s spirit. “How’s the apple-pie life treating you?”
Sam smiles and shakes his head. “Great, Dean, it’s uh… it’s really great.” And Sam means it.
Jess leans forward. “And how about you, Dean? How’s the job?”
Nodding in a way that he thinks is convincing (and Sam knows this because he’s seen Dean do it a million times on hunts), Dean looks at his hands. “Yeah it’s… It’s good. Cars.”
Jess glances at Sam, who acts like he can’t see her. They order their food from the waitress (“Sammy, dude, this place is, like, the one-percents’ wet dream. They have crab!”) and sip from their drinks as they make the most awkward small talk ever. When Sam gets home, he will remember this experience as one of the top five most agonizing moments of his life. Jess, who thinks Sam can’t tell, really does not want to be here. More specifically, she doesn’t want to be here with Dean. She sends glances and fake, awkward chuckles Sam’s way in the hopes that he’ll catch the hint and they can leave. And Dean, who also thinks Sam can’t tell, is trying to recruit him back into The Life. Jess gets up and excuses herself to the bathroom.
“Dean,” says Sam as soon as she’s out of earshot.
“Sam.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m not – look. I know what you’re doing.”
“And what would that be?” Asks Dean, playing innocence. Sam just scoffs.
“I like my life now, Dean. I like having a boring job and a consistent living situation. Nothing’s gonna change that. So, you can stop trying to… I don’t know, hint that I should go back with you and Dad. ‘Cus it’s not happening.”
Dean stays quiet for some time, looking down at the bubbles in his drink. Sam wishes, not for the first time, that he could decipher all his brother’s mannerisms and expressions for good, so he’d never have to guess again. Finally, Dean speaks.
“I know, Sammy,” and Sam holds his tongue on the nickname. Dean sounds wounded. “I just… with this life, you never know. Is it so bad to wanna spend time with my little bro?.”
A sick, ugly lump forms itself in Sam’s throat. “You’re not gonna die.”
“I am, Sam. We all are. Sooner or later, we’re all gonna die,” Dean says, smiling. He looks away for a second, then looks back. “Just so happens that hunters have even less odds in our favour than everybody else.”
Instead of looking at his brother’s intense, green eyes, Sam surveys the rest of the restaurant. The thought of Dean even dying, dying like that no less, young and scared and alone, makes Sam feel physically ill. He takes a deep breath in and doesn’t say anything. To Sam, Dean can’t die. He’s the only constant in Sam’s life, other than Jess, and Sam thinks that when Dean is dead, half of Sam’s soul will die with him.
Sam doesn’t say all of this. Some part of him thinks Dean already knows it.
Dean shifts in his chair, and just like that, the somber mood leaves them. “Y’know,” he says, looking in Sam’s eyes. “Me and Dad could really use you on this hunt.”
“You already know my answer.”
“We’re looking for the thing that killed Mom.”
And before Sam could respond, say anything back to that mind-shattering statement, Jess sits back down. She looks between them, confused.
“Are you two… alright?”
Sam blinks away his shock. Later, later. When he’s more equipped to deal with this trainwreck of emotions. “Yeah, of course.”
“Yup.”
Half an hour passes, and they continue pointless small talk. Dean lies about his job, making something up about the annoying boss that he doesn’t have, and Jess pretends to laugh for Sam’s sake. Sam rubs his empty ring finger and tries to think of anything other than blood dripping from above, anything other than a baby’s crib turned to ash, anything other than childhoods turned into boot camp.
After consuming enough calorically for all three of them combined, Dean stands up and brushes off his cheap rental suit. “Welp.”
Sam and Jess follow, and they say their goodbyes.
Before Sam can get into his car, however, Dean grabs him by the elbow. He keeps his hand there, the warmth serving as a constant reminder to Sam that Dean is really here, alive.
“Think about it, okay? What I told you.”
Wordless, and feeling like he needs to crawl out of his skin, Sam nods. He drives home. He gives Jess her gifts, she gives him his own, and he passes out entangled in the sheets with Jess curled around him.
When he opens his eyes, he’s in the library at Stanford. The table he’s sitting at is covered in books over Civil Law, obscuring the nice, smooth wood. He looks around. This feels just like his last dream, down to the strange clarity and all.
And just like his last dream, Jessica plays a lead role. She smiles up at him from across the table.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says, and he smiles, too.
“You too.”
“You’ve never really… celebrated it officially before today, have you?”
Sam fiddles with his hands before answering. His last dream didn’t come true in the typical fashion that his dreams do, meaning that maybe his weird psychic (and he rolls his eyes at even thinking the word, who is he, Phoebe Halliwell?) premonition thing has faded. But there was still that strange, lingering feeling hanging inside the pit of his stomach, something telling him this dream was more.
He swallows it down. These dreams have to be just some subconscious projection of all his suppressed feelings, or something. Sam doesn’t know. He isn’t a psych major.
“Uh, No. I’ve never really had a reason to, before I met you,” Sam responds after a little bit. His smile grows wider at the memory of their first Valentine’s day together, awkwardly smooshed together on the couch in the dark.
That was probably the best day of Sam’s life, his attempt at normal life, watching reruns with Jessica and giggling over terrible chocolate flavors. The Jess in his dream seems to remember this too, copying his small smile. She leans in.
“You really love me, don’t you?”
Caught off guard, Sam laughs. “Of course I do.”
If this dream is really his subconscious speaking to him like he thinks it is, then what does this mean? Did Jess feel like Sam didn’t love her enough, and he was picking up on it without even knowing? His stomach turns. No way, he thinks. Jess should know that Sam loves her more than almost anything. He shows it enough… doesn't he?
Jess stares into his eyes, her pale blue irises looking into his hazel, scanning him for some deeper meaning. Her demeanor changes, only by a fraction, only noticeable to him because he commits all of her movements to memory, an archive so he can never forget her. Jess is just an inch left of her normal, joyful self, now just a little removed from ominous. She gets up from her seat across the table and inspects the books on the library shelf.
“Or…” She says, fingers brushing over leather-bound spines. Sam frowns. Why does this feel so wrong? “To you, am I just a gateway to normalcy?”
“What?” Sam breathes, a little sick.
She continues. “You didn’t tell Dean that we’re engaged. Why is that?”
“I don’t see what–” Sam tries, but he loses the words. He’s getting whiplash. Not once has he ever thought of Jess as an escape route. Not really, anyway. Not in any way that matters, not more than just a drifting thought on the lowest of low days. He did love her, truly. So where was this coming from?
Jess comes and sits in his lap, straddling him, though not in any seductive way. It feels like she just wants to be as close to him as physically possible, pulling her arms around his neck and pressing their chests close together. Sam links his arms around her waist, because, dream or not, this is still Jess. His heart beats faster.
“You’re trying to separate your life in two. Between hunting – your life with Dean – and living normally with me,” She explains for him. Not even a question, she’s stating this as facts.
Sam feels his lips turn down even more, his brows furrow, yet he can’t find the words to argue back. Everything he’s feeling is so overwhelming, unbelievably so. Everywhere they touch ignites like lightning through his nerves. She is so, so, cold, and it sets Sam’s blood on fire, makes his breathing heavy, makes this dream even more clear and real than it was before. She is like pure electricity, staring right through him and into his soul. It feels terrible. It feels like nothing he’s ever felt before, and he wants more.
He shakes his head, trying to get out of this stupor. “That’s not… that’s not what I’m doing. He just wouldn’t take it well, is all,” Sam responds.
Jess looks terribly sad, a sadness like he’s never seen before. It scares him to his core.
“That’s the thing. You put the needs of others, of Dean, above your own happiness,” Jess says in a quiet voice. The buzzing between them still continues. “When will you realize that you’re above that? You don’t even know how great you are. How great you can become.”
She’s quiet for a moment, unblinking. Sam doesn’t even know what to say. Now, he is almost one hundred percent certain that this dream (and the other one) are not like his normal premonitions, and that Jess would never say these things. She continues.
“Sammy, you need to accept that your life is your own. Stop trying to please people who only want to see you weak,” Jess breathes, her face inches away from his own. “Come to your full potential. Do what you were meant to do. ”
She stands up, and all the barely contained energy, crackling between their skin, leaves with her. Sam can breathe again, and he takes advantage of this, heaving like he’s coming up for air after drowning. He doesn’t acknowledge anything she said, or make any arguments to prove her wrong, because after all, how can he argue with his subconscious? It’s all him, anyway. It would lead nowhere.
He shakes his head. “Why?” He asks again. “Why are you saying this?”
“Because it’s true. Because you’re in denial, and I’m tired of waiting for you to realize it.”
Sam is dumbfounded. Once again, he can’t find any words to say. He thinks that maybe this is what years of guilt does to you, it manifests into your fiance saying ominous and soul-shattering things about your life, in strange, lucid dreams. Does this mean he should spend more time with Jess? Tell Dean about their engagement?
As if reading his mind (and he supposes she is, because… she is in his mind), Jess tilts her head towards him.
“Speaking of secrets, Dean has a big one,” says his fiance, and then Sam wakes up.
Every night, Sam dreams. And in every single one, Dream Jess is there. And he’s taken to calling her ‘Dream Jess’, separating her from the Jess outside his dreams, because she’s… different. Not too much, because she’s still smart and kind and witty, but after the however many long conversations they’ve had, Sam has started to notice some obvious distinctions from how he knows Jess in the real world.
For starters, she’s cold. The one time they hugged, Sam felt like he’d been in one of those walk-in beer coolers they have at gas stations. It was all-encompassing, freezing him right down to his center. And, whenever they touch, there’s this weird buzz, like electricity flows through her skin. To Sam, it feels like sticking his fingers in a wall socket. It’s never as intense as the time she sat on his lap, never as dizzying, but it’s always there. (The most concerning part is that when he wakes up, sometimes he still feels it, like an itch he can’t scratch.) And… Jess has always had a weird sense of humor, but her jokes are still funny to Sam. Dream Jess seems like a weird, twisted copy of this, her jokes always coming out either too violent or seriously weird.
“You know,” Dream Jess sighs out one night, as they’re in the kitchen baking a cake. (She said they should make one, ‘cus it’s always someone’s birthday.) She’s holding a knife. “I could take this, cut you open, and eat your guts instead.”
She smiles up at him, and Sam just nervously laughs. “Um,” he says, pausing in mixing the batter for a second.
“It would take a lot less time than waiting for a whole cake to bake.”
Sam stands awkwardly between her and the counter, boxed in, his heart banging anxiously on his ribs. If all dreams had meanings, did this mean that Jess had some underlying homicidal urges? And, furthermore, if he dies in a dream, would he die in real life too?
But Dream Jess just laughs, that sweet sound doing nothing to lessen Sam’s fears. “I’m just joking, dummy! You should see the look on your face! Ha.”
Not to mention, she does some things that Sam is sure he’s never seen Jess do before. Dream Jess leans against walls with crossed arms, she tilts her head owlishly when Sam explains something she doesn’t get, she’ll stalk around him in circles like a predator, rolling her eyes excessively. It’s not like Jess has never rolled her eyes at something Sam has said, but Dream Jess does it with so much petulance, it makes Sam feel like he’s in the eighth grade again.
But, despite all this, Dream Jess is still Jess. And Jess is kind and soft, reliable and honest. In his dreams, she holds him tight, kisses away his worries, whispering praises in his ears as she explains in gentle tones how she wants nothing but the best for him. It builds him up. It makes Sam feel comfortable in the moment, despite all the unease these dreams give him when he wakes up. It’s like Dream Jess understands him, knows him, better than anyone else, and he supposes she would because she’s him.
When Sam is in the waking world one day, driving them back home from getting groceries, Jess speaks up from the passenger seat.
“Do you ever think,” she says, looking out the window. “Maybe you should get therapy?”
Sam rubs his thumbs on the wheel in a soothing motion. He frowns (as he so often does.) “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing.”
“...Nothing?”
Jess sighs. “It’s just… Okay. I don’t know what happened in your childhood – and I don’t expect you to tell me! But I worry about you.”
Sam’s heart clenches uncomfortably. He didn’t know what he was doing to make Jess worry, and God, wasn’t that the worst? To make his fiance worry about him, when really, there ‘s nothing wrong. This is actually the best his life has been in a long time. Honest. He glances at her, drinking in the sight of her brows furrowed with pity, the feeling it brought him going down his throat like acid.
He shakes his head. “But I’m fine, Jess.”
“You’re not! You may… think you are, you may feel like you are, but there’s something weighing down on you, and I can tell,” Jess explains, voice tragically inflected with sorrow. “You’re not eating right. You never eat right, but now it’s even worse. And it’s like you’re barely getting sleep. Seeing you upset like this, I don’t know… it hurts me, too.”
Sam breathes in deeply, eyes fixed on the road but mostly unseeing. He thought he was sleeping really well, actually, but he doesn’t say that.
Jess continues. “What did Dean say to you on Valentine’s Day? You’ve been different ever since then.”
“What?” And when Jess just looks at him, willing him to answer, he says, “Dean didn’t say anything.”
She doesn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe himself, either. “You two were really weird when I came back, Sam.”
“We’re always weird.”
Jess only looks at him again, flooring him with an expression that says she isn’t going to take his noncommittal answers. Sam shrugs helplessly. They’re almost to the house now, so hopefully when they get inside, this conversation will be over with. Therapy, really? Sam wasn’t that messed up. He’d been getting along just great these past few years.
“I know you’re concerned, Jess, and I’m sorry. I am. But I feel fine,” Sam says, a smile on his face, trying to convey his fineness. “I feel great. How could I not, with my awesome fiance riding shotgun with me?”
Jess shakes her head but smiles nonetheless. “Kissing up to me won’t change what I said.”
He sighs. “I know. But I am, really. Fine. I’d tell you if I wasn’t. I would go to therapy if I wasn’t.”
Placated for now, Jess pats his thigh and turns up the radio. He knows that this will probably be the topic of another conversation, and until then, he can live in dread and denial. Maybe what Dean said to him about finding the thing that killed their mom did have a little effect on him, and maybe he wasn’t the best at burying it, but he didn’t need therapy. And maybe the appearance of Dream Jess, telling him his brother had a big secret, didn’t make anything better. For the most part, though, Sam was fine. Peachy, even.
They put the groceries away when they get home. Sam and Jess sit on the couch with the TV low in the background (and the memory of his first dream with Jess in it comes to mind) and Sam looks over some case files. His boss said they were important, or something, but the tiny letters start to blur together and Sam has to rub his eyes to stay awake. Maybe they should call it a night.
So they brush their teeth and change, and then curl up in their big king bed. The warmth of Jess pressed against his back lures Sam to sleep, and the chill of Dream Jess’s presence spurs him awake.
They’re at some park, in some city, in some state, that Sam most likely has visited before on some hunt with his dad and Dean. He sits on the bench and feeds a few ducks, looking up at the trees framing the sky, and a certain unease floods his stomach as he realizes that he doesn’t know this place at all. Has his memory really gotten that bad?
Dream Jess taps her fingers on the bench in some rhythm Sam doesn’t recognize. He looks over.
“Hi, Sam.”
“Dream Jess,” he regards, and she smiles at the name. Sam guesses that she would already know he calls her that, but he’s never said it out loud, and it seems a little silly.
She’s quiet, as she is in most dreams before Sam gets bored and wants to talk. He leans back against the bench and studies her for a second, looking at the long hair that flows down her back and her passive blue eyes. She really is beautiful. Sam sighs.
“Do you worry about me?” He asks, feeling awkward for ruining the peace and quiet.
Dream Jess glances at him and then back down at the ducks, waddling around at their intertwined feet. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” he answers honestly. “It’s weird. I don’t perceive Jess as anything like you act. Some of the things you do…” Sam trails off. He was just thinking out loud at this point, not having any end goal or idea that he wanted to get across. “You’re like a hybrid between Jess and Dean. And maybe my mom, but I never knew her, so I don’t know. I don’t think I need to be worried over, so I don’t think you would worry, either.”
Dream Jess looks at him then, and unlike other times, her gaze doesn’t leave. She stares steadfast into his eyes, humor lighting them up. Sam feels it, that strange connection, the electric thrum of nerve bundles excited to leap out of his skin and fade into hers. It’s like an oncoming headache. She doesn’t say anything.
“Do I need therapy?” He asks, thinking of what Jess said earlier in the car.
Dream Jess doesn’t blink. “Do you want therapy?”
“I think you’re therapy enough. You’re not supposed to answer a question with a question, you know.”
She ignores that second bit. “Don’t you find it a bit odd, using a perceived projection of your subconscious that takes the form of your soon-to-be wife as therapy? Seriously, what good would that do? You’re just hearing what you want to hear.” Jess cocks her head to the side. “And the therapist-patient power imbalance is real unhealthy, too.”
Sam considers, throwing more bread to the ducks (and ignoring the phrasing of perceived). “Hmm. Maybe. But our life is odd already.”
“Our life. I’m included.”
Sam bumps their shoulders together, the spark sending shivers down his spine. “You’re me.”
They don’t say anything for a little while, instead feeding the ducks and looking at the scenery. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see the small smile plastered on Dream Jess’s face. It’s bashful, and almost proud, and Sam doesn’t see it appear that often with real Jess. It makes his insides boil. It makes him nervous, like he shouldn’t be here. Instead of dwelling, Sam takes in the view of the park once more.
It’s dreary out, the sun hiding behind layers of clouds, but it doesn’t make the day any less beautiful. The trees are in full bloom, the leaves a full spectrum of green, and the shadows they cast on the pavement make everything cooler. There are people milling about, some kids running up to the water and back, squealing as swans chase them, and Sam smiles. He’s almost certain he’s never been here before. He racks through his memories, and – no, there was no way. He’d been in plenty of parks on cases with Dad and Dean, but not usually during the day, and he’s never had time to relax like this. This was no memory of his. And it should disturb him, that he can envision so clearly somewhere he’s never been, but the past few dreams he’s had were also places he’s never been (and Sam Winchester is no stranger to unusual dreams).
Dream Jess catches onto his train of thought. “It is beautiful. I’ve never been here before.”
Sam smiles at the absurdity. “Yeah. Me neither.”
She smiles back, looking into his eyes again. Sam clears his throat.
“So,” he says, because he’s starting to feel a little awkward. “Given that you’re my therapist now, do you think I should tell Dean?”
“That you’re engaged?”
Sam nods, and Dream Jess copies his pose, leaning back on the bench and crossing her arms. “He won’t like that you lied to him. Then again, if you lie to him for even longer, he’ll be even more pissed.”
“Is this a yes or no?”
“It’s a ‘Do what you want.’”.
Leaning closer to her, Sam arches a brow. “Is that gonna be your answer for everything? To do what I want? Because it’s not very helpful.”
Dream Jess leans closer, too, and Sam swears he can hear the space between them hum. “It is generally what I think could solve most of life’s problems. That Sam Winchester does whatever he wants, whenever he wants.”
Sam rolls his eyes and turns away, tracking the clouds. He takes a deep breath in and comes to a decision. “Okay. I’ll tell him. You’re the worst therapist ever, and if he puts hair dye in my conditioner, or whatever, I’m blaming you.”
“Yes. Blame the girl who appears in your dreams. I think that will go over well.”
Sam laughs, and she does too, though it’s nothing like Jess’s laugh. It’s like this version of his fiance that he concocted in his mind is half-baked; as if it is the concept of a dream girl, with only a general outline of how Jess really is. She’s mixed with everything else in his life that brings him comfort. Quiet moments, nature, Dean’s forever childishness. Eventually, when their giggles fade away, Dream Jess turns to him, suddenly urgent. She puts a hand on his elbow.
“I do worry about you, Sammy,” she breathes, looking up at him like he’s the answer to all the world’s questions. “I need you to be happy. To pull through. Every waking moment, every hour, every second, you are on my mind. It makes me so angry, angry like words couldn’t describe.”
She says all his while inching closer, rubbing her chilled nose on his, her hovering lips sending shocks through his whole nervous system. Her grip turns to steel, and the proximity of her face to his, though he’s experienced it many times before with real Jess, feels entirely alien. He leans in with ease, chasing her mouth as she pulls back.
“And that’s another thing. You haven’t kissed me yet,” Sam whispers, adding onto the forever growing venn-diagram of Dream Jess vs. Jess. She furrows her brows, looking at him so intensely, as if he’ll fade away.
“Do you want me to?”
Sam steals her line. “I think you should do what you want.”
Dream Jess stills, so quiet, so breathless, that Sam is wondering if he accidentally hit a pause button, or if this is one of those dreams that just gets stuck sometimes. Then she blinks, and moves forward, her lips entangling with his. She is tasteless, and grabs for him like she’s drowning, terribly cold hands wrenching at his sleeves. She kisses like how a bird of prey sweeps down and grabs its meal, sharp and fast and meeting a biological need. To her, this is nature, how things are meant to be, and when she pulls back, Sam sees it.
Barely contained lightning pulsates behind her irises, those cold, ancient eyes, and then it passes. But it was there, Sam swears it. Something complex and so old that it makes Sam’s head swim, just beneath the surface, teasing him with a taste behind the curtain before obscuring the secret once more. He feels sick.
For the first time, Sam faces the thought that’s been giving him so much anxiety: I don't know who this is.