Summary:  A shadow in a dream has unexpected consequences.
A/N:  Hi guys! Welcome to my first-ever supernatural fanfic, so please read and review! I am really excited about where I see this going – it is inspired by a song called “Throw Your Arms Around Me” by Hunters and Collectors. I know there is a rule on here about songfics, but I’ve done this a bit differently to most songfics, so hopefully I haven’t broken any rules. Anyway, read and (hopefully enjoy)!
Please Note:  It is slightly AU. Although this takes prior to the series one finale, Dean knows about Devil’s traps. And please excuse my terrible Latin, if anyone out there actually knows anything about Latin and wants to fix it for me, please feel free!
Disclaimer:  I never usually do these – okay, so, they’re not mine.

I will come to you at nighttime
I will raise you from your sleep
I will kiss you in four places
As I go running down your street

Sam couldn’t sleep.

It didn’t surprise him of course. When had he ever got a good night’s sleep in the last few months? The prospect of reliving Jessica’s death over and over was hardly appealing. The memory of the blood dripping and the fire still remained as clear as the day it happened.

And Sam’s sense of guilt only intensified.

Sam felt guilty for not warning her. Guilty that he hadn’t died too. Guilty for ever coming into her life and at the same time, Sam felt guilty that he was secretly glad he had.

No… it was better to stay awake.

Then of course, there were the other dreams… visions. Of people he needed to save, events that must be prevented from happening. Sam hated the feeling of responsibility that came with these dreams, the knowledge that unless he did something, people would die and only he had the knowledge to stop it.

Well, him and Dean.

Sam rolled over to look at his brother, sleeping peacefully in the other bed. Dean had never been one prone to insomnia, and this night he had dozed off as soon as his head hit the pillow. Not that Sam blamed him. Even in the dark, he could see the dark scratches livid on Dean’s face, remnants of their last hunt. Dean had definitely taken a beating this time around. Sam’s shuddered slightly at the memory, of finding Dean bleeding and unconscious, attacked while Sam went to the car for more weapons. Sam had killed the werewolf responsible, but then there had been an anxious few minutes, when Sam didn’t know if Dean would wake up, if Dean had been bitten, and he was tormented by the knowledge that this was all his fault….

In the darkness, Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the memories from his thoughts. But he knew it was no good. It was moments like these that lead to the worst dreams, the dreams Sam had never, ever told Dean about… the dreams where Dean died, impaled on a stake, slashed by a headless horseman, drowned by a water nymph. Or worse, the dreams where Sam couldn’t get out of the closet in time to stop a bullet, where Dean was crushed by a truck, where Sam didn’t find the faith healer…

Where the pistol in the asylum was loaded, and Sam shot Dean.

The truth and possibility behind all these dreams left Sam jumping awake, drenched in cold sweat, mouth open in a silent scream.

But this night, Sam forced these thoughts ruthlessly from his mind; instead focusing on the crack he could see dimly etched on the dingy ceiling. The sound of trucks rushing by on the highway. He kept his thoughts blank, tracing the crack over and over. It was meant to be a mechanism to keep his mind blank, keep unwanted memories from his mind, but this also had an undesired effect.

Sam fell asleep.

It wasn’t a sudden thing, more a gradual realisation, but Sam found himself standing in the motel room. He vaguely thought, this is a weird dream, and looked at his surroundings. He was standing beside one of the motel beds, and as he looked down he realised with a shock that he was staring at himself, sleeping. He turned and looked behind him, seeing Dean in the other bed exactly as before, before returning his gaze to his own sleeping form.

What the hell is going on?

Then, like a cold chill, something materialised in the room with him, on the other side of the bed. Sam couldn’t see more than a shadowy outline, but the sense of radiating menace was a force that left Sam literally breathless. He looked into the face of the thing, and was almost blinded by the darkness, but dimly he perceived a faint smile, before the thing placed his hand on sleeping Sam’s forehead

Immediately, an icy sensation swept over Sam from his head downwards, and he shivered involuntarily as he watched the thing, transfixed. Almost tenderly, it bent forwards, kissing the sleeping Sam once on each closed eyelid and once on each ear. Four in all.

Repulsed, Sam took a rapid step back and shuddered, feeling the hot breath of the thing in his ear even as it bent over his sleeping form. As the thing stood up he stared at it in disgust, and he thought he dimly heard a low, haunting laugh before he suddenly –

Woke up.

Sam awoke with a gasp, lurching upright. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, and the hairs on the back of his arms prickled as he shook his head in the absolute darkness, trying to clear the lingering feeling of dread. Resolving to get a glass of water Sam swung his feet over the edge of the bed, noting, without really caring, how dark it was. Lurching unsteadily to his feet, he felt his way along the wall, treading carefully to avoid waking Dean. He had made it, he guessed, halfway across the room when suddenly something grabbed his shoulder. Yelling in shock, Sam kicked his attacker away from him, backing only a couple of steps towards the light switch before a horrible thought dawned on him.

Sam hadn’t heard the sound of his own voice when he yelled.

Suddenly, the silence surrounding him became deafening, as Sam realised he couldn’t hear anything. No trucks on the highway. No crickets chirping. No wind blowing through the cracks in the door. And no Dean snoring heavily in the other bed.

Sam immediately felt a suffocating panic, but into the swirling terror cut another, more ominous thought. Why is it still so dark? And the horrible truth began to dawn on Sam. He tried once more, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that maybe he had lost his voice somehow, and that it was a really quiet night…

"Dean?"

Nothing. Sam could feel his mouth and lips move, the vibrations created in his voice box carry along his jaw, but he could hear nothing. And a tentative hand he knew was Dean’s coming to rest on his shoulder told him everything he needed to know. Dean would have answered him.

Sam was deaf.

Sam stood frozen, Dean’s hand like an anchor mooring him to reality, before he felt Dean grip both his shoulders hard and give him a little shake. Sam would have laughed if he hadn’t been so terrified. Whatever Dean was saying, he wasn’t liking Sam not answering.

"I can’t hear you, Dean." It was a very strange sensation, to speak and hear nothing.

The hands suddenly relaxed their grip, and panicked, Sam made a grab for Dean’s retreating arm, catching his forearm. Alone in the darkness and silence, Sam couldn’t bear to lose his only connection to the outside world. Almost immediately, Dean took Sam’s hand again, gentle this time, and imagining the look of worry on Dean’s face made Sam feel like crying. There was only one thing left to ask, and Sam could barely bring himself to speak. To not hear the sound of his own voice. But he had to know.

"Dean… are the lights on? Squeeze my hand for yes."

There was a pause, and Sam’s heart lifted suddenly as he felt a twinge of hope, before plummeting as he felt Dean grip the fingers of his right hand.

Blind and deaf.

The shock overcame him and he felt Dean catch his arm as Sam fell to his knees, his mind, for now, a merciful blank

I will squeeze the life out of you
You will make me laugh and make me cry
And we will never forget it

Dean was awake.

Sam, usually such a restless sleeper, had been perfectly still when Dean groggily opened his eyes and dragged himself out of bed, and Dean was loathe to wake him under the circumstances. Sam needed his rest, seeing as he seemed to be actually getting some for a change.

So Dean had gone about his usual petty time-fillers. Showered. Sorted laundry. Eaten a breakfast of Doritos and flat coke he unearthed from the bottom of his stuff. Started cleaning the weapons. And he’d been doing this, quietly, carefully, methodically, when Sam had woken up. In his usual fashion, he had sat up with a gasp, and Dean had cursed inwardly, disappointed Sam hadn’t been granted the restful sleep that proved so elusive.

“Another nightmare?” Dean had asked idly, not really looking at Sam. He knew what the answer would be.

But that’s when things had gotten weird. Sam hadn’t answered, just sat there staring into space before climbing unsteadily out of bed, and beginning to feel his way along the wall.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Dean set down the gun he was cleaning, staring at Sam making slow, uncertain steps. Sam didn’t answer. “Hey!” He climbed to his feet. “Sam, are you okay?” Sam’s eyes were wide open, gazing at nothing, and he continued his unsteady progress across the room. Dean concluded, somewhat hopefully, that Sam must be sleepwalking. “Sammy?” he reached out and grasped Sam tentatively by the shoulder. He expected for Sam to wake up suddenly, to maybe jerk away or stumble. What he didn’t expect was to be kicked viciously in the gut, so much so that he staggered backwards into the bed. “Sam, what the hell is wrong with you!” Dean bellowed angrily, gasping air back into his winded lungs and clutching his stomach. Sam stood frozen, still staring into space. “Sam?” Dean said, softly this time, and stood cautiously in front of Sam, who was very pale, with beads of sweat dripping off his brow.

“Dean?”

“Well who the hell did you think it was?” exasperated, he approached Sam, staring into his vacant eyes. With a chill, Dean realised he couldn’t see Sam looking back at him. “Sam, why won’t you look at me?” There was no answer. In anger borne of fear, Dean shook Sam harshly “answer me, dammit!”

“I can’t hear you, Dean” Sam’s voice was strangely flat. In shock, Dean let go of Sam, stepping back, and the first real emotion to cross Sam’s face in this whole interlude manifested as panic, and he grabbed blindly forwards, grasping Dean’s retreating arm. As confused as he was, the big brother in Dean could not deny Sam’s look of utter terror, and he gently took Sam by the hand, gazing earnestly into his face. Then Sam asked, “are the lights on?” and Dean’s whole world fell apart.

Sam was aware of someone shaking his shoulder, but he was also acutely aware, as he was dragged back to consciousness, that he did not want to wake up. But against his will he began to feel the rough stubble of the carpet against his cheek, and the movement of stale air over his skin, and he knew that he was awake. Reluctantly opening his eyes, he blinked rapidly out of habit, but the darkness in front of him did not change. Now he was aware that the pressure on his shoulder had lessened somewhat, and he knew he was still on the motel floor where he had passed out. Sam didn’t think he’d blacked out for more than a minute, but the almost painful grip of Dean’s hand on his shoulder let Sam know that, for Dean at least, it had already been a minute too long. For a moment Sam just wanted to curl up in a ball and die, escape, but that fleeting thought soon passed. Sam’s life might, on occasion, suck; but he would take life over death any day. His normal life that is, filled with sights and sounds rather than this terrifying darkness and silence.

Dean yanked hard on his arm and Sam felt himself pulled roughly to his feet before being pushed unceremoniously to sit on the bed. Even this short action created in Sam a barely suppressed panic, as he had no idea where he was going – when Dean pushed Sam into the bed, Sam didn’t know it was there until he touched it, and up until then he felt only that he was falling, with no idea when, where or how hard he was going to stop. It was, Sam reflected as he clutched the covers so hard he was sure his knuckles turned white, as though someone had shoved a bag over his head that he desperately wanted to remove, but couldn’t. The only real link with the outside world was touch.

Sam sat very still, acutely aware of the movements around him. He could feel hardly any air movement in the still space, and only the dull vibrations of Dean thumping around the room, traveling up from the carpet through Sam’s feet, gave Sam any indication that he was not existing in his own personal vacuum, completely isolated from the world and everyone in it. Then, suddenly, he felt Dean grasp his wrist again, hauling him to his feet and beginning to pull him across the room.

“Dean, wait!” Sam hated this, hated not knowing what was going on, hated not being in control of his own body. Every word he spoke, but did not hear, was like a stab reminding him. “What’s happening?” Sam didn’t know how he expected Dean to answer him, only that he desperately needed reassurance. But there was a pause, and then something cool and heavy dropped into the palm of his hand. Sam fingered it gently; the sharp ridges and smooth metal, and knew instantly what it was. “Impala keys” he guessed, and Dean squeezed his hand once in assent. “Hospital?” It was where he would have taken Dean if their roles were reversed. Another squeeze, lighter, more reluctant this time. Dean hated hospitals, and would fight against a visit unless he was staring death in the face. Sam was usually the same way, but his newly silent, shadowy world had stripped him of his resolve, his mental defenses. Sam felt vulnerable and exposed, and would do anything, including endure a hospital, if it meant he would see and hear again.

The trip to the hospital was harrowing. Sam had never realised how much he relied on his senses to help him navigate even the smallest obstacles. He stumbled crossing the threshold of the motel-room door. He nearly plummeted down the concrete stairs to the ground floor of the motel, before Dean arrested his descent with a strong hand around his upper arm. Dean didn’t let go after that, and that single touch became Sam’s lifeline. He felt his way blindly along the corridors and cursed when they reached the car park, where there was only empty space between him and the car. Even with Dean’s steadying hand he felt lost without something to balance against, lean on, and Sam had to fiercely resist the urge to hold his hands out in front of him, and so convey his blindness to all the world. It was a relief to reach the Impala, to slide into the cool familiarity of the leather seats. But even as he relaxed slightly there was a sting, as the car started up and Sam could only feel the vibrations of the engine, but not hear the achingly familiar throaty roar of the old car. Sinking back into the seat, Sam wrapped his arms around himself and hoped, desperately, that whatever was wrong with him would be resolved once they reached the hospital.

Instead, Sam felt as though he’d been plunged into a whole new nightmare.

You will make me call your name
And I’ll shout it to the blue summer sky
And we may never meet again

Sam knew when they had walked into the emergency room by the heat of the lights on his face. It was something he had never noticed before, and now it struck him as amazing that had never realised that outside the air was cooler and somehow finer, smoother as it moved across his skin. Indoors it was stiller, stuffier – this emergency room had an unpleasant smell as well, and Sam found himself longing for the relative freshness of the car park. Dean led him somewhere (Sam assumed, the front desk) a little faster than Sam felt comfortable with, but Sam forced himself to place his complete trust in Dean, to lead Sam wherever he was going safely. It wasn’t difficult to trust Dean.

Once they stopped walking, Sam just stood. An overwhelming sense of frustration had begun to overtake the fear, as Sam desperately wanted to know what was going on, but had no way of finding out. Dean still held loosely to the sleeve of Sam’s jacket, so Sam at least knew Dean was there, making things happen, but it wasn’t the same as being in control of the situation himself. Sam had never felt so completely dependent on someone, not since he was a small child, and he shuddered to think what his situation would have been like if he hadn’t had Dean there, to rescue him (yet again, Sam thought almost bitterly), to speak for him, to guide him. Sam’s battered pride crumbled more at this realisation, and he wondered how much of his confidence would be left intact after this thing ended… one way or another.

Sam was startled out of his reverie by something hard poking him in the back of the legs, just above the ankles, and he felt a hand on his shoulder push him down. Sam let out a cry of panic before he could stop himself, and then he landed, hard in some sort of chair. He grabbed the armrests frantically, felt someone lifting his feet onto the footrests that had jabbed him, and realised with horror that he was sitting in a wheelchair. It began moving, as someone else pushed, and Sam said sharply, “I can walk!” The movement didn’t stop, and Sam began to stand, rebellion against this intrusion on his autonomy, but a firm hand, that wasn’t Dean’s, pushed him almost viciously back down. “Dean!”, Sam pleaded, and felt a much gentler hand come to rest on his shoulder, but of course there was no answer, and the chair moved forward relentlessly. Distressed, Sam took comfort from the familiar touch, and tried to suppress the rising panic that came from being in a situation so completely out of his control. The wheelchair ride seemed to take an eternity, before it finally came to halt. He felt the wheelchair lift slightly as someone let go of the handles, and Dean’s hand left his shoulder, leaving Sam feeling isolated once more, but this time he didn’t react. He wasn’t a baby and, Sam told himself desperately, Dean wouldn’t leave him like this. He would be somewhere nearby.

Some time passed, enough for Sam to lose his panic and grow almost bored, before he was startled yet again by someone grabbing his face. A large, smooth hand held one side of his face, the fingers prising his eye open painfully, and he tried fruitlessly to blink, jerking his head back out of reflex. Another hand gripped the side of his head hard, wrenching his head back into position, and Sam winced in pain. A moment later the rough grip diminished (maybe Dean had said something?), and Sam held very still as, he assumed, someone studied his right eye. The same exercise was repeated with his left, and there was a pause, before something cool and solid was placed in his right ear, then his left, and removed. He felt someone, perhaps a nurse, take his hands, pulling him to his feet. Then he was led a step forward, and his hand guided forward to rest on something soft. He ran his fingers along it lightly, taking in the woollen weave and the feel of linen, and determined that it was a bed, before awkwardly climbing up and feeling the covers drawn around him. Then Sam was left alone.

A different person than Sam might have taken this moment to cry or despair, but instead, Sam began to wonder. What had happened? Why was he so suddenly blind and deaf? Something was niggling at him, to do with when he woke up, but it flitted infuriatingly just distant from the reach of his mind and he couldn’t quite grasp it. Sam thought back, trying to trace the events of the previous day and night. They had just finished hunting the werewolf, and were having an unspoken “day off”, as Dean researched their next hunt and Sam watched Dean surreptitiously, taking in his scratches and injuries, in between going to the Laundromat and lying on the bed, staring off into space. Try as he might, Sam couldn’t come up with anything unusual about the day’s events, and turned instead to the night. And this was where he felt, quite clearly, that something important had happened; yet he couldn’t remember what it was. It was frustrating. Sam began to feel drowsy, his concentration ebbing, as the endless darkness and silence sent his body into sleep mode. He decided, with a touch of irony, to sleep on it. But before he dropped off, he called out “Dean, you there?” A hand closed over his and, comforted, Sam fell asleep.

Sam’s sleep was restless. A shadowy outline. Coldness. Fear. And then something was in the room with him…

Gasping, Sam sat up. How long had he been asleep? Minutes? Hours? With a horrible shock, the memories descended on him, and suddenly Sam realised what had happened. Then he felt Dean grip his shoulder.

“Dean, are we alone?” There was a pause. “Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no.” Sam said, slightly annoyed.

One squeeze.

“Dean, I think I know what happened – why I’m like this. I think something came after me in my sleep” Sam could feel Dean’s fingernails digging into his palm as his grip tightened. “It looked like a shadow.” Sam stopped talking then. It was quite difficult to speak and not hear. And, he was sure, his voice and words were slurred together as though he was drunk. Sam was ashamed of his speech. But he felt Dean pressing his hand again, clearly wanting more. Sam was didn’t want to tell him the next bit, his face burning with embarrassment, but he knew it was the most important bit of all.

“It kissed me… on the eyes and ears”. Then Dean let go. There was a pause. “Are you going to go research?” Sam asked. Dean squeezed his hand once, forcefully. Yes. Then he left, and Sam was left truly alone.

For a long time, hours, Sam was left undisturbed. He spent a lot of the time dozing, dropping into little half-sleeps. It was becoming difficult for him to tell whether he was awake or not. Sometimes he dreamed that Dean had come back, and then when he woke up wondered where he had gone, before realising it was all a dream. Sometimes he dreamt dreams with sound and colour, and felt like crying when he woke up in blackness. Most of the time he felt bored out of his brain – with nothing to watch, to hear, he was left with only his thoughts for company. He began to focus on the world of movement instead, seeing what he could interpret of the outside world, and desperate for stimulus of any sort. He worked out that when someone walked passed outside his room, he could feel the vibrations coming up from the floor through his bed. But that was all.

When the doctors returned, it was almost a relief. Until they began their next lot of tests. More people grabbing at Sam’s face, poking his ears. Prising his eyes open with hard thumbs. He could tell they were shining a light in his eye, by the heat of the torch in his skin. But this was one of the few instances where Sam knew what was going on. Sam began to feel more like a rag doll or a test dummy under the barrage of tests. There was one with headphones, but that was all Sam worked out before he was whisked off somewhere else. There was one with plastic shapes and holes that made Sam think they thought he was stupid, as well as deaf and blind. But he dutifully fitted the square peg in the square hole, the round peg in the round hole, before someone took them away and he was wheeled off somewhere else. Sam longed to stop, to crawl back into bed and just lie there, but no one asked Sam what he wanted to do. He wouldn’t have heard them if they had.

And now it was time for another test. Sam was hauled out of the wheelchair and led several steps, before someone placed his hand on the edge of something. It felt like a sheet and Sam, pleased, thought he had been brought back to his bed. But when he climbed up and someone helped him lie down, he realised that this bed was much narrower than his own, and there was no pillow. Sam had just enough time to grow apprehensive, before it moved beneath him. Startled, he grabbed the edges of the bed, feeling the vibrations as it moved a few feet before coming to a halt. Sam immediately sensed that he was in a different space. There was little air movement here, and the air felt somehow emptier than usual. A worm of uncertainty wiggled in his stomach, but he forced the fear down, gripping the sides of the bed tightly. Then the vibrations began. They were regular and massive, and with his heightened sense of touch Sam felt like his teeth were rattling inside his head as the air shook around him. Decidedly alarmed, Sam went to move his arm to a better position when it bashed on something. Tentatively Sam reached upwards again, and again his hand came into contact with something cool and smooth. Panicked now, Sam reached up above him with both hands, desperately feeling his environment. Everywhere he reached he felt the wall around him, only inches from his face. Sam had never been particularly claustrophobic but now he was absolutely terrified, and his breathing became more and more ragged as he beat on the shell around him. He felt as though he were in a coffin, buried alive. Speaking for the first time in hours, he pleaded, “Let me out. Let me out!” The vibrations stopped almost immediately and he felt the bed beneath him move again. Waving his hands about frantically, as soon as he felt clear air above him he sat up, jumping off the bed, breath rasping as he bent over trying to breathe slowly. A hand grasped him around the arm but Sam had had enough. “Back off! Don’t touch me,” he snarled, backing away before colliding with something that dug sharply into his hip. Cursing, he jumped as someone again grabbed onto his arm. He swatted them away, and a pleading note entered into his voice as he begged, “please, just leave me alone.” Sam felt ashamed of himself for panicking, but his frayed nerves couldn’t handle it any more. He pushed past the nurse or doctor or whoever the hell it was, arms out in front of him as he felt his way forwards. Finding the doorframe he staggered through, lurching desperately along against the wall. Sam didn’t know where he was going; only that he had to get away. But what he was really trying to escape from was his blindness, his deafness, and deep down he knew that, at least within the near future, he was trapped. Out of breath and dejected Sam came to a halt. For a while he just stood, too exhausted to really go anywhere. No one came after him, so he guessed they didn't mind him storming off – and he didn’t want to go back. He contemplated trying to find his room, but that seemed impossible. Instead he decided to just keep going forwards.

After a few corridors, Sam began to feel heat on his face and the plasterboard walls changed to glass. Sam slowed, feeling intently the length of the glass until he came to a handle and, pulling it, the glass door slid open. Stepping out, Sam could instantly feel the heat of the sun and the breeze on his face. He could feel the grass beneath his feet, cool and soft, and smell trees. Taking a few steps forward, hands outstretched, he felt the rough bark of trunk before him and, with a sigh of relief, sank down onto the grass, leaning his back against the tree. The air was warm and still.

He stayed there for ages, leaning against the tree and shredding bits of bark with his fingers. He imagined he could hear birds and the wind through the trees, and he closed his eyes and pretended that he could open them and see at any time, if he wanted to. He enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his face and was leaning back, almost asleep, when suddenly the air on his face turned cold, as though someone was standing in front of him blocking the light. He opened his eyes, disturbed. They sat beside him and the ground shuddered slightly. Sam turned his head towards them out of reflex more than anything else, frowning slightly, when a hand reached out and took his.

It was Dean.

Sam felt more relief than he would ever acknowledge at his brother’s return. Before Sam could speak, Dean uncurled his Sam’s fingers and placed something in his palm. Sam felt it curiously. It was hard and smooth, yet light, almost like polished wood, with clearly defined straight edges. He ran his finger round the perimeter, trying to visualise in his head what he felt with his hands.

“The letter H?”

Dean reached out and took Sam’s hands, squeezing once for yes. Then he guided Sam’s hand down to the grass, were Sam could feel more wooden shapes. The next one was an “I”. He ran his fingers over them, emotion threatening to choke him even as a wide grin spread over his face as he traced out the words.

HI SAM

Sam felt a rush of affection for his brother, who was smart in so many ways. “Hi Dean,” he managed to choke out, and he felt Dean grip his shoulder hard, giving him a reassuring shake, before letting go. For the first time in a long time, Sam felt safe.

TBC