The Dreamer's Road 1/2

[grianchloch]

Title: The Dreamer's Road 1/2
Authors: delanach and a good friend
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean has post-traumatic stress disorder after he returns from Hell, and Sam has to decide how far he'll go to find a cure for his brother.
Warnings: spoilers for 3.16
Word count: 3,716
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, not for profit
Feedback: Yes!
Author's Notes: Split into two parts for length only.
From Co-author: I was reading an article on the use of psychedelics and halucenogenics to cure intractable cases of PTSD, and instantly thought of Dean. I sent the bunny to my good friend delanach because I don't write Supernatural, but she does. She was kind enough to let me play with this too.
From delanach: This was a brilliant bunny to play with, and I loved collaborating on the story. It's been said in the past that we share the same brain, and I think this proves it :)


The sun beat down, hot and relentless, on the cars in Bobby Singer's salvage yard. Most of them were beyond repair, good only for stripping out any useable parts and scrapping the metal but some, given enough time and attention, would run again. Those were the ones Dean liked best. He didn't enjoy pulling the insides of broken and battered cars and trucks apart unless it was to help put another one back together. When he found one he knew he could repair, he'd work on it night and day until it was done.

Bobby was happy to leave him to it, bringing him the odd cold beer as he worked, helping out with the heavier work when needed and making sure Dean didn't starve because once he was focused on a car, Dean practically forgot the rest of the world existed.

And Sam? Well, Sam mostly spent his days researching since he'd pulled Dean out of hell. Researching ways to fix Dean. But Dean wasn't a car or a truck that could be fixed by replacing a gear box cover or cleaning out the carburetor. He was broken in other ways, ways he could only forget about when he was fixing something else. So he left the research to Sam, unwilling to talk about it anymore than was necessary to keep Sam off his back. Sam was convinced that somewhere out there someone would be able to help him, but Dean knew better. No-one could help him. There weren't group therapy sessions for people who'd been to hell and made it back out again. He was unique, and in that respect, he was alone. Funny, because that was the one thing he could never stand, being alone, but now?

Dean knew he wasn't really alone, he still had Sam, but as time went by, Dean watched the change in Sam's eyes when he looked at Dean. Dean knew he wasn't what he had been, wasn't the same man who Sam had risked everything to save.

At first, the nightmares had shocked Sam, the screaming and the way Dean would be lost so far inside them that he never knew if this time would be the time he couldn't pull him out again, if this time, he'd finally lose Dean forever. But as the weeks passed, Dean saw the change in Sam. The terror faded fast now, to be replaced by a resigned sadness that hung around him, heavy and draining, when he had to deal with his broken brother.

Dean dreaded the day when Sam would decide he'd had enough, would turn away from him and leave. It was inevitable, Dean knew. He wasn't the brother Sam loved anymore, he wasn't strong enough to fight the invisible enemy that just wouldn't leave him be, and if he wasn't strong enough to overcome that, how could he ever be strong enough to be there for Sammy again? He'd had one job, to look after Sam, to keep him safe, and he kept screwing it up. And Dean knew that when the day came, when Sam walked out of the door and didn't come back, he wouldn't survive it.

But he didn't think on these things while he was working on a car.

The only sound to be heard in the yard was the snick, snick, snick of the socket wrench as Dean unloosened the bolts holding down the head cover of an Impala. She wasn't the same year as his baby, not the same color either, but she was familiar territory and he knew within minutes of lifting the hood that she could be repaired. The familiarity lingered as he worked and memories that didn't hurt so much tugged at the edges of his thoughts.

Memories of other long hot days spent in the same yard. He'd had two willing teachers in Bobby and his Dad, who, when time allowed, spent hours showing him round one engine compartment or another, explaining how everything was connected, how everything worked. Dean picked it up fast, just like any other useful skill he was taught. Taking care of guns and knives and all manner of weapons was something else he was good at from far too early an age as was first aid. His skills would have made a field medic proud.

And he had one unwilling student in Sam. His brother would bring him cold sodas as he worked, and Dean would do his best to pass on his newest mechanical skills, but Sam was never really interested. He would hang out with Dean, though, let him talk all he wanted and then ask random questions that had nothing to do with engines or cars.

Where was Dad? Why couldn't they live in a real house all the time like uncle Bobby did? Why did uncle Bobby have all those books with weird symbols in them? How had Dean really broken his arm last summer?

It was a huge relief to Dean when Sam got old enough to tell him the truth. A relief and a revelation because then he had someone to talk to about all the secret stuff, the weapons and the hunting, even though his first and foremost instinct was to keep Sam as far away as possible from it all in case he got hurt or worse. Sam was the only permanent thing in Dean's life, what with Dad taking off whenever he needed to, and them moving around so much that Dean gave up on trying to make real friends at the age of six. So Dean's every instinct was to keep Sam alive and safe.

Dean was brought out of his thoughts by the throaty purr of his Impala getting louder as it turned onto the track down to Bobby’s place, the sound carrying in the still air. Dean’s hand stilled momentarily on the engine as the sound got closer, but he stayed where he was and went back to work, knowing Sam would come and find him


“Hey Bobby.” Sam got out of the car, stretching his legs as the older hunter walked towards him from the shade of the porch.

“Hey Sam. Did you get to speak to the professor?”

Sam nodded, and grabbed his bag from the seat.

“Yeah, I did but it was a bust. Recommended a couple of good counselors that specialize in post traumatic stress disorder, but that's not gonna work. Those studies I read about with the mushrooms aren’t going to admit Dean as a subject because we can’t document what caused his stress. The government keeps too tight a lid on it because it’s so they’re afraid it’ll cause a drug epidemic.” Sam looked at Bobby. “How is he?”

“Still the same. He got that old truck running again, but he’s still not sleeping.” Bobby stepped forward and took the bag from Sam’s hand, pressing two cold cans of soda into it instead. “Let me take that in. You go talk to your brother.”

“Thanks Bobby.” Sam turned to go.

"And Sam? I might have a lead on what you were working on before you left. I'll be in the kitchen when you get back."

"Okay, that's great, Bobby." Sam's spirits lifted just a little.

It wasn’t hard to find Dean. The yard was quiet apart from the small sound of metal on metal coming from a spot near the old barn. Sam saw him, bent over the engine compartment of his latest project, and stopped.

The beard was back, about a week’s growth if Sam wasn’t mistaken. Exactly the length of time he’d been away. Dean didn’t look in mirrors anymore, so shaving was one of the few things he let Sam do for him. The long sleeved t-shirt he was wearing despite the heat was pushed up to his elbows but no further. Gone were the days he would have been stripped to the waist by now as he worked, too self conscious about the scars the hell-hounds left behind.

“Hey Dean.” Sam said quietly.

Dean started and dropped the wrench he’d been holding.

“S ...Sam, you’re back.” Dean turned to look at him. “Good trip?”

He took the offered soda and cracked it open, drinking half of it down in one go while Sam sipped his.

“Yeah, it was interesting. Not much use, though I think Bobby has a lead on something else."

Dean snorted.

“Sam, give it a rest, you're exhausted and I’m fine.”

Dean grinned at him, but the wide smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes and the faint tremor of his hand on the wrench betrayed him.

“You’re not fine, Dean.” Sam was tired. He’d driven for hours and didn’t want to get into another argument, not now, and Dean’s brave face was wearing him down. “You’re not.”

Without another word, Sam turned and trudged back to the house. He flung himself into a chair at the kitchen table and looked at Bobby.

“Please tell me you found some way to treat Dean?”

They had tried all the conventional treatments for PTSD, and none of them had worked, possibly because they were aimed at conventional sources of anxiety, like rape or war. None of them covered returning from Hell. Sam had burned the internet up looking for ideas and had stumbled across an article about psychiatrists using LSD and psilocybin to treat recalcitrant cases of PTSD. It seemed like the perfect solution for Dean.

His trip east had showed the futility of that hope. He was wondering how much longer the both of them could survive like this.

“Those mushroom studies put me in mind of some things I’d heard of a long time ago. Back in the seventies. When every other son of a bitch was looking for enlightenment.” Bobby took a pull of his beer, gathering his thoughts.

“I’ve been trying to track down the rumors while you’ve been gone. There’s a group of Navajo down in New Mexico, Dineh, they call themselves. They use the psychedelics the same way them doctors do. Spirit walking they call it. It’s a shamanistic ritual.”

Sam sat forward, excited. “Can you get in contact with them?”

Bobby shook his head. “The best I can find is they’re somewhere northwest of Chaco Canyon. I might make some calls, narrow it down, if you think you might go.”

“Yeah, okay.” It was a long shot, and one that he'd have the hardest time talking Dean into if it turned out to be an option. Shamanistic dream walking under the influence of magic mushrooms. Sam smiled, imagining Dean's best "Come again?" face if that was ever mentioned.

Sam left Bobby to make his calls, heading straight to bed. He closed the curtains but stuck the lamp on that sat on the small table between their beds. Dean didn’t cope well with the dark, so it had become one of those things Sam did on auto pilot. He climbed wearily into bed and pulled a pillow over his head, falling asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed.


It was dusk by the time Dean headed to bed. He shared a beer with Bobby out on the porch first, and Bobby tentatively asked if he knew what Sam's latest research had found.

“Yeah, he mentioned it before he went.” Truth be told, Dean hadn't really been listening, especially once Sam had mentioned the mushrooms. He hadn’t expected anything to come of it and couldn’t be disappointed when nothing did. "He can't seriously think magic mushrooms are gonna help."

"Well, there's more to it than that.”

Dean sighed.

“Not having this conversation again, Bobby. I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in what? In getting better? In helping your brother?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, I keep telling you both that. And why does Sam need my help?”

“Because he’s as broken as you are, son, and the only way to fix him is to let him fix you.”

“Sam’s not ... he’s fine, he’s okay.” Dean said stubbornly.

“He’s not, Dean. Sam watched the hellhounds tear you apart. When I found him, he was holding your dead body in his arms and he walked through fire to pull you out of there. He’s far from okay.”

They finished their beers in silence, and Dean headed up to the room he shared with Sam, feeling Bobby's eyes on his back as he left him on the porch.

Dean stared down at his sleeping brother. He took the pillow off his head and looked at him, seeing the dark circles under his eyes and the weary look on his face even in his sleep.

He reached down and pushed the hair back from Sam’s face, hating the tremor of his fingers as he did so. No, he wasn’t fine, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Let some guy poke around in his mind? Dean shook his head as if he’d said the words out loud. No, nobody got to see inside his head but him.

He sat down on the bed and gently touched Sam's fingers.

“Sammy, do you still love me?” He asked his sleeping brother.

Sam's fingers twitched against Dean's and Dean smiled sadly, imagining that Sam had said yes, of course he did, with those soulful eyes of his full of concern.

“Then why do you need so badly to fix me? You want the old Dean back, right? The strong one, the one who always looks out for you and who’s hands don’t shake?”

Dean swallowed back the tears that threatened and wrapped his fingers further around Sam's, looking away from him, unable to say the words directly to him even when he was fast asleep.

“I can’t be him again, Sammy, I can’t go back. I don’t know how.” Dean bowed his head and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You deserve better than this, you deserve better than me. I'm sorry, Sammy. Sorry that I can't be what you need me to be."

Dean sat there for an hour, maybe more, until exhaustion caught up to him and he thought he might be able to sleep for a while. Wearily, he left Sam to go and lie on his own bed so he didn't disturb him if he woke, and curled up on his side, hugging a pillow to his chest.


Sam woke to the sound of frightened whimpering, disorientated after spending a handful of nights back in motel rooms, but quickly recognizing the familiar furniture in Bobby's spare room. The whimpering got louder and Sam was straight out of bed, cautiously approaching his brother.

Dean was crouched down in the far corner of the room, back to the wall, his hands shaking as he clawed at himself, his eyes wild and staring at something that existed only in his own head.

... his heart pounded as they chased him, cackling and gleeful. A hook ripped into his back, tearing skin and muscle and he screamed, stumbling, twisting, anything to get away, to escape, to leave them behind, but the hook was buried too deep and one cruel tug brought him crashing down on his back, forcing the metal deeper, and they were on him, ragged claws ripping, teeth tearing strips of skin and flesh from his bones and he was beyond screaming, beyond anything but dying, but that was one thing he couldn't do, couldn't die, couldn't leave the torment behind, so he bled, his empty stomach heaving, writhing in an agony he hadn't known existed before now, before this and now it was all he knew, the lung bursting chase, the torment of capture, the pain of broken and twisted bones reforming, skin regrowing, his heart bursting in his chest only to restart with a wet thud and he knew, he knew that he didn't have limbs or flesh or eyes or bones anymore, knew it, but that knowledge meant nothing when they were tearing him apart, over and over, laughing, joyful at his abject despair, and all he could do was scream, scream for Sam, Sam who would come for him, had to come for him ...

"Sam!!" Dean howled and tears ran down Sam's face, his hands twitching forward, holding back from touching his stricken brother because he knew from experience that it wasn't the best of ideas. So he talked through his tears, hoping Dean would hear him and follow his words home.

"Dean, come back to me, please, it's a dream, that's all. Dean, please, I can't lose you, not again ..."

In Dean's head, the dream changed.

... the demon rounded on him, eyes black, gaze gleeful, and Dean was back in the pit, hooks deep in flesh, holding him as it approached, long, cruel claws on it’s hands, and Dean panicked, pulling and tugging on the chains that held him, tearing his own flesh in an effort to escape, but then Sam was there, demon killing knife in his hand and wrath in his eyes, burning hot and vengeful and as the knife slashed across the demon's throat, Dean sobbed with relief, but before he could say a word, his own demon self, eyes black and face still splattered with its own blood, was on Sam, wrestling the blade from his hands and grinning in triumph as it stabbed Sam through the heart again and again and again, his blood staining the demons hands and when Dean tore his eyes away from the scene, screaming for his brother, he looked up and saw Sam's blood dripping from his own fingers ...

Dean screamed, eyes wide, fixed on Sam and Sam reached out for him, his fingers gentle on Dean's face.

Dean snapped, surging forward, his fists flying, knocking Sam onto his back. Sam's head hit the floor hard and his vision swam as he put up is arms to try to ward off the worst of the blows, but Dean was relentless, lashing out at the things that had tormented him, still tormented him. Sam howled in pain as Dean caught him on the side of his face and the room flooded with brighter light as Bobby was suddenly there, dragging Dean off Sam and pushing him away so hard he landed against the wall and woke up with a sickening start.

"Jesus, Sam." Bobby helped him up, wincing at the sight of the bruises blossoming on his face, wishing he'd gotten there quicker, but one thing Sam had insisted on was that he could deal with Dean himself, however bad the flashbacks got and he would yell for Bobby if he needed him.

Even as he was helping Sam to his feet, he was rolling his eyes at the damned stubbornness of all the Winchester men when it came to asking for help.

Sam insisted on checking that Dean was okay before he let Bobby take him downstairs to deal with the damage to his face. Dean stared back at Sam wide eyed and shied away from his touch, but Sam refused to leave him until he had acknowledged Sam and Sam knew he wasn't still lost and alone in his head.

Once Sam was gone, Dean didn't even attempt to sleep, not after that, and he point blank refused Bobby's help to clean his knuckles up. He couldn't get Sam's battered face out of his mind and he sat on the bed looking down at his hands in his lap for a long time until he had decided what he needed to do.


Sam sat at the kitchen table nursing a coffee and staring out of the window into the yard. Bobby had taken the truck to pick up a car that had been in a wreck the day before, only leaving after Sam had reassured him he'd be fine being left alone with Dean. Sam sighed and sipped his coffee. It had been a while since Dean had reacted that badly to a dream, and even at his worst, he'd never done more than knock Sam out of the way or landed the odd punch, but nothing like that.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs startled Sam and he looked round to where Dean was now standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked freshly showered and there was no trace of the scruff of beard he'd been wearing the day before. Sam's brow furrowed when he realized Dean was carrying his old leather jacket, the one that'd been John's, and there was a packed bag by his feet.

"You shaved."

Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Are ... are you going somewhere?"

Dean just nodded again, his eyes full of pain, and Sam stared at him, cold fear gripping his heart.

"You don't have to leave, Dean, it was a nightmare, I know you didn't mean to ..."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean interrupted. "Sorry I've been pushing you away and sorry I wouldn't let you help me."

"But Dean ..." Sam was on his feet and by Dean's side in an instant, reaching out to tentatively touch his hand.

"I can't let that happen again." Dean brushed the side of Sam's face with a feather light touch. "Never again."

He took a step closer and kissed Sam’s cheek, something he hadn't done in years and he took strength from the way Sam let him touch.

"You've never given up on me, Sammy, even though I gave up on myself a long time ago. You rescued me from hell, dude, and I end up beating the crap out of you." A small sad smile quirked around Dean's mouth and a fragile hope filled Sam.

"So yeah, I'm leaving. With you. I'll go wherever you want me to go, see whichever freaky-assed healers you want me to see."

Sam grinned at him, but Dean's face grew serious again, anxious.

"I'm not ... I don't know if I'll ever be ..."

And it was Sam's turn to run a thumb along Dean's cheekbone, to kiss his forehead.

"You're my brother, Dean, nothing can ever change that. And that's all I need you to be. You took care of me my whole life, now it's my turn to take care of you, okay? It's what brothers do."

Dean nodded.

“Okay. So let’s do this.”


On to part two ...




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