Watch Your Back, Mother

Chapter 4: Waking Nightmares

   He can't run fast enough. He can't run away. The alley he's in is dark, it must've rained because he just stepped in the biggest freaking puddle. Figures, I can write Gospels but a freaking puddle makes me stumble for three feet. He turns a corner, and runs twenty feet before he realizes he's hit a dead end. The alley ends, and he can't go left or right. He turns around, trying to catch his breath, but the alley has closed behind him. What? I just came from that way! That doesn't make any sense! Wait- am I dreaming again? No, this is real, I can feel pain, this is real. He dragged the back of his right hand down the brick wall to his right, and sighed when it came back scraped and bloody. This is real. Shit, this is real. I can't get out. Still staring at his hand, he realized... it came away bloody and torn... but he didn't feel it. No, not again. The walls started closing in. He clutched at his hair, shutting his eyes so hard he saws spots on the inside of his eyelids. "Wake up, wake up" he pleaded with himself, "please, please, I gotta wake up." Tears escaped through the barrier of his eyelids, sliding down his cheeks as he began to yell, "Wake up! Wake up! C'mon, please! Wake up! WAKE UP!" The walls were only three feet apart now, they would soon start crushing him. This happened every night, and it was the only time he could ever actually feel pain in his dreams. And it was excruciating. "WAKE UP! WAKE UP!" He screamed as his nails dug into his scalp. Blood ran down his skull, clotting his hair together and turning it from brown to black. "NOT AGAIN! PLEASE, PLEASE, NOT AGAIN!" He begged, but had no idea who he was begging. The dream? Himself? He had no idea. All he knew was that the walls were already scraping his skin. "WAKE UP! WAKE UP!" The walls pushed against him, and, as he heard the first bone break, he cried out in pain. "NO! GAH, HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" He screamed out for help, but no answer. The only response was the sound of his bones shattering, the splinters flying like shrapnel under his skin, piercing his organs. "WAKE UP, MAN! YOU GOTTA WAKE UP!" He was barely conscious anymore, but he had just enough time before his skull was shattered to yell, "WAKE UP, CHUCK! WAKE UP!"

   Chuck bolted upright, gasping for air. His cheeks were stained with reas and his shees were practically dripping with what he hoped to God was sweat. Still fighting to calm his breathing, he scanned the darkness around him, looking for something he recognized. Wooden desk, papers strewn all over the floor, you. Yep, this was his place, all right.
   Sighing, the Prophet pulled the sweat-soaked sheets off of his body and got to his feet. Wading through a sea of crumpled up rough drafts, pencil shaving, and inkless pens, Chuck made his way to his bathroom. The walls were a shade of yellowish-white that only came from years of water damage, and the tiled floor was cracked so severely that the pattern almost looks beautiful in its intricacy. Standing at the white marble sink, Chuck stared at the mirror cabinet he'd fixed to meet his height. The Prophet examined himself carefully, checking his tousled hair, bloodshot eyes, and pale skin for fresh blood. Lately, he'd been waking up from nightmares with blood on his face and skin under his nails. Chuck turned on the cold water and cupped his hands under the faucet, bringing the makeshift bowl to his face to clean it. Eyes darting to his hands suspiciously, Chuck grabbed a razor blade off the side of the sink and slowly but decisively slid it across his palm. Hissing at the stinging pain, Chuck sighed with relief. Smiling, the author grabbed a bottle of peroxide and a blood-stained dishrag, ready to stop the flow of the crimson liquid already dripping onto the tile floor. He knew he must've cut too deep. But everyday, he awoke with his hand healed, so he knew it must not be that serious. Soaking the rag in peroxide, an image flashed across his mind: a pretty redhead with blue eyes.
"Nora..." The Prophet whispered to himself as the woman's name appeared in the back of his mind.
   The vision continued, with Nora knocking on a motel door... and Castiel answering it.
"Oh shit..." Chuck mumbled to himself.
   Distracted, the peroxide slid out of Chuck's hand, the container exploding as it hit the ground. Brought back to reality by the large boom, a surprised Chuck yelled, "Oh, shit"

   Dean stood, gazing out into the parking lot, by the motel window. It was warm, despite it being the twenty-seventh of September. He chuckled, thinking of how strange it was that, three years ago, he had come back from the dead after Cas had saved him. One year later, they actually met. Wow, two years. Damn, time flies when you're running for your life. He grinned and watched a dead, brown leaf go by. As it rustled along the ground, Dean's mind clouded over as he relived a pleasant memory:
   It was a warm Fall day, the breeze was gentle enough that John let the boys go outside without their jackets. It was rare that they had a moment to play, but John was busy talking with Bobby, so Sam and Dean were allowed to play in Bobby's yard. Dean, thirteen years old at the time, watched happily as a little nine year-old Sam collected leaves for their giant pile. Sammy giggled as he tripped on a twig and toppled over, landing on the soft edge of the leaf pile. The child couldn't resist, and he dived deeper in the leaves, kicking and jumping and shrieking with joy.
"Sammy," Dean chuckled, "You're messing up the pile!"
   Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean jokingly, who then leapt into the pile and began tickling his little brother, who plead for mercy in between his laughter.
"You give up," Dean asked as he continued the torture, "huh? You give up?"
"Yes! Yes, I give up!" Sammy shouted, his smile warming Dean's heart.
   Climbing off of the child, Dean said, "Good cause we gotta rebuild the pile 'fore we gotta go."
   As Sam giggled his apology, the familiar voice of a young boy offered, "It's okay, Dean. We can get more!"
   The voice was so familiar to Dean, but he couldn't figure out why. Dean's conscious mind invaded the memory, which had suddenly turned cloudy and muddled, and forced himself to turn around and make out an image of the boy who had spoken. But the mysterious child had already disappeared around the side of Bobby's house. The only clue to his identity was a short glimpse of short, sandy hair.

   Dean shook his head, clearing the memory away. Strange... that memory had never had a third boy before. He'd never had a chance to make many friends as a child, so he was sure he would remember having one. And yet... that voice was so familiar.