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Faint

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He watched as the small flame, no bigger than the one his silver lighter produced, danced in mid air. It flickered, dazzling him, hypnotising him and then it began to twist and grow. His eyes widened at it grew the size of his fist but it didn’t stop growing, it just kept expanding, drawing in the oxygen from the air around – even stealing the little that Dean wanted for himself.

The flame burned, scorched the air, and as it grew, it began to take shape. A fiery golden glow edge began to form and long fiery locks sprouted from a very feminine shaped head. He knew exactly who it was, or at least who it was meant to be.

“Mom.”

The fiery figure in front of him tilted its head to the side and blinked, though he could hardly tell that’s what the strange flicker was meant to be. It stretched out its hand, laying it flat in the air as an offering and he didn’t care that this thing was clearly not human; he lifted his hand and reached out to it.

As soon as his hand made contact, the fire engulfed him, sending wave after wave of pain through his entire body and causing him to fall to his knees in agony, screaming. And the figure just watched with curiosity as his back arched and he cried out, wishing for release, pleading for the burning to stop.

“Dean!”

He heard a voice cry his name, taking away some of the pain with it, and he blinked, searching for its owner.

“DEAN!” Sam cried out, holding his brothers shoulders tightly in hope that it would calm him, “It’s okay. It’s just a dream, come on, wake up.”

Sam watched as his brother’s eyes shot open revealing a fever bright colour, his breathing was hard and uneven and a sheen of glistening sweat trickled down his face, pooling around his shirt collar. The younger Winchester grabbed the glass of water from the cabinet and helped his brother up a little, putting the glass to his lips.

“Come on Dean, you need to drink. Easy now…” And Dean opened his mouth just a little, allowing Sam to pour some of the cool liquid into it before lying back down, unmoving, eyes focused on the ceiling and mouth now tightly shut.

“Dean… please talk to me. That’s the third night you’ve had a nightmare… ever since…”

“I’m fine Sam.” Dean croaked out.

“No you’re not! Besides tossing and turning in your sleep, you’ve got a temperature, haven’t eaten anything solid in days and whatever you do eat; you end up throwing it back up. You’re not fine.” Sam sighed, watching his brother as he cringed at Sam’s loud voice.

It had been three days since they had escaped and though the better part of the first day was spent getting as far away from that town as possible, the rest of the days were spent looking after Dean who chose now of all times to fall ill. Sam couldn’t blame him, after everything he’d been put through his body was bound to need some time to recover but then there were the dreams and Sam feared them most.

“Just need some rest.” Dean answered simply, throat so raw and dry that sticking to simple sentences was best.

“Answer me one question then Dean, just one. What does ‘where have the angels gone?’ mean?”

“What?” The word was full of genuine confusion.

“You said it once… was about the only coherent thing I heard. You remember anything about it?”

Dean shook his head, brow furrowed as he recalled his dreams from the past couple of nights but not once could he remember saying or hearing that said, “You sure?”

“Pretty damn sure.”

“Probably just rambling… you said so yourself – I’ve got a fever. People with fevers ramble.”

Sam half shrugged and half nodded, not wanting to agree with his brother but unable to disagree with the truth. He cleared his throat, knowing that the topic of conversation was going to change whether he did it or not so best he sent in the direction he wanted it to go, “Right then, which do you want, chicken or tomato?”

“Sam…” Dean pleaded, just thinking of food made him feel sickly.

“You have to eat Dean… please…”

“What’s the point when I’ll just bring it all back up?”

“The point is you need strength – whatever strength you can get. So chicken or tomato?”

“How about beer or candy?”

“Yeah, if you wanna be dehydrated and living in the bathroom for the rest of the week. So which is it gonna be, chicken or tomato?” Sam repeated his question firmly and forcefully, begging that he wouldn’t have to ask again.

“If it’ll get you off my back I’ll have chicken.” Dean gave in, pulling himself up so he was leaning against the wall.

Sam smiled and moved towards the mini kitchenette, “You used to make me chicken soup when I was ill.”

Only ‘cause Mom made it for me. Dean thought to himself, a knot forming in his throat as he remembered the dream. He knew it wasn’t his mom but it still hurt to see her like that. He looked down at his shaking hands, thoughts speeding through his head.

“Why the hell…?” He muttered under his breath, low enough so Sam couldn’t hear.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Past

“Dean!” John cried out after hearing the short shriek of pain from his eldest. He rushed to stand up and get to the kitchen where he saw the stove was lit with flames burning high and Dean was cradling his right hand, “What the hell Dean?”

“I was trying to make soup…” The eight year old moaned, tears stinging his eyes, “Sammy’s getting a cold.”

“What have I told you?” John took a deep breath and knelt in front of his song, “No paying with matches, no playing with lighters and definitely no playing with the stove. No playing with fire full stop. Now let me have a look.”

Dean whimpered but shuffled a little and held out his hand, “You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Next time wake me, okay?” John pleaded, earning a nod from his eldest. He took Dean’s hand gently and turned it over, examining it, “Where’d you catch it?”

A sniffle and a shrug was the reply.

“Well, I can’t see a mark so you got pretty lucky this time. We’ll run it under cold water just to be safe.” John said as he lifted his son onto the worktop and turned the stove off. “And no more playing with the stove… not unless I’m there to watch you. Right?”

“No more fire.” Dean agreed; innocent eyes watching as his father got to work on his arm.

John frowned as he placed a damp cloth over Dean’s arm and lifted him down, telling him to keep it place for a while and that he’d finish the soup. He’d been lucky this time… he’d been lucky last time too and the time before that… But he was a kid and he was careless and curious and that’s why John had made the fire rules in the first place and Dean mainly stuck to them…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.