Sam was drowning.

He beat against the waves, each one stronger and angrier and more vicious than the last. He struggled against the onslaught of water, the way it pressed against his skull and chest and promised him absolute devastation if he let up for even one moment.

He had never been a particularly strong swimmer. Eventually, he’d become one, but he wasn’t right now, he was just a kid, and he was drowning—

He swallowed another mouthful of water. He broke beneath the film of air. Sinking, sinking, sinking into the bowels of the angry ocean; he sunk so far that the light completely evaporated and he couldn’t see the sun at all.

Sam was drowning and he didn’t have anyone to even notice he’d gone into the water.

When he touched the bottom of the ocean, the floor felt hard. He thought that the sand would give way to his weight, would part and smash beneath his feet. Instead, it was as hard and solid as any ground he’d ever stepped on. Sam tested the ground; he took a step forward. Instead of floating away, he moved easily.

He could see, too. He had expected complete, annihilating darkness to surround him, but instead, Sam could make out the divots in the water and the plants sprouting from the ocean floor.

Sam realized, with quite a shock, he must be dreaming.

He moved a hand through the water. It looked pale and frail and he thought it was no wonder he had failed so miserably at staying afloat. There was no strength in these arms, in this body; at his best, he was no match for the water. As a child, it was laughable he’d even tried.

A fish swam by, looking at Sam oddly. It quirked its head and smiled.

It opened its mouth to speak; bubbles rushed from the opening, but no words came out. Sam thought it was silly for his own dream to want to tell him something and then create rules that prevented it from happening.

The fish frowned; it tried again. Again, bubbles came out.

Sam sat on the ocean floor. He crossed his legs and cocked his head at the fish, waiting.

He had nowhere to be, no reason to wake up.

Sam couldn’t remember what was happening in his life before he fell asleep. Dreams were weird like that; real life and time seemed unreasonably far away.

Sam counted the fish that went by. He got to ten before his fish made a sound.

The fish swam in front of him, grabbing his attention fully. It made eye contact with Sam and then, with a very satisfied look in its own eyes, opened its mouth wide and gaping.

No words came out but the sound he heard pierced through the ocean.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The fish closed its mouth. Then it opened it again.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

A second fish swam up close to the first. This one was a brilliant teal color, contrasting with the muted tones of the first. Sam found it beautiful.

The first fish kept taking a small break before beeping at him. The second fish began to murmur.

Wake up, wake up. When. Wake up. When. Wake up.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Wake. Beep. Up. Beep. Beep. When.

A third fish settled directly between Sam and the other two; it blocked his vision of the teal fish and Sam instantly disliked the newcomer for it.

Soon. Soon.

Wake. Soon. Beep. Beep. Soon. Beep. Wake.

He watched them perform there a long while. He couldn’t tell how long it had been since he’d fallen to the bottom of the ocean or met the first fish, but eventually, he grew tired.

Settling down into a lying position on the sand, Sam watched the fish sing at him, slowly giving into the exhaustion clouding his thoughts.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Wake up. Wake up.

Soon.

Sam fell asleep to the strangest lullaby he’d ever heard. Sometimes, he thought, drowning wasn’t all that bad.

* * *

Sam was so thankful he had died.

He wasn’t sure if it was from being with the Navy SEALs so long or if he’d always felt this way, but he was quite proud of being able to die for a reason. There was honor it. He liked the idea of dying with honor, to protect someone. He was willing to die for his country, but he thought that dying for his family was a little more personally rewarding.

He could still feel the blood on his skin and the bruises on his skull. He kind of had thought that dying would mean he wouldn’t feel anything, let alone pain, but he guessed he was wrong. Not that he had much experience with personally dying; he didn’t really have the right to have strong assumptions about the afterlife.

It was kind of uncomfortable. But life was kind of uncomfortable, too, so Sam didn’t think it would take much getting used to.

“—hear us? If— blink, Mr. Carlisle— I’ve got— with me.”

The words sounded like they were being spoken from beneath several pillows. It reminded him of when he was younger and his brother would come into his bedroom to wake him up and he’d have pulled the pillows and blankets tight around his head to hide the sound.

Maybe the pillow sound was clouds. Fuck if Sam knew.

He struggled to focus in case it was some sort of deity speaking. Sam really regretted not paying more attention in Sunday school.

“Mr. Carlisle.” That was him. He understood that part, at least. “If you can hear us, blink. Or squeeze my hand, if you can. I know it’s hard.”

Was it hard? Sam felt fine. Tired, bloodied, bruised, but fine.

He’d dealt with worse.

Sam blinked.

The light fucking hurt.

Goddamn it!

Sam closed his eyes harshly, squeezing them shut as tight as he could. Why the hell was the afterlife so bright? Surely they could dim the welcome room, at least.

“He’s okay.”

Sam’s eyes flew open. “Tommy!”

His brother was bathed in the most painful light he’d ever seen. It smudged the edges of his baby brother’s frame and Sam had to blink through sharp tears in order to see him.

Why was Tom here? Tom— Sam had died to protect Tom. Had he been too late? Had El already sent someone? Oh, God.

Sam began to weep.

Or, he would have, but his body didn’t seem quite capable of that. Instead, he started to choke on air and someone put a hand on his chest, demanding he calm down and everything would be okay. Tom’s blurry body trembled and he called out to Sam, again and again, his voice getting increasingly high and panicked.

Sam tried to fight against whoever was holding him back. He struggled against the weight and called for his brother.

A sharp pinch on his arm distracted him enough so that he was pushed back onto the bed, held down by several arms. Sam wanted to scream and fight and cry; Tommy was here, why was Tommy here?

Against his better judgement, his eyes began to droop. He couldn’t focus on the room, the brightness, his brother; he felt himself being pulled back into himself. The brightness dimmed and everything blurred until he couldn’t recognize a single individual shape or color.

Sam slipped into a deep sleep, murmuring his brother’s name.

“There’s no way to know, Mr. Carlisle, I’ve already explained—”

“You’ve explained shit! Why can’t you know when he’ll wake up? You said it was the meds—”

“We can only wean him off of the medication when his body proves strong enough to survive without it—“

“If it’s the only thing keeping him unconscious, how will you know when his body is strong enough?”

“It’s only been a few days. Injuries this extensive— it’s going to take time. These things take time.”

Sam tried opening his eyes.

They were nailed down and covered with cement. He thought about everything he’d ever lifted, every exercise he’d ever done. How could he have been so strong once to not be able to open his goddamn eyes now?

He could hear Tom in the room with him.

Sam wondered what that meant.

He tried to figure out where he was, tried to lift his goddamn eyelids up just a little, tried to separate his lips enough to say something, anything.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak or see or use any sort of muscle. He was barely thinking. He couldn’t remember if he was awake or not. Had he been dreaming this whole time? Was he dreaming now?

He couldn’t remember why he’d be dreaming so much. Where was he? Where had he been?

Sam wanted to go swimming. He thought it’d feel nice to have the water rise around him, clutching to his sides and arms and chest, just this side of warm. He wouldn’t need to open his eyes then; he’d just swim and swim and swim until his body ached in that way that only a really good, happy mood could give him. He would swim and maybe Tom would be there and they’d help John splash in the gentle waves that touched the beach’s sand. Maybe Wes would be there and they would hold hands. Maybe he’d tell a joke and everyone would laugh and everything would be okay.

Sam didn't mind that he was dying. He couldn’t really remember what had happened or why he was dying; couldn’t remember what was threatened or why he’d done what he did. But he did remember that he needed to do that; he remembered that he did the right thing and that he didn’t regret it. He didn’t mind dying because he knew he’d rather die than let whatever almost happen actually happen.

But lying there, paralyzed and confused and on the cusp of giving in completely, Sam couldn’t help but think it would have been okay if he hadn’t died, too.

* * *

Sam was kissing Wes.

He pulled Wes closer, fists curling into his jacket so tight that his knuckles were turning white and his fingers ached a little. His lips felt bruised and used and he kept kissing harder and harder so that Wes’s would feel that way, too.

He didn’t remember where he was or why he was kissing Wes. Since when did Wes let him kiss him? Since when could he stand and hold and feel like this?

He didn’t care. Wes moaned, loud and desperate. It didn’t matter why or how. Sam just groaned out a little and kissed him again.

He kissed Wes until he felt dizzy. He kissed and kissed until he was nearly breathless.

But he wasn’t. Should he have been breathless?

It didn’t matter. Wes bit Sam’s lip and it didn’t matter because god damn, Sam was so glad to be kissing him.

He felt beside himself. He felt crazy. He felt like he was on fire.

Wes’s arms knocked Sam’s hands away, pushing against Sam’s chest so he stumbled backwards. He fell onto a bed he hadn’t realized was there and then Wes was on top of him, biting and licking and kissing at his neck in a way that had Sam writhing against the mattress.

He was fairly certain he was dreaming.

He bucked up his hips, pleasure so bright his eyes sparked. He didn’t fucking care if this was a dream.

Dream Wesley pulled back, lips dark red and eyes so, so bright. He looked like he had that day when he came to the airport to pick Sam up as a favor for Tom. He tasted like sweet wine and he looked like complete sin.

“Stay here,” Wes said, his voice cracking. He undressed himself and Sam couldn’t think through the fog inside his head.

“Yes, yes, I will,” Sam vowed.

Wes threw his shirt on the other side of the bed, leaning down and pulling Sam back up to him. Wes straddled Sam’s lap, legs wrapped around Sam’s waist. They kissed again.

Sam couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t think at all. All he could do was feel and all he could feel was Wes, Wes, Wes.

His whole life seemed to narrow down to that one word. Wes, Wes, Wes.

He was chanting his name and then Wes was chanting his. He rutted up against Wes, who drove down into Sam, both of them groaning with pleasure when they hit each other just right.

Sam wasn’t sure anything had ever felt this good. Real or not, he didn’t care. If all he could have was Dream Wes, he was so goddamn thankful that Dream Wes felt this good.

“I love you,” he told him. He couldn’t say this when he was awake. He couldn’t there but here, in his mind, with Wes looking down at him with dark lash rimmed eyes and heat beneath his skin and want pouring through his every jutted movement—Sam said it again. “I love you.”

Wes pushed just right, joining their bodies together in a perfect jigsaw of pleasure, and Sam saw stars.

When Wes kissed him, lips and tongue moving in tandem to elicit the strangest, most wonderful feeling from his mouth, Sam nearly passed out.

He wasn’t sure what would happen if you passed out in a dream. He thought this would be a wonderful way to die.

“I love you, too,” Wes said in a broken, beautiful voice.

Sam’s whole body stuttered to a stop, heart shattering and life freezing. He could feel the world melt around him as pure happiness and pleasure jolted through his whole body.

His dream faded away, subconscious pulling at him.

He fell back into the dark of his dream, his beautiful Dream Wes fading away with it, with the mournful thought that he would never get to tell the real Wes how much he loved him.

* * *

“Oh my god. Oh my god, he’s awake.”

Sam blinked. His eyes were heavy but cooperative; he opened and closed them slowly before reopening them. With difficulty, he forced his vision to stop swimming and focus on the teetering shadow in front of him.

“Sam, oh my god.”

His little brother stood above him, hands over his mouth, muffling the words he was biting out.

Sam frowned.

What the hell was Tommy doing?

He tried to ask but his throat was blocked. He couldn’t force the words out or when he thought about it, he couldn’t really breathe either.

He struggled to force a sound out of his throat and started to panic when it became evident he was incapable. His hands felt almost too heavy to lift but he wanted to touch his throat, make sure it was still there.

Tom’s hands clasped down on top of his, stopping any movement. Sam was too weak to even pretend to fight against the weight of his brother’s hands.

“No, no, Sam, stop. You’ve got a tube in your throat, you can’t talk right now. I’ll— shit, don’t panic, calm down. I’m gonna call a doctor in and they’ll take it out or maybe, I don’t know, they’ll explain it to you better than me and— oh my god, man, you’re awake!”

Sam blinked up at his brother again. He was awake?

He still wanted to claw angrily at whatever was blocking his breathing and speaking but, if only to stop the really intense, terrified expression from climbing back on Tom’s face. Sam forced himself to wait.

Tom slapped a button on the wall, barely lifting his gaze from Sam’s face.

“Man, you have no fucking idea how glad I am to see you. Or, I guess, I have been seeing you. You have no idea how glad I am to see you seeing me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. Tom laughed. He was glad at least one of his muscles was cooperating with him.

A nurse popped her head into the door, her bored expression melting away into one of delight. “He’s awake?”

“He’s awake!” Tom cheered. “Can you page the doctor, please? Sam wants this tube out if it can be removed.”

“Of course, dear.” The nurse’s shoes clipped as she walked closer to the bed. She leaned over Sam, smiling widely at him. Sam struggled to keep from frowning at her close proximity. “It’s so great to see you, Mr. Carlisle.”

Sam tried to nod. It hurt a little; he winced and stopped trying.

Tom sat in the chair next to Sam’s bed when the nurse left, bouncing his leg up and down. He grinned at his brother, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe it. I—I mean, I know it probably feels like no time at all for you, but it’s been like a week, man, and I’ve got to say, I’m not half as patient as I think I’ve been pretending to be. I was getting right pissed at you for sleeping so goddamn much when there’s so much I want to ask you.”

Sam lifted a hand, as if to say Well, what is it?

Tom understood immediately. He rolled his eyes. “Can’t exactly ask you right now, can I? You’re a little incapable of responding.”

Well, that much was true. Sam couldn’t speak and, more than that, he could barely think. His head felt foggy and unsure. He’d only been awake three minutes and already his eyes felt too heavy to keep open, his energy already drooping insanely low.

He wanted to go to sleep. But from the sounds of it, he’d been asleep for ages already.

Sam struggled to keep himself awake. He wanted to at least get this god awful tube out before he took a bit of a breather.

“Sara’s been here as much as she could be, of course, but it has been hard with John. We didn’t really want him to see you like this—not that you look bad! It’s just, he’s never seen anyone in a hospital and—”

“Talking his ear off already, are we?” A man that Sam assumed was the doctor strolled in, walking straight past Tom to grab at Sam’s arm. He felt Sam’s pulse, nodded and smiled down at him. “So happy to see you awake, Mr. Carlisle. It’s been quite a week. Between your brother and friend here, I thought for sure my hospital was going to have two new permanent residents if you didn’t wake up soon.”

Sam frowned. He meant Sara?

Tom noticed his confusion. “Wes. He’s been here when Sara’s at home, most of the time.” Tom shot the doctor a look and then grinned at Sam. “He’s a little pissed that the good doc here wouldn’t let him in to see you.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat.

Wes was here. Wes was here and he had been here and did that mean he didn’t hate him?

Sam realized, with a sudden shock to his system, that he was alive.

He’d made it out. He was alive and Tommy was here and Wes—Wes maybe didn't hate him.

Sam’s heart hammered too loudly considering it was hooked to machines that let the room know what he was feeling.

The doctor laughed. “I know, you want these tubes out.” He removed them slowly. The pain was slight, all things considered, and Sam coughed when they were removed.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Have a drink.” The doctor offered him a cup of water and Sam greedily drank the whole thing down.

His head pounded as if he had a migraine. He felt dizzy and foggy and elated all at once.

Exhaustion slammed into him once he could fully breathe. His heart rate was still elevated.

“Tom,” he croaked out his brother’s name. Tommy’s whole body jerked and he wiped quickly at the corner of his eyes.

Seeing how happy it made him, Sam wanted to say the name again. But his eyes fell closed and he couldn’t lift them open no matter how badly he wanted to. He slipped into sleep, murmuring.

“Tom. Wes.”