Chapter Text
The cloudy days were so dark. There wasn't much joy on days like those. No matter how many wishes there were, Sam and Dean had to ruin that happiness, because a person can never be happy with a wish. Everything has to be earned through hard work. According to Dean, the older brother's words were right. Even the younger hunter agreed, but he couldn't help but look with contempt and inner anger at the clearest green eyes he'd ever see on a person, never on another person, never on Sam. His eyes were green, but it was such a dark green that it seemed to eat away at the shine in his eyes.
The water crashed against the stones above the river of wishes, according to the city dwellers. It drowned out the older man's voice as he talked on and on. It was so annoying for the brown-haired man. He was sick of hearing it. He didn't hate Dean. Sam knew it couldn't be like that. Dean had always been with him, raised him, supported him, and cared for him. He couldn't hate Dean, Sam thought. But lately, he couldn't think the same, not since Dean started looking at him like a monster, certainly not since he felt so uncomfortable around the older hunter, especially not since the younger Winchester's powers showed up.
He knew he could use them for good; they could protect more people with them, but the older brother didn't think the same; he seemed scared instead.
He narrowed his eyes at the shorter brother. He looked so calm, but he knew he wasn't. Deep down, he knew how terrified his brother was, and he shouldn't be. Sam would never hurt him, that's what he thought. All this tension was Dean's fault. He was so fed up with his attitude. He didn't hate Dean, but if he were given a chance, he would wish. I wish I wasn't Dean's brother. I wish to have no blood connection with the Winchesters
He sighed at the thought and looked once more into eyes as green as emeralds. Dean was saying something, and he seemed confused, perhaps worried, but Sam didn't listen. He closed his eyes, letting his mind fall into a deep sleep.
....
"Congratulations! It's a boy."
Isn't that what they said every time someone is born? What a strange dream this is? The tanned-skinned man thought. His eyes opened, but all he saw was a glow, as if he were about to die or, in this pot, about to live. He tried hard to speak, but nothing came out. In reality, he only heard the anguished cries of a baby, but no one calmed the baby; there were only laughs of joy and excitement.
"He's beautiful. What shall we name him?"
A man, perhaps the baby's father. He needed to get his bearings.
"Samuel, Samuel Wesson."
That must be the mother.
"Our little Sammy."
....
A lullaby was the first thing he registered. His eyes were slow to open, but he looked up at what looked like a carousel of animals. His body was lying down, and beside him was a transparent fabric like that of a crib that revealed a baby's room. He wanted to move, to get up, but he couldn't. His body was weak, old, and trembling, as if he lacked the strength to stand on his own. He tried to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth. However, he heard the anguished cry of a baby again, desperate as if it didn't understand the situation it was in, perhaps scared. He looked around for the baby, but there was nothing and no one there. His thoughts were filled with confusion, and the whining grew louder and louder.
The door to the room opened with the worried voices of a few people, a woman and a man. They approached the hunter. He had no idea who these people were, but their voices were identical to those in his dream. His weight was suddenly in the air, and the woman's arms were around him. He didn't want them to touch him. He didn't know who these people were.
"Oww, did poor Sammy have a nightmare? Calm down, mommy's here."
Mom. His mind suddenly became clearer; his questions were beginning to be answered. The last thing he remembered was standing in front of his brother Dean, staring into a river of wishes. His anger was consuming him so much that he didn't even realize he'd used the word "wish" in his sentence. He had wished he wasn't related to the Winchesters, he had wished he wasn't Dean's brother.
He looked at the couple: a woman with long brown hair and a beautiful, radiant smile, her face thin and delicate, quite beautiful. Right next to her was a man with an elegant beard, black hair, and strong features, but he looked happy, even proud. It was such a strange look he'd never seen on his father.
They'd given him another chance, a life away from hunting, a life with another family, a life without Dean.
He shouldn't have been happy about this, but he felt so excited.
He was no longer a hunter, no longer a monster.
The room belonged to a baby, the room belonged to Sam, Sam Wesson, Sam Winchester never existed.