The Vision Giver: Chapter Three
Sam blearily opened his eyes.
He stared at the ceiling, feeling a soft mattress below him. The events of the previous night were hazy at best. He remembered everything up until the motel shower. Only fragmented memories remained after that. Flashes, really. Nothing useful.
His head was pounding. Whether the headache was prelude to a vision or his body ridding itself of the sedative, he didn't know. It was too early to tell. Other symptoms of a drug-induced hangover were relentless, namely nausea, dry mouth, and vertigo. He had a rough morning ahead of him, visions notwithstanding.
He turned his head to glance at his owner, who was fast asleep. Further movement revealed that he was neither bound, nor handcuffed. That was odd. He could have sworn…
Sam threw back the covers and lifted his left wrist. He moved it back and forth experimentally, vaguely surprised to feel it ache. Dried blood dotted a bandage wrap. Something must have happened in the middle of the night.
Oh, no.
He felt his ears burn. A night terror probably overtook him while he slept. They happened when he was under stress, but the sedative usually prevented them. He hoped the buyer - Dean - wouldn't sell him off to some low life. A bandaged wrist meant there was some level of humanity under Dean's tough exterior. There were worse owners out there, and Sam had no desire to meet them.
Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he stared at the door. He could run. Just grab some clothes, money, a gun, and hightail it out of here. In his condition, however - he brought a hand to his stomach - he wouldn't make it very far.
Scarcely had the thought entered his mind before bile rose in his throat. His footsteps weren't as quiet as he would've liked, but noise was better than a rancid mess all over the carpet. At least he managed to shut the bathroom door before he dove for the toilet, stomach already lurching.
Some people heaved with their vocal cords, but Sam learned long ago how counterproductive that was. The only sounds in the bathroom were those of liquid sloshing and heavy breathing.
There was a knock on the door.
"Sam, are you okay in there?" The muffled words were careful, measured.
I'm fantastic, he felt like snapping. Thought I'd start off the morning with some meditative vomiting.
It was a good thing further heaving prevented him from answering. No need to start off on the wrong foot when he didn't know if Dean had a temper.
He blindly reached up and flushed the toilet just as the door cracked open. Privacy was a privilege he'd given up years ago, but the intrusion still annoyed him - even when he heard a low curse and the faucet running. Spitting dryly into the toilet, Sam was admiring the cleanliness of the bowl when a cold washcloth was draped over the nape of his neck.
He bit back a groan. It was uncomfortable and wet, and… abating the nausea. Water droplets trailed down his back, making him shudder, but he began to feel better. His stubborn streak insisted that it was because he'd just finished throwing up. It had nothing to do with the washcloth.
Right.
He heard Dean leave the bathroom, and breathed a sigh of relief. Not the type to linger and demand explanations, then. That was good. A bit cold, but if he expected concern, he was in the wrong line of-
A warm towel was dropped over his shoulders, making him jump.
"Sorry," Dean apologized, suddenly right beside him. "After last night, I hung the towels over the heater. Figured we might need them. Here. Take these."
A hand held out two powder-filled capsules, along with a cup of water.
Sam automatically shook his head, hoping there wouldn't be repercussions. The last time he'd accepted drugs from a buyer, the trip was enough to make him swear off the hard stuff. And if they were pain killers, he wasn't interested. They wouldn't work anyway.
Dean raised an eyebrow. His expression was unsurprised, but remained expectant. "They're just antibiotics, dude. You've probably heard that before. But I need to insist."
Sam hesitated, gauging the situation. He had a habit of over thinking things. Still, who's to say the pills weren't cyanide and he was only bought to fake the death of someone involved with mob? Dean might wait for him to kick the bucket before beating his face to an unrecognizable pulp, cutting off his fingertips-
"Oh, for-" Dean sighed impatiently. He grabbed Sam's hand and forced him to accept the pills. "Just take them, all right? I won't even watch. But if you cheek them or flush them and wind up with an infection, don't say I didn't warn you." He turned and left the bathroom. Sam heard him begin to get dressed.
His eyes dropped to the pills. Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing. Seriously, what was the worst that could happen? He was a Giver. Didn't get much worse than that.
With a shrug, he threw back the pills, chasing them with water. The towel slipped from his shoulders, leaving him shivering. Hopefully they had a good twenty minutes before Dean wanted to leave. That way, he'd know if the pills planned on renting or buying.
Gripping the rim of the toilet, he rose to his feet. A wave of vertigo almost struck him down. It wasn't unbearable, just enough to remind him to take things slow. He emerged from the bathroom to find Dean waiting for him.
"Uh," Sam cleared his throat self-consciously. He realized he'd never said more than two words to Dean. So far, their conversations had been fairly one-sided. "I don't suppose you have any more clothes for me? I could wear the jeans from yesterday, but-"
"Don't sweat it," Dean shuffled backwards to a duffel, obviously wary of turning his back. Smart. "You can borrow a pair of my clothes until we pass a thrift store. The pants will be a bit short, but it's not like we'll be parading down main street. I've got an oversized jacket too."
He handed him some boxers, jeans, and a shirt.
"Great." Sam's tone was flat as he accepted the clothes.
He was just turning toward the bed when white hot agony sliced through his skull. A low cry left him, shoulders hunching to cradle his head in his hands.
Damn it.
The pain spiked, enveloping the world around him. He was vaguely aware of his knees colliding with the carpet. Dean's hands were on his shoulders, guiding him to lay flat. Comforting syllables laced with alarm meant nothing to him. Every muscle in his body tensed with the onslaught of pain radiating through his skull. Distantly, he felt Dean straightening his legs. Toes clenched, teeth grinding together, it was all Sam could do not to unleash a scream.
His last coherent thought was that the pain kept getting worse. Every. Single. Time.
Images flashed through his mind.
An attic filled with antiques, trembling under the force of something recently stowed away.
Stacked boxes tumbling to the floor, scattering an array of teddy bears and porcelain dolls.
A sheet falling away from a gold-framed mirror, engraved, 'Always and forever. Melanie.'
The face of a young girl appearing within the mirror.
Her hand abruptly pressing against the glass, mouth opening in a scream.
Sam wildly shook his head as her cry reverberated in his mind. The high pitch threatened to deafen him. He tried to bring his hands up to cover his ears, only to find that he couldn't.
Eyes snapping open, he found himself flat on his back, pinned to the ground. Dean was straddling his chest, hands pinning his wrists to the ground. His expression was one of regretful determination.
"You with me?" He asked tightly. "Talk to me if you can hear me. You back?"
Sam nodded. The vision flashed through his mind yet again, the echo refreshing his fear. Nevertheless, it allowed him to report what he'd seen with absolute certainty.
"Words, dude. Give me something."
"There's a mirror," he finally choked out. "In an attic somewhere. I think a girl might be trapped inside it."
Dean eased off his chest, holding out his hands submissively. Of course. If he wanted to bring out the best in buyers, he only needed to have a vision. Sam refrained from scoffing. Give it a few hours. Dean would be anxious and impatient, and ready to punch Sam just as soon as look at him. That's how it went.
"All right, so it sounds like a cursed mirror." Dean's voice broke through his self-pity party. "Any idea where? A mirror in an attic doesn't exactly narrow the field."
Sam let his head drop to the carpet. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the details. There was a reflection within the mirror. A license plate outside. It was backwards, but…
"I need paper and a pen," he demanded without opening his eyes. With the pain still fresh, he couldn't rely on his memory.
Dean thrust a pen and flimsy pad of paper into his hands. Eyes still closed, Sam jotted down the license plate. It was backwards, but that shouldn't be a problem. When he was finished scrawling, he felt Dean lift the pad from his chest.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. Damn, that sucked. A sheen of sweat coated his chest. Blearily, he watched Dean walk to a mirror and hold up the motel stationary.
J97-HGU
"California plates," Sam sputtered, trying to sit up.
The grin on Dean's face declared he'd struck gold. At least one of them could smile.
"Come on, we need to get going." He marched over to help Sam to his feet. Either he didn't notice how terrible Sam felt, or he didn't care. Sam scarcely had his feet under him before Dean was rushing around the room, packing.
His excitement wasn't contagious, but his urgency was. Sam's motions were still sluggish as he sat on a bed to pull on a t-shirt. He needed food. Fruit, a doughnut, anything with glucose in it.
Glancing around the room for a coffee pot - sugar packets, to be more precise - he was disappointed to see empty table space. Visions had a tendency to drain his reserves. Coupled with brief starvation, drugs, and a heart-pounding night terror… he was going downhill fast.
"We stopping for breakfast?" He asked, words muffled by the t-shirt over his face. Hopefully he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.
"We'll stop at a Gas 'n Sip once we have some miles behind us. I think I saw one on the way into town. It's not gourmet cuisine, but they have some awesome road food. You'll love it."
There wasn't a Gas 'n Sip on the edge of town. Or in the next town, or in the next.
The farther they traveled, the more desperate Sam became. Somewhere along the line, his desperation faded into exhausted confusion. He wanted to ask where they were going, but he couldn't muster the strength to talk, and decided it didn't matter.
His seat was comfortable. The sun was shining on his face. The window - though harder than a pillow - cradled his head just fine. He watched the treetops pass through hooded eyes, trying to make sense of the clouds. Such activities were more fun as a kid, but he found them more enthralling as an adult.
Dean had cranked the music when they first pulled onto the road. He drummed his hands against the steering wheel and sang along to classic rock songs. Sam didn't have the same taste in music, but he stopped hearing it clearly after the first hour. Little by little, everything grew quieter. The singing stopped, followed by the drumming. When Dean turned the music down, he asked a question, but it sounded like he was speaking underwater.
Sam didn't answer, letting his eyes fall closed. The sun shone through his eyelids, illuminating a wall of orange. Something was definitely wrong. But even when he felt the car lurch as it pulled off the road, he couldn't put his finger on it.
Dean turned off the engine, said something, patted Sam's chest once, and climbed out of the car. The scent of gasoline was enough to rouse him somewhat. He lifted his head and looked around in a fog. The car was parked beside a gas pump. His head felt like a bowling ball, too heavy for his neck. Trying to be gentle about it, he listed toward the passenger window.
Thump.
Sam winced. Ow.
Dean reentered the car just then, holding something. A soothing litany of syllables was all Sam heard. His fingers were guided to wrap around a juice box. There was a straw poking out of it. Dean's hand encased his, bringing the straw to his lips. Feeling like he was on a school field trip, Sam automatically started drinking. Minutes passed before Dean's words began to make sense.
"There you go, there you go. Drink the whole thing down, all right? I don't know why you didn't say something earlier, man, but you're having the dinner of champions tonight. Could have it right now if you wanted, but I'm not sure that's such a great idea, especially when it's chips and candy… Sammy? You back with me?"
Sam mumbled a reply even he couldn't understand. His hand tightened around the juice box, nearly crushing it. Wetting his lips, he tried again, "It's Sam."
Dean let him hold the juice box on his own, retreating into the driver's seat. "Whatever you say." He pulled a second juice box from his jacket and unwrapped the straw. "Still doesn't explain whatever the hell this is. What happened? Why'd you crash?"
"The visions." He gulped, wincing at the rawness of his throat. "They take a lot out of me. Make me tired."
Dean didn't look too happy about that. He thrust the second juice box into Sam's free hand. "Please tell me this doesn't happen every time. I can't have you crashing in the middle of a hunt, dude."
Sam was already shaking his head. "Not usually. If I take care of myself, I'm usually okay. It didn't used to happen at all, but the visions got more intense as the years went on."
"Think they'll get worse?"
"I hope not," he answered softly. He tried not to think about it.
When he looked up, Dean was slowly nodding. There was a crease in his brow, like the answer troubled him. "All right. You keep nursing that, okay?" He nodded to the juice box before stepping out of the car. "I gas, you sip, right? I'm going to get us some staples, too."
Sam rolled his eyes. Staples, sure. Dean would probably return toting nachos and a slurpee. Though to be fair, Sam had been a fan of rainbow sour belts and all sorts of candy until his last owner got him hooked on health food. It made his visions clearer.
Five minutes later, Dean returned to the car with a case of juice boxes, a couple bags of chips, and skin mags. He was also tearing into a burrito as he tossed another juice box in Sam's direction.
Sam wanted to throw it back at him. Really? Was a banana too much to ask? He could already feel a couple muscles twitching from all the sugar in the last two juice boxes.
Instead of saying anything, he sank further down in his seat as they pulled onto the road again. He wasn't exactly pouting, but resentment was building. He'd waited hours for food. The wrong kind of food. After he had a vision, which was the only reason they were on the road when he felt this terrible.
Sometimes, he hated life.
Dean was whistling when they crossed the California state line. He'd gotten a call from Bobby after nightfall telling him that not only was the license plate registered to a Cynthia Steinberg, but that she was the proud owner of an antique mirror purchased at an auction two weeks ago. Well, perhaps not so proud. The mirror was, after all, in her attic. Probably after a series of brief and terrifying glances into it. But regardless, if all they had to do was drape it and destroy it, the job should be easier than a routine salt and burn.
They might even have time to hit the beach before working a second job. Check out the chicks, catch some sun… he glanced over at Sam, slumped against the passenger door. On second thought, maybe he shouldn't let Sam roam just yet. The kid was exhausted, and there was an air of tension about him.
They needed to sleep before doing anything else. No matter how easy, they still had a job tomorrow.
He pulled into a motel parking lot just a couple miles off the main highway. There was a bar next door, and fairly busy too. Dean felt it was high time he started hustling pool again. Double rooms were more expensive than singles, and Sam could use a few extra meals a day.
After booking them a room and making the short drive, he gently shook Sam awake. "Sam? Sam, come on, wake up. You can sleep all you want once we're inside the room."
When his eyes blinked open, Sam stared at the dashboard, as if putting the pieces together. Then his eyes shifted to Dean. They were a little sad. "We're stopping for the night?"
"Yep. Up and at 'em. We'll check out the cursed mirror tomorrow."
Only after Sam climbed out of the car, Dean noticed the group of bikers hanging out a couple doors down. Cursing, he rose from his own seat and shut the car door. Would Sam try to signal them in some way? Or was he used to being around other people?
To his surprise, Sam didn't make a move. Literally. He wasn't signaling them, but he wasn't… acting normal either. He just stood there, frozen, observing their aggressive demeanor. Dean figured it was safe enough to grab the bags from the trunk, but he was quick about it, and even quicker to take Sam's elbow to lead him into the room.
As soon as the door was shut, Sam yanked his elbow away. Raising an eyebrow, Dean dropped the bags on the nearest bed.
"What's going on?"
Sam inhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. He sat on the far bed, putting as much distance between them as possible. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine. Just need some sleep is all."
What, all day isn't enough for you? Dean wanted to shoot back, but he bit his tongue. It had been a rough couple days for both of them. Nothing to fight about. And he didn't know much about visionaries. If the kid needed more sleep, he needed more sleep... But he'd need to suck it up at some point. This sleeping beauty crap couldn't happen all the damn time.
"I'm going to hit the bar next door. Hustle a little pool. If you want to stay here, that's cool. I'll leave you the remote, water, food… all within reach. But I will need to cuff you again, until I know I can trust you."
Sam's head jerked up at that. "I don't need to be cuffed," he snapped. "If I wanted to escape, I could have made a run for it just now. I didn't."
Dean crossed his arms. He was taken off guard by the hostility in Sam's tone. "This life doesn't exactly keep up with the Jones', but it's not half bad. There's no reason you should want to escape. I'm just saying, as far as trust goes-"
"What?"
Dean was losing his patience. "You haven't earned it yet."
"I'm sick of cuffs," Sam spat, muttering to himself now. "I'm sick of rope and cord and zip ties and anything else people use to bind me. I signed up for this life, damn it, I know what it means to be a Giver. But still, you all insist on treating me like an unwilling freak."
Dean just stared, his mouth agape. He had no idea what brought this on. Unprepared didn't begin to describe what he felt. Was this part of the vision thing or had Sam woken up on the wrong side of the front seat?
He glanced at his watch. Whatever this was, they needed to button it up. The bar wouldn't be open forever, and he had no desire to babysit all night. He just wasn't that guy. He wanted to be. But he wasn't.
Eying Sam, who was still muttering to himself, Dean slipped a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.
He ignored the guilt in his gut. He needed Sam, but that didn't make them friends. If he had to enforce a little discipline to ensure he wouldn't return to an empty motel room, that was his call. In a few weeks, when he felt he could trust Sam, he wouldn't need the cuffs.
As he neared the bed, Sam's shoulders tensed. He tried to brace himself for a little resistance.
Unfortunately for him, a little resistance wasn't what he got.
Sam lashed out with a right hook before he even reached the bed. Spots danced in his vision when it connected with his jaw. Before he could recover, a foot planted itself in his solar plexus and launched him backwards. He fell against the wall, grunting as the air was knocked out of him. The handcuffs fell from his hand when he slid to the floor.
All right, damn it. Enough was enough.
Instead of running for the door, Sam darted forward. Dean hooked an ankle and rammed his shoulder into Sam's thigh. They hit the floor, punching, kicking, biting, and scratching for the upper hand. Dean tried to pin Sam beneath him, but the guy was huge and desperate. Not a great combination.
It wasn't long before they ran out of floor space and Dean found himself pinned between Sam and the wall. Chest heaving, panting heavily, Sam rammed a forearm against Dean's throat. His other hand ran over Dean's hips and waist, as if searching for something. Dean tried to talk, but he only got a knee to his ribs for his trouble.
When Sam pulled the tracker from his jacket pocket, Dean realized why he hadn't run at first. There was nothing stopping him now. A flicker of uncertainly flashed through his eyes before he shoved away from Dean and bolted for the door.
If he thought he was getting away that easily, though, he had another thing coming. Dean pushed himself up, wincing as he tried to catch his breath.
Sam was forced to stop at the door to open it.
It was all the time Dean needed. He leapt onto Sam's back, briefly doubting the intelligence of such a decision. One of his arms snaked around Sam's neck, putting pressure on his carotid arteries. He felt Sam's muscles tense as he realized what Dean was trying to do. In the next instant, Dean was being repeatedly slammed against the wall. But he didn't loosen his hold.
"Keep it down in there!" The shout of an irate neighbor was muffled through the wall.
Sam's resistance was weakening. He staggered and dropped to one knee. Dean heard gasping noises coming from his mouth.
"Stop fighting me," Dean warned through gritted teeth. "I will put you out."
But it seemed Sam was past all reason. Either he didn't hear Dean, or he wasn't ready to give in. He made one last attempt to pull Dean's arm from around his neck. Then he went boneless and slumped to the floor. Dean's elbow hit the floor before Sam's forehead could, but he was careful about releasing him. They'd already taken enough hits. Both of them.
"Jesus Christ." Dean sat back on his haunches, wiping a hand over his face. It was damp with sweat. His heart pounded wildly in his ears. Legs shaking, he crossed the room to retrieve the handcuffs. Subduing Sam was more difficult than he'd anticipated. Sam's technique was crap, but he made up for it by thinking on his feet.
Dean cuffed Sam's uninjured wrist. He then dragged him to the radiator in the corner of the room. Even if he could've dumped Sam onto one of the beds, which was doubtful considering his throbbing ribs, he wasn't in the best of moods. Sam needed to remember who was in charge here.
After cuffing him to the radiator, Dean recovered the tracking device on the floor. It wasn't broken, but the screen was cracked. He shot a glare in Sam's direction. It wasn't like he could hit the nearest Radio Shack to pick up another one.
A glance in the mirror revealed a bruise already forming on his jaw. The swelling wasn't too bad. He could still hit the bar. For the sake of Sam, who'd just made the mistake of biting the hand that fed him.
Before he left, Dean gathered some items from around the room. The Gideon Bible was the only reading material available. He tossed it to Sam's side. Along with a full juice box, an empty water bottle, and a blanket. The guy was still recovering from hypoglycemia.
A nagging feeling told him to check Sam over for injuries. But he was still pissed, and it was pretty damn clear who'd had the upper hand during that round. Dean had gotten the worst of it. His ribs would be aching for days. His hand throbbed where Sam had literally bit him. And a lump was already forming on the back of his head.
No, he decided. Sam was fine. With one last disgruntled glance toward him, he left the room.
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The Vision Giver Masterpost
