Away to Darker Dreams, Part Five
Dean eyes Sam, who is small enough to curl up on the seat and have leagues of space between them. "We need to get food in you," Dean murmurs, more to himself than to Sam. "We'll eat at Missouri's. Maybe she has a remedy for your head."
Sam hums something tuneless and Dean doesn't want to move, doesn't want to do anything, really, save for look after Sam, and hold him close, but Missouri might have answers, a cure, anything.
When the engine turns over, Sam seems to sag further back against the seat, and Dean does his best to pretend he didn't see, pulling back onto the highway.
It takes less time than he'd dreaded to get to Lawrence, and even though he recognizes nothing, a cold, chilling feeling settles in his bones, almost like the instinctual gut wrench he gets when spirits appear. He cruises through town, stopping for gas. He's low on cash again. There's no time to get any more. Maybe Missouri knows a place with cheap nightly rates. He tries not to constantly think about how fucked they are, but they're pretty fucking fucked.
Missouri's home is residential, nestled among hundreds of semi-identical two-story homes built in the sixties, and it takes him awhile to navigate the grids of streets, driving slow and steady among people walking dogs, bunched up families, gaggles of children.
Missouri's house is nothing special, slightly homey, a few streets down from their childhood home. Dean avoids it, taking a circular route to their destination. He thinks their arrival should be accompanied by golden rays of light and cherubs singing, that Missouri's house should be falling apart and dark and spooky, covered in crystals and windchimes, but it's just... domestic. There's a black cat on the porch and a newspaper lying out on the driveway.
Dean tells Sam to stay put and puts the car in park, running around to Sam's side and opening the door for him. He helps Sam up, looping an arm around Sam's waist. Sam leans against him, resting his head against Dean's shoulder, and something in Dean's chest tugs. He wants to keep Sam there forever. He wants to hold Sam against his body and never let go.
It scares him.
He distracts himself by moving them up the sidewalk and to the door. They've just barely scaled the two steps leading onto the porch when the front door swings wide open, and a women garbed in a colorful dress and scarves bursts through, earrings clacking and tinkling as she greets them.
"Sam and Dean," she says in that peculiar, feather-light voice, her dark eyes sparkling with knowledge, "please, come right in, boys. I've got tea going."
Dean has no time to say a greeting or a thank you before she disappears inside. He has no choice but to follow after, noting the latin etched into the doorframe as he passes under. Something in his chest loosens, just a little.
Missouri leads them to a dark, cosy living room. She's shut all the curtains, blocking out all the light for Sam. Giant, cushy couches line the room, a tray with teacups and cookies sitting on a coffee table in the center. Black candles flicker and waver on side tables.
Dean sets Sam down on the cushiest couch, pressing himself right up against his brother. He keeps an arm wrapped around Sam, using the other to grab a chocolate chip cookie from the tray to snack on. Missouri sits down across from them, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
"The tea's Ginger Root," Missouri says. "with a little something special. Should help your head just a bit, Sam."
Dean grabs a cup off of the tray and holds it up to Sam's lips. Sam huffs and grabs the cup, peeling Dean's fingers away from the porcelain. Sam takes a sip, his eyebrows going up. He drinks more.
Dean notices Missouri watching him with a strange look in her eyes, and he stops watching Sam's every move, his cheeks burning. He doesn't want her to think poorly of him. He's afraid of getting on her bad side, having what might be Sam's only chance torn away from them.
"Oh, hush," Missouri says, rolling her eyes. "Dean, you worry too much. You boys are like family to me. John is a dear friend. I'll do anything I can to help you, as long as you don't put your feet up on my nice new table."
Dean plants his heels back down on the floor. How the fuck?
"That's my fun little parlor trick," Missouri explains, smiling and tapping her temple. "I can feel emotions, thoughts, ideas in other people's minds. It's what keeps me in business."
"Oh." Dean doesn't know what to think about that.
Missouri laughs. "Why don't you two finish your tea and then we can talk shop. If Sam wants to rest, I've got a guest room upstairs that's guaranteed to give him some sleep."
"Thank you," Sam speaks up, coughing slightly. "If it's okay, I'd like to hear what you have to say and then pass out."
Missouri grins at Sam like everyone in the whole world did when Sam was four, mop-haired and chubby-cheeked, the cutest kid on the block. "Of course, sweetheart," she says, and Sam takes another sip from his tea, the lines disappearing from his forehead.
The silence curls around them like a warm blanket, and Dean has no doubt that it is somehow Missouri’s doing. Sam's hand shakes as he grabs for a cookie, so Dean stacks a little pile of them on Sam's plate, right up against the side of the teacup. Sam shakes his head, making a little exasperated noise, but he's smiling.
With the concentration and speed of an Olympic runner, Dean tamps down the wild urge inside him to kiss Sam senseless, to memorize and preserve the feel of that smile on his own lips.
Sam's knee knocks against Dean's and Dean looks up, biting his lip.
"You gonna eat that?" Sam whispers, gesturing to the half-eaten cookie hanging forgotten between Dean's fingers. They're damn good cookies. Dean could eat a thousand of them. He hands it to Sam, watching as his throat column works when he swallows.
It's good that he's eating, Dean thinks, even if it's sugary temptation. If Missouri ever made any with nuts, Sam would be all over that like the loser he is.
"I'll keep that in mind," Missouri says at the same time Sam leans forward to set his empty teacup back on the tray. His eyes flash up at Missouri, obviously puzzled. Dean flushes under the strange, invisible mental spotlight.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she continues, "I can see that Dean doesn't really like me addressing his thoughts. I get a little lost in it sometimes."
"It's okay," Sam says, pausing to shudder through a wracking fit of coughs that puts Dean's heart progressively further into his throat. "I know what it's like to be lost in your head."
"So, Missouri," Dean says, clearing his throat, "can you help Sam?"
Missouri tsks at him and sets down her own cup. "All in time, boy," she says, "just let me clean this mess up." Dean watches as she scurries around the room, unable to screen the indignancy in his thoughts. He hopes she isn't listening, because his thoughts are pretty much an impatient, bratty child demanding attention. With a side of Sam-addiction. He can't help it. Sam is at risk. It's his natural response.
When she returns, she's holding a small wooden box in her hands with cursive text burnt into the lid in a language Dean doesn't recognize. She hands it to Sam, who takes it gingerly, setting it down in his lap and staring down at it wordlessly.
Dean fucking hates suspense. "What is it?"
Missouri gestures toward Sam. "Why don't you open it."
Sam looks at her, his brows drawing together. He looks down at the box, running a finger over the script on the top. After a moment of hesitation, he flips the lid open, pulling a corded necklace out from the box. A dark blue gemstone of some kind hangs as a pendant, with flecks of bright green reflecting the low lighting in the room. Sam holds the stone in his palm, the cord hanging over his fingers. "I--what's this for?"
"You are a giant neon sign right now, honey," Missouri says. "All psychics can sense each other, and your ability, pain, and emotion are broadcasting for miles. When your talents kicked in, I woke up in the middle of the night. I could hear you all the way out in California. I don't think we have the time to give you any serious training in controlling your psychic signature, so that beauty there is our other option. It muffles you. This way, other psychics and the demon won't know where you are at all times."
Sam's eyes go huge and he swallows. "He's known where I am this whole time? Because of my visions?"
Missouri nods, folding her hands in her lap. "Your daddy wanted to tell you all of this, but he's caught up at the moment, hunting the demon. It's a lot, but you both need to hear it."
Sam lets out a breath and Dean slings an arm around him. "Start from the beginning," he says, feeling Sam relax under his touch.
Missouri tells Dean about how John first came to her in 1983, confused and grieving, struggling to believe what his eyes had seen in Sam's nursery in that awful November. She helped calm his rage, explaining that not all that was supernatural was evil, like herself. She visited the house, feeling the signature of evil that lingered there, a rotten, acrid stench. She told him to start a journal documenting his learnings and progress, and kept up with him as he met new people, killed monsters, and criss-crossed the country, looking for a sulfuric needle in a haystack.
Then, all at once, a few months ago, psychic signatures starting ringing all over the country, in Palo Alto, and in other big cities. Some signals cut out quickly, others faded, and some persisted, like a siren, like Sam. Missouri helped John track down another kid, who could kill others with a single touch. She was born in the same year as Sam, and her mother died when she was six months old.
That set John into a terrified fervor, going off on his own and leaving Dean to continue hunting monsters, unaware that Sam could be in danger. John was convinced the demon was watching him, and believed the fewer people that knew his plans, the better.
John captured a demon working under the Thing that Killed Mom and tortured it for information. The demon spoke of a coming war, and how they were forming an army of talented human children to be on the front lines. The demon somehow has power over the psychic kids, Missouri says, and she thinks it's because their psychic talents make them susceptible. He can visit them in dreams, hurt them through a psychic link... anything it takes, to have them on his side.
"We don't know what the war is," Missouri finishes, "or really, how he discovers the children, and how he intends to use them. But you're one of them, Sam. You've had dreams of a man with yellow eyes, right? You can't listen to him. You can't let him get to you. He might promise to make you stronger, but it comes at a terrible cost."
Dean's mouth gapes, his stomach swimming with nausea. It's all too much to take in at once, and the amount of things they don't know... it's terrifying. The demon is probably three steps ahead of them, dancing around them with glee, watching them stumble after old trails. He can't think of anything to say. There's nothing to say to make it better. He wanted to believe so badly that Sam could've been hallucinating, or cursed, but Missouri's knowledge of his dad is proof that all of this is too real. Far too real.
"But it's so hard," Sam chokes out, blinking back tears. His body dissolves into one massive shudder, and Sam wipes at his face with a twitching hand. "It hurts, Missouri, and he keeps promising he'll keep Dean and Dad safe. I just want it to be over."
Sam's voice cracks and then he's bending in half, pressing his face into his hands and breathing raggedly in little half-sobs. Dean runs his hand up and down Sam's shoulder, tightening his arm around his little brother. Now would be the perfect time to promise Sam it'll get better, that Dean will keep him safe, but Dean has already failed there once, and he's not prepared to make false promises to Sam.
"Just try out the necklace, okay, sweetie?" Missouri says, so soft, grounding them both back to Earth. "It won't get rid of the visions, but it should help some with the nightmares. I can help with the rest. I can teach you how to manage it, Sam. You are so strong. You're so colorful, bursting with energy and power. I think with the right teaching, you'll be stronger than him. You'll be able to fight him."
Sam raises his head, peering at Missouri through crumped up, shiny eyes. "You can't mean that."
"I do." Missouri's voice is full of excitement, and she leans on the edge of her seat, her eyes bright. "Your daddy's not the only hunter fighting this war, boys. Others are out there, other people like me, too. And we're gonna save all you kids. We're gonna teach you how to hold your own."
Her confidence is contagious, and something about her aura makes her so completely matronly and trustworthy that Dean can't find any of his usual cynicism within his soul.
He believes her.
"You up to that, Sammy?" he asks. "You ready to be the next Sabrina the Teenage Witch?"
Sam bats him, but his energy is so sapped that it's a gentle graze. "Shut it," Sam wheezes, and Dean notices with a jolt how heavily Sam is leaning on him, how pale he is. "I'll do it."
"Fantastic!" Missouri crows, standing. "Now, no funny business. You're both going to bed right now."
Dean doesn't argue. He pries the necklace from Sam's baby-bird grasp and pulls the cord over Sam's head, smoothing Sam's hair down after he gets it centered over Sam's chest. He gives Missouri the box back. He turns to Sam, sliding his arm down to Sam's waist. He stands them both up, doing most of the legwork up the stairs to Missouri's spare room.
Sam is asleep within moments of being undressed and tucked into the bed. There's a knock at the door and Dean turns to see Missouri standing there, holding a pile of quilts.
"It gets mighty cold in here, most nights," Missouri says. "Thought he could use these."
Dean barely knows Missouri, but his heart is already almost bursting with all the gratitude he has for her. "Thank you," he sighs, slightly choked, taking the pile and carefully spreading them over Sam, being mindful not to wake him.
"Night, boys," Missouri whispers, shutting the door with a soft click.
There's only one bed in the room, and even if there hadn't been, Dean still would have curled around Sam, pulling him close to his chest. He does his nightly vigil, watching the darkness close in around them as the sun sinks below the horizon.
He kisses the crown of Sam's head. Sam shivers in his sleep, and Dean pets Sam's hip, feeling Sam settle underneath him.
Dean doesn't care what it takes. They're both going to fight this, tooth and nail. Dean's gonna get his Sammy back, or he's gonna die trying.
When Dean wakes up, he's cold.
He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes, blinking and looking around the cramped room.
He finally spots Sam, crouched on the floor, shaking like he's got pneumonia. He's shoving t-shirts into a duffel, smashing them down in disorganized piles, reckless in a way that isn't synonymous with Sam Winchester.
"Dude," Dean says, now fully awake, "what the hell are you doing?"
"We have to go," Sam says, voice cut off and clipped because of the chattering of his teeth. "Someone near here is gonna get hurt because of the demon and I have t-to stop it."
"The vision," Dean says, getting out of bed, "is that what you saw?"
Sam nods his head. He keeps at his work, tossing one of his favorite hoodies into the crammed duffel and zipping it up. "A girl. A little girl. That demon's gonna hurt her. He knows we're here."
"Sammy... stop," Dean walks over and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam shrugs it off. "It's gotta be a trap."
"Doesn't matter," Sam bites out, his voice thin. "We gotta stop it."
"Woah, woah, woah," Dean makes a grab for Sam's duffel and Sam hardly puts up a fight. "You're in no shape to be hunting, and definitely not healthy enough to take on the damn demon, Sam. You're not going anywhere."
"But she's going to die, Dean," Sam cranes his neck to stare pleadingly at him, his eyes wide and shining.
"Sam--"
Sam's standing up and turning to Dean in a whirl, grabbing Dean by his shirt. "She's going to die because of me," Sam's voice cracks. "because I didn't stop it. And she won't be the first, Dean. How many people am I gonna watch die? Not her, Dean. Please, not her." He sniffles, rubbing angrily at his eyes. "Not her."
"Okay. Okay," Dean says, holding up his hands. "Say we somehow have a shot. We don't even have any fucking gas money, Sam, let alone enough to drive to another city and get a motel. We don't have anything-"
"Then I'll let someone fuck me!" Sam roars, yanking the duffel out of Dean's hands. "It doesn't fucking matter, I don't matter, we just have to help her, Dean, I-"
"You stop right there." Dean's voice is low and dangerous, humming with emotion, and Sam actually obeys, freezing before him and shrinking at Dean's tone. "You aren't letting another guy near you, you hear me? They're all scum. They don't compare to you, Sammy. You. Fucking. Matter. You can't just toss yourself in the line of fire or sacrifice yourself for some damn greater good. I won't let it happen, okay? Not to you. I'm only gonna say this once. You mean too much to me for me to ever let you do that. I know it sucks, kiddo, but you've gotta calm down. You gotta think about yourself, just this once, huh? Hell, you're still going through withdrawal. Just... please."
Dean sits down on the bed, hunched over, winded all at once. Sam stands before him, wavering on his feet. Dean sighs and Sam drops the duffel, sitting down next to Dean, their thighs brushing. "Then what do we do?" he whispers, and christ, he sounds so lost. Damn this kid, Dean thinks, but he doesn’t really mean it, damn how far gone I am for him. "How do we help her?"
"Someone else can," Dean sounds, trying to sound as certain as possible even though he doesn't really believe himself. "We can call Pastor Jim, he's got a great phonebook of hunters. Someone will come. Someone will help. She'll be okay. You just gotta focus on yourself. You can't be beatin' yourself down all the time. It's suicide."
"I know," Sam smiles in pain. "I just fell so far down that I couldn't get back up, and then it was easier just to give up."
"Well, I'm here now," Dean says, clapping Sam on the back, "so no more of that, 'kay? If you think you're deep down somewhere... well, I've got a cool jetpack."
Sam snorts. "Real poetic, Dean. Beautiful."
"Ugh, shut up. We have this big giant moment and you have to make fun of me, don't you? Thanks."
"I wasn't making fun," Sam says, "I'm sure you're being seriously considered for a Nobel Prize in literature. Definitely"
"Oh my god." Dean stands up. "You're absolutely awful when you think you're funny."
Sam laughs, but Dean sees the hollowness in Sam's eyes and frowns. "Do you... do you need some pills?" he asks, and hates how fantastically fast the mood crashes into the ground.
Sam rolls his shoulders. "Just one for now," he admits, "I don't want to be all zoned out with Missouri."
Dean clicks his tongue, putting on his clothes and grabbing a bottle from his jacket pocket. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." Sam's voice is feather-soft.
on to part six