Fic: Epiphany [5/9]
It takes two days to get to Lawrence and another half a day to track down Missouri's house, the address pieced together from information in John's journal and their own memories. The woman who opens the door, though, is blond-haired and has a toddler on her hip.
"Missouri Moseley?" she says. "Yeah, I think that was who we bought the house from. I don't know where she moved, though; our realtor handled the sale for us."
"Thanks anyway," Dean says. He jogs to the truck, shooting Sam a glare when he takes his sweet time getting in. "What's the holdup?"
"I think I know how we can find her."
"Oh good, an option that doesn't involve searching the telephone book."
"I think I might be able to sense her," Sam continues. "Track her aura or whatever."
Dean raises his eyebrows. "How far does that go?"
Sam shrugs. "If she's in town, I'll know."
Dean stares at him a minute. "Well, then, fire it up, Watson."
Sam rolls his eyes and then closes them, settling in his seat and tipping his head back on the headrest. A minute later, his eyes flutter open and he mumbles, "Turn left on Pine."
Dean shifts the truck into drive and follows Sam's directions, occasionally casting his brother worried looks. Sam sits up but his eyes remain half-lidded and there's a delay between words, like it takes concentration to push them out. They're clear on the other side of town when Sam pulls in a deep breath and sits up all the way, pointing at a house near the end of the street.
"That one. With the green front door."
This time when they walk up to the house, the door opens before they reach it and Missouri is standing there with her hands on her hips. "Boy, quit broadcasting to every psychic in kingdom come. Dean, shut your mouth. You look like your poor daddy didn't teach you nothing."
-
Missouri is exactly as they remember her, if a little grayer, a little more stooped. Age hasn't dampened any of her fire, though. She lets them in, pronounces them starving, and scoops up bowls of navy bean soup with enough force that Dean sits where she tells him without a peep and is careful not to spill anything on her tablecloth.
When they're done eating, she says, "Now wait here a minute and don't say a word. I know a bit about what it is you came here for, but I want to look at you first. Lord knows the second you say something I'm gonna have a heap of trouble to think about every waking minute you're here." She takes her time, looking them up and down, eyes lingering on their faces. "You boys sure grew up," she concludes. "I remember your daddy worrying about not bringing you into his fight, and now look at you. Looks like you've had your own battles to get through. You still hunting?"
"We're taking a temporary leave of absence," Sam says.
"But you're not out of quite yet, are you?" Missouri surmises. "Funny how the supernatural has a way of latching on and not letting go. Once you see it, you can't ignore it, even if you want to. All right." She folds her hands in front of her on the table. "Tell me your story."
"How much have you heard?"
"Enough to know that more than half of it isn't true. You boys got enough legend swirled up around you both I'm surprised you ain't walking around with wings." She laughs, then sobers. "Things have been restless this past few years. Even for a psychic, the future hasn't been easy to read. Things have been stirring that no one wants to wrestle with. I know the Devil's been walking free and clear and making a mess out of things. And I know what you both did to put him back where he belongs."
Sam shifts in his chair. "You saw me say yes?" he asks.
Missouri nods, her face creasing. "Gave me nightmares for months. I'm so sorry, Sam."
"Did you know that the angels raised him from Hell?" Dean asks.
"I heard rumors, but I wasn't going to believe them until I saw with my own two eyes." She looks at Sam. "So, Sam. It's not everyone who has Heaven and Hell fighting over them."
Sam smiles. "Just lucky, I guess."
"And you're here because your powers are back," Missouri says. Dean stiffens and Missouri gives him a look. "Boy, you came to a psychic for help. What do you expect?" Dean raises his eyebrows and doesn't make an answer. Missouri flaps a hand at him and focuses on Sam. "All right," she says, "let's see what's going on." She gestures for Sam to lean forward. Sam closes his eyes as her worn fingers trace gently over his face, settling with her thumbs pressed against his eyebrows and her ring fingers touching his temples. Her eyes close and she frowns. "I'm sorry about your seizure, honey."
Dean sits up. "Do you know what caused it?"
She shakes her head. "It's not something I can pin down so easily. Usually seizures happen when a psychic gets ahead of himself and pushes his abilities too far. Your abilities though..." Missouri's eyes flutter open and she looks at Sam with her forehead creased before closing her eyes again and tightening her fingers. "I knew something was coming the minute you hit town but I didn't know it was you until I opened my door. I didn't recognize the way you felt. Your powers are different than they were before." She takes her hands from Sam's face and leans back.
"Good different or bad different?" Dean asks.
"I would say good but they're strong, too strong. You only had the one seizure? I'm surprised the side effects haven't been worse. That much power isn't meant to be bound like it is."
"They're the same powers he had before," Dean says. "The same psychic whatever."
"No, they're different," Missouri says, shaking her head. "They've been cleansed."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Not bad, just... Cleansing is a tricky business. If it's not done right, it's easy to break the lock that keeps whatever it is you're cleansing contained."
"What would that do?" Dean asks. "Breaking the lock."
"It would mess with the powers' original state. Most cleansings are done with herbs or maybe a ritual to negate whatever power has taken hold, like getting rid of a poltergeist. In most cases, cleansing energy means canceling it out. I've never seen a cleansing strong enough to reverse the nature of the power and make it positive."
"And that's what happened to me," Sam says.
Missouri nods. "That's why you're struggling with controlling them. The things you can do aren't things that even the most sensitive psychics could manage. Even experienced psychics can only do one or two things: see the future, read cards, move things with their minds. You've got more than a few tricks up your sleeve, Sam. The kind of power that fuels abilities like that tends to be all-consuming. Usually those kinds of gifts are wielded by something powerful; they're more than a human could control."
"I could control them in the beginning. The visions not so much, but everything else... I used to have a better handle on them, but lately they haven't been as easy to turn on and off."
"Most people with that kind of power riding around in their body would've been burned up from the inside out almost from the moment they got it." Missouri hesitates, then takes Sam's hand in hers. "You've always been destined for a greater purpose, Sam. What that demon did when he came to your crib was a horrible, horrible thing, but I can't say that he didn't know what he was about. The ability to wield this kind of power is in your blood."
"But the powers--Heaven cleansed them," Sam sputters. "He was a demon. He fed me demon blood."
"Angels and demons are two sides of the same coin," Missouri says gently. "Azazel's general, Lucifer's vessel. And now the powers have been cleansed and you're supposed to unite Heaven's legions."
"So what's the catch?" Dean says. "If Sam's supposed to be able to handle them, then why the seizure? Why the spacing out and forgetting things?"
Missouri smooths the tablecloth in front of her with wrinkled hands, then folds them. "I might be wrong," she begins. "It's been a long time since I've done more than palm readings and cleansing rituals. A long time since I've had to think about what brought John Winchester to me in the first place. These powers, Sam, were always given to you with a purpose. The demon that killed your mother wanted you to follow in its footsteps, so it gave you the powers and made them so there would be a change in you, something that would make you more than human but less than demon. Now, though, Heaven cleansed them and broke the lock that kept them manageable.
"The side effects aren't from using your powers, Sam. They're from resisting them. You strengthened your powers before by drinking demon blood and as your body changed they grew. These are going to need a lot more than that. These ones want to change you from the inside out to get you ready, whether you want to or not. There has to be a change, a chance for the power to make itself at home in the body. What you're experiencing are the consequences of the powers trying to mold you into something that can do all the things they'll need to do to handle everything the powers have to offer."
"So how do we stop it?" Dean asks.
"If he knew when he was working them--"
"But he doesn't," Dean says. "Hell, he can just be eating dinner and all of a sudden he's hallucinating shooting stars."
"He's not hallucinating," Missouri corrects, "he's seeing through. Most folks don't like to think of reality as having layers; they like what's tangible, things they can put their hands on. What they don't realize is that we're all just folks in a dark room. There's just a few of us who have flashlights. We see things they can't."
"Which was fine when Sam's powers weren't trying to eat him alive, but we need to find a way to make them back off. There's got to be something else. Another option, something to do besides let them just take over."
"I wish I could help you. The only advice I can give you is to not use them, control them as much as you can, and see if that helps. Find something that dulls them, that'll neutralize them, and they won't be as strong." A pained look crosses Missouri's lined face. "Resisting like that will help you hold off the change, but it's anyone's guess how long."
Missouri starts to get up but Dean raises his hands. "Whoa, whoa, hold on a second. That's great advice and all but we need a better game plan than that. Tell me we've got a better plan."
"I don't have anything to help you." Missouri gets up and starts clearing away their bowls. "I wish I had better news but I don't."
"That's it? No spells, no exercises, nothing? It's not something we can just ignore, Sam goes to work and the next call I get is that he's on the floor! They're not getting more manageable, they're getting worse!"
Missouri dumps the bowls in the sink with a clatter and turns to face them with her hands on her hips. "And they'll continue to get worse until Sam accepts the change."
"You keep talking about a change like Sam's going to have supersonic hearing after all this is over or grow an extra limb--"
"I mean that your brother is going to lose his mind."
Sam turns to face her. "You mean I'm going to go crazy?"
"I mean lose your mind. I told you before, it's in your blood, Sam. You have two sides of yourself fighting for control now. As the angelic side keeps knocking around in you, trying to make itself at home, it weakens your body and gets its claws in your mind. Now, you might be thinking you won't say yes to it, you'll resist the change to be whatever it is these powers are gonna make you out to be, but that's a losing way of thinking. You don't realize it now, but a little ways down the road you'll find that things happen that you didn't think you wished for, didn't think of consciously. You won't realize you're doing it, but the world will bend to you without your conscious thought. I mean, if you're not strong enough, you'll lose your mind to them and they'll make the choice to change for you."
Missouri turns back to the sink and turns the water on and just lets it run. There's a creak as Sam shifts in his chair, then a loud scrape as Dean shoves back from the table and strides down the hallway. The front door slams behind him.
"Your brother," Missouri says heavily, "he is going to run himself ragged over this."
Sam's short laugh is unexpected, but when she turns around his face is serious. "Yeah," is all he says.
She turns off the water and wipes her hands on a dishtowel, putting on composure like a coat. "He's probably out there calling Bobby Singer up," she says briskly, "trying to see what he knows."
"I don't think so," Sam says. "I think he might be calling someone else."
-
Dean gets in the truck and puts his keys into the ignition, even though he's not going anywhere. He grips the steering wheel between two hands and says, "Castiel, you son of a bitch, so help me." There's no answer, no whispering wind, no grave voice with answers or excuses. "So help me, Cas," Dean starts again but the words die in his throat. "Help me," is what comes out instead and the sound of that pitiful plea bows Dean's head against the steering wheel.
-
Dusk has fallen by the time he gets out of the truck and follows the walkway to the front door again. The street is peaceful, quiet like their own street would be, and when Dean opens the door the illusion of peace is shattered. The sound of raised voices comes from the kitchen followed by the sound of pans crashing. He rounds the corner and barks, "Sam!"
Spaghetti sauce pops and sizzles on the stove behind Sam--who is holding a knife and feeling blindly to his left for another weapon. Missouri is on the other side of the kitchen, hand on the counter for support, but she shakes her head at Dean as he comes in.
"Stay where you are, Dean."
"Dean," Sam says and the relief in his eyes is palpable. "Dean, man," his voice is a croak, "where are we?"
Dean cuts a look at Missouri who says, "He doesn't know who I am."
He turns back to Sam and moves toward him slowly, hands outstretched. "Let's put the knife down, huh? Look at her, she's a little old lady, you think you couldn't take her?" Sam puts down the knife, dividing his attention between Dean and Missouri.
"She's-- Is this real?"
"Totally real, Sam. I'm Dean, you're Sam, that's Missouri Moseley, remember her? We saw her a few years back when there was a poltergeist in our old house. Remember that?"
Sam hesitates before saying, "We're in Lawrence?"
"Yeah, man, we're in Lawrence. We drove here to figure out your freaky mojo. Missouri's a psychic, just like you."
"Missouri. Moseley?" Sam wrinkles his nose like he's remembering a name from his childhood. "I don't... I've never..." Then he blinks and looks around the kitchen, at the spaghetti sauce burning on the stove, the pots knocked from their hooks, and says, "What the hell happened?"
Dean comes forward and grasps Sam's arm, squeezing it gently. "You checked out, dude. You remember Missouri?"
"Yeah, I--" Sam looks around. "I forgot?"
"You remember her now?"
"Yeah, I do, I just... I don't understand."
"It's all right," Missouri says. She comes forward and gets a sponge to mop up where the spaghetti sauce splattered. "It's good this happened while you were here. I'll see if I can find something to help your memory after dinner and we'll work from there." She gives Sam a kiss on the cheek and pats Dean's arm on her way out of the kitchen.
-
They throw away the burnt sauce and leave the pot sitting in water. Dean drive them to dinner in her Volvo and they end up at a burger joint where she sips on a chocolate shake and somehow gets Sam to eat a burger instead of a salad. True to her word, when they get back to the house she disappears in her back room and comes out with a small bag that smells like sage and pine, and gives it to Sam. "It should help you remember, or at least not forget so easily, but it'll only last a few days. You'll need to figure out something stronger, something that can ground you better and keep you from getting lost in your head."
They do rock-paper-scissors for the bed in the guest room and Sam wins, leaving Dean with the foldout couch in the living room. Dean can't even pretend to be a sore loser, mostly because Sam's asleep the minute his head hits the pillow. Instead, Dean gets his duffel and tosses it on the foldout, toeing off his boots and allowing himself to pad into the kitchen in socked feet. Missouri's scrubbing the pot with a box of baking soda on the counter but she brings over a plate of cookies without comment when Dean sits at the table.
"So," Dean says and Missouri gives a low chuckle.
"No need to be coy, Dean Winchester, I already know what you want to say."
"Shut up, you're wrong?" Dean hazards and grins.
"That's the boy in you. What does the man say?"
Dean sighs. "Is there any milk?"
Missouri gives him a look but pulls the jug from the fridge. "Glasses are in that cupboard there." She goes back to scrubbing the pot, the only sounds the scrape of the sponge and the light sift of baking soda.
Finally, Dean says, "There's two sides to the equation."
Missouri hums. "Ain't that the truth. I told you one side this afternoon." She turns to look at him. "And now part of you wants to ask me what the other side is except you figure I wouldn't have told you about the other unless this side was worse."
"Is it? If resisting this angel-hybrid change is so hard on him, why not make the choice to change or not and be done with it?"
Missouri sighs and turns back to the pot. "It's not a choice between being human or being angelic, honey. It's more complicated than that."
"So explain it to me."
"Sam has a difficult choice," Missouri says, hands slowing as they scrub until they stop completely. "If Sam says yes and lets those powers make themselves at home, stretch out and settle in, he's giving up control of his body. I don't know how much he's talked to you about what it was like to let the Devil in, but there are always scars from those kinds of things. I don't know your brother as well as you do, but I'm not psychic for nothing, and I can tell you that his worst fear is letting something else in."
"So he says no. If he holds out and refuses to use them, he'll be fine."
"The powers will take their toll on his body, like they're doing now--"
"If it's a choice between seizures and spacing out and Sam feeling like he's possessed again, we take door number one," Dean interrupts.
"--but, Dean, I have to tell you, I don't think he's going to make it."
"He'll make it."
Missouri puts the pot down and wipes her hands off on a towel. Dean puts down a cookie as she pulls up a chair next to his. "Dean, honey," she says quietly, "if Sam says no, he'll die."
Cold washes down Dean's back. "When?" he whispers.
"I don't know. Months, a year, maybe several. It'll be slow."
The cookie falls from nerveless fingers and Dean pulls his hands into his lap, braces them on his knees. "You said not using the powers will help."
"Maybe but I don't know how much."
"Enough to buy us time."
Missouri's face turns pitying. "To find a cure? From who, honey, heaven? What you're looking for ain't there, Dean. Sam's doing the best he can to give himself as much time as possible."
"To do what?"
"To say goodbye."
Dean stands up. "Unnecessary. My brother's not going anywhere."
-
They leave the next morning with the rest of the cookies and a bag of trail mix. Missouri squeezes Sam's hand and swats at Dean's shoulder, and they leave her waving from the front door.
"How d'you think it went?" Sam asks once they get on the road.
"How do you think it went?" Dean returns and Sam shrugs.
"I think she answered our questions."
"Yeah, except we still don't know how to fix this."
"She gave me that memory thing and I'll be looking for something to ground me. That's something." Sam looks over at the noise Dean makes. "You think this was a waste of time."
"No, I don't."
Sam raises his eyebrows. "Well then, how do you think it went?"
Dean turns on the turn signal and eases into the carpool lane. "Awesome."
-
Sam is sitting on the end of his bed when Dean wakes up the next morning, a sheaf of papers and mug of coffee in his hands. His face breaks into a grin when Dean cracks his eyes open.
"Dean, listen. I think I found a hunt."
Dean groans and stretches, searching for that hazy place between asleep and awake. "Awesome. Call Bobby."
"I looked up some stuff online. Dean, a section of the fields out back used to be a burial ground for the slaves when all this was plantations."
"Fascinating," he gripes before what Sam said sinks in. "Wait, the fields here?" His head pops up and Sam is grinning, the jerk. "What is it?"
"Don't know yet. Angry spirit would be my first guess, but it doesn't feel the same."
Dean sits up all the way at that. "Wait a sec. I thought we agreed your mojo was on indefinite lockdown."
Sam's mouth pinches. "Yeah, but--"
"But nothing, Sam, this isn't some casual thing you're messing around with."
Sam gives him an incredulous look. "We agreed I'm not going to be soaring the TV remote around or picking the winning lotto number. And I didn't. But getting supernatural vibes is kind of beyond my control at this point."
"So you got a vibe and, what, went exploring? At night?" Sam doesn't say anything. Dean sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "What'd you find?"
"There wasn't really anything to find. If I took you out there, you probably wouldn't even notice, but I'm telling you, it was lit up like the Fourth of July. Like something really powerful had just come through. Whatever it was isn't physical, and if it's traveling it's not tied to an object."
"So we've got a rogue spirit that's using our back field as a landing pad. Awesome."
"I told you, I don't know what it is."
Dean gets up with a sigh and fishes around in the dresser for a pair of clean boxers and a shirt. "Fine, just stay away from it and I'll talk to Bobby, see if he can get us some sort of banishing ritual."
Sam's mouth firms. "Why?"
Dean closes the drawer, eyebrows drawn. "What do you mean why? Because it dragged you outside last night and now you've got a cold again. It's a two second job, I can finish it and be done with it."
"And if a banishing ritual doesn't work?"
"Then we'll ask Bobby to come down, see what he makes of it." Dean throws a shirt over his shoulder and heads to the hallway bathroom, glaring when Sam stops the door from closing with a wide palm.
"There is a hunt literally on our doorstep and you want us to ignore it," Sam says, eyes narrowed.
"Yahtzee."
"When have we ever backed down from a hunt?"
"Since we have enough on our plates as it is."
Sam's eyes flash. "If you're doing this because you think I can't handle it--"
"Sam, our whole lives right now are full of can't handle it. Okay? We went to Lawrence because we couldn't handle it. And now we're back, and we still can't handle it. You know the one piece of advice Missouri gave us that might help us get a grip on all this? Stop using the powers."
"I told you, I'm not--"
"Don't kid yourself, Sam, you didn't use them because there wasn't anything out there last night. But if you'd seen something, you would've. You know it and I know it."
Sam's jaw tightens. "You can't expect me to sit this out."
"I can because that's exactly what you're going to do."
"I'm not a child, Dean."
"Then stop acting like one."
"You can't just make up rules like this!"
"I can when it's your life on the line!" Dean explodes and Sam face abruptly clears.
"Who told you that?" he asks in a quiet voice.
"Missouri," Dean says. Sam nods and Dean drags a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to... You're..."
"It's okay," Sam says. "I know. She told me, too."
Dean looks up at that. "Were you going to tell me?"
Sam doesn't answer, and Dean sighs.
"You keep using them and you're leaving yourself wide open to angelic brainwash. You don't and you die who knows when. Pretty crap hand."
"Either way I have an expiration date," Sam says.
"There's going to be something out there, man. If there's any chance of a cure, we'll find it, but we need to buy ourselves some time here. And that means not using your powers until we figure out a way to put them to rest."
Sam nods again, his arms folded. "I talked to Missouri about that, too. There isn't a cure."
"We don't know that."
"Have you talked to Cas?"
"Screw Cas. Heaven doesn't know jack squat."
"They know enough," Sam says. "When Cas doesn't respond, it's usually because he doesn't have an answer. Usually because there isn't one."
Sam shifts and Dean grabs his wrist before he can move. "Sam, I swear I'm not going to let you burn out, but you've got to work with me on this. You've got to give me a chance. And you've got to swear not to use them."
"We don't know how long I have," Sam says. "We don't know anything about this--no one does."
Dean's grip tightens. "If there's a way to save you, we'll find it. You, me, Bobby--you know he's not gonna sit this one out. We'll find it. I won't stop looking until we do."
"I know you won't," Sam says. There's a moment of silence, then he says quietly, "Okay. I won't use them. So long as nobody's dying and there's something I can do to help, I won't use them. But, Dean, I can't just sit and watch if people are dying in front of me. I couldn't live with that."
"Fair enough. It's a deal."
Sam huffs a laugh and leans his head on the doorjamb. "Since when has that ever been a good thing?"
"Since now," Dean says firmly and Sam shoots him a real smile before he heads downstairs to eat breakfast and leaves Dean to shower.
-
They spend the day alternately tinkering with the Impala and surfing the internet for whatever information they can find. Sam leaves a message with Bobby asking him to call and Dean puts in a call to one of his contacts, sketching the situation as vaguely as possible, but no one has anything. Sam's doing pretty well, all things considered. Dean catches him staring off into space with his head tilted to the side and asks him what's wrong, but Sam grins.
"Nothing," he says. "It just sounds nice. When you're working on her."
Dean glances down skeptically at the socket wrench in his hands. "It sounds nice?"
"It's like singing, kind of. Low. I think," Sam gives a self-deprecating laugh, "I think it sounds like the Impala. If a car could sing."
Dean considers for a minute, then shrugs. The Impala's always been half-sentient to him anyway. It's about time Sam acknowledges it.
-
That night Dean stays up well past midnight, but instead of lounging on the couch watching late night TV, he sits on his bed with the laptop, clicking around on the links Bobby emailed over about banishing rituals and harnessing power. It's a pretty obvious attempt to keep an eye on Sam and make sure he doesn't go wandering off like the night before, but when Sam does wake up he finds Dean asleep, the laptop balanced precariously on the nightstand. The night is hushed, the only sound the pattering of the rain he sensed yesterday, and there's nothing happening in the field tonight.
Still, Sam slides out of bed and retraces his steps from the night before. This late there's no sound but the wind through the pines and the crunch of frost beneath his feet as he walks along the edge of the field to where a couple weeks before he had mapped out the beginnings of a vegetable garden with wooden stakes and twine. He closes his eyes, breath puffing in the cold air, and says, "Cas, I need to talk to you."
There's no answer but a slight breeze passing through the long stalks of grass on the outer edges of the field. Then there's the flutter of wings and a hand curves over Sam's shoulder. When he turns, Castiel looks the same as ever, trench coat wrinkled as if he hasn't had time to perform simple human tasks like care for his vessel.
"Sam."
"Cas." Sam smiles and offers a hand. "It's good to see you, man. I honestly didn't think you'd come."
"I'm sorry I've been absent. It's been difficult to find the time."
"Yeah? How are things?"
Castiel sighs, looking away. "Difficult. The factions remain divided. Raphael has emerged as a leader of the main contingent but he is challenged by others. I doubt he'll hold his position long."
"Sounds pretty rough."
Castiel cuts Sam an inscrutable look. "It would go easier if--"
"Look, Cas, if this is another shtick about how I'm supposed to be Heaven's magical warrior, you can forget it."
"My apologies. I haven't asked how you and Dean are doing."
"We're fine, thanks for asking. Keeping busy."
Castiel looks down at the twine sketched in neat rectangles on the ground and says, "It's early for planning a garden."
Sam follows his gaze and huffs a laugh. "It's not really a plan or anything. I just got tired of papers one week and decided to come out here and mess around a little. We'll see if any of this gets past Dean's approval."
"This will be accomplished in the spring?"
"Maybe." Sam nudges one of the stakes with a boot. "I thought so, once."
"You're abandoning gardening."
Sam bares his teeth in what might be called a smile. "I might be abandoning a lot more than that, actually."
Castiel studies Sam's face for a moment, then lets out his breath to cloud in the air. "You know."
"Yeah. We visited an old friend in Lawrence this last week, actually. She told us."
"And you still refuse."
Sam nods.
"What does Dean think?"
"I thought you wanted to leave Dean out of this."
"Not if he could make you see reason. Sam, you have two choices: life or death. I can't help but think you're making the wrong one. If not for your own sake, then for your brother's. You of all people should know that Dean doesn't function without you. By keeping your humanity you're leaving your brother with nothing. Do you understand?"
"I do know that," Sam says firmly. "But the answer's still no." When Castiel opens his mouth, Sam raises his hand and cuts him off. "I don't want platitudes, Cas. I've thought it through, it's fine. Maybe it's better this way."
Castiel watches Sam with a careful eye. "Why did you call me here, Sam?"
"I need you to look out for Dean," Sam says, not taking his eyes from the ground.
"You and your brother are always in my thoughts. I know it doesn't seem likely; I need to visit more often."
"I know, but I mean later. I think...in the spring, I need you to be around more. Not just keeping an eye on us, but actually here--visiting, sitting, talking. Sleeping, even. Doing normal human things. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," Castiel says, "but why--"
"I need to work through it," Sam says quickly, "on my own. I've got two choices in front of me and neither of them is something I want. I can't-- I don't even know if--"
Castiel watches him struggle and then nods his head. "Agreed."
"Thanks."
"Still, I can't help but ask why you insist on refusing your powers. I don't have answers, Sam, but there's a possibility that Heaven's training could help, at least so they're not so uncontrollable, to help keep your mind and body intact."
"Help?" Sam laughs. "I think I'm beyond help at this point, Cas. I can't swim to shore, the best I can hope for is to hold on to the wreckage."
"It doesn't have to be that way. It's difficult because you're holding back--if you let go and embraced the powers--"
"No," Sam says firmly, in a voice that dries the words in Castiel's throat.
Castiel has never looked more like a vessel, shoulders slumped and fragile-looking. "Why? Why would you refuse to choose the one thing that we know can save you?"
"Jimmy," Sam gestures at Castiel's body, "told me once that being an angel's vessel was like being chained to a comet. That might have been true for most angels, but Lucifer was like being chained to a planet. And that was before I jumped."
"I know a little of what the Cage was like, Sam," Castiel says gently.
"Then why," Sam asks and his eyes are filled with tears, "why would you ask me to do this? Why put me back there?"
"Embracing the powers wouldn't be the same as possession. A part of you would still be in control, Sam."
"Then that's worse! I've tried controlling them and I can't get a handle on them, Cas. I can't. It's like trying to hold flames, it can't be done. And if I say yes and give my subconscious over to angelic brainwash? I'm supposed to just let that side of me walk around with supernatural abilities at its disposal? I was face-to-face with the Devil for years, Castiel, years. I shouldn't be given free reign, I should be locked up in a padded room."
Castiel steps forward, his face solemn. "I wholeheartedly believe that there is not any side of you, Sam Winchester, that is touched by evil. And that allowing that power to work through you would not be as terrifying as you think."
"How can you say that?" Sam demands. "You were there, you've seen everything I've done."
"I saw you turn yourself into a weapon to save the people you love. I saw you fight Lucifer and win--something that the host of Heaven holds in awe. You're not dangerous because you're powerful. You're powerful because, of all people, you are the safest. You believe so fervently in the goodness of others. I often wonder why you can't believe in the goodness of yourself."
"I live with myself, Cas." Sam's smile is bleak. "I know what it's like in here."
"Sometimes I don't think you do."
Sam drags a hand down his face. "Anyway," he says, like they were discussing the weather or a grocery list, "this spring. Hang around."
"I promise."
Sam offers his hand and Castiel takes it, tightening his fingers around Sam's cold hand.
"I hope you get your garden, Sam," he says, then he's gone.
Sam looks at the plot. One of the stakes is knocked from the dirt and the twine drags the ground. His plans look feeble, helpless.
"Yeah," Sam tells the empty air, "me too."
-
Sam's asleep when Dean wakes up but there's no sign that he had any late-night trips to the field so he leaves Sam a note--Morning, princess--in the mug Sam always uses and heads in for work. It's easy to get lost in the rhythm of things, to joke with the guys and let himself forget for a little that this isn't their life, that the whole reason they're here is back at the house, probably sleeping the day away. Then Dean's phone rings as he's heading out to his truck for lunch.
"Yeah?"
"Dean?" Sam's voice is tight. "Can you pick me up?"
Dean slams the truck's door behind him and turns the ignition. "Damn it, Sam. What happened, are you okay? Where are you?"
"I'm fine. I'm at the high school."
"The high school? Did something happen in class?" Dean curses. "I knew you should've canceled tutoring today."
Sam gives a dry laugh in answer. "I sort of did."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you when you get here."
Then Sam hangs up.
-
Sam's waiting on the steps of the high school, leaning against a wall, when Dean pulls up, and he slides into the front seat of the truck with a dark look on his face. His hands are restless after he buckles his seatbelt and his chest rattles when he coughs into a hand.
"What happened?" Dean demands once Sam settles in.
"No more tutoring job," Sam says shortly.
Dean stares at Sam. "What do you mean, no tutoring job?"
"I got fired. Suspended, actually."
"You did not."
Sam's knuckles knock against the window. It's chilly enough that his body heat fogs up the glass where he's touching it. Sam doesn't say anything.
Dean swallows and pulls away from the curb. "What happened?" he asks again once they're away from the school. He doesn't take them home, turns instead to the coffee shop, no thought but warm and familiar coming to his mind. Sam's hands are still knocking into everything, picking at the zipper of his jacket, spreading over his knees.
When Sam does talk, his voice is almost a whisper. "I don't know, I thought it was fine. I was doing fine." He swallows, wipes his hands down his thighs. "I was tutoring Jordan--"
"Jordan who?"
"Sayles," Sam answers and Dean nods, doesn't know why he asked other than he needs the facts, needs names and maybe addresses if this goes wrong, if this messes things up. If this messes things up, they're going to need everything they can get.
"I was tutoring him and it started getting hard to concentrate with the..." Sam makes a gesture, "colors and everything. I thought I'd ride it out, see if it passed, but it kept getting worse and I kept seeing lights, like sparks or something, so I got up to get a drink. I told Jordan we'd take a five minute break." Sam pauses for a minute. "But I don't think that's what I actually said."
"What'd you say?"
"I don't know. I don't know. All I remember is that I was standing when I was talking to Jordan and then I woke up on the ground and the janitor was there."
"You woke up on the ground?" Dean pulls to the curb outside the coffee shop and turns to Sam. Mrs. Kim passes by the truck and waves. Dean ignores her. "Why were you on the ground?" Sam shifts, picking at the sleeve of his jacket. Dean curses. "You had another seizure."
Sam nods.
Dean swears again.
They sit in the truck, engine running, as day turns to dusk, watching the cars passing by them, the people going in and out of the coffee shop, the lights coming on in the store windows.
Sam's voice is so quiet that Dean thinks he didn't mean to say anything. "I don't think I hurt him. They said I didn't hurt him, the principal and some of the other teachers. They came in later, I guess, I don't--I don't remember a lot of it. It was the scariest thing, man--one minute I'm fine, the next it's just gone: where I am, what I'm doing, who everybody is."
"Worse than normal."
Sam nods in confirmation.
"Okay. Okay, we'll take this one step at a time. How long are you suspended?"
Sam barks a laugh. "Does it even matter at this point? I don't think I should go back. This is what I was worried about, this is exactly--" Sam cuts himself off. "If I can be triggered like this--"
"You weren't triggered. You had a seizure. You're not the dangerous one in this scenario, Sam, you're the victim."
"I think that'd be a hard sell in front of a judge who knows that I'm a tutor for a bunch of kids."
"Stop putting yourself on trial here," Dean snaps. "Everyone said you didn't hurt the kid. So you didn't hurt the kid. You've been fighting the cold of the century, weren't feeling well, had a seizure, end of story. How long are you suspended?"
Sam rubs his hands over his face wearily. "The school board's reviewing the case. I'm supposed to wait for a call. I think they think I'm on drugs."
Dean shakes his head. "Maybe you should be. You want coffee?"
"No. Just want to go home."
-
The school calls later and says that Sam's suspension will last through the end of the month. They'll organize a meeting after Halloween and evaluate whether he will continue to have individual sessions with the students. The woman on the phone says that in the meantime Sam can still edit the students' assignments with the permission of the students' parents and that they'll send someone over with the papers.
True to their word, that Friday the doorbell rings and Dean opens the door to see a tall redhead wrapped in a green scarf on the doorstep. "Hi," she greets him, flashing a bright smile. "You must be Dean. I'm Abby Chamberlin. The high school sent me over with some papers for Sam?"
"Oh," Dean opens the door wider, "yeah, come on in."
"I can't, actually, I've got to get going. Would you just give these to Sam and tell him that I'm on his side and I'm 99% sure everything's going to be okay?"
"Yeah, I'll..." Then it clicks. "You were at Stairway. When Sam had his...thing."
"Yeah, I was." She gives a regretful smile. "I'm sorry he's having such a hard time."
"Yeah, me too. So you met him while he was working?"
"Oh, Sam tutors me. Well, I'm working on my senior thesis--I'm a nursing major at Georgetown--and he's helping me with my arguments. It's kind of an informal thing--we meet for coffee sometimes and we go over his comments."
"Georgetown, huh? That's kind of a high-end thing, isn't it?"
"I've got a scholarship that I've been working my butt off to keep." Abby rolls her eyes and Dean instantly likes her. "My bedside manner is pretty awesome, if I say so myself, but this thesis is kicking my butt. My uncle works at the high school and told me they hired a writing tutor. He mentioned me to Sam, probably twisted his arm to take me on, and the rest is history. I'm pretty sure he's saving my life."
"Yeah, he, uh, he does that."
"Anyway, have a good evening! And tell Sam I said hi."
"Will do."
Abby hands him the folder of papers and waves once she's in her car. Dean is pretty sure if Sam isn't going to propose, then he will.
-
Sam's cold hangs on insistently and so does the effect it has on his powers. The weather drops ten degrees the weekend before Halloween and Sam keeps a scarf around his neck even when he's inside. Dean's almost glad that Sam's suspended from tutoring because despite his ability to keep things under control during his shifts at Stairway, at home Sam can't keep it up and looks like he's on drugs half the time, distracted and jumpy, tracking things that Dean can't see, putting a hand out to trace over words on a page or the furniture when he just can't help himself. Abby comes by every couple of days to either talk to Sam about her thesis or to trade new essays for the ones Sam already edited.
"How's he doing?" she asks one day, leaning against the door of the kitchen with a steaming mug in her hands. She nods at Sam on the couch, knocked out with a plaid blanket pulled up to his shoulders.
"Better, actually," Dean replies. "He's coughing less. Doesn't keep me awake at night as much."
"The cold, yeah," she says, "but I meant how's he doing?" Abby tilts her head and watches Dean with a look on her face that says it wasn't for nothing that she got a scholarship to Georgetown. Dean hesitates and Abby says, "He's not okay, is he?"
There's another lie, another cover on the tip of his tongue, but Dean can't bring himself to do it. "Sam has a...condition," Dean says instead, watching her closely. "We're not sure what it is exactly, but I'm guessing that his immune system doesn't have enough juice to fight off whatever it is he's got and a cold too. Hence the seizures and the general spaciness."
Abby nods, not surprised in the least. "He forgot my name earlier today. That's why I was asking."
"Sorry."
Abby takes a last sip from her mug and sets it on the counter. "Not your fault. Besides, it's one more thing I can give him a bad time about." She winks and shrugs on her coat. "Well, tell Sam bye for me. I'm not gonna wake him up. See you after Halloween."
"You dressing up?" Dean asks, following her to the front door.
"Red Riding Hood." Abby shoots a devilish grin over her shoulder. "With a twist. I'm going to have a stuffed wolf's head in my basket. What about you?"
"Us? Not sure yet, depends on how Sam's feeling. Most likely we'll be up to no good."
"I wouldn't expect any less."
-
Dean doesn't know if it's the cold medicine and orange juice or the prospect of not being allowed to go outside on Halloween that does it, but by the time Halloween rolls around, Sam's cold is almost gone and his powers seem to have backed off enough that Sam is able to handle them like he used to. The forecast for the night says rain, but Sam shakes his head and says, "I doubt it." Sure enough, the night is clear and cloudless, a crescent moon lighting the sky but leaving enough shadows in the Finley's yard for Sam and Dean to hide in, ready to chuck candy at unsuspecting kids.
"This is such a bad idea," Dean mutters, on his belly behind the row of hedges near the Finley's door. "If you get pneumonia from this, I am not taking care of your sorry ass one more day."
"Shut up." Sam elbows Dean in the ribs. "I let you pick out the candy."
"Yeah, because you were going to give everybody Skittles."
"Skittles are great!" Sam argues. "Better than peanut M&Ms."
"Hey, don't knock M&Ms. M&Ms are awesome."
Sam stops and studies Dean's face for a minute, brow furrowed. "Since when do you like M&Ms?"
"Since I was born, you idiot." He opens a Twix bar and tosses the wrapper at Sam's face. "Guess you were right about the rain," Dean says and Sam grins, teeth a white sliver in the dark.
"Guess so."
"It's so weird, man, I checked the weather, it was supposed to be raining all this week."
"Yeah, weird."
"Sam. You didn't..." Dean stops and looks at Sam, at the open glee on his face from the prospect of giving kids a thrill. He could almost be a kid himself with the way he keeps shifting in the leaves, his hunter instincts shot to hell after a few Reese's cups and a pack of Twizzlers. The question Dean was about to ask seems stupid, but he tries again anyway. "Can you--"
"Shh, shh, I think I heard something," Sam hisses and gets a fistful of candy ready.
Scores of kids ring the Finley's doorbell, dutifully chorus trick or treat, fill their sacks, and are then showered with candy again on their way down the walk. Not a few run down the street screaming blood murder, but most shriek with surprise and delight. A few of the braver ones storm their position behind the hedge, using their candy-filled pillowcases in an attempt to beat the Winchesters senseless, and in the end Dean's the one who has to fight them off because Sam's laughing too hard.
They pick up and head home after that, grass-stained and grinning, with chocolate striping their faces and Jolly Ranchers jammed in their pockets. Clouds are just beginning to ease across the clear skies and a drop of rain hits Dean's cheek as they cross their front yard but Dean doesn't ask again.
After all, Sam has powers. But that doesn't mean he can control the weather.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine
Master Post | Author's Notes