Synchoresis (1 of 2)
Synchoresis
A Story in Six Sections of Unequal Length
i.
..knowledge..
The crick-clack whirl of the fan above keeps sending Sam’s bangs into his eyes and he’s used to that, been used to it for years, so he looks confused when Dean says, “How can you stand that?” He looks up from the laptop, says, “Stand what?” and moves a piece of hair out of the corner of his eyelashes without thinking about it, more attention on the dull throbbing ache of his right shoulder. “It’ll be a liability in a hunt,” Dean says, and Sam finally gets it when Dean adds, “Already has been.” Sam shakes his head, leans back in his chair and says, “I’m fine Dean. And I think I’ve got a lead.” Dean scoots his chair around the heavy table, looks over Sam’s shoulder and reads the article, muttering the key words under his breath, low enough that Sam wouldn’t have caught them if Dean’s mouth wasn’t so close to his ear. “Fourth murder in a month,” Dean says, elbow firmly planted on the table when he’s done. “They think it’s an animal or psycho, so why is this ours?” and Sam doesn’t mind the question because he sees the light of a new possible hunt in his brother’s eyes. “Dad’s journal. The region’s crawling with unhcegilas. He never figured out why so many were drawn south when they’re a part of Lakota tradition, but he was hunting there back in the nineties and caught one. He left us with Pastor Jim, remember?” and Sam’s words click something in Dean, because Dean stands, coiled and ready to spring, and grins. “Yeah, I remember.”
Sam doesn’t ask about the almost eager cast of Dean’s hands, fingers flexing as if they’re looking for a gun to hold, just bookmarks the relevant articles and finds more, about the area, unhcegilas, the missing people while Dean paces behind him, caged by the walls of the motel room. “Why don’t you go to the bar,” Sam says, “play some pool or something,” and Dean never stops moving, just changes direction, picks up keys and coat on the way. “I’ll try and hustle up some extra cash,” he says, then pauses at the door and looks back at Sam, who’s lean and damp in the heat, spread out and tired, and adds, “You wanna come with?” Sam waves half-heartedly and Dean grins and lets the door slam behind him. The sound of the Impala starting up, leaving, heading into town echoes in the room, and once the noise has diminished, Sam leans back and closes his eyes, rubs his forehead.
He’s still sore from the werewolves they finished off the day before yesterday; they hadn’t really hurt him apart from a vicious swipe at his shoulder, but he’d never known that letting a strand of psychic power drift too close to a lycanthrope’s mind was like sticking a metaphysical finger in a generator. The resulting shock had thrown him fifty feet away, right into a tree, and the slide down hurt almost as much as the impact. Dean had rolled his eyes and almost punched Sam when Sam growled and let enough power slip through his shields to give Dean a taste of the feedback.
Sam takes two aspirin, then four more, and digs nails into his palms, the pain from that much preferable than the headache, just enough to distract him so that he can’t feel the spike of sudden pressure in the back of his head when he lets one of the walls on his fire down and lifts everything five feet in the air. It eases some of the pressure but not enough, not nearly enough, and Sam wonders if someday he’ll just explode, trying to keep all of this power inside, in tight, neat compartments. It hurts too much, sometimes, leaves him shaking and unable to swallow, and Missouri’s called more than once to tell him to get a grip and at least take some vitamins. He feels like a freak on legs half the time, feels as if he’d be better off on some sort of psychic commune or, even, dead, but then he laughs, the sound echoing in the empty room, because it’s not the first time he’s had that thought and it’s not the first time that the thought following is something along the lines of If I ever did that, Dean would resurrect me just so he could kill me himself.
Instead of sitting there any longer, Sam gets up and takes a shower, standing under the hot water until it turns cold. It’s really too hot for a hot shower, early summer in Oklahoma and they’re heading for Arizona tomorrow, but the heat makes Sam’s skin breathe easier and the forceful pounding’s as good as a massage, helps his muscles relax and he inhales the steam and hopes his head will wait for another day to split open.
When he gets out, he puts on boxers and nothing else, leaves the bathroom and plummets to the bed, falling asleep in a near-feverish haze, not even bothering to turn the lights off or let everything drop back to the ground before he’s dreaming of Jess and werewolves and demons and fire. Sam wakes up when Dean comes back, tries to mumble something like Sorry I left everything floating but which comes out as “Mrph” to the sound of falling furniture. He falls asleep almost as soon as that’s done, smelling beer and stale sex and salt. He wakes up again, it’s still dark outside, and Dean’s watching him, sitting on the other bed and just staring. Sam tries to smile, but his eyes are bleeding fever and he half-thinks maybe taking such a long, hot shower wasn’t that great of an idea before his eyelids close and he’s dreaming in cycles of years and lives.
--
He feels a hand hovering over his shoulder, can sense the imprint of each fingertip, the arc of each jagged nail, and reacts instinctively, reaching for a knife under the pillow. It's not there, and he hears Dean say, “Calm down, man. It's just me. You getting up any time soon?” and Sam wants to laugh but rolls and ends up falling off of the bed instead. The thump hurts, makes his already aching muscles scream in protest, and now he can't help it, laughing as he lays there, tangled up in sheets and aches and heat, inside and outside. Dean leans over and looks at him and says, “Dude. What the hell?” and that makes Sam laugh harder, until he can't breathe, vision clouded in spots and flames.
Dean calls Missouri, holds the phone above Sam so she can listen to the laughter before Dean puts the phone to his ear and asks, “What am I s’posed to be doing with him?” Sam thinks that’s even funnier and now he really can’t breathe, can’t do anything but lay there and convulse in laughter and slowly asphyxiate. Dean pops back over the edge of the bed, eyes narrowed, and says, “Missouri says you’re power-drunk after those damned werewolves. Idiot. And I’m the one who went to the bar last night.” Dean stops, listens, then leans down and traces a rune over Sam’s right shoulder and the fading imprint of a werewolf’s paw. Sam shudders and gasps for breath, and Dean grins, says, “Hey, thanks, Missouri. Stupidhead’s breathing,” and hangs up.
“That’s the best you could come up with?” Sam wheezes, and at Dean’s puzzled look says, “Stupidhead? So first grade, man,” and Dean snorts, retorts, “Says the man who got power-drunk from a were-fucking-wolf. What, beer not good enough for you anymore?” and Sam scowls because he’s going to be hearing about this for every second of their twelve-hundred mile trip, and probably after, and groans seeing Dean’s smile. He’s definitely going to be hearing about this until he’s forty. It’s funny, but not, because he never asked for this gift or curse, he’s not sure what it is yet, and he’d give it all up in an instant, he hates having to learn things about it like this because it’s not like there’s a manual or support group or anything, and he flows to his feet with hard-earned grace, muscles protesting every movement. Dean’s still smiling but he’s watching Sam, and when Sam slams the bathroom door, he does so with unnecessary force, and hears a muffled, “Stupidhead,” drift in from the room.
--
They stop for gas as they’re leaving Muse, and Dean pays with the credit card and then makes Sam pump. It’s still early enough that it’s not outrageously hot and the sky’s not sunny or bright, either. In fact, it looks like a storm’s on the way, slowly rolling in from the west, and it’s been a while since Sam saw clouds move like that across flatlands like these, so he looks over at Dean and asks, “D’you think it’s safe to be driving into that?” and a trucker across the island hears him, studies the grey furling sky, and says, “Son, if I were you, I’d stay put ‘til that there passes through,” and Sam’s thinking that’s damn good advice, so he nods at the trucker and looks back at Dean. He knows Dean’s anxious to get moving, to get to the next job, doesn’t know why but doesn’t need to, so it’s no real surprise when Dean’s jaw tightens for a moment before he shakes his head. “We’ll see how far we can get,” Dean says, and before Sam can get back into the car, the trucker says, “Well, you boys pull over if it gets bad, y’hear?” and leaves in the other direction, outrunning the storm. “Good ol’ country boy,” Dean says as he slides into the Impala, Sam following on the passenger side a moment later and saying, “He was only being nice, Dean.” Dean grunts and turns the car on, pushes a Black Sabbath tape in the player, and pulls onto westbound highway 63.
The storm breaks not thirty miles later, one of those torrential downpours he could see coming, a clear line visible on the road marking exactly where the rain starts. Dean slows down slightly before they cross that line, then slams on the brakes once they’re in a solid sheet of rain, too thick and too fast for the windshield wipers to have any effect. “Can’t you do something?” Dean asks, and Sam turns and gapes in his brother’s general direction, feeling the move pull at his still-aching shoulder. “Dean, I’m not some kind of weather witch,” he says with a thread of disbelief in his tone, and he’s hurt and a little angry when Dean says, “Yeah, I’m asking too much here.” Sam narrows his eyes and says, “What is your problem?” like he’s ready to get out of the car and make this physical, but that all changes when Dean says, “I’m sorry, that was wrong. I just-we need to get there,” like he’s worried about something or someone and it reminds Sam of the way Dean sounded talking about Cassie, so Sam forces his muscles to relax, pulls out the map. “We could head south until we get out of the storm,” he offers after a few minutes during which the rain has, if anything, worsened. “Drive around Dallas if we have to,” and Dean thinks about that, then takes the next left.
--
When the sky’s cleared up enough to warrant sunglasses and they’re heading west again, Sam puts the map away and asks, “So what’s the hurry, Dean?” and doesn’t say anything for the ten minutes it takes Dean to reply, “A friend. He might be in trouble.” Sam’s thinking that over, asks, “Trouble as in he might be next?” and Dean sighs, says, “I dunno. But if it is an unhcegila, he’ll be involved somehow.” Sam chews on his lower lip, asks, “Involved somehow, how?” gently, cautiously, and doesn’t outwardly react when Dean snaps, “Just somehow, Sam, damn, leave it alone,” replies, “Yeah, all right,” and leans back in the seat to take a nap.
--
Sam dreams of fire, dreams of flame and heat, hungry and starving and deep, so deep, in his bones, like normal. But then it changes, the fire; it soars upwards and solidifies, turns blue and then white with heat, then Sam’s seeing things on it, like a movie, and then the fire pulls him inside and he’s living it.
Someone tied down, hands back behind, around, a pole. He can see the blood on the person’s wrists, see the bruises littering the half-dressed body, and he studies the symbol etched on the floor and carved onto a girl’s sweat-slick chest, as completely as he can in the seconds he has before his vision shifts to include a person shrouded in shadow, hears the chanting and a coyote howling, and watches with dispassionate disbelief as the tied-down girl screams and shifts, bones and muscles bulging under skin that’s splitting and re-knitting into scales and wings.
--
He wakes up, not with a gasp or any noticeable jump, hearing slap-wet drizzle hitting the Impala’s roof, and Dean says, “It’s not a storm,” when Sam cracks his eyes open, “just rain. Nice nap?” and Sam’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not that Dean can’t tell when he has visions anymore. “Yeah, I guess,” then, after a moment, “no, not really,” and Dean says, “Why not?” because Sam knows Dean really does care about him. “Someone’s making the unhcegilas,” Sam says, and Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel as his eyes turn narrow and lazy, a clear sign-to Sam, at least-that Dean’s pissed. “Vision?” Dean asks, and Sam’s almost afraid, with the way his brother looks, to say anything, but he’s a Winchester and not a coward, so “Yeah,” slips out of his mouth, somehow a confession, a statement of pride, and an apology all tumble-dried into the same admission. “Did you see who it was?” Dean asks, and Sam can almost swear that his brother’s hesitant, as if Dean doesn’t want to hear the answer, so Sam looks out of the window as he replies, “No. Just how it happens. If it’s current,” and his visions have never been anything but, so there’s no reason to think this one’ll be any different, “there’ll be another attack tonight.”
--
They stop for a break outside of Encino just before dawn. Sam’s headache isn’t bad, he’s getting used to the visions whether or not he wants to, but he’s been driving for eight hours now and Dean’s in no condition to switch off with him. Sam talks his brother into stopping, just for a few hours of sleep, so they pull off to the side of the road and sleep in the car for five hours, Dean in the front, Sam uncomfortably sprawled in the backseat, knees pulled up and elbows pressing into seat backs, hands losing feeling as they’re pillowed under his head.
The sun, at seven, wakes Sam up, that and the fact that he’s slept long enough and has a cramp in one leg, so he sits up quietly and pulls out his phone. Thankfully, there’s a signal, so Sam uses his internet access to surf for any news about another attack. By the time Dean wakes up muttering about coffee, Sam’s found the articles and the sick sensation of being right is clawing at the walls of his stomach. Dean turns around to look at Sam, rubbing his eyes as he does, and stops mid-movement when their eyes meet. “A twenty-two year girl from the reservation,” Sam says softly. “They found her about five hundred feet from the mission church. Torn apart like the others.” Dean sighs and nods, and Sam moves to the front seat without another word, studying the article and memorising the relevant details as Dean turns on the Impala and they peal onto the road.
ii.
..humanity..
Tucson feels like a town rather than a city, and Sam remembers a few things as they drive through from years ago, when all three of them were together and in transit from a small town north of San Diego to an even smaller town south of Houston. It’s dry and hot and dusty, and even the sight of the mountains in the near distance isn’t enough to distract Sam from the curious sensation of burning inside and out, like something here speaks to him. There’s something else going on, though, a subtle sense that something indefinable is wrong, like a snag in the psychic or supernatural fabric around the area, stronger to the southwest but still present here, in the southeast.
He has Dean turn on the EMF in the motel parking lot which is, of course, silent, and not picking anything up, so he’s not surprised when Dean looks at him, as if to say, Well? “Something off, but I don’t know what it is. Not a spirit or a demon, and I don’t know what an unhcegila feels like yet.” Dean makes a noise that Sam can’t interpret as anything but worry and maybe a little impatience, and when Dean wants to go check up on his friend before they can shower or even grab an hour’s sleep on a bed, Sam just says, “Okay,” and fits his body into the front passenger side, knees pulled up and legs cramping.
Dean drives to a mall downtown and parks, leads Sam inside and to a store selling Native American-esque souvenirs, one of those places with lots of turquoise and dream-catchers, though Sam can honestly say he’s never been in a one of these stores that actually has dream-catchers glowing with the sort of light Sam’s come to expect from properly working and strong spells. It makes him come up short for a moment before he tightens the shields around his gift so much that he effectively goes power-blind, trapped in his own body and physical senses, and follows Dean with a little more wariness. Dean’s striding towards the back of the shop and tells Sam to hurry up as they both duck through a bead curtain.
“Dean?” he hears, and turns slightly, automatically reaching for a knife before he sees that Dean’s standing still, looking, almost shyly, at the owner of that voice. Sam relaxes slightly, looks the person over as Dean stares, then smiles and says, “Adam.” Adam grins as well, flips glossy black hair off of his face and steps forward to give Dean a hug. Sam’s definitely puzzled now, but he waits until they move back from one another before clearing his throat. Dean jumps but Adam doesn’t, simply turns unreadable brown eyes on him and smiles. “This is Sam,” Dean says, and something in Adam shifts, a lessening in some tension or, perhaps, a different kind, as Adam says, “Stanford, right?” and Sam decides in that instant that he doesn’t care for Adam at all.
“Yeah,” he says, and Adam says, “It’s good to finally be able to put a face with a name,” and Sam replies, “I’d say the same, but Dean’s never mentioned you before,” and he thinks Point to me because lines around Adam’s eyes tighten after hearing that. Dean gives Sam a look and Sam smiles, turns on the innocent eyes, and is rewarded by an even less-subtle look. “I’ll be outside, give you two a chance to catch up,” Sam says and leaves, but not before hearing Adam say, “So, why’s he with you and not his cookie-cutter girlfriend?”
His power’s clamped down and it’s a good thing, too, because otherwise everything in the store would be pinned to the walls or floating near the ceiling, but it's a bad thing as well because the fire he’s mostly tamed by now picks up on his anger and starts screeching inside his skull, rattling around, begging to do something. Sam ignores it, pushes it back down into his bones, and ostensibly studies the greeting cards while he gets himself under control. There are the typical images of snow-covered wolves, tribal princesses, shaman, all those mass-marketed stereotypical pictures he really, really hates but at the bottom, half-hidden, the front of a card is graced with the image of a half-dragon, scales and wings, but two legs and standing upright, posed in front of mountains.
“An unhcegila,” someone says from behind Sam and he turns, smiles at the woman looking at him through red-rimmed eyes. “I thought the unhcegila was Lakota,” he says, and her smile grows a bit wider, a little less artificial, as she replies, “Yes, it is. We’ve had several families from the Lakota nation move down here in the past fifty years, though, and they’ve brought their own beliefs to the upland. Not many people who come in here would know that.” Sam nods, eyes the turquoise and faux wolf-skin rugs, says, “I wouldn’t think so. I’m Sam; my brother Dean’s in the back with Adam,” and watches as her eyes gleam at his mention of Dean and then narrow at Adam’s name.
“I’m Autumn,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you. I live on the reservation-have you been there yet?” At Sam’s puzzled look, Autumn says, “You must be here about the murders,” nodding at the card he’s still holding, “though I’m not really surprised your brother came here first, to see Adam. Don’t worry, I’ve been keeping an eye on him,” and Sam wonders why she bothers when it sounds like it’s a disgusting chore. He feels as if he’s been dropped into a situation he doesn’t understand at all and he doesn’t have time to ask any questions before Dean and Adam are emerging from the back, Adam looking blank and Dean holding himself the way Sam knows means his brother is uncomfortable and ready to leave.
Mystery on top of mystery, especially as Autumn backs off, plucking the card out of Sam’s fingers as she moves to one side and begins straightening a rack of moccasins, not looking at Adam but giving him the rest of her attention. Sam feels a vision coming on, the sharp stabbing pain above his eyes that’s ready to ricochet through his temples and behind his ears, but he pushes it back for now, keeps it bubbling inside of lava, for later. It’ll hurt more then, exact it’s own revenge, but he can’t let it out now, not when Adam’s staring at him with an expectant look and Dean’s finishing off a triangle, closer to Sam than Adam but not by much.
“Sam?” Dean’s saying, and Sam bites back says the pain, says, “Sorry, thinking. What’d you say?” Dean frowns but then says, “Adam invited us out to San Xavier for dinner tonight,” and Sam looks at Adam and figures the offer’s really for Dean but extended to him out of social courtesy and nothing more. He sees Autumn watching them from across the shop, and she nods once, slightly, so Sam replies, brightly, “Sounds great,” and doesn’t say anything else until he and Dean are walking back to the Impala.
“We-or at least I-ought to shower,” he says, “and I should stop by the mission this afternoon, before we eat.” Dean stops as he’s opening the door and looks at Sam, sighs. “How long’ve you been holding it in?” Dean asks, and Sam thinks of telling the truth but decides to lie, says, “Just since we were leaving. Kind of hard to walk through a mall and have a vision at the same time,” but a small measure of bitterness flavours the words. “Jesus,” Dean mutters, getting into the Impala and closing the door with more force than normal, “you’re gonna need a full fucking night in church if we wait ‘til you get back to the motel. Can you do it in the car without vibing?” and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, teeth clacking together as he counts to twenty in five different languages. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and Dean’s pulled out of their parking space and onto the road by the time Sam gets permission to have his vision in the car, but Dean’s “gonna kill you if you get us in a crash.”
Sam leans back and breathes in-beat-beat, out-beat, over and over and slowly starts to call the vision back out of his bones. Without warning but expecting it, the fire roars up, the vision slams into him and Sam’s there, surrounded by brilliant, vibrant colours too painful to look at without wincing, sharp and shrill sounds that make his eardrums bleed. It happens this way when he pushes a vision to wait, after he discovered three months ago that putting the visions on hold was even possible but came with its own set of repercussions. He won’t get used to his hyper-senses, not here, so Sam grits his teeth and opens his eyes wider and takes everything in.
Desert, scorching and dry, weeds and cacti everywhere, covering the slope of the hill he’s standing on, one coyote peering over the ridge before running away with a howl. Sam moves as the vision prods him to, following the coyote over the edge of one hill, then another, making a mental map of his travelling, how many feet he walks, the types and patterning of flora, the sounds and smells, the taste of the air and feel of the dry heat around him. The coyote howls, then disappears around the side of a small building, and instead of tracking the animal farther, the vision takes Sam into the building. Once his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he knows where he is, has seen the symbol etched on the floor before. The vision takes him backwards, then, in fast-rewind, until he standing in the parking lot of an old Spanish mission, bell ringing out the hour.
iii.
..courage..
Sam groans as he comes out of it, reaching to see how badly his ears and nose are bleeding. He finds tissue loosely stuffed in the shell of one ear, and Dean says, “Couldn’t reach the other one,” the volume making Sam whimper. “Almost at the motel,” Dean whispers; Sam knows it’s a whisper because of the rasp but it still sounds like shouting, so he screws his eyes closed tighter and covers his ears with his hands, cupping out the noise and sliding on thin trails of blood.
Dean nudges him when they get to the motel and the physical contact makes Sam whimper again, the pressure magnified a thousand times and ricocheting all over his skin. “Sorry,” Dean breathes as Sam curls into as tight a ball as he possibly can, fingernails digging into the scalp above his ears. “So sorry but we’re here, Sammy. You can sleep for a while.” Sam doesn’t move, gathering his courage and trying to push the pain away for the moment it’ll take to get inside, and the next thing he knows, Dean says, “Jesus, Sam, come on,” and pain floods Sam’s body like water, soaking inwards from the skin. He bites back a shriek and tastes blood, jerks himself out of the car and across the parking lot to the motel room, teeth clenched and face white as Dean unlocks the door, trying to keep his muscles from seizing up.
When the door’s open, Sam moves to the bathroom without stopping, closing the door silently behind him and turning on the taps in the bath, every drop of liquid hitting the bottom of the tub echoing in his head like gunshots. There’s not much water in the tub when Sam shuts the taps off but he can’t stand any more noise and he strips with as little movement as possible before folding himself into the water, letting the heat settle him even as it burns his skin, turns it a stinging bright red. It helps and hurts, and he voices one little choking sob before he bites down on his palm to keep from making more sound. He waits for Dean to say something from the room, make a joke or see if Sam’s all right, but there’s silence and Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam’s not even sure if Dean’s out there, and the thought chills him, makes him shiver even sitting in boiling hot water and he doesn’t call out, doesn’t ask for his brother, because if Dean isn’t there, Sam doesn’t want to know.
He blanks out, staring at the wall, thinking of nothing but pain and heat and need, until the water turns cold and there’s someone knocking at the bathroom door, little taps that mean Dean’s out there and using his nails and not knuckles, and Sam sits up, assesses his condition, and says, “I’ll be out in a minute,” like he wasn’t about ready to rob a hospital for morphine however long ago, which reminds him to ask, “What time is it?” There’s a pause before Dean answers, “It’s three. I still need to shower before we leave for the mission.” Only two hours, then, and he’s feeling so much better which means he’s either building up some sort of resistance or the pain from the vision wasn’t as bad as he thought.
He gets out and realises that all of his clothes are in the room, so he wraps a towel around his waist after drying off and opens the door. Dean jumps and turns, like he wasn’t really expecting Sam to be that quick, and then his eyes are wide, surprised, when he sees Sam, who, for his part, reaches up to make sure he’s scrubbed off all the blood from his ears and nose. “What?” he asks, and watches, puzzled, as Dean grabs some clothes and disappears into the bathroom without saying a word. Sam waits, looks at his clothes, and asks, “Did you put itching powder in my clothes again?” He hears muttering but has to ask, “Did you?” again before Dean shouts, “No!” and the shower turns on. With a suspicious look at the closed door, Sam pulls clothes from the bottom of his bag, shakes them out rather viciously, and dresses quickly, the contact on his skin prickles, mildly uncomfortable, but nothing that might suggest he’s recovering from a halfway-awful vision and nothing that starts itching.
He sits down gingerly, the mattress giving way underneath him, and searches his bag for his rosary and his knife, tucking the latter into the back of his jeans, the curve of cold metal comforting as it settles where it belongs, and sliding the former between his fingers, soaking in the cold feeling of a redwood-tree cross and beads of chalcedony strung on thin silver. It was Jess’ rosary, back when he first met her, freshmen living across the hall from each other at Stanford, the first present she ever gave him, and every time it runs across his fingertips, he thinks of her hands, warm and soft, pressing the rosary into his palm after the first Advent Mass, remembers the smell of her peppermint-licked skin, can taste the way she looked at him, aches at her words, audible even now, “To chase away your demons, Sam. You have so many of them,” because he lied to her and she knew it but loved him anyway. He lied to her, and she died for him, and he will never, ever forgive himself.
Sam doesn’t realise he’s just sitting there, staring at the prayer beads, until Dean sits next to him, bed dipping under the weight of another Winchester. He looks up, looks at Dean, and then away, because he’s too trapped in the memory of Jess to even think about asking Dean what’s going on, what that look on Dean’s face means, and is almost relieved when Dean only says, “You ready to go?” though the tone seems harsh, grating on Sam’s heartstrings. Sam grips the rosary tighter, holds it like a shield to his chest, and puts on his shoes before saying, “Yeah,” like a broken man.
--
The drive to the mission is quiet. Neither of them talk and the only noise is a quietly-played Pink Floyd tape; ‘Wish You Were Here’ comes on as they cross under the highway and drive on to the reservation. Sam doesn’t believe in coincidence and has come to detest irony, so he grits his teeth and ignores the way Dean’s looking at him. This isn’t a comfortable silence, like when they’re both lost in their own thoughts and that’s all right or when they don’t need to speak to know what the other’s thinking, and it isn’t a hunting silence either, where the slightest noise could get them killed. It’s like running into someone you’d been avoiding because if you didn’t, there’s going to be a knock-down fight or a shitload of screaming, and Sam wonders how things could go wrong again between them so quickly.
As he thinks and Dean drives, though, Sam realises it hasn’t been something quick, but something slow and insidious, almost healed when they killed the demon but slowly breaking ever since, speeding up with every vision and reaching killer-avalanche proportion when the rest of his power kicked in back in Arkansas. Little things that have been piling up on each other, times it looked like Dean wanted to say something but didn’t, times when Sam did something with his power and Dean just looked away, times when Sam thought that maybe Dean had had enough of him but wasn’t brave enough to ask, times when they should have been brothers but something always got in the way.
Thinking of that makes Sam think of Dean’s outburst in the Impala on the way here and the way Dean reacted when Sam confessed to holding a vision and it all starts to fit together. He has officially freaked the fuck out of his brother, proven himself to be useless and wasting space and time on the hunt, and he would’ve been upset or angry if he’d thought of this before, but he’s holding Jess’ rosary and Dean’s pulling up to the mission and he’s so tired and achy that maybe Dean’s right, because they could be out looking for an unhcegila right now-could’ve been all afternoon-and instead Dean has to play babysitter because Sam’s a psychic freakshow.
He gets out of the car without saying anything and Dean gets out as well, and Sam’s grateful that his brother wants to be there for him, but he can’t do this with Dean there, here, anywhere around. “You don’t have to stay,” he says, clutching the rosary, and then adds, “I can catch up. Don’t you want some time with Adam?” and he’s surprised when Dean glares. “You got something to say, Sam, just say it,” Dean says, and Sam cocks his head, studies the way Dean’s standing, like he’s ready to pound someone into hamburger, says, “About what?” honestly curious. Dean scoffs and looks away, moves so that his back’s to Sam, and that action combined with the fact that he knows now what Dean thinks of him makes him so weary that he starts trudging over the sand to the doors of San Xavier del Bac. He’s nearly there when Dean calls out, “I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour,” and Sam waves a hand over his shoulder, chalcedony beads catching the light and refracting it, before opening the doors and walking inside.
The mission is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful church he’s ever been in, though it’s not as large as others or overly ornate despite the rich painting and gold inlays everywhere. Part of it, he’s sure, has to do with the feeling of history it carries worked into every stone and the calm quietude of sanctuary. Sam crosses himself and sighs as the Holy Water stings against the naked skin of his forehead and fingertips, a familiar feeling, something that grounds him and gives him the strength to walk farther inside and slide into the back row, kneeling and genuflecting in the aisle and then again, as he pulls out the kneeler and settles down, rosary in hand.
“Deus meus,” he begins, murmurs echoing slightly in the domes and arches of the mission, “firmiter credo Te esse unum Deum in tribus distinctus Personis, Patre, Filio, et Spiritu Sancto,” and the words flow out of him, sure and steady, as he moves on to pray the decades afterwards, beads gliding through his fingers and across his palm, until he’s lost in the prayers and the sensation of pure and perfect peace.
It doesn’t last long once he reaches the end, crosses himself, and opens his eyes, sitting up on the chair, knees popping with the movement after sitting still for so long. A brother-priest is standing near the front, looks as though he’s been waiting for Sam to finish, and when Sam exhales deeply and smiles, the brother moves to sit in the row in front of Sam, halfway turned to talk. “I don’t usually see people your age with such devotion to the traditional meditations,” he says, and Sam ducks his head, hiding behind his bangs and rubbing one of the larger, separating beads between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s something I have to do,” Sam says, simply, not looking up, and the brother reaches over to pat Sam on the shoulder, says, “God sees your devotion, and your penitence,” and Sam looks up sharply.
The brother laughs, the sound echoing around the church, then asks, “Do you not wish to confess before you repent? Or is this an old, familiar action you know the consequences of?” and Sam tenses, moving out from under the brother’s hand. The older man pauses, stops smiling and eventually says, “Now I must ask for forgiveness. I meant nothing by my words except curiosity that I might be able to help. I apologise,” and he looks so upset with himself that Sam can’t help but smile and say, “It’s all right. It’s just,” and he pauses, searching for a way to explain how he feels, then says, “been hard lately.” The brother nods and asks if Sam wants to talk about it, under the Seal, and Sam says yes and then little more for the time it takes to gather his thoughts.
“My brother and I, we’ve been travelling across the country. Road-tripping, I guess, sort of our own version of Kerouac,” and Sam’s not really that surprised to see the brother nod and smile in recognition. “And things have happened. We’ve changed,” he goes on, “or at least I have. It’s been good and bad, both, but lately I’ve been feeling like maybe my brother doesn’t want me around anymore, like I’ve changed too much, and we’ve always been close but he’s not talking to me and I can’t always talk to him, and I just feel,” he trails off, and the brother says, “Lost. You feel lost,” and Sam nods, feels a cavern in his heart stretch out, carved there by Jess’ death and now made so much worse, because Dean’s had enough of him.
“Family is hard,” the brother says, “even our Lord experienced that during His time on earth. Have you talked to your brother about this?” and Sam shakes his head, rubs his eyes. “He’d never admit to it,” he says, and the friar nods. “Talk to him and see if he feels the way you think he does. If not, then perhaps you can be reconciled. And if so, perhaps all you need is a break from each other. Two people in one car, across this country-sometimes all that’s needed is a little space. No matter his answer, though, I think you’re already doing the best thing in seeking out God, who is our Perfect Companion in all things.”
The brother leaves Sam alone and wondering if it’s sacrilegious or blasphemous that he’d rather have Dean at his back, holding a shotgun, than God. After a minute of staring up at the crucifix above the altar, Sam drops to his knees again, kneeling silently, both his mind and body still, rosary clutched in his hands as he prays for something without words, without knowing what it is he’s praying for, but knowing that he needs to, needs this.
--
He hears movement in the church, a new presence, and his muscles go rigid before he recognises the gait of Dean’s cocksure strut, opens his eyes and crosses himself, standing up and stretching. “Better?” Dean asks, and Sam says, “I guess.” Dean doesn’t genuflect or cover himself in Holy Water as they leave; Dean never really believed like Sam does, or if he does, Sam’s never seen an expression of faith, not even at Pastor Jim’s. Thinking of that makes Sam stop outside in the parking lot, makes him ask, “Dean?” and Dean stops, looks at Sam warily, says, “Yeah?” Sam’s not sure how to ask the question he wants to, so instead he asks, “What’s the story with you and Adam? I mean, how do you know him?” and Dean’s definitely tense now.
“Why?” Dean asks, and Sam’s taken aback at the suspicious tone, so he says, feeling the last slice of peace he’d found in the mission slide away, “Autumn doesn’t like him and she knows you. She expected us. When did you come here before?” Dean says, “Does this really matter?” and Sam can see the wall between them growing taller, wider, he figures what’s one more brick? and says, “Yes, I think it does,” and Dean’s frozen, lips pressed together, and Sam wants to cry, he’s got an answer, but the feel of Jess’ rosary in his hand and the fire uncurling from sleep in his bones swallows his sobs before he can breathe them and licks up his tears before he can cry them. He just nods and lies, gently, “Go back to Adam, Dean. I’ll be all right,” and turns his back to Dean, letting the sun soak his face in heat.
Footsteps crunch on the sand then Dean’s standing behind him, breath on the back of Sam’s neck hot and angry. “I came out here with dad while you were at Stanford,” Dean says, “after he found out about another unhcegila hunting on the reservation. That’s when I met Adam, and, yeah, we fucked a few times. Autumn’s a nice girl but she’s jealous of the attention Adam gets because he’s a better shaman than she could ever dream of being. Now, are you telling me to leave because you’re not done here or because you finally figured out that I fuck guys as well as girls?” Sam laughs, then realises maybe he shouldn’t have, not when he hears Dean growl, so he says, “I didn’t know. I just, you don’t need me. I’m holding you back,” and Dean growls again, says, “Did one of those fucking priests tell you that or are you trying to get me to punch you for being such a goddamned idiot?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move as Dean circles to stand in front of him, eyes narrowed to slits. “What the hell’s going on, Sam?” Dean hisses, and Sam says, “I can survive on my own, Dean,” which is true but hurts to say because he doesn’t want to, not when he’s been so happy with Dean and that’s such a selfish thing to feel, knowing that Dean doesn’t feel the same way but won’t admit it. “I don’t need a babysitter,” Sam says, something that’s probably a lie, and Dean’s face turns white in the span of a blink. “Fine,” Dean finally says, like something inside of him has snapped, and Sam’s tempted, so tempted, to take it back, but he just says, “We just need some space, is all.” As Dean leaves, Sam stares at the mountains, listening as the Impala turns on and the car drives away, Dean inside, forever this time. Sam looks at the view, feels heat and then déjà vu as the mission bell begins to ring and the shadow of a coyote howls across the desert sand.
Part Two