(fic: SPN) The Animal (2/3 + Epilogue)
Previous
Dean's just had a pretty successful hunt and all he really wants to do is have a couple drinks, wind down, and maybe talk to his little brother for a while before crawling into bed.
Of course, he's got the kind of shit luck that keeps him from actually getting all of those goals accomplished. Go figure.
He's sitting at the bar, and he's got his fifth beer in front of him, and he's on the phone with Sam when some asshole drunk next to him jumps to some strange conclusions.
“So how's whatsherface, that chick you've been talking to?”
“Her name is Lindsay and she's fine.” Dean can just hear the exasperated huff and almost see the eyeroll.
“Aaah, that's right. Lindsay. Nice name. You banging her yet?”
He hears Sam's scandalized yelp of “Dean-” but whatever else Sam says is drowned out by the bellow of rage from the drunk next to him.
“You fucking my Lindsay?”
“Sammy, I'll call you back in a little bit. Got a slight problem here.” Dean hangs up before Sam can respond and he turns to face the drunk. “Hey, buddy, I don't know what you're talking about, but unless your chick is in California-”
Dean doesn't have a chance to say anything else before he's got a fist almost in his mouth. At the back of his mind, he swears at his slow reaction time and wonders about the speed of some guy who should be seeing in doubles considering the number of empty glasses in front of him.
He fends off another swing and within seconds he's got the guy pinned to the bar's top, cheek against the sticky surface. “You gonna calm down now?”
In response, he just gets incoherent cursings and creative uses of the term 'fuck' and so Dean presses dude's cheek harder against the bar. Before he has the chance to repeat his question a fist comes out of nowhere, and apparently he's got the town hero or something pinned to the bar considering the number of guys that are suddenly surrounding him, making threatening gestures and noises.
... It probably wasn't a good idea to say, “Sorry fellas, I don't speak Neanderthal.”
He's kinda glad that Sammy's not here to see dear big brother getting his ass handed to him by about twelve pot-bellied men and a couple of younger college-age guys.
He's having a good old time of it. Right until some moron shoves him just right and he cracks the back of his skull on the bar's edge.
As he starts to black out, he thinks he sees a familiar tall form come into the bar room at a run.
When he comes to, the cops are there and someone is talking very quietly and calmly to someone else. It sounds like the tone of voice someone'd use to talk a crazy out of jumping off a building or shooting some random person, and when Dean opens his eyes he's surprised and displeased to discover that the person the cop is talking to like a loony is a silent Sam.
Wait, what?
Dean squints and stares at the form in front of him. Well, it looks like Sam, but something's off...
Sam shifts and glances over his shoulder and Dean knows it's him, really Sammy, but what the hell's he doing in Bumfuck, Indiana when he should be at Stanford?
Sam's... off, too. He's crouched over Dean, growling like he means to stay there until the cows come home and he's filthy. His clothes are ragged, and it looks like at one time they'd been hospital scrubs, and his hair's longer than it should be if he's been taking care of himself, and he's thin, and-
“Dean.”
“Sammy, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Dean-”
“Gentlemen, if we could take this elsewhere?”
It takes work, but Dean weasels his way out of a night in county jail and goes back to his motel, Sam following like a lost puppy. When he gets in the room, he wishes he'd gotten a double, but how the hell was he supposed to know that he'd be getting a non-sex-related bedmate?
Whatever, it doesn't matter. Something's wrong and Dean plans to fix it. He thinks about getting Sam to take a shower, but the dark circles under Sammy's eyes suggest what his little brother needs most right now is some serious sleep. Dean can do that, though he's not sure about the shape the sheets'll be in after Sam slides in between 'em. He manages to coax Sam into bed, but for some reason Sammy lifts the sides of the sheets like he's letting something in the bed with him and then he curls up in a small ball and watches Dean until Dean mutters a soft curse and strips to his jockeys and crawls into bed as well. He thinks for a moment that he shoves something more solid than air towards Sam, but then the sensation is gone. Christ, he's gotta be tired if he's hallucinating.
Sam's not a small guy, much bigger than Dean's usual bedmates, but he curls up so tightly that he takes up very little space.
That's another difference. Normally Dean's gigantor little brother would be sprawled out all over the bed, with little space for anyone else, let alone a big brother forced to share sleeping space. This, however, is wrong and disturbing. Sammy should be carefully sprawling so they touch as little as possible, but now he's got one hand out and holds tightly onto Dean's arm as if he thinks Dean's going to leave him while he sleeps.
Dean uses his toes to snag his jeans and, when they're within reach, he pulls out his cell to make a quiet call.
The next day, he begins to get a better grasp on just how fucked up his little brother is. He talks in low musical tones to things that aren't there, and refuses to let Dean out of his sight, even to take a piss. He just sits there, staring, and when he's not staring he's apparently carrying on silent conversations with imaginary things.
However, mostly he's quiet. It's one of the most disturbing things about it; while Sam may not have been very chatty, Dean at least didn't usually feel like he was talking to himself.
Sam's constantly touching Dean, too, clinging to his hand like a child or cuddled up behind him while he watches television and fucks around on the laptop waiting for Bobby to call him back for confirmation that he's found something or someone that can help fix Sam.
Then Sam has a vision, and somehow, when Dean's touching him, he brings Dean along for the ride.
Caverns of thoughts and shattered glass -
A blonde with shining silver eyes -
A young man with snake eyes fucking a teenage boy, then the sound of a neck being snapped -
Dark creatures with patterned backs and sides running together, Sam amidst their numbers -
Red threads wrapped tightly around flesh -
A dark, evil-looking machine belching out a thick fog -
Seawater with a storm on the way, a shining silver creature that looks like a sea serpent heading towards shore -
An older woman, whispering Madness is the key -
The vision ends, and when Dean comes back Sam is huddled on the bed, clutching his head like he used to after a particularly nasty vision of the future. Shit. He'd thought this was over, that Sammy had finally stopped having those visions, that they'd died off after -
Okay, fuck that shit. Dean braces himself and sets to work, muttering to himself as he tidies up the room and keeps an eye on his little brother.
Dean can't believe how insane the area between Sam's ears is, though logically he really should've known that by now. The kid always had something going on in his mind, and this? Just adds to Dean's idea that his brother really needs to get laid. Maybe then he'd loosen up enough to let some of this weird-assed shit go.
He is, of course, ignoring the fact that right now his brother is batshit crazy, but not so crazy that he doesn't recognize his own big brother. Sam finally unwinds enough to return to his staring game, watching Dean toss his dirty clothes in a duffel and start digging in his clean bag for some clothes for Sam. When he realizes that no, this time he's somehow managed to not get some of Sam's clothes in his clean duffel, Dean goes out to the car (leaving the door open so that Sam can see where he is) and digs in the trunk of the Impala for some of the clothes that Sam had left behind.
Dean claims some clean sheets from the maid's cart sitting a few rooms away and makes sure to put the 'do not disturb' sign on the door. He doesn't want to know what might happen should a nosy maid decide to come by and clean up the room.
When he gets back to the room Dean strips the bed and sets the clean sheets down, tossing the dirty ones in a pile by the door. He then goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower, chivying his little brother first into the bathroom, then out of the scrubs, then into the shower once he's checked the temperature. Sam is barely understanding the concept of 'shower' so Dean strips and climbs in there with him, scrubbing his little brother down like he had when Sammy was five and covered in mud after playing in a rainstorm. It's not quite the same; there's a hell of a lot more of Sam now than there was then, but Dean manages well enough and herds Sam out of the shower after rinsing off the soap and shampoo. He dries first Sam then himself and offers Sam a pair of old sweats and a tee. Luckily, Sam apparently remembers how to put on clothes, and after sniffing them he puts them on without trouble.
“You thirsty?”
Sam cocks his head to the side, then touches Dean's arm. After a moment, he very slowly nods, as if he's just remembered how to do so.
“Okay. Get in bed and I'll bring it to you, okay Sammy?” Sam relaxes and obediently goes toward the bed, pausing before he climbs in to hold open the blankets like he's waiting for something to crawl in before him. He settles into the middle, then holds open the blankets again before finally settling down to watch Dean.
Dean goes into the bathroom and digs around in the first aid kit while getting a cup of water. He returns to the room and presents his brother with the cup, which Sam drains dry immediately and offers back. Dean gets him some more and Sam drains it then gives it back before curling up on his side to watch Dean.
Dean had put sleeping meds in the water, so once Sam's out like a light Dean gets down to business. He salts and wards the room, making sure that there's jerky close by in case Sam wakes up and is peckish, and heads to Bobby's.
Bobby meets him at the door and slaps him on the back before introducing Dean to a middle-aged woman with white blonde hair. “Dean, this is Maggie. She's the one I was telling you about.”
Maggie offers her hand and Dean reluctantly shakes it. “So you think you can help me?”
The woman nods. “If you'd be willing to let me see him, maybe talk with him-”
“No, not gonna happen,” Dean says. No way was he going to let some stranger see Sammy in such a mess.
She nods again as if unsurprised. “Well, then the best I could do for you is to give you this.” She digs in her pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “It's a recipe for a dream walking potion-”
Dean notices Bobby flinch just a little bit. Understandable, that, considering what had happened last time they'd been up close and personal with such a thing.
“-It's not as addictive or powerful as African Dream Root, but should work in a similar way, with more control for the person whose mind is being viewed, rather than more control to the viewer.”
The idea is still nerve-wracking. But... if it could help Sam, it was worth the risk. Besides, only Dean will be the one going through Sam's brain, since only he knows what to look for. Or, well, at least he hopes he knows what he's looking for. He takes the paper and glances over it. Dandelion root, poppy flowers...
“And you're sure this will help?” The woman nods. “I'll thank you if it does.”
Maggie smiles a bit and nods again. “Understandable. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Dean mutters as he turns towards the door. He hopes this helps. “See you later Bobby.”
He returns to the motel after procuring most of them either in the field near Bobby's place or in the little apothecary a few towns over. He's not willing to leave Sam alone by himself for very long - who knows what sort of trouble the kid could get into simply by waking up and not finding Dean there?
When he opens the door he's not sure what he's expecting to see, but he's relieved to find Sam still conked out on his bed. Sam shifts a little in his sleep but then settles when Dean presses his hand against his shoulder.
Everything will be all right. It will just take time. He takes a deep breath, mixes up the potion in hot water from the tap, and drains the little plastic cup as quickly as he could. He collapses onto the bed within seconds.
~~
So much fog, it's like he's in New England and it is so thick he can't see his hand right in front of his nose. He waves his hand in front of his face to test the theory, and he is correct.
As he touches the fog, though, fragments of thoughts and ideas slide through his own mind as if he were having a vision of some sort, like what poor Andy did only without the excruciating pain.
He can't see, but when he waves his hands around in front of him his fingers brush against a thin cord of some sort. He grabs it.
The fog clears a bit, and he can see that the cord in front of him is a deep red. One end ties itself around his pinkie; the only reason Dean doesn't freak out is because, when it ties a knot around his finger he gets a powerful sense of homelovesafetyDean and that's all he needs to remember that he's in his little brother's mind. He is safe here. There is nothing in here that would or even could hurt him, and as soon as he has that thought the fog clears more until he can see a few feet before him. He is standing on nothing, but he feels solid ground beneath his feet. The string tugs on him and he follows.
Dean has been walking for an unknown amount of time, anywhere from seconds to months, before he sees anything change. What he sees is fire.
It burns with a ferocity that Dean has never seen before, not even in hellfire and it kinda makes him nervous before he remembers that this is Sammy and therefore he's pretty damned safe. The string pulls him straight towards the fire, and though he's not too sure he's wanting to go that way, he does. When he approaches the fire it doesn't try to sear his muscles from his bones. In fact, it just feels like a sunburn. That, Dean can handle. However, he's not sure he can handle the sudden and overpowering sense of Sam, his anger and hatred and fury and frustration. Dean almost cowers back out of the fire, almost turns tail and runs, but his little brother needs his help and damnit, Dean's not just going to leave him locked in his own mind or whatever it is he's done.
Dean steels himself and keeps going. His feet start to sink the further he travels. He's not sure what they're sinking into, and when he tries to get a look at it the fire is too blinding to see what's beneath.
He walks and sinks further, and further, and before long it's to his chest and he's having a little trouble breathing but he can sort of see what it is that he's in.
It's oil, and it feels radically different from normal oil. It's thicker, more like swamplands and quicksand than oil, and it has the sense of Sam as well though with a different flavor to it than the fire. Dean holds onto the string and slogs as best he can through it. He wants to panic, but he won't. He feels like he's leaving part of himself behind as he travels deeper but he can't think of that. It reaches his chin then his mouth then his nose.
It tastes like despair.
Then he's underneath it, walking blind and he feels something solid beneath him. He crouches and feels the string dive into the solid surface. He's not sure just how he'd be able to follow the string any further, and just as he's starting to wonder if he's going to be stuck here something gives and he's falling.
Dean passes through thunderclouds as he falls, feeling the shivery power of lightning forming and also, somehow, hail and snow. He almost loses his grip on the string but redoubles his grip, clinging to it as if it could save him, break his fall.
He's caught by something, something he can't see because of the oil still covering his eyes and blinding him. He tries to rub his eyes in but it burns and then it dries, cracks, and shatters off of his face and he can see again.
If he's not going crazy, he thinks he's in a tornado.
Before he has time to think about the awesomeness of that, he lands with a thud on hard-packed snow-covered ground.
Ow.
He pushes himself up as quick as he can before his legs and ass freeze and looks around. It's cold, and he thinks he's in the middle of a dead forest. There is no green, not even on the few evergreens he can see around him.
The string tugs him on, and he follows.
Dean walks, and he can feel eyes on him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the shape of a wolf padding beside him. A crow caws, but it is the only sound other than the crunches of his footfalls. Overhead he can see chains of lightning, though for some reason they aren't accompanied by thunder. He shivers and huddles in his coat, wishing he'd brought something thicker. Not, mind, that he could have predicted he'd be walking in foot-deep snow inside his little brother's brain.
He trips over a root or dead branch or something and has to catch himself on a tree. A rush of knowledge echoes through his brain, that of lore and myths and legends that Sam has looked up over the years of hunting. It makes Dean's head spin and he jerks away once he's sure he's not going to fall.
He sees more shadows of predators in the forest (what might be a black-and-white version of a bobcat and a colorless hyena), but as they're not attacking him he ignores them and they ignore him. Overhead the trees rustle with the wind and the snow keeps falling. It's strangely beautiful, the whole area, even with the storm raging above the treetops.
That sort of makes sense, now that Dean thinks about it. His brother always was attracted to beautiful things.
He feels like he's been walking for forever. Then the string leads him to a small hole in the ground.
Dean pushes through the underbrush and peers down the hole. “You've gotta be kidding me.”
His voice echoes crazily throughout the area, but then it goes silent again.
Dean sighs and starts digging with his bare hands to make more space.
Before long he feels something hard under his fingertips. His hands are numb, but he when he pulls whatever it is out of the hole he is bombarded by Latin and incantations and protective spells. This particular thing comes in the form of a skull.
Dean jerks back and almost drops the thing back into the hole, but, as he's moving, the ground under him shifts and he finds himself sitting on the edge of a winding stone staircase. He carefully pushes himself upright and follows the string's tugging down the staircase, trying to avoid stepping on the bones that litter the steps.
As Dean goes deeper, the air around him feels warmer and more humid. It smells musty, like old books in long-forgotten libraries and air conditioners turned on for the first time in the summer. Light comes in the form of thin green traceries and patterns on the walls, though he doesn't quite understand what any of it is. He just shrugs to himself and is grateful for the light. He hears a low roar... somewhere, but he doesn't know where it originates. He has a feeling he's going to find out though, and keeps going down the steps. He learns quickly not to look down anywhere but at the steps themselves else he'll get vertigo and start wobbling a bit; there isn't a handrail on either side of the damned staircase and he's not willing to fall and break his neck this easily. Sam'd never forgive him, or let him live it down.
He's zoned out and walking down the steps on autopilot by the time he reaches the bottom, and he accidentally jars the hell out of his heel when he does so. After holding onto a wall and shaking the pain out he looks around.
He is standing in a dark, dank cave that's just barely illuminated by the little green lights. As he pauses, the green lights fade out. He bites his lip and waits for anything to happen, and as he's waiting he sees a faint red glow coming from the string.
He tentatively follows the string's tugs, and after a while he sees light again, this time a pale flickering blue. He reaches the end of the tunnel he's been walking through and stands at the edge of a deep, softly glowing lake. He sees a faint gleam of sickly yellow oil or something similar floating on the surface before something rears close to the surface and seems to suck it down like spaghetti The string tugs at him again and he steps hesitantly into the water. His boot is immediately soaked through and he is damned grateful to feel solid ground about a foot below the surface. He can see a faint path, not even a foot across that leads straight into the lake like a very thin, very fragile bridge and he really hopes that there's nothing nasty in the water waiting to eat him. It would be just like Sam to be such an ornery bastard, to let him get this far only to forcibly make him fail.
The water is warm, though, and he walks through it unimpeded, though he can see huge dark figures moving slowly under the bridge. It takes a while before he figures out just what it is that he's wading through.
Sam's powers. He's not sure just how he knows what it is, but there is no doubt in his mind just what this is.
Dean keeps walking. He wonders if he'd have gotten this far without the string.
Probably not.
He thinks a bit more on that but doesn't get too far before he's run out of bridge and reached the other side of the lake. The thread pulls upwards, and Dean looks up to see very faint hand- and footholds going in the direction the string wants him to take. He doesn't see a top, though, and he has a brief moment to wonder if he'll just keep on climbing and not ever stop.
Very carefully, Dean starts to climb.
Time passes, and he reaches the top after what could be as little as five minutes or as long as a few days. He pulls himself onto the ground and looks around, almost rearing back at the sight of what awaits him.
Thousands of silver mirrors and sharp crystal and glass stalactites meet his eyes, and he can't see an end to them.
Still, the string tugs him unerringly towards the maze, and who is he to disobey on this?
He's damned glad of the string, else he'd probably never find his way to an apparent corner of the cave of mirrors and crystals. When there he sees a familiar and welcoming form.
The Impala.
“Hey, baby,” Dean murmurs to his car, even if it's not his actual, real car. It's close enough, even has his old license plate on it, and there's a hell of a lot of comfort in that. He strokes his hand across the glossy paint and as Impala's engine purrs up at him he is bombarded by images of Sam and him growing up in her, playing in the back seat and wrestling for shotgun privileges. He tries the driver's side door, but it is locked. He tries the others, and they're locked as well.
Halfheartedly, Dean checks his pockets. In his right pocket, he finds his keys. He unlocks the front passenger side door, which was the closest door, and opens it with a familiar creak.
The string tugs again, and Dean's hand is dragged under the passenger side of the bench seat. He feels a strange little box under there, and when he pulls it out it looks like one of Dad's trap boxes. It thrums at him, and he opens it and is jerked out of Sam's mind.
Dean sits up on the bed, then turns to look at the other bed. Sam sits up groggily and blinks in bafflement at seeing his big brother. “Dean?” He sounds normal, but -
“How you doing?”
Sam thinks for a second, then smiles. “I'm okay... I think.”
That answer is good enough for Dean.
~~
Previous | Main Post | Part Three
Dean's just had a pretty successful hunt and all he really wants to do is have a couple drinks, wind down, and maybe talk to his little brother for a while before crawling into bed.
Of course, he's got the kind of shit luck that keeps him from actually getting all of those goals accomplished. Go figure.
He's sitting at the bar, and he's got his fifth beer in front of him, and he's on the phone with Sam when some asshole drunk next to him jumps to some strange conclusions.
“So how's whatsherface, that chick you've been talking to?”
“Her name is Lindsay and she's fine.” Dean can just hear the exasperated huff and almost see the eyeroll.
“Aaah, that's right. Lindsay. Nice name. You banging her yet?”
He hears Sam's scandalized yelp of “Dean-” but whatever else Sam says is drowned out by the bellow of rage from the drunk next to him.
“You fucking my Lindsay?”
“Sammy, I'll call you back in a little bit. Got a slight problem here.” Dean hangs up before Sam can respond and he turns to face the drunk. “Hey, buddy, I don't know what you're talking about, but unless your chick is in California-”
Dean doesn't have a chance to say anything else before he's got a fist almost in his mouth. At the back of his mind, he swears at his slow reaction time and wonders about the speed of some guy who should be seeing in doubles considering the number of empty glasses in front of him.
He fends off another swing and within seconds he's got the guy pinned to the bar's top, cheek against the sticky surface. “You gonna calm down now?”
In response, he just gets incoherent cursings and creative uses of the term 'fuck' and so Dean presses dude's cheek harder against the bar. Before he has the chance to repeat his question a fist comes out of nowhere, and apparently he's got the town hero or something pinned to the bar considering the number of guys that are suddenly surrounding him, making threatening gestures and noises.
... It probably wasn't a good idea to say, “Sorry fellas, I don't speak Neanderthal.”
He's kinda glad that Sammy's not here to see dear big brother getting his ass handed to him by about twelve pot-bellied men and a couple of younger college-age guys.
He's having a good old time of it. Right until some moron shoves him just right and he cracks the back of his skull on the bar's edge.
As he starts to black out, he thinks he sees a familiar tall form come into the bar room at a run.
When he comes to, the cops are there and someone is talking very quietly and calmly to someone else. It sounds like the tone of voice someone'd use to talk a crazy out of jumping off a building or shooting some random person, and when Dean opens his eyes he's surprised and displeased to discover that the person the cop is talking to like a loony is a silent Sam.
Wait, what?
Dean squints and stares at the form in front of him. Well, it looks like Sam, but something's off...
Sam shifts and glances over his shoulder and Dean knows it's him, really Sammy, but what the hell's he doing in Bumfuck, Indiana when he should be at Stanford?
Sam's... off, too. He's crouched over Dean, growling like he means to stay there until the cows come home and he's filthy. His clothes are ragged, and it looks like at one time they'd been hospital scrubs, and his hair's longer than it should be if he's been taking care of himself, and he's thin, and-
“Dean.”
“Sammy, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Dean-”
“Gentlemen, if we could take this elsewhere?”
It takes work, but Dean weasels his way out of a night in county jail and goes back to his motel, Sam following like a lost puppy. When he gets in the room, he wishes he'd gotten a double, but how the hell was he supposed to know that he'd be getting a non-sex-related bedmate?
Whatever, it doesn't matter. Something's wrong and Dean plans to fix it. He thinks about getting Sam to take a shower, but the dark circles under Sammy's eyes suggest what his little brother needs most right now is some serious sleep. Dean can do that, though he's not sure about the shape the sheets'll be in after Sam slides in between 'em. He manages to coax Sam into bed, but for some reason Sammy lifts the sides of the sheets like he's letting something in the bed with him and then he curls up in a small ball and watches Dean until Dean mutters a soft curse and strips to his jockeys and crawls into bed as well. He thinks for a moment that he shoves something more solid than air towards Sam, but then the sensation is gone. Christ, he's gotta be tired if he's hallucinating.
Sam's not a small guy, much bigger than Dean's usual bedmates, but he curls up so tightly that he takes up very little space.
That's another difference. Normally Dean's gigantor little brother would be sprawled out all over the bed, with little space for anyone else, let alone a big brother forced to share sleeping space. This, however, is wrong and disturbing. Sammy should be carefully sprawling so they touch as little as possible, but now he's got one hand out and holds tightly onto Dean's arm as if he thinks Dean's going to leave him while he sleeps.
Dean uses his toes to snag his jeans and, when they're within reach, he pulls out his cell to make a quiet call.
The next day, he begins to get a better grasp on just how fucked up his little brother is. He talks in low musical tones to things that aren't there, and refuses to let Dean out of his sight, even to take a piss. He just sits there, staring, and when he's not staring he's apparently carrying on silent conversations with imaginary things.
However, mostly he's quiet. It's one of the most disturbing things about it; while Sam may not have been very chatty, Dean at least didn't usually feel like he was talking to himself.
Sam's constantly touching Dean, too, clinging to his hand like a child or cuddled up behind him while he watches television and fucks around on the laptop waiting for Bobby to call him back for confirmation that he's found something or someone that can help fix Sam.
Then Sam has a vision, and somehow, when Dean's touching him, he brings Dean along for the ride.
Caverns of thoughts and shattered glass -
A blonde with shining silver eyes -
A young man with snake eyes fucking a teenage boy, then the sound of a neck being snapped -
Dark creatures with patterned backs and sides running together, Sam amidst their numbers -
Red threads wrapped tightly around flesh -
A dark, evil-looking machine belching out a thick fog -
Seawater with a storm on the way, a shining silver creature that looks like a sea serpent heading towards shore -
An older woman, whispering Madness is the key -
The vision ends, and when Dean comes back Sam is huddled on the bed, clutching his head like he used to after a particularly nasty vision of the future. Shit. He'd thought this was over, that Sammy had finally stopped having those visions, that they'd died off after -
Okay, fuck that shit. Dean braces himself and sets to work, muttering to himself as he tidies up the room and keeps an eye on his little brother.
Dean can't believe how insane the area between Sam's ears is, though logically he really should've known that by now. The kid always had something going on in his mind, and this? Just adds to Dean's idea that his brother really needs to get laid. Maybe then he'd loosen up enough to let some of this weird-assed shit go.
He is, of course, ignoring the fact that right now his brother is batshit crazy, but not so crazy that he doesn't recognize his own big brother. Sam finally unwinds enough to return to his staring game, watching Dean toss his dirty clothes in a duffel and start digging in his clean bag for some clothes for Sam. When he realizes that no, this time he's somehow managed to not get some of Sam's clothes in his clean duffel, Dean goes out to the car (leaving the door open so that Sam can see where he is) and digs in the trunk of the Impala for some of the clothes that Sam had left behind.
Dean claims some clean sheets from the maid's cart sitting a few rooms away and makes sure to put the 'do not disturb' sign on the door. He doesn't want to know what might happen should a nosy maid decide to come by and clean up the room.
When he gets back to the room Dean strips the bed and sets the clean sheets down, tossing the dirty ones in a pile by the door. He then goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower, chivying his little brother first into the bathroom, then out of the scrubs, then into the shower once he's checked the temperature. Sam is barely understanding the concept of 'shower' so Dean strips and climbs in there with him, scrubbing his little brother down like he had when Sammy was five and covered in mud after playing in a rainstorm. It's not quite the same; there's a hell of a lot more of Sam now than there was then, but Dean manages well enough and herds Sam out of the shower after rinsing off the soap and shampoo. He dries first Sam then himself and offers Sam a pair of old sweats and a tee. Luckily, Sam apparently remembers how to put on clothes, and after sniffing them he puts them on without trouble.
“You thirsty?”
Sam cocks his head to the side, then touches Dean's arm. After a moment, he very slowly nods, as if he's just remembered how to do so.
“Okay. Get in bed and I'll bring it to you, okay Sammy?” Sam relaxes and obediently goes toward the bed, pausing before he climbs in to hold open the blankets like he's waiting for something to crawl in before him. He settles into the middle, then holds open the blankets again before finally settling down to watch Dean.
Dean goes into the bathroom and digs around in the first aid kit while getting a cup of water. He returns to the room and presents his brother with the cup, which Sam drains dry immediately and offers back. Dean gets him some more and Sam drains it then gives it back before curling up on his side to watch Dean.
Dean had put sleeping meds in the water, so once Sam's out like a light Dean gets down to business. He salts and wards the room, making sure that there's jerky close by in case Sam wakes up and is peckish, and heads to Bobby's.
Bobby meets him at the door and slaps him on the back before introducing Dean to a middle-aged woman with white blonde hair. “Dean, this is Maggie. She's the one I was telling you about.”
Maggie offers her hand and Dean reluctantly shakes it. “So you think you can help me?”
The woman nods. “If you'd be willing to let me see him, maybe talk with him-”
“No, not gonna happen,” Dean says. No way was he going to let some stranger see Sammy in such a mess.
She nods again as if unsurprised. “Well, then the best I could do for you is to give you this.” She digs in her pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “It's a recipe for a dream walking potion-”
Dean notices Bobby flinch just a little bit. Understandable, that, considering what had happened last time they'd been up close and personal with such a thing.
“-It's not as addictive or powerful as African Dream Root, but should work in a similar way, with more control for the person whose mind is being viewed, rather than more control to the viewer.”
The idea is still nerve-wracking. But... if it could help Sam, it was worth the risk. Besides, only Dean will be the one going through Sam's brain, since only he knows what to look for. Or, well, at least he hopes he knows what he's looking for. He takes the paper and glances over it. Dandelion root, poppy flowers...
“And you're sure this will help?” The woman nods. “I'll thank you if it does.”
Maggie smiles a bit and nods again. “Understandable. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Dean mutters as he turns towards the door. He hopes this helps. “See you later Bobby.”
He returns to the motel after procuring most of them either in the field near Bobby's place or in the little apothecary a few towns over. He's not willing to leave Sam alone by himself for very long - who knows what sort of trouble the kid could get into simply by waking up and not finding Dean there?
When he opens the door he's not sure what he's expecting to see, but he's relieved to find Sam still conked out on his bed. Sam shifts a little in his sleep but then settles when Dean presses his hand against his shoulder.
Everything will be all right. It will just take time. He takes a deep breath, mixes up the potion in hot water from the tap, and drains the little plastic cup as quickly as he could. He collapses onto the bed within seconds.
~~
So much fog, it's like he's in New England and it is so thick he can't see his hand right in front of his nose. He waves his hand in front of his face to test the theory, and he is correct.
As he touches the fog, though, fragments of thoughts and ideas slide through his own mind as if he were having a vision of some sort, like what poor Andy did only without the excruciating pain.
He can't see, but when he waves his hands around in front of him his fingers brush against a thin cord of some sort. He grabs it.
The fog clears a bit, and he can see that the cord in front of him is a deep red. One end ties itself around his pinkie; the only reason Dean doesn't freak out is because, when it ties a knot around his finger he gets a powerful sense of homelovesafetyDean and that's all he needs to remember that he's in his little brother's mind. He is safe here. There is nothing in here that would or even could hurt him, and as soon as he has that thought the fog clears more until he can see a few feet before him. He is standing on nothing, but he feels solid ground beneath his feet. The string tugs on him and he follows.
Dean has been walking for an unknown amount of time, anywhere from seconds to months, before he sees anything change. What he sees is fire.
It burns with a ferocity that Dean has never seen before, not even in hellfire and it kinda makes him nervous before he remembers that this is Sammy and therefore he's pretty damned safe. The string pulls him straight towards the fire, and though he's not too sure he's wanting to go that way, he does. When he approaches the fire it doesn't try to sear his muscles from his bones. In fact, it just feels like a sunburn. That, Dean can handle. However, he's not sure he can handle the sudden and overpowering sense of Sam, his anger and hatred and fury and frustration. Dean almost cowers back out of the fire, almost turns tail and runs, but his little brother needs his help and damnit, Dean's not just going to leave him locked in his own mind or whatever it is he's done.
Dean steels himself and keeps going. His feet start to sink the further he travels. He's not sure what they're sinking into, and when he tries to get a look at it the fire is too blinding to see what's beneath.
He walks and sinks further, and further, and before long it's to his chest and he's having a little trouble breathing but he can sort of see what it is that he's in.
It's oil, and it feels radically different from normal oil. It's thicker, more like swamplands and quicksand than oil, and it has the sense of Sam as well though with a different flavor to it than the fire. Dean holds onto the string and slogs as best he can through it. He wants to panic, but he won't. He feels like he's leaving part of himself behind as he travels deeper but he can't think of that. It reaches his chin then his mouth then his nose.
It tastes like despair.
Then he's underneath it, walking blind and he feels something solid beneath him. He crouches and feels the string dive into the solid surface. He's not sure just how he'd be able to follow the string any further, and just as he's starting to wonder if he's going to be stuck here something gives and he's falling.
Dean passes through thunderclouds as he falls, feeling the shivery power of lightning forming and also, somehow, hail and snow. He almost loses his grip on the string but redoubles his grip, clinging to it as if it could save him, break his fall.
He's caught by something, something he can't see because of the oil still covering his eyes and blinding him. He tries to rub his eyes in but it burns and then it dries, cracks, and shatters off of his face and he can see again.
If he's not going crazy, he thinks he's in a tornado.
Before he has time to think about the awesomeness of that, he lands with a thud on hard-packed snow-covered ground.
Ow.
He pushes himself up as quick as he can before his legs and ass freeze and looks around. It's cold, and he thinks he's in the middle of a dead forest. There is no green, not even on the few evergreens he can see around him.
The string tugs him on, and he follows.
Dean walks, and he can feel eyes on him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the shape of a wolf padding beside him. A crow caws, but it is the only sound other than the crunches of his footfalls. Overhead he can see chains of lightning, though for some reason they aren't accompanied by thunder. He shivers and huddles in his coat, wishing he'd brought something thicker. Not, mind, that he could have predicted he'd be walking in foot-deep snow inside his little brother's brain.
He trips over a root or dead branch or something and has to catch himself on a tree. A rush of knowledge echoes through his brain, that of lore and myths and legends that Sam has looked up over the years of hunting. It makes Dean's head spin and he jerks away once he's sure he's not going to fall.
He sees more shadows of predators in the forest (what might be a black-and-white version of a bobcat and a colorless hyena), but as they're not attacking him he ignores them and they ignore him. Overhead the trees rustle with the wind and the snow keeps falling. It's strangely beautiful, the whole area, even with the storm raging above the treetops.
That sort of makes sense, now that Dean thinks about it. His brother always was attracted to beautiful things.
He feels like he's been walking for forever. Then the string leads him to a small hole in the ground.
Dean pushes through the underbrush and peers down the hole. “You've gotta be kidding me.”
His voice echoes crazily throughout the area, but then it goes silent again.
Dean sighs and starts digging with his bare hands to make more space.
Before long he feels something hard under his fingertips. His hands are numb, but he when he pulls whatever it is out of the hole he is bombarded by Latin and incantations and protective spells. This particular thing comes in the form of a skull.
Dean jerks back and almost drops the thing back into the hole, but, as he's moving, the ground under him shifts and he finds himself sitting on the edge of a winding stone staircase. He carefully pushes himself upright and follows the string's tugging down the staircase, trying to avoid stepping on the bones that litter the steps.
As Dean goes deeper, the air around him feels warmer and more humid. It smells musty, like old books in long-forgotten libraries and air conditioners turned on for the first time in the summer. Light comes in the form of thin green traceries and patterns on the walls, though he doesn't quite understand what any of it is. He just shrugs to himself and is grateful for the light. He hears a low roar... somewhere, but he doesn't know where it originates. He has a feeling he's going to find out though, and keeps going down the steps. He learns quickly not to look down anywhere but at the steps themselves else he'll get vertigo and start wobbling a bit; there isn't a handrail on either side of the damned staircase and he's not willing to fall and break his neck this easily. Sam'd never forgive him, or let him live it down.
He's zoned out and walking down the steps on autopilot by the time he reaches the bottom, and he accidentally jars the hell out of his heel when he does so. After holding onto a wall and shaking the pain out he looks around.
He is standing in a dark, dank cave that's just barely illuminated by the little green lights. As he pauses, the green lights fade out. He bites his lip and waits for anything to happen, and as he's waiting he sees a faint red glow coming from the string.
He tentatively follows the string's tugs, and after a while he sees light again, this time a pale flickering blue. He reaches the end of the tunnel he's been walking through and stands at the edge of a deep, softly glowing lake. He sees a faint gleam of sickly yellow oil or something similar floating on the surface before something rears close to the surface and seems to suck it down like spaghetti The string tugs at him again and he steps hesitantly into the water. His boot is immediately soaked through and he is damned grateful to feel solid ground about a foot below the surface. He can see a faint path, not even a foot across that leads straight into the lake like a very thin, very fragile bridge and he really hopes that there's nothing nasty in the water waiting to eat him. It would be just like Sam to be such an ornery bastard, to let him get this far only to forcibly make him fail.
The water is warm, though, and he walks through it unimpeded, though he can see huge dark figures moving slowly under the bridge. It takes a while before he figures out just what it is that he's wading through.
Sam's powers. He's not sure just how he knows what it is, but there is no doubt in his mind just what this is.
Dean keeps walking. He wonders if he'd have gotten this far without the string.
Probably not.
He thinks a bit more on that but doesn't get too far before he's run out of bridge and reached the other side of the lake. The thread pulls upwards, and Dean looks up to see very faint hand- and footholds going in the direction the string wants him to take. He doesn't see a top, though, and he has a brief moment to wonder if he'll just keep on climbing and not ever stop.
Very carefully, Dean starts to climb.
Time passes, and he reaches the top after what could be as little as five minutes or as long as a few days. He pulls himself onto the ground and looks around, almost rearing back at the sight of what awaits him.
Thousands of silver mirrors and sharp crystal and glass stalactites meet his eyes, and he can't see an end to them.
Still, the string tugs him unerringly towards the maze, and who is he to disobey on this?
He's damned glad of the string, else he'd probably never find his way to an apparent corner of the cave of mirrors and crystals. When there he sees a familiar and welcoming form.
The Impala.
“Hey, baby,” Dean murmurs to his car, even if it's not his actual, real car. It's close enough, even has his old license plate on it, and there's a hell of a lot of comfort in that. He strokes his hand across the glossy paint and as Impala's engine purrs up at him he is bombarded by images of Sam and him growing up in her, playing in the back seat and wrestling for shotgun privileges. He tries the driver's side door, but it is locked. He tries the others, and they're locked as well.
Halfheartedly, Dean checks his pockets. In his right pocket, he finds his keys. He unlocks the front passenger side door, which was the closest door, and opens it with a familiar creak.
The string tugs again, and Dean's hand is dragged under the passenger side of the bench seat. He feels a strange little box under there, and when he pulls it out it looks like one of Dad's trap boxes. It thrums at him, and he opens it and is jerked out of Sam's mind.
Dean sits up on the bed, then turns to look at the other bed. Sam sits up groggily and blinks in bafflement at seeing his big brother. “Dean?” He sounds normal, but -
“How you doing?”
Sam thinks for a second, then smiles. “I'm okay... I think.”
That answer is good enough for Dean.
~~
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