Not the Demons You're Looking For (9/24)
Part 8
Part 9
Dean was going to lose his mind. Go completely off his rocker, around the bend, absolutely batshit crazy. Either that, or he was going to have a heart attack. Overall, freaking out and having a meltdown in Andy's living room seemed like a better option. Only he couldn't really do that either, and so he let Andy pour him a really big glass of Jack Daniel's and kind of shove him until he went ass-first into the sofa, the amber liquid sloshing in the glass. He downed it in three gulps, focussing only on the burning sensation as it went down his throat and into his stomach. He pressed the empty glass to his forehead, elbows resting on his knees, kept his eyes closed, willed his breathing to go back to normal.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Jesus.”
Andy settled in the armchair next to the sofa, perched on the edge of the seat, stretched out a hand and put it carefully on his knee. “You okay?”
He shook his head. “Christ.” For the first time in -he couldn't remember how long- he felt completely incapable of rational thought, of doing anything except sit here and try not to freak out because what the hell had that been? Nightmares he could deal with, freaky prophetic visions he could deal with, killer headaches he could deal with. Sammy convulsing on the ground? Sammy with blood gushing from his nose like a freaking extra on the set of Exorcist? Sammy ripping at his own face with his fingernails because of the pain? So not dealing. Sure, Sam seemed all right now, but for how long? How long until this all blew up in their faces? His father's words echoed in his head, over and over, the way they had been for months, ever since that day in the hospital, and the surge of panic he'd felt before came back with a vengeance. He willed his hands to stop shaking.
“You want another drink?”
He shook his head. “Not on top of all the meds,” but he held out his glass anyway. Amazing how getting the scare of your life made short work of congested sinuses. Best cure for the common goddamned cold. He drained that glass, too.
Andy nudged him in a way that was so like Sam that he almost had to turn and check that it wasn't Sam sitting there, looking at him with those puppy-dog eyes of his. “You're soaking wet. We both are, but you're sick. Go change,” he said gently, “get into something dry. Check on Sam. The JD'll still be here in fifteen minutes.”
Okay, it was weird, having Andy suddenly go all big-brother, but it wasn't Sam making bitchfaces at him, and he was unsettled, and wearing wet clothes was freaking uncomfortable. Not to mention that he was going to ruin Andy's sofa. He nodded, got up unsteadily, thumped the kid on the shoulder as he went by. He was freezing, he realized as he got back to the room he was sharing with Sam, his fingers like blocks of ice. He left the room dark, feeling his way in carefully, not wanting to disturb Sam. His kid brother was dead to the world, his breathing a little faster than Dean liked it, but even and not obviously in distress. Bonus. He perched on the edge of the bed, listening, but there was no indication that Sam was doing anything other than sleeping soundly, traces of blood still drying on his face.
He stripped off his wet clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, and rummaged in the dark for clean ones. He was running out of those, he noted with something like chagrin, pulled on a pair of jeans that he thought were okay, then thought to hell with it and stole one of Sam's ridiculously gargantuan hoodies -the brown one from the feel of it. He immediately felt warmer, pulled the sleeves down over his hands, and tugged on a pair of dry socks, swearing under his breath as they stuck to his still-wet feet.
Halfway down the stairs his cold decided to make a reappearance after the tiny respite it had given him while he was busy trying not to have a coronary or a full-blown panic attack. He grabbed the railing, settled for sinking to a seated position on the stairs, one hand still on the railing, the other poised to catch the sneezes that threatened.
“Huh-ISHOO! HEPTSCHUH! Sniff! Huh... HEISHOO! HEKTSHUH!”
“Bless,” Andy surprised him by coming up from behind, clad in dry clothes. Of course. “You okay? Better, I mean?”
Dean nodded. “Fide. Cold's still here, though.” He followed Andy back down the stairs and into the kitchen, wondering if it was too early to take more of those decongestants. It was ridiculous: he'd survived ghosts and demons and werewolves and vampires and mind-control and a freaking djinn, and now a simple cold was knocking him on his ass. He accepted another glass of whisky, decided at that very moment that the rest of the day was a write-off. May as well take advantage of the presence of alcohol, in that case.
“It's getting kind of late, anyway,” Andy said, as though reading his mind. “I figured I'd call in for a pizza, and we can wait for Sam to wake up.”
Dean shot him a suspicious look. “You haved't developed mind-readig powers, have you?”
“No,” Andy laughed. “Have you?”
Dean snorted, then coughed as it made his lungs seize up. “Fair edough.”
Andy's face grew serious, suddenly. “Uh, this thing with Sam... I don't remember it being this bad when you were here last time. I mean, yeah, he almost passed out last time too, but...”
“He did't stay udcodscious,” Dean confirmed. “Yeah, I kdow.”
“So... whatever it is, it's getting worse?”
He nodded, feeling yet another damned sneeze building, pressed the back of his wrist to his nose. “HETSCHUH!” He bit back a groan of frustration. The last time he'd asked for a respite from this, the universe had granted it to him the form of making his little brother practically have a seizure in the car. Wishes had a way of getting him in serious trouble. So, no more asking the universe for favours. “What's it feel like?” he asked instead.
Andy started, as though he hadn't been expecting Dean to talk to him, despite the fact that they'd actually been having a conversation. “Uh, what?”
“What's it feel like?” he repeated. “Whed, you kdow, you do your... thig,” he made a vague circular motion with the hand that wasn't holding onto his glass.
“I don't know. It doesn't feel like much, really. It just... it's like singing, is the closest I can explain it. I just focus on making my voice do something different than what it usually does, but sort of within what it can do. Uh... I'm not explaining this well.” Andy looked at him, head tilted to the side, his expression suddenly shrewd. “But that's not what you're asking, is it? You want to know if... if it hurts.”
Dean nodded, swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. When had he gotten so damned transparent, anyway? “Yeah.”
“It doesn't. Not like... like that. It hurts if I try to do it just with my mind, though. Like Weber said to me before... yeah. So I tried, just to see what it was like, and I can do it, but it feels like someone's stabbing me through the head with an ice pick, so I don't do it much. Did it a bit today, with that guy.”
“Birch?”
“Yeah. I just basically told him I wasn't there. Not too hard, but I would have killed for some Tylenol. Look... I don't know what to tell you. My thing, whatever it is, it's not involuntary. I can turn it on and off. Sort of. I mean, it's always there, but I can choose not to use it. I don't know what it's like for Sam. I mean, random visions of death? That's like my personal definition of suck.”
Dean gave a bark of laughter at that. “You cad say thad agaid.” Surprised at how bitter he sounded. Then again, he figured he had good reason to be bitter about this. Bitter and freaked the hell out, if he was honest with himself.
“I don't know how you guys deal, to be honest. It's some pretty heavy stuff to take in, you know?”
“Practice.”
“Even so. I mean, I worry all the freaking time about this. I've practically tripled how much pot I smoke,” Andy flushed a bit, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue, and Dean decided to let him ramble. His own throat hurt too damned much to talk, anyway. “I mean, yeah, I've got an awesome superpower that gives me migraines if I misuse it, but... I mean... you told me it came from a demon. A freaking honest-to-God demon, and that makes me wonder, you know, how anything good can come of it. I'm one guy that no one pays attention to, you know, and here you guys are like freaking badass superheroes and you attract the attention of all sorts of weird shit, and I'm practically losing my mind because I'm so afraid that maybe someday it's all going to go south and I'm going to do something terrible, and then you guys are going to fill me full of lead for my good and the good of all humanity.” He laughed, a little hysterically, took a breath, drained his glass. “Okay, maybe I'm freaking out a bit. Sorry.”
Dean shook his head. “Joid the club.” He coughed hard, pressing one hand to his sternum, because God that hurt, then took another sip from his glass to try and quell the fit.
“You suck at offering reassurance, dude.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I.” Andy blew out the breath he'd been holding. “I think I'd feel better if I just knew what the hell it wanted from us, you know? If it really has a plan, like you said, for this army of psychic kids, or whatever, or of it's just getting off on jerking us around, or what.”
“Thad's a really gross betaphor.”
“You never struck me as the prudish type.”
“Just sayig.” He jerked his head aside. “Hiih...ISHOO! Uh. God.”
“Okay, that's it,” Andy said mildly, but the determination in his voice was unmistakable. God, how could this kid be so much like Sam? It made Dean's chest clench for no reason he could determine. “Wait here for a couple minutes, okay? I'm going to my van. Be right back.” Before Dean so much as had time to open his mouth, he was up and out of the kitchen as though someone had lit a fire under him. A couple of minutes later he was back, looking a bit damp from having run out into the rain, a plastic bag in one hand. He put the bag on the table, began emptying it, lining up what looked like an entire pharmacy's worth of cold medicine. “I keep most of my stuff in the van, and that stuff my... that Holly kept upstairs isn't all that good.”
Dean felt the corners of his mouth tug into a smile. “You're worse thad Sab.”
Andy shrugged. “You sound like crap, and Sam is passed out upstairs. I need one of you functional, at least, and even if he's not here to guilt-trip you into taking this stuff, I figure you have enough common sense to do what you need to do. Better living through chemistry, man,” he grinned disarmingly.
“Amen to that,” Dean did in fact know how to admit defeat gracefully. He just chose never to do it when Sam was in the room. He picked up the packet of NyQuil -in caplet form, thank God, the taste of the syrup was gross- and chased two of the pills with another swallow of whisky. Okay, not the best plan, but it beat sitting here and being miserable.
“I'm going to call for that pizza now. Do we let Sam sleep, or try to wake him up? This isn't exactly like a concussion, but... yeah. I'm sort of out of my depth.”
The sound of Sam's voice from the doorway startled them both. “Yeah, that won't be necessary.” He gave them a shaky grin, leaning against the doorjamb, looking pale but at least as though he'd made an attempt to clean himself up. “Got any Tylenol in that stash, Andy?”
Part 10
Part 9
Dean was going to lose his mind. Go completely off his rocker, around the bend, absolutely batshit crazy. Either that, or he was going to have a heart attack. Overall, freaking out and having a meltdown in Andy's living room seemed like a better option. Only he couldn't really do that either, and so he let Andy pour him a really big glass of Jack Daniel's and kind of shove him until he went ass-first into the sofa, the amber liquid sloshing in the glass. He downed it in three gulps, focussing only on the burning sensation as it went down his throat and into his stomach. He pressed the empty glass to his forehead, elbows resting on his knees, kept his eyes closed, willed his breathing to go back to normal.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Jesus.”
Andy settled in the armchair next to the sofa, perched on the edge of the seat, stretched out a hand and put it carefully on his knee. “You okay?”
He shook his head. “Christ.” For the first time in -he couldn't remember how long- he felt completely incapable of rational thought, of doing anything except sit here and try not to freak out because what the hell had that been? Nightmares he could deal with, freaky prophetic visions he could deal with, killer headaches he could deal with. Sammy convulsing on the ground? Sammy with blood gushing from his nose like a freaking extra on the set of Exorcist? Sammy ripping at his own face with his fingernails because of the pain? So not dealing. Sure, Sam seemed all right now, but for how long? How long until this all blew up in their faces? His father's words echoed in his head, over and over, the way they had been for months, ever since that day in the hospital, and the surge of panic he'd felt before came back with a vengeance. He willed his hands to stop shaking.
“You want another drink?”
He shook his head. “Not on top of all the meds,” but he held out his glass anyway. Amazing how getting the scare of your life made short work of congested sinuses. Best cure for the common goddamned cold. He drained that glass, too.
Andy nudged him in a way that was so like Sam that he almost had to turn and check that it wasn't Sam sitting there, looking at him with those puppy-dog eyes of his. “You're soaking wet. We both are, but you're sick. Go change,” he said gently, “get into something dry. Check on Sam. The JD'll still be here in fifteen minutes.”
Okay, it was weird, having Andy suddenly go all big-brother, but it wasn't Sam making bitchfaces at him, and he was unsettled, and wearing wet clothes was freaking uncomfortable. Not to mention that he was going to ruin Andy's sofa. He nodded, got up unsteadily, thumped the kid on the shoulder as he went by. He was freezing, he realized as he got back to the room he was sharing with Sam, his fingers like blocks of ice. He left the room dark, feeling his way in carefully, not wanting to disturb Sam. His kid brother was dead to the world, his breathing a little faster than Dean liked it, but even and not obviously in distress. Bonus. He perched on the edge of the bed, listening, but there was no indication that Sam was doing anything other than sleeping soundly, traces of blood still drying on his face.
He stripped off his wet clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, and rummaged in the dark for clean ones. He was running out of those, he noted with something like chagrin, pulled on a pair of jeans that he thought were okay, then thought to hell with it and stole one of Sam's ridiculously gargantuan hoodies -the brown one from the feel of it. He immediately felt warmer, pulled the sleeves down over his hands, and tugged on a pair of dry socks, swearing under his breath as they stuck to his still-wet feet.
Halfway down the stairs his cold decided to make a reappearance after the tiny respite it had given him while he was busy trying not to have a coronary or a full-blown panic attack. He grabbed the railing, settled for sinking to a seated position on the stairs, one hand still on the railing, the other poised to catch the sneezes that threatened.
“Huh-ISHOO! HEPTSCHUH! Sniff! Huh... HEISHOO! HEKTSHUH!”
“Bless,” Andy surprised him by coming up from behind, clad in dry clothes. Of course. “You okay? Better, I mean?”
Dean nodded. “Fide. Cold's still here, though.” He followed Andy back down the stairs and into the kitchen, wondering if it was too early to take more of those decongestants. It was ridiculous: he'd survived ghosts and demons and werewolves and vampires and mind-control and a freaking djinn, and now a simple cold was knocking him on his ass. He accepted another glass of whisky, decided at that very moment that the rest of the day was a write-off. May as well take advantage of the presence of alcohol, in that case.
“It's getting kind of late, anyway,” Andy said, as though reading his mind. “I figured I'd call in for a pizza, and we can wait for Sam to wake up.”
Dean shot him a suspicious look. “You haved't developed mind-readig powers, have you?”
“No,” Andy laughed. “Have you?”
Dean snorted, then coughed as it made his lungs seize up. “Fair edough.”
Andy's face grew serious, suddenly. “Uh, this thing with Sam... I don't remember it being this bad when you were here last time. I mean, yeah, he almost passed out last time too, but...”
“He did't stay udcodscious,” Dean confirmed. “Yeah, I kdow.”
“So... whatever it is, it's getting worse?”
He nodded, feeling yet another damned sneeze building, pressed the back of his wrist to his nose. “HETSCHUH!” He bit back a groan of frustration. The last time he'd asked for a respite from this, the universe had granted it to him the form of making his little brother practically have a seizure in the car. Wishes had a way of getting him in serious trouble. So, no more asking the universe for favours. “What's it feel like?” he asked instead.
Andy started, as though he hadn't been expecting Dean to talk to him, despite the fact that they'd actually been having a conversation. “Uh, what?”
“What's it feel like?” he repeated. “Whed, you kdow, you do your... thig,” he made a vague circular motion with the hand that wasn't holding onto his glass.
“I don't know. It doesn't feel like much, really. It just... it's like singing, is the closest I can explain it. I just focus on making my voice do something different than what it usually does, but sort of within what it can do. Uh... I'm not explaining this well.” Andy looked at him, head tilted to the side, his expression suddenly shrewd. “But that's not what you're asking, is it? You want to know if... if it hurts.”
Dean nodded, swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. When had he gotten so damned transparent, anyway? “Yeah.”
“It doesn't. Not like... like that. It hurts if I try to do it just with my mind, though. Like Weber said to me before... yeah. So I tried, just to see what it was like, and I can do it, but it feels like someone's stabbing me through the head with an ice pick, so I don't do it much. Did it a bit today, with that guy.”
“Birch?”
“Yeah. I just basically told him I wasn't there. Not too hard, but I would have killed for some Tylenol. Look... I don't know what to tell you. My thing, whatever it is, it's not involuntary. I can turn it on and off. Sort of. I mean, it's always there, but I can choose not to use it. I don't know what it's like for Sam. I mean, random visions of death? That's like my personal definition of suck.”
Dean gave a bark of laughter at that. “You cad say thad agaid.” Surprised at how bitter he sounded. Then again, he figured he had good reason to be bitter about this. Bitter and freaked the hell out, if he was honest with himself.
“I don't know how you guys deal, to be honest. It's some pretty heavy stuff to take in, you know?”
“Practice.”
“Even so. I mean, I worry all the freaking time about this. I've practically tripled how much pot I smoke,” Andy flushed a bit, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue, and Dean decided to let him ramble. His own throat hurt too damned much to talk, anyway. “I mean, yeah, I've got an awesome superpower that gives me migraines if I misuse it, but... I mean... you told me it came from a demon. A freaking honest-to-God demon, and that makes me wonder, you know, how anything good can come of it. I'm one guy that no one pays attention to, you know, and here you guys are like freaking badass superheroes and you attract the attention of all sorts of weird shit, and I'm practically losing my mind because I'm so afraid that maybe someday it's all going to go south and I'm going to do something terrible, and then you guys are going to fill me full of lead for my good and the good of all humanity.” He laughed, a little hysterically, took a breath, drained his glass. “Okay, maybe I'm freaking out a bit. Sorry.”
Dean shook his head. “Joid the club.” He coughed hard, pressing one hand to his sternum, because God that hurt, then took another sip from his glass to try and quell the fit.
“You suck at offering reassurance, dude.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I.” Andy blew out the breath he'd been holding. “I think I'd feel better if I just knew what the hell it wanted from us, you know? If it really has a plan, like you said, for this army of psychic kids, or whatever, or of it's just getting off on jerking us around, or what.”
“Thad's a really gross betaphor.”
“You never struck me as the prudish type.”
“Just sayig.” He jerked his head aside. “Hiih...ISHOO! Uh. God.”
“Okay, that's it,” Andy said mildly, but the determination in his voice was unmistakable. God, how could this kid be so much like Sam? It made Dean's chest clench for no reason he could determine. “Wait here for a couple minutes, okay? I'm going to my van. Be right back.” Before Dean so much as had time to open his mouth, he was up and out of the kitchen as though someone had lit a fire under him. A couple of minutes later he was back, looking a bit damp from having run out into the rain, a plastic bag in one hand. He put the bag on the table, began emptying it, lining up what looked like an entire pharmacy's worth of cold medicine. “I keep most of my stuff in the van, and that stuff my... that Holly kept upstairs isn't all that good.”
Dean felt the corners of his mouth tug into a smile. “You're worse thad Sab.”
Andy shrugged. “You sound like crap, and Sam is passed out upstairs. I need one of you functional, at least, and even if he's not here to guilt-trip you into taking this stuff, I figure you have enough common sense to do what you need to do. Better living through chemistry, man,” he grinned disarmingly.
“Amen to that,” Dean did in fact know how to admit defeat gracefully. He just chose never to do it when Sam was in the room. He picked up the packet of NyQuil -in caplet form, thank God, the taste of the syrup was gross- and chased two of the pills with another swallow of whisky. Okay, not the best plan, but it beat sitting here and being miserable.
“I'm going to call for that pizza now. Do we let Sam sleep, or try to wake him up? This isn't exactly like a concussion, but... yeah. I'm sort of out of my depth.”
The sound of Sam's voice from the doorway startled them both. “Yeah, that won't be necessary.” He gave them a shaky grin, leaning against the doorjamb, looking pale but at least as though he'd made an attempt to clean himself up. “Got any Tylenol in that stash, Andy?”
Part 10