Previously appeared in A Small Circle of Friends 13 (2007), from Neon Rainbow Press
Based on the Dead Zone episode, "Enemy Mind"

Psychic, See Thyself
K Hanna Korossy

By the time he realized he was asleep, he wasn't.

Sam struggled awake in a flail of limbs, fighting through layers of unconsciousness that didn't seem to want to let him go, then through whatever it was that restrained him in the real world.

"Sam. Sam!"

Oh. He stopped fighting and lay panting. Not what. Who.

Sam squinted, trying to see in the darkly lit… car? "Dean?"

The pressure on his arms eased. "Yeah, who else? You with me now?"

Sam blinked, trying to sort reality from wherever his head had been. That had been weird. "Yeah, I think…" He dropped his head back against the seat. "Yeah. I'm here."

Dean retreated from his personal space, and Sam realized two things. One, Dean had been wrapped around him like a living straightjacket. And, two, he looked more shaken than Sam felt.

"What happened?" Sam asked in confusion. A car passed them, headlights sweeping through the Impala for a few seconds. Dean had some blood spots on his shirt, and Sam reached for them before even realizing it. "You okay?"

His hand was gently but firmly turned aside. "I'm fine, Sam. You're the one who got bit."

Okay, a status check was long overdue. Sam's head still felt like a rubber ball was bouncing around in it, but the rest of him was surprisingly okay. A slight shift in the seat and—ow, okay, there. Whatever had bitten him had to have gotten him right over the hipbone to ache like that, and he dropped a hand to rub at his waist. A hasty field bandage met his fingers.

Dean's eyebrows went up as his brother watched him. "Remember now?"

"Not really," Sam said, and cradled his forehead.

"How's your head?" Dean's hand lifted to his temple, thumb above his brow.

Sam grimaced. "Been better." He shook his head with a sharp breath. "I'm all right. What's going on, Dean?"

Some of the worry finally eased from Dean's face. "We were hunting the Bad One, remember?"

Sam frowned.

Dean grimaced. "Looks like an overgrown snake? Bites like one, too, I guess—got you good before I could shoot it. You keeled over like a six-foot-four cut tree. Any of this sound familiar?"

"Uh…" He looked for it in his memory, he really did. The Bad One he remembered. Otherwise, "No."

Dean sighed, shifting to face forward again. "That's it. I'm taking you to the hospital. That's where we were headed before you woke up doing the dog-paddle. What were you dreaming about, anyway?"

"Uh, I don't remember." Sam shook his head, wishing he could clear out the cobwebs and lingering ache. "Dean, I don't need a hospital."

The motor was already running, and Sam finally realized they were pulled haphazardly to the side of the road, listing off the blacktop. He'd probably scared Dean as badly with his waking as he had with his passing out. His brother's hard tone said as much. "Dude, you were out for half-an-hour and you can't remember what happened. Whatever that snake bit you with is not normal—we need to get you checked out."

Sam leaned against the door frame as the Impala bumped back up onto the road. "We both know, even if they find something, they're not gonna know what it is. Dean, I feel fine, all right? I've got a little headache, that's all. I woke up and I'm lucid, right?"

Dean snorted. "Much as you ever are," he muttered.

"So…" Sam tilted his head persuasively.

Dean huffed out a breath, threw him a glare. "All right, we'll do it your way. But you tell me if you start seeing Tinkerbell or hearing voices telling you to off me in my sleep, okay? No going on any acid trips without me." He turned the car back the way they'd come.

"But the polar bear in the back seat, that's real, right?" Sam asked seriously. Dean cut him a disbelieving look, and Sam cracked up.

His brother shook his head. "Laugh it up, Seinfeld. Not makin' a good case here for me not waking you up every hour for mental checks."

He had a point.

00000

Actually, unconsciousness seemed to have agreed with Sam for once. Despite the worried looks Dean kept casting his way, he made it into their room on his own steam and settled on the bed, feeling surprisingly untired.

Dean was still watching him. "You want a shower?"

Sam shook his head.

Dean shrugged. Ignoring the wards and their gear in the car, he grabbed the kit to join Sam. "You mind pulling your own jeans down this time? Once scarred me enough already."

Sam cringed, just able to imagine that scene. Not like they hadn't had to do that and more in the past with various injuries, but still, a man had his pride. At least, a man who was an only child did.

"Come on," Dean nudged him with a grin when he didn't move fast enough, "show me some skin."

"You're enjoying this way too much," Sam grumbled back as he tugged his jeans and the edge of his boxers down over the bandage.

"Hey, c'mon, man, I had a lousy day. Gotta get my kicks someplace."

"Shut up, Dean, you're creeping me out." Sam lay back and stared at the ceiling as Dean peeled what turned out to be a cinched bandana off the wound. He really had been in a hurry, and Sam's annoyance changed midstream back into sympathy. He'd been on the other side of that situation far too many times, and knew he'd gotten the easier role.

For all his teasing, Dean's touch was light and careful, and Sam barely felt the ministrations. Before he knew it, Dean had taped some gauze down and was slapping him on the side of the leg. "You'll live."

"Thanks." Half-sarcasm, half-earnestness.

Dean started in on the wards. "I'm gonna take a shower but I'll leave the door open a little, so yell if you start seeing any creepy little twin girls or something."

Sam threw him a withering look.

Undaunted, Dean finished setting down their protections and went out to get the rest of their stuff, then gathered toiletries and clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. Sam clicked on the TV.

Man, sometimes it was hard to believe that two years before he'd been having serious discussions about what was really going on in Lost or who was doing what in Desperate Housewives. In some ways, it seemed like the elusive normalcy he still longed for. In others, it was incredibly shallow and naïve in a world gripped in battle between Good and Evil. Now, he couldn't even remember when the shows were on, often ending up on news or classic reruns. On-screen at the moment, Frank Burns had just done something else stupid, and Hawkeye was busy raking him over the coals.

The kid standing by the TV didn't seem to be into the show, either.

The pre-vision pain hit then, running a little late this time. Sam hissed, putting a hand to his forehead and squinting at the boy.

Usually, visions took him along with them to wherever they were taking place. This time, it came to him. The seven- or eight-year-old boy just a few feet away blinked uncertainly at Sam.

"Hello?" he tried hesitantly, wincing at another stab through his skull.

The boy looked… scared. Cowed, not by Sam but seemingly by nature. Even as Sam watched, the kid shrank a little into himself, darting fearful glances around.

Sam followed his gaze, but saw only the checkerboard green and blue wallpaper of the room, the aqua colored rug. There was no sound he could hear beyond the shower, no one else present. Was this even a vision?

The next wave of pain made him gasp and double over. Oh, yeah.

The boy just stood there. He didn't react to Sam's distress, nor a second strained greeting. Sam finally tentatively reached a hand forward. If this vision was breaking all the rules, maybe he could touch it, too.

Just before he could make contact, the boy vanished.

Sam groaned, bowing his head to his knees.

The next thing he knew, a wet and towel-clad Dean was crouching in front of him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his chest, frantically trying to ease him up so he could see his face.

"Sammy?"

Déjà vu to the car. Sam flinched, trying to straighten and massage his headache away at the same time.

"Bite?" Dean asked in clipped tones, pinched eyes roaming Sam's face.

He shook his head tinily. "Vision."

Dean rocked back. "You sure? Seems kinda coincidental to me."

"Dean, I know what a vision feels like, all right?"

Both hands rose in surrender. Sam's neck was cold with lingering dampness. "All right, all right. Then what did you see?"

"A kid." The worst of the ache was fading, but Sam kept pinching the bridge of his nose.

A pause. "And?"

"And, he was scared. That was it."

"Huh. A scared kid. Can't be too many of those in the country," Dean said dryly.

Sam's mouth bent. "That's all I could see, man—not where he was, not what was happening, nothing, just a kid standing there looking as real as you."

"Where?" Dean asked, glancing around as if he might spot the boy.

Sam waved a hand vaguely next to the TV, and his brother got up and dug in his bag for a moment. He emerged with the EMF detector. The machine didn't so much as beep.

"My visions don't come with EMF," Sam said flatly.

"Your visions usually come with surround-sound and picture," Dean said absently. "Just covering all the bases."

Which made sense but didn't help Sam feel better as Dean rechecked the windows and door, even stuck his head outside.

He finally turned back to Sam. "You sure there was nothing else?"

Sam shook his head.

"No, you're not sure, or, no, there was nothing else."

"Dean," he gritted out.

Another silent gesture of I'm just sayin'. Dean's expression was unhappy as he stood over Sam. "I don't like this. You get bitten by a supernatural snake and pass out, then you have a weird vision—even for you—an hour later. I don't know, man, maybe we should get some blood tests run. Might tell us something."

"Yeah, that I have an overprotective brother and 'atypical migraines.'" Glimpsing the flash in his brother's eyes, Sam quickly relented. "Look," he sighed, "this is probably just the intro. Maybe we should go get some food before it hits again and I lose my appetite completely."

Dean weighed that, finally nodded. "Fine. But if you hurl after–"

"I know, not in your car, and I get to clean it up."

Dean gave him an agreeing tilt of the head and returned to the bathroom.

Sam stood to fix his clothes and dig up a clean hoodie, when he heard the murmur from the other room. Puzzled, he stepped closer, until his cheek nearly touched the door.

"…don't know. Guess I keep an eye on him and see… Yeah, all right… I'll check in tomorrow." There was a soft snick of a folded cell phone.

Sam stepped back just as the door swung open, and he frowned at his emerging brother. "Who were you talking to?"

"What?" It was Dean's turn to look baffled.

"In there on your phone," Sam said impatiently. "Who were you talking to?"

"Dude, my phone's over there in my jacket." At Sam's skeptical look, Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed the garment, pulling out the cell. He held it up with exasperation.

Sam stared at it a long moment, then shook his head. "Never mind, I just thought…"

His brother's concerned look was starting to get permanent. "Offer's still open for a free ride to the hospital."

"Let's go eat." Sam gave him a shove toward the door and swallowed his unease. "I hear some mac-and-cheese calling my name."

"That was your favorite when you were four, Sam," Dean tossed back over his shoulder as he preceded Sam out.

Sam cocked his head. "What's your point?"

Dean paused, shrugged. "Actually, that doesn't sound bad. Just don't drown it in ketchup like you used to when you were a kid."

Sam just groaned.

00000

The food felt good. Sam didn't.

Something itched just under his skin, a need he couldn't quite put his finger on. Even as he ate the surprisingly good pasta, restlessness stirred his limbs, hummed through his veins. He had to do… something.

It would have helped a lot to know what.

Dean was watching him with that wary half-eye like he expected Sam to grow a fifth limb at any moment. "How's the food?" he finally asked.

"Your mac-and-cheese was better," Sam answered before he considered the words, and flushed a little as Dean smirked. He concentrated on his food, even as he caught a snatch of conversation from the counter to their left. "…he's the one…"

"So, any kids around?" Dean was asking him. He drained half his coke—the diner didn't have beers—and glanced idly around the room.

Sam shook his head. Shifted again in his seat.

Dean's brow inched upward. "Itching powder in your shorts, Sammy?"

He glared at his brother. "You would know best, wouldn't you? Jerk." Then his eyes landed on the couple behind Dean, and he stiffened.

They were looking at him, whispering confidentially as they watched.

Sam yanked his gaze away. Just a nosy couple, no big deal. He dug into his food again.

"Your head still feel okay?" Dean asked, eyeing him none-too-subtly over a hamburger.

"It's fine," Sam answered absently.

The whisper seemed to come from the booth behind them. "Freak."

Sam's head jerked up.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, frowning. But Sam was staring at something else.

Between the counter and the door, the boy cowered from a shadow Sam only saw the edges of. He was shaking in fear, oblivious to Sam as he stared at the menace. Behind him, dark cinderblock overlaid the row of booths along the diner wall like a transparency. As Sam watched, the kid whimpered and sank to his knees.

"No!" He was on his feet, speaking before he knew it.

Everyone's eyes were on him now, including Dean's, who rose with him.

"…chosen," they were whispering. "…evil." "Murderer."

They knew. About him, about everything. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the weight of the loathing and shame.

"That does it." Dean's voice was a spark of sanity, and Sam didn't fight it when two fists grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and hauled him bodily out of the booth. Sam was dragged a few stumbling steps, and he opened his eyes quickly to look for the boy, but he was gone. Just the diner now, everyone staring.

And Dean, hazel eyes angry and worried as he let go of Sam just outside the door.

"Are you back?"

"What…?" Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah."

"Good. Then you mind telling me what that was about? One minute you're eating dinner, the next, you look like…" His hands moved in speechless frustration.

Sam looked at him, waiting.

"I don't know," Dean huffed. "Something bad. What's going on in that freaky head of yours, Sam?"

"Dean, I think they know," Sam murmured.

"Know what? You're not making any sense."

"The people in there." Sam pointed at the diner. A few curious faces still peered out the window at them, and Sam turned away. "I think they know about… about me. About what I am."

Dean's face seemed to age, a little too much like their dad's for a moment. "Sammy… you're not–"

"And I saw the kid again, Dean," he hurried on before his brother tried to come up with something to say. "I saw a wall this time, and a shadow coming after him."

Dean dragged a hand over his face, slowly nodded. "All right. Okay. Look, let's go to the hospital and let them run their tests on you, then–" He talked louder to overrule Sam's protest, "–then we'll start looking for missing kids, okay? I promise."

"Dean, we don't have–"

"Sam." The depth of emotion in Dean's voice silenced Sam. "Listen to me. Something's going on here—you're not thinking straight. Let's just get you checked out, then we'll look for the kid, okay? Please." His eyes pleaded, his hands kneading Sam's biceps.

Sam chewed on his lip, feeling the weight of the gazes behind him, the need to act. But unable to resist Dean when he asked like this. He dipped his head, nodded.

A hand curved around the back of his neck. "It's gonna be all right, I promise." Then Dean was coaxing him back to the car, into the front seat.

Sam watched him wearily as his brother went around the back of the car to his own side. Dean paused near the trunk to take out his phone and make a call, eyes darting forward to check on Sam. A moment passed, then his face smoothed out into something dark and grim.

And suddenly Sam was in a white room, wrapped in the suffocating folds of a straightjacket, knocking his head helplessly against the padded wall. Across the room, framed in the tiny window on the door, was his brother, that same implacable expression on his face.

Sam swallowed bile, feeling like he was choking.

Dean's door opened, and Sam, without thinking, slid over and shot out past him.

"Sam, what the–"

"I'm not going to the hospital—you're not going to lock me up!" he raged. Maybe he was going evil, but he wasn't going crazy, except the one person he trusted was turning on him and if that wasn't insane…

"Sammy," Dean had his hands up non-threateningly, "come on, man, you know I wouldn't do that to you. Your head's screwed up right now—just trust me, okay? I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

Choking. Faces staring in the window. Dean's cold eyes.

Sam's fist snapped out.

The blow took Dean utterly by surprise, which was the only reason he went down under it. Sam grabbed the keys from his lax hand and darted back into the car. He had to get out of there, away from the threats. Find the boy, do his job, save people to save himself.

Without even a glance at the prone figure by the car, Sam drove away.

00000

Oklahoma City was not a small place, and Sam had never been there before. All of which meant driving up and down a lot of unfamiliar streets, lost in more ways than one.

The drive and the escape from the immediate danger cleared Sam's head a little, enough to make him wonder what he'd just done. Had he really punched Dean and stolen his car? It was surreal, unbelievable.

So was Dean locking him away in a mental ward.

But he'd seen it… right? Sam wasn't quite sure what that had been, but it had to be a vision of some kind. Maybe the next step in his powers. Which maybe meant the time was close at hand when the demon…

Sam swallowed, kept driving.

But if Dean couldn't be trusted… Sam couldn't think beyond that. It didn't matter what he would become if he lost his brother in the process. If Dean had been ready to betray him, Sam's world had already crashed.

But Dean always helped him, protected him. Dean loved him; Sam knew that. It didn't make sense.

His pocket was ringing.

Sam fumbled at his jacket and found his cell. Dean was spelled out on the screen. He swallowed and thumbed the phone on.

"Sammy?" Dean didn't sound angry or devious, just… worried sick.

Sam swallowed.

"Sammy, listen to me, I'm begging you. The Bad One, it poisoned you, remember? I think that's affecting you somehow, making you see things that aren't really there. You're not crazy, you're drugged, and I just want to help you, okay? Nobody's gonna lock you up, I swear. They'd have to go through me first."

He swallowed again, feeling incredibly lost. This was the Dean he knew, and Sam ached to accept the offer to let him help. He wanted to go home. "Dean, I…"

"Come back, man. Come back and we'll figure this out, okay?"

On the corner ahead, a small boy stood, staring at Sam.

He stared back. And as his concentration slipped, he could suddenly hear the hum behind Dean. Quiet voices, Sam realized, and if he focused, he could just… make out…

"We've almost got him. Keep him talking…"

Sam cursed. "Nice try," he said coldly, and cut the connection just as Dean started to bark a protest. Sam turned the phone off and stuck it into the glove compartment. The boy was still watching him, begging with his eyes, the scene behind him shifting between cinderblock and brick, dark and light. Sam pulled the Impala into an empty space along the sidewalk and got out.

"I'm here," he told the boy.

The kid turned, walked away, and Sam followed.

Two blocks down, one over, into an alley. The kid kept walking, sometimes turning back to glance at Sam, other times shivering a little as if in sudden fear. But he kept going, so Sam did, too.

They reached a tenement building, and Sam's guide didn't hesitate, descending a set of stairs to a recessed basement door. Sam glanced around the empty alleyway and followed, shivering as he passed from the meager sunlight into shade and darkness.

The basement was a cluttered cinderblock box, lit dimly by a few small ground-level windows near the ceiling. One glance took in the bare scenery, then Sam turned back to the kid.

"Why did you bring me here?"

The kid shook his head, but it wasn't a denial, it was fear.

Sam softened his voice, crouched down so he wasn't looming over the boy. "You don't have to be afraid, I'll help you, you just… have to tell me what's wrong, all right? Why did you bring me here?"

The kid shivered. Up close, Sam wondered if he was even seven, he was so small and skinny. Under a shock of dirty honey-colored hair, freckles stood out over a pale nose, reminding Sam fleetingly of Dean. The boy's clothes were worn and a little too small.

Sam shuffled a few inches closer, trying to radiate concern instead of the fear that continued to bubble up in his belly. "What's your name?" he tried a different tack.

"Craig," the kid whispered, hesitant as if not sure of Sam's reaction.

He smiled. "Craig. Good name. My name's Sam, and I'm going to help you, all right? Just tell me what's wrong."

The boy's lip trembled even as he straightened his small figure. "He's mean."

"He's mean? To you?" Sam glanced around the room, but it was empty, no shadows besides the ones cast by boxes and debris piled in the corners. He hated the child abuse cases, almost as much as Dean did. "Is… he here?"

Craig glanced around, sniffed, and shook his head.

"All right." Sam slipped a little closer. "Why don't you come with me and I'll–"

The boy jerked back, shaking his head vehemently. "I can't," he whimpered.

Sam froze, palms rising in a soothing gesture. "All right, it's okay. We'll just… figure it out here then, all right?" A sudden jab of psychic pain shot through his skull, and Sam flinched, grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead. He heard the soft scrape of a tennis shoe against the concrete floor before he could look up again to find Craig had ventured a little closer and was watching him with clear worry.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded immediately, tightening his jaw when it ratcheted the pain up a notch in his head. "I just… I'm kinda hiding from someone, too."

"Someone mean?" the kid whispered.

Sam's mouth opened, shut. Dean, mean? His shirts sewed together, dye in his shampoo, a thousand different put-downs and names… and jumping between him and a charging werewolf, curling around him to buffer him from the pain of a vision and the prying eyes of the world, coaxing him back to sleep after nightmares of Jess… Sam cleared his throat. "No, he's not mean. He just… We had an argument, that's all."

Craig nodded solemnly.

"Will you let me help you?" Sam asked, and winced somewhere inside at the echo of Dean's words. The request that had a far greater amount of history and trust behind it than what he was asking for now.

The room seemed to get a little darker, a chill creeping up Sam's spine. He glanced around, seeing nothing but the same basement room, then back to Craig. The boy had shrunk a little, also apprehensively searching.

"I won't let him hurt you," Sam said quietly. "Trust me."

The foreboding grew. The shadows flickered, changed. The kid looked terrified, but his gaze kept creeping back to Sam.

Sam held out a hand to him. "Craig, it'll be okay, I promise."

Dark brown eyes delved deep into his, needing something and finally finding it. A hesitant nod, and the kid started to reach out to take his hand.

A dark shape suddenly loomed to Sam's right, towering over them both. Even as Sam straightened to meet the threat, the kid shrieked.

And vanished.

A moment later, the shadow did, too.

Sam jerked back in surprise, looking wildly around the room for either boy or threat, but there was nothing. Harmless debris painted in weak light in an otherwise empty room.

Pain like a hot knife skewered Sam's brain, driving him to his knees with a gasp. He dug the heels of his hands into his temples, trying to squeeze out the fire deep inside his head. Crushing, cutting, squeezing… God, Dean! He groaned into the silence of the room, swaying on his knees.

He didn't know how much time passed. The next thing Sam was aware of was darkness slipping over his body, blocking the faint light. A feeling that he wasn't alone crept past the pain a second before the feeling of menace did. Sam gasped, lifting watery eyes to stare up into…

Black. Utter absence of light, shifting with malice and danger. Evil.

And he understood.

"Sam."

A tiny voice, uncertain and fearful. There was banging and yelling in the distance, but when Sam blinked to clear his vision, he saw only Craig standing to one side, watching him and the shadow.

Sam held up an unsteady hand to him.

The boy crept forward, every movement shaded with hesitation. But his small, cold fingers finally slipped into Sam's hand, let Sam's large palm curl around his and reel him in.

Sam tugged the shivering body against him, arm banded protectively across Craig's chest. Then he glared with defiance up at the shadow, even as he whispered to the boy. "Look at him."

The kid whimpered, tucking his face against Sam's neck.

He remembered that same maneuver from his childhood, and Dean's gently firm response. Hooking a hand under Craig's chin, Sam coaxed his head up. "He can't hurt you," he promised. "Look at him."

Brown eyes slowly ventured up.

Sam turned to look with him, willing the kid to see what he saw.

The darkness wavered, stirring. Shrinking. Forming into a human shape: two legs, two arms, a small head with glasses. Pale eyes that still shone with all the malice a forty-something balding little man could muster. He glared with hatred at the boy in Sam's arms.

"He hurt you once, but he can't anymore," Sam said softly. "Don't be scared—look at him. He's not a monster, Craig. He's just a person." Father, maybe, or neighbor or uncle or family "friend." It didn't really matter.

Craig swallowed, stared. Straightened. "I'm not scared," he whispered.

The man wavered like a reflection in water.

"Say it again."

"I'm not scared of you!"

The man jerked. Then, with a silent pop, vanished.

Craig gasped in disbelief. Sam shut his eyes, head swimming and pounding. "You're free, Craig. You don't have to stay here anymore. Go find the people who love you, okay?"

There was a crash in the distance. Soft kid hair rubbed his cheek. "You, too, Sam."

Then he was holding empty air.

Alone and off-balance, Sam's eyes fluttered shut as he rocked on his knees, slowly toppling.

And suddenly, someone was holding him.

"I gotcha, bro. I gotcha."

He smiled against his brother's chest, relaxed, letting the arms sit him down and wrap around him, holding him up, because his head hurt and he was really tired. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "Dean, I'm–"

"You're not gonna hit me again, are you?" Dean asked whimsically, then cinched him closer, one hand supporting his wobbly head. "We'll talk about it later, Sam." Dean's heart, thumping below Sam's temple, was starting to settle down. "Where'd that kid go?"

Sam huffed a laugh. His eyes felt glued shut, his body like it was weighted with lead, and his head was on the verge of splitting into two, but he was warm where he was pressed against Dean and he felt safe. "Think I'm ready t'go to the hospital now, man," he murmured.

Dean snorted into Sam's hair. "I'm not giving you a choice this time, dude." But he didn't seem in a hurry to move.

Sam really didn't mind.

00000

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Dean. About an inch away from his face.

Sam flinched back into the pillow with a strangled grunt, which just made his brother grin wider. Dean drew away, dropping into the chair beside the bed and putting his boots up on the mattress. "Sleep well, Cinderella?"

"Sleeping Beauty," Sam corrected, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"You haven't looked in a mirror lately."

He threw his brother a glare, which softened at the sight of the faint bruise along Dean's jaw. Contrary to his earlier statement, Dean probably wouldn't mention it again. "Where've you been?" Sam had woken a few times during the night to see his brother slumped in the recliner by the bed, close enough that Sam could have reached out and touched him if Dean's slow breathing hadn't been reassuring enough. The last time, though, the chair had been empty, only a piece of paper saying "Be back" propped by Sam's bed. But there had been no visions since he'd been in the hospital, no bleed-throughs from other realities, and the doctor said the "unknown substance" in his blood was already nearly gone. Thank God.

"Doing a little research on that building you found. Well, you and Craig found. Turns out Craig Birkenhouse, age seven, turned up dead in the basement in 1998. Cops arrested a neighbor, one…" Dean consulted a piece of paper. "Ed Lipton for it. Guy died of a heart attack two years later in prison."

"Middle-aged, balding, pale eyes?" Sam guessed tiredly.

"Yup."

He nodded, rolled his head away. It hadn't taken him long to realize Craig was a ghost, and helping him had been good, but the kid's death still hurt even if there had been no way Sam could have stopped it.

"He's at peace now, Sam," Dean said quietly.

"We hope."

"Gotta be better than hanging around that basement terrified."

Sam sighed. "Yeah."

There was a pause, then Dean chuckled.

Sam turned back to him. "What?"

Dean shrugged. "What is it with you and ghosts, anyway? Kid comes to you for help and ends up leading me to you. Even the caspers aren't immune to those puppy eyes."

"Shut up," Sam growled. He wasn't ready to wrap his head around the fact that his vision—ghost—had appeared to Dean, too, to show him where Sam was.

"Seriously, Sam," and Dean suddenly was. "Everything okay now? No more kids, monsters, raging paranoia? 'Cause, you steal my car again…"

Sam made a face. "No, just…"

Dean sat up. "Just what?"

"I don't know." He shrugged uncomfortably. "It just still feels a little like people are looking at me and… they know what I am, Dean."

Dean relaxed, leaning back into the chair. "Dude, that's 'cause they do."

Sam's body clenched.

Dean hitched a shoulder. "I mean, it's pretty obvious you're a guy with a girl's brain. How many chances do you think they've had to study a freak like you?"

Sam groaned, turning his back to his brother and pulling his blanket to his chin.

"I mean, they're probably wondering if we're even related."

Sam buried himself in the bedding.

"But you're my brother, Sam—that's what you are."

The tightness in his chest loosened. He could live with that.

A hand thumped his shoulder. "Get some sleep, man. Soon as that junk's out of your system, we're gone."

Sam already was.

The End