Summary – A week after 'Cracks In The Glass', Sam and Dean are on their way to Missouri's to try and find help with Sam's growing psychic abilities. But the yellow-eyed demon is still a threat, and both boys are finding themselves increasingly alone. FMFC 'verse, SamDean slash
Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.
You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense :)
WARNINGS, PLEASE READ – Obviously if you guys have read FMFC and CitG and the various one-shots that go along with them you'll know all about the mentioned child abuse and violence, but this story is probably going to end up going a lot darker. There will be issues of non-consensual sex in a later chapter involving one of the main characters, and although it won't be full-on rape, I understand some people might still have a problem with the subject matter. I know a few of you might feel I'm spoiling part of the story by warning for this now, but I'd like to cover my bases early and save anyone beginning this story only to find they can't finish it due to the subject…
I'd like to thank the brilliant and wonderful Phx, who not only betaed this and came up with the title, but also encourages me and puts up with my confused ramblings about where I want the story to go :P This story probably wouldn't have been started if it weren't for her, and it definitely wouldn't have been half as good :)
I'll be updating this story weekly, so expect the next chapter on Thursday/Friday of next week :) Anyway, after almost a full page of warnings etc, I hope you guys will enjoy the story!
Chapter 1
In the town of Lawrence, Kansas, a few streets over from the house Mary Winchester had died in so many years ago, Missouri Moseley sat at her kitchen table. There was a pile of dirty dishes waiting in the sink, hot water running freely from the tap and sending up billows of steam. An untouched cup of chamomile tea turned cold on the countertop, the sugar pot beside it, teaspoon sticking out of the top while the shiny metal lid slowly rolled in circles on the tiled floor, abandoned. Night had fallen hours ago and the chill air whispered through an open window. The wind chimes on the porch outside clacked together like death rattles.
Missouri didn't seem to notice her surroundings at all. Her hands were limp on the table in front of her, palm-up, and her gaze was fixed on her fingertips. She'd been getting ready for bed, her hair hanging loose, those strands of grey she'd been pretending not to notice for the past few weeks curling over her forehead. Her nightgown covered her to her wrists, high around the neck and hanging over her bare feet. Even in warm weather she always preferred to feel covered in bed.
A cup slipped somewhere in the mountain of dirty china in the sink. The carefully stacked plates shifted like loose rocks on a cliff-face, settling uneasily against the side of the basin. The stream of water running from the hot tap pounded dried pieces of pasta and burnt lumps of meat from the bottom of a glass casserole dish. They spattered over the side of the sink and landed in miniature puddles on the tiled floor.
It was ignored.
Dean Winchester and his boy were driving through the night in that big black shark of a car. They'd arrive mid-morning. Rain would start falling as the engine was turned off and the heavens would open as they ran for the porch.
Missouri stood, stepping in the damp mush on the floor as she turned the tap off. Preparations had to be made.
Dean Winchester shifted in the driver's seat of the Impala, flexing first one thigh muscle then the other. His ass had gone numb about two miles back and his hands were cramping around the wheel.
He'd been driving since noon, stopping off to take a whiz by the side of the road and eating ding-dongs and beef jerky to keep his energy up. The sugar rush made his knee twitch and his foot bounce on the gas pedal, little spurts that made the car jump forward in response. Although Sam insisted there wasn't any great rush to get to Lawrence, Dean disagreed, vehemently. Only a week ago the kid had been haemorrhaging from the brain. Best to get that sorted as fast as possible, in Dean's opinion.
Sam was currently asleep, his head cushioned by Dean's leather jacket and resting on the knee that wasn't doing a Mexican tango with the gas pedal. Somehow the kid managed to curl himself into a ball, his long legs wedged between the passenger door and the seat. One hand was hanging off the seat, loosely tangled in the cuff of Dean's jeans.
The horizon ahead of them was still rosy with colour; they'd been chasing the sunset for hours. The border crossing into Kansas rolled into sight and out of it again just as quickly. It was insignificant, a tiny white road sign, but it made the breath catch in Dean's throat all the same. Kansas. They weren't just driving through this time, they were going there. To Lawrence, the very place his mother had been killed. He'd told Sam it was fine, that it didn't bother him, but there was an itch under his skin that had grown stronger and stronger, a nagging fear he'd thought he banished for good when he walked out on his father for college.
Sam made a tiny snuffling noise in his sleep, rubbing his nose against the leg of Dean's jeans. Dean let out a slow breath. He was going to do this, for Sam. His mother was dead and gone, but Sam was here and he needed Dean to be okay.
His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, buried somewhere under Sam. Before he could dig it out Sam grunted and jerked into a sitting position, his hair sticking up on one side.
"Huh?" He blinked at Dean, his eyes blown with sleep.
"It's my phone. Can you…"
"Oh. Yeah." Sam untangled the jacket, fumbling with the cell phone until his clumsy fingers cooperated enough to answer it. "Hello?"
Dean glanced over. Sam was biting on his lower lip.
"Hi. Yeah, we're on our way. Is Missouri expecting us?" His dad then.
John had taken to calling him every few days for updates on where they were. Dean flushed as he remembered the conversation they'd had a few nights ago while Sam was showering. John had hummed and hawed for a few minutes, then gruffly told him to be good to Sam, hanging up before Dean could give a response. Dean spent several moments blinking at the dead phone in his hand before he'd realised what his dad had been trying to say in his own we-are-men-who-don't-talk-about-our-feelings way.
It wasn't like he'd been trying to keep his relationship with Sam secret from his dad, but he hadn't exactly been advertising it either. Apparently his dad was more perceptive than he let on. He wasn't sure how he felt about John's endorsement, or about the fact his dad thought it was necessary to warn him against hurting Sam, but he supposed it was better than a homophobic rant and threats of disownment, which he'd kind of been expecting. Not that his dad had ever shown any signs of being a homophobe, but then he'd never exactly waved a flag in the pride parade either.
"Yeah. We'll let you know when we get there. Thanks." Sam hung up the phone.
"What'd dad want?" Dean asked.
"Just to make sure we're actually going to Missouri's this time. She's expecting us, apparently."
Without taking his eyes off the road Dean reached over and tapped Sam on the back of the head. "You were the one who wanted to stop and take a job. Next time I'm tellin' him it's all your fault, let you get yelled at."
"Oh c'mon, he didn't yell at you." Sam said, grinning.
"He called me a pushover!"
"Well s'not like he was lying. You did stop when I asked you to, after all."
"Shut up." Dean said, glancing at Sam's self-satisfied smirk and turning back to the road before he could say anything stupid, like of course I'm a pushover for you, you idiot.
Sam rolled his head from side to side, letting out an ahh at the crack. The kid had a nasty habit of popping his joints when he woke up. It was possibly the only thing Sam did that he really couldn't stand, Dean mused quietly. The worst was his trick knee; the sharp snap it made had Dean gritting his teeth every morning. Sam once mentioned wrenching it as a kid, badly enough that even Jim Miller had seen fit to take the boy to a hospital. Dean had never asked how it had happened.
"So, we nearly there yet?" Sam asked, using the back of the leather bench seat to rub his cheek against, like a cat.
"Not yet. Still got a couple hours to go."
"We can stop at a motel, Dean, it's not gonna kill us."
Not me anyway, Dean thought as he bit the inside of his mouth sharply. He kept it to himself. "I'd rather get this over with, if it's all the same to you. Psychics piss me off. Uh, except for you." He winced, glancing over. Sam didn't seem to catch the slip though. His face was screwed up in a wide yawn, the tip of his tongue curling behind his teeth. Dean watched, fascinated.
"Well she's gonna be pissed off with us if we turn up at three in the morning." Sam said with a soft grin. "We might as well get some sleep and arrive at a reasonable hour."
"Hey, the woman's a psychic, she'll know we're coming."
"Dean." Sam pinched the soft skin of his upper arm, his voice uncomfortably close to a whine. Dean tugged his arm away, taking a hand off the wheel to rub at the sore spot. Kid had a grip. "I wanna stop. I'm tired."
"You were just sleeping!"
"In the car. The car doesn't count as sleep. And don't be such a baby, I hardly touched you." Sam poked him in the same place as his pinch, a half-smile on his lips so Dean would know he wasn't being serious. "Look, there's a motel coming up on the next exit."
He glanced sidelong at the kid. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to stop for a few hours. "Fine." He rolled his eyes dramatically and flipped the turn signal on. "Don't say I never do anything for you."
Dean was out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was lying on his belly, his booted feet hanging off the end of the bed and his face smushed by the covers he hadn't bothered to pull back. Sam smothered a grin as the older man started snoring, deep and nasal. No doubt there would be drool before the night was out.
Despite what he'd told Dean Sam had slept pretty well in the car, even if the muscles of his back felt like they'd been strung up in knots. He'd gotten used to it, he supposed. The gentle thrum of the engine was like fingers massaging his temples and the squeak of leather as Dean shifted positions made him think of home, the only one he'd ever had. Knowing Dean would have driven all night, for him, made him feel warm inside.
The motel's heating clinked ominously before giving out altogether. Sam winced and took the sheets from the other bed, laying them over Dean's prone body, carefully taking off the older man's boots while he was there.
He sat back in an armchair that smelled of wet dog, sighing heavily. Missouri was expecting them tomorrow. Maybe the insistence that they stop for the night hadn't been entirely out of consideration for Dean.
Although his eyes were almost fully healed now, the sunglasses no longer a necessity if he wanted to go out in daylight, he could still feel it. A thing, sneaking around at the back of his mind, half-unnoticed. There were minutes, hours, when he'd forget all about what he could do, caught up in Dean's smile while they waited for food in a diner or paid for gas. And then it would shift behind his eyes, a subtle reminder. It wasn't painful or uncomfortable, and maybe that was the worst part. It was in him and it didn't feel like it wasn't supposed to be there.
Missouri would know what to do. John said this woman could help him. Sam wasn't sure if it was fear or anticipation he felt when he thought of what she might tell him.
"Sammy?" Sam blinked, looking up at the bed. Dean had rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows, staring at him with half-lidded eyes. "You gonna sit there and worry yourself to death or come and join me here?"
A smile pulled at his lips as he answered. "Yeah, I'm coming."
Dean grinned back, lazy and sleepy. He flopped back down on the bed, closing his eyes and holding a hand out in Sam's direction. Sam took it and let himself be hauled down, prodded and poked at until he was on his side facing the wall, Dean's body hot against his back.
" 'S'gonna be okay, kiddo." Dean mumbled, his lips brushing against the back of Sam's neck. "I gotcha."
"Yeah." Sam said quietly, staring at the wall inches from his face. Dean's reply was a drawn-out snore.
It started to rain as they pulled up outside the house. Dean glanced at the scrap of paper John had scrawled Missouri's address on a week ago in a dull parking lot in New Hampshire.
"This is it, kiddo. You ready?"
Sam swallowed, catching Dean's eyes briefly. Was he ready? Would he ever be ready for what this woman, this stranger, might have to tell him? "Sure. Let's go."
Dean smiled at him like he could see through the mask. He reached over and put a hand on Sam's arm, squeezing gently. "It's gonna be fine, Sam."
"I know." He tried to smile back. "Don't worry, I'm okay."
They stepped out of the car, Dean waiting for him on the sidewalk with the same smile on his lips, like he thought he had to keep Sam in his sight or he might lose him.
The house itself matched all the others on the street, painted a soothing pastel shade with a tiny front yard and a picket fence surrounding it. Terracotta flower pots lined the porch, overflowing with pansies and violets. The wind chimes hanging beside the front door seemed to announce their arrival, clattering together violently as they walked toward the house. It started to pour down as Dean held the little gate open for Sam, and by unspoken agreement they both sprinted for the cover of the house.
Dean opened the screen door and knocked, shaking his head so water sprayed off his hair like a dog. "Christ, I thought it was supposed to be warm in the middle states?"
Sam hmmmed in response, feeling the rain dripping down the back of his neck like slugs leaving trails on his skin. He shivered, scrubbing over the sensation with the cuff of his shirt.
The door opened suddenly, startling them both.
"Well, you boys took your sweet time, didn't you?" A short black woman stood on the other side, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face that was at odds with the bright floral blouse she wore. Sam blinked. This was Missouri, the great psychic?
She levelled a sharp glare at him suddenly, and he caught himself before he could stumble backwards off the porch. "You don't look like much yourself, Sam Miller. But you don't hear me makin' judgements, do you?"
He blushed hotly. He could feel Dean's inquisitive eyes on him but he kept his own firmly on the ground. "Sorry, ma'am."
"And don't ma'am me, boy, I'm not old yet. Now get your behinds in here before you catch your deaths of cold." She turned, leaving them to follow meekly behind.
Dean nudged at his arm, eyes wide. "What did you do?"
Sam shrugged, the blush still warming his cheeks.
"And take those muddy boots off by the door!" Missouri's voice came from somewhere within the house, making them both jump again.
It felt faintly ridiculous to be padding around in socks, especially considering both of Sam's had holes at the heels and Dean's big toe was poking through the weave of his left sock. They exchanged vaguely terrified looks, Dean making sure to stack his boots neatly on the mat by the door, which was something Sam would have found hilarious at any other time, and followed in the direction Missouri had gone.
Sam found himself in a cosy-looking kitchen, beaded curtain at the door and a deep warm pink paint on the walls. There were vases of flowers dotted at the windows and on the surfaces, brightly coloured and clashing cheerfully with one another. The scent of baking filled the air, and he could practically see Dean's saliva glands go into overdrive.
Missouri stood at the far counter, her hands busy adding sugar to mugs with steam rising from them. She turned and nodded curtly at the table, and Sam almost threw himself at it in his haste. Dean did the same, and after a brief tussle over the nearest chair, they were both seated in what had to be some kind of record time.
A mug of hot tea was placed in front of him, and one in front of Dean. The older man's lip curled – tea was a girly drink according to Dean – but at a tskk from Missouri it was gone so fast Sam had to bite back a smile.
"Now, you boys get that inside you, and then we'll see about some lunch. I'm baking fresh bread, and I've got some leftover casserole in the refrigerator I can heat up, as long as neither of you boys are vegetarians?"
"No, ma'am." Dean said quickly, his back so straight in his chair Sam could have used him as a vertical gage.
"Good." Missouri nodded, pulling a tupperware container out of the refrigerator. "Now, Dean, why don't you go get the bags out of the car and take 'em on up while you're waiting for your tea to cool down? You'll be in the first room at the top of the stairs, Sam'll be in the room beside you. And don't give me any arguments about sharing a room," Missouri said, holding a hand up as Dean's mouth opened. "I'm well aware of you boys and your relationship," at that Dean's face turned startlingly red, "and while I respect that, I'll also ask that you respect the rules of my house, one of which is no funny business. My room's at the end of the hall, the bathroom's on the left. Make sure you wash your hands before dinner, I've seen where they've been."
Dean gaped a little after Missouri finished talking, his mouth working wordlessly. She raised her eyebrows at him and he leapt out of the chair like it bit him, vanishing through the kitchen doorway.
Sam ducked his head, hiding his grin.
It disappeared altogether when Missouri seated herself in Dean's vacated chair, taking hold of one of his hands with surprising reverence. He looked up at her, afraid of what he might see.
There was no fear or sadness in her face. Instead she nodded, a small smile on her lips. "Oh, child. You have so much to learn."
"Am…am I-" Sam stuttered. He blinked, suddenly close to tears and hating himself for it. Missouri's smile grew wider.
"Evil? Boy, you think you could just walk in this house if you were something evil?" Her voice softened and she patted the back of his hand. "You're not a demon, Sam. Your powers are what you make of them. It's your choice, to use them to help people or to hurt."
He swallowed. "Will you…will you help me?"
She patted his hand, something unidentifiable in her eyes. "I'll teach you all I know."