I don't own them but it is my birthday on Friday and something tall, dark and handsome would go down a treat!!
Sam clasps the bridge of his nose between shaking fingers and lets out an exhale. He can feel a headache coming on and he cannot deny that this panics him so much he can barely breathe.
It has been nearly a year since they killed the yellow-eyed demon and he hasn't had a vision since. This doesn't stop him from worrying about having one, nor does it prevent him from hyperventilating every time he gets tightness in his head and his eyes start to water. He never wanted the visions in the first place and he certainly doesn't want them back.
He concentrates on the laptop, images wavering in front of his eyes. He isn't sure if the blurred pictures are caused by his oncoming headache or the salt tears which are threatening to overwhelm him.
In six weeks his brother will be dead and Sam still hasn't figured out a way to save him. He knows that Dean, although terrified, has made peace with himself and is happy that Sam is here, healthy and alive, but Sam has yet to find that peace and he drives himself on, relentlessly.
He hasn't ever told his brother about the night in Cold Oak when the demon visited him in his dreams, he hasn't told him about his mother's involvement or the demon blood. He cannot bring himself to tell Dean what the demon said, that it was 'All about him', that it had 'always been about him'. He doesn't want Dean hurt or concerned at this late stage. He just wants Dean, alive and out of the deal. He doesn't know if he is ever going to get that and it hurts, it fucking hurts.
Ruby has been little or no help and Sam figures she is just there to taunt him, to persuade him to 'go dark side' to become 'the Boy King'. Sam knows, deep down, that the potential is there. He knows it in the way he no longer hesitates when killing something evil. He knew it the moment that Jake fell to the ground, peppered with bullets. He knew it when the dark-haired, red-eyed woman dropped to the ground, her human host as dead as the demon that inhabited the body. He knew it when Jake's head separated from his body. Sam knows that those switches are ready to flip and he is resisting temptation, for himself and, mostly, for Dean.
Sam wonders what it might be like to give in to his destiny, to give in to fate; to give in to, what seems like, the inevitable. He wonders, idly, as he taps on the lap-top keys, if by giving in he could save his brother and the headache becomes more painful, more insistent, having him reaching for the Tylenol.
Dean is still sleeping when Sam concentrates on the glass and makes it move. At the beginning it is only an inch or two and it is wobbly and unsteady. Sam smiles, wryly, and waits, somewhat fearfully, for the switch to flick in his brain, for the evil thoughts to flood in.
The glass falls off the table but nothing much else happens and Sam rubs the back of his neck, feeling foolish.
They are at the crossroads. Dean told Sam to stay in the car, like a child, whilst he walked to the middle of the junction and stood, proud and ready, only his shaking hands and pale face giving him away.
Sam peers through the window, feeling seven again, scared, stupid and clueless. He runs his hand over the Impala's dashboard and he realises that he is in the car because Dean figures he can save both his 'babies' by doing it this way and he wants to weep.
He sees the demon, taking another form now, this one a voluptuous blonde. He hears the hellhounds, hears the baying and the growling and, if he squints hard enough, he can see them, teeth sharp and eyes glowing.
Sam presses his face up against the glass and concentrates. He can feel the pain in his head, feel the pressure building. He watches as the hellhounds leap at Dean and then stop, held back as if by an invisible wall. Sam clenches his teeth, throat straining, chin out. He sees Dean look around him, panicked and pained and he sees the red-eyed bitch roar with anger as she staggers, once, twice and then falls.
It isn't dramatic. There are no winds roaring or rain falling or frogs raining from the skies. Just the dogs; held back by the power of Sam's mind and the demon, being pulled from the possessed body.
Dean whirls round and calls out "Sam!" all urgent and worried, sounding just like he did on that fateful night in Cold Oak. Sam can't see him because his eyes are closed, his head is hurting and the car is shaking along with his body. He can feel blood trickling from his nose and sweat staining his clothing.
"Sam"
When he opens his eyes again, Dean is leaning over him. He is out of the car, laying on his back, stones digging into his spine. There is the taste of blood in his mouth and a very nasty pain in his head.
Then it comes to him in a flash; Dean is leaning over him, Dean is staring at him, Dean is crying, snot and tears rubbing across his cheeks but Dean is alive, Dean is here and not in Hell.
He has done it.
He lies in the back of the Impala; tissues stuffed, unceremoniously, in his nostrils, one of the clothes that Dean keeps for cleaning, across his forehead. He can hear Dean's hitching breaths and his muttered curses but he keeps wavering in and out of consciousness and he can't really concentrate. He keeps waiting, waiting for the switches to flip in his head, waiting for the evil thoughts to creep in, waiting for the demon army to come and claim him for his own.
All he gets is a sore head, an aching nose and eyes that just refuse to stay open.
Dean is staring at him, green eyes full of something Sam cannot even begin to guess at. Dean strips him, washes him and puts him into a pair of old sweats. Dean lays him on the bed, throws a comforter over him and sits down beside him, hand stroking over and over in his hair.
"Talk," Dean says and Sam does.
He tells Dean about the demon and mom and the blood; he tells him about Ruby and the fact that all mom's friends and relations are dead; he tells him about flipping switches and moving objects and reading minds. Dean listens, hand working roughly and convulsively through Sam's hair, then he gets up and opens the door, looking outside.
"What are you doing?" Sam croaks out.
"No demon army here, psychic boy," Dean says, eyes glinting, "So I figure we're safe," he sighs and bites his lip. "When were you planning on telling me?" he says, finally.
"Wasn't – thought you had too much to worry about." Sam wants to sleep, he feels weak and tired and his eyes hurt.
"Any evil thoughts?"
Sam searches his mind. He tries to put into words what he is feeling but he can't. He feels light and happy and weightless; he feels relieved and boneless and content. He doesn't even have a negative thought in his head, let alone an evil one and he sighs, happily.
"Go to sleep, Sam," Dean whispers.
After two weeks of drinking to excess, eating too much and sleeping with vaguely unsuitable women, they finally get to Bobby's. The older man looks surprised but happy to see them and breaks out yet more beer. Sam sits at the table, plays with the label of his bottle and rubs his neck.
"Why?" he says, finally, "Why hasn't it happened to me?"
"I've got nothing," Bobby mutters, scratching his beard, "I've scoured texts until my head fair near fell off," he shrugs, "I don't know Sam, but all I do know is that you are both alive and in one piece – so let's take it from there."
He doesn't have nightmares any more and he doesn't get many headaches. Try as he might, he can't bend a spoon or make a glass move or even attempt to read Dean's mind. His powers are gone and the blood that flows through his veins is his and his alone.
Dean sits beside him in the Impala, singing off key and moaning about how hungry he is. He scratches his groin, burps loudly and glances at himself in the mirror, claiming to be too pretty for words.
And right there, Sam knows why the switch didn't flip.
End