DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural, or its characters. I do on occasion imagine their reality, and add to it, because they truly are too much fun to play with. For the rest, it's all the Kripkeeper and his cadre...
A/N: I always seem to come back, in my mind and now here, to the possibilities of Sammy and his powers, and of course everything for and against it. So, after seeing Episode 14 of Season 5, it got me thinking again. This story contains spoilers for 5.14, and will probably become AU after the first chapter, if I do continue beyond single-shot with it. So, without further ado, here we go...
Chapter 1: Addiction, Take Two
For a moment there, he had almost thought it was over. But it was only a few precious seconds that had ticked by. Or was it minutes? Hours? His mind basically sat down and threw its hands up in the air, completely befuddled and not completely sure of itself. How could it be? How could he be? He'd done it again, after all.
Demon blood. Better than mother's milk, and as vile as slowly running your tongue down the oozing sides of a ripening corpse. A vivid image of Lucifer in his meat suit snapped through his reverie, the rotting skin and pulsing sores of the vessel burning itself out, futilely containing something it wasn't supposed to have held for so long. Shuddering, he scrunched his eyes shut tighter, feeling the returning migraine slide towards his forehead, right above the bridge of his nose, centering in the middle of his brows. At least the increasing pressure expelled that unwelcome image. Lest it draw the devil's sight here, somehow. And dealing with Lucifer was something Sam Winchester definitely didn't want to handle right now. Or rather, not ever.
Weak again, the voice in his head sneered. He always tried to visualize that voice, to put a shape, face, mouth and eyes to that ever-present nagging. Was everyone else also cursed with such a stupid, taunting little whisper in their heads? Or was he the only one? If he was, it would hardly be funny, or strange. It would be just another thing he had to worry about. Another thing that he could write the book on.
Shut up, he replied to the voice, more forcefully than he had thought possible, considering.
You know, this is really getting –
If I want your opinion I'll press the damn button! Sam snarled inside his own head, really well and truly exhausted from dealing both with his warping reality, his fears and the voice that so casually and caustically rubbed his face in the weak paradox of Sam Winchester versus existence. Breathing out slowly, so that he couldn't panic and give the voice even more ammunition to use against him, he calmed himself down again, anchoring himself in his surroundings. Even if the voice challenged, tested and teased, and even if his perceptions of everything around him were woefully interrupted in its semblance of normalcy, Sam opened his eyes again, mere slits to take it in.
Angled view from the bed, and tied to it. Soft cloths wrapped around his wrists and ankles to prevent bruising. A small table, within reach – if he weren't handcuffed to the railings, of course – and holding a jug of water. Who refilled that? Looking up slightly caused him to get dizzy, which was an atrocious feeling, and magnified a hundred times over when it didn't stop with a horizontal position. At least he wasn't nauseous. Not like the day before, when his body had seemingly gotten the upper hand of this thing and had forcibly expelled the remaining demonic ichor from his system. Vomiting blood was nothing new, really. Did he and Dean ever actually keep track of the times the fluid that was their life rush past their teeth and lips? But demon blood burned. Going down, it was a treat, a candy-coated stream of dark power that always demanded more, and never really satisfied. Coming out was a different matter, as if the candy had been laced with arsenic, or coated in acid and bile. His throat was still dry, and no matter how much water he drank, it didn't seem to get better. Now, if only his mind would catch up again, seeing as the source of the trouble was gone.
You always were slow to revelations.
And still you persist, Sam snorted, moved to having snotty repartee with his own mind. Good for you. Surprisingly, the voice vanished right after, giving him some time to assemble his fragmented thoughts, and to bring himself up from this stupor. He wondered if Dean or Cas were waiting for him outside the door. Bobby, of course, didn't come down – too much trouble – but the wheelchair-bound hunter's concerns and sympathies were always the first things to spill from Dean's mouth whenever Dean actually mustered up the courage to come into the panic room. Sam knew, somehow, and without a doubt, that Dean wasn't angry at him. For one thing, the couple of times, since Famine had pulled the strings and caused Sam's relapse, that Dean had been here, in illusionary form, he hadn't been angry. A little bit taunting, maybe, but somehow not angry, despite Sam's initial fears that his brother's censure would be back to the way it was the first time: filled with rancor, malice and criticism. Instead, hallucination-Dean this time seemed… indifferent. As if he didn't care much. The Dean hallucination simply stared a lot, this time around. As if waiting for Sam to sprout horns, or break free of his restraints. And of course, Castiel probably had a hand in keeping Sam's mind from going too far down the path again. It could be because the angel had finally seen that Sam was, indeed, a human being, filled with the flaws of his kind, perhaps unworthy of his Father's love but still trying to do good. Despite the blood, the curse, the failures. Sam had almost been moved to tears when the angel had, in a not so stoic manner as he usually would, said that he thought of Sam as his friend. Then Castiel had looked away sheepishly, turning his gaze from Sam's welling eyes and incredulous stare, and definitely away from Dean's frown. In retrospect, it was more from Dean's frown, because what the fallen angel had said next had caused such a stir that Dean had broken the knuckles of one hand, against Cas' jaw, in anger.
"I have a confession to make," Castiel said.
"Is it that you turned Anna in to Big Brother Dick Prison upstairs, because we already know that," Dean said immediately. His eyes darted to Sam's face, and he swallowed. "Okay, I'm sorry, I should have told you," he said to his younger brother. "Anna told me, before all of us went Summer of '69."
"I sent you to 1978," Castiel had frowned then, perplexed. It was almost comical, how Dean rolled his eyes at the perpetual-seeming oblivion the angel radiated, and Sam would have laughed, but he had to settle for a pained expression that probably looked more like a grimace than a grin. Castiel surprised them by being a bit quicker on the uptake, this time, by tilting his chin up slightly, his cold blue eyes widening. "Ah, another… popular culture reference I am not familiar with." He actually sounded longsuffering. "No, that is not what I wished to confess."
"Spill it," Dean said, back to being tried and testy. Castiel seemed to gather himself while the brothers waited, one with his hands on his hips, the other lying exhausted and enchained on the panic room bed.
"When last Sam was held here, in this room, before he released Lucifer, I…" the angel paused, shook his head slightly, and continued. "Before I turned Anna over to the forces of Heaven, I performed one other thing. Something which I… regret doing, now. And which will anger you." Before Dean's impatience could get the better of him, Castiel held up one finger to stall, then looked Dean square in the face. "I released Sam from the panic room. I opened the door, and unlocked his cuffs." There was a moment of deafening silence, pregnant with possibility. Before Sam could gasp, or do anything, for that matter, Dean covered the distance between himself and the angel. As he came closer, he reached back, right hand balling into a fist, and smashed it into Castiel's jaw. The angel's head simply turned, rigidly, to one side, and although Dean's 'sonuvabitch' invective flew freely and hotly from his lips, he readied for another blow.
"Dean!" Sam managed, throat raw, voice cracking, and it stopped his older brother dead. The elder Winchester kept staring at Castiel, the angel turning his head back slowly to look Dean in the eye again, despite the admission. Dean nursed the right hand, and by the way his lips tautened and trembled, ever so slightly, he was definitely in pain, but his eyes were clear and incredibly hard.
"I am sorry," Castiel said, unperturbed. "You may have heard all the excuses, and you may still want me to use a bigger word than that, but –" Sam didn't know what that meant, but a small bit of the hardness left Dean's face – "I was still acting under Heaven's orders, then. I was compelled to carry it out. I know that I could have… stopped this. Lucifer would not have broken out, not by Sam's hand, and Anna would be here, with us, our ally, instead of annihilated by Michael. I am sorry." The repeat at the end of the explanation drained the angel, and his shoulders visibly slumped. He didn't look at either one of the brothers as he finished. "If you wish, I can let my guard down, and you'll be able to punch me to your satisfaction."
After that, Dean had simply walked from the panic room, probably to get a drink, or to go and take his anger out on something physically less indestructible. Despite the invitation, Dean wouldn't have hit Castiel again. Sam knew that. The angel stayed where he was, until finally he looked down at Sam.
"I have… added my own failures to yours," the angel said, and that simple statement seemed to crush him down even further. Sam was astonished by realizing that the angel was actually having a guilt trip. "All three of us had a hand in starting the Apocalypse, and all three of us could have prevented it from happening."
"But it happened anyway," was Sam's weary reply. He was really tired of rehashing this. The guilt never lessened, and the odds never turned in their favor, it seemed, so he just did what Dean told him to do; he buried it, for a while longer. He wondered belatedly why Castiel thought he had a hand in starting it, but the point was moot. Sam didn't even have it in him right now to be resentful, that the angel had allowed him to make the single biggest mistake in the history of mankind, probably. What was the point? The end of the world was nigh, and their allies were few, so squaring off against the angel would be less productive than simply working through it all later.
"How are you feeling?" Sam started, then realized Castiel was standing there, a foot away from the bed, in his usual pose of simply… being. Nothing in his body language said anything. He simply stood there, occupying space. The words were uttered pointedly, maybe because earlier on in the second detox regime Sam's volatile mood swings had gotten the better of him, and he had immediately yelled at the angel not to ask him again if he was alright, since it was obvious Sam wasn't. At least the angel was learning.
"I'm sore all over, and my throat is dry," Sam rasped out. He found that he didn't feel the need to hide how he felt from the angel, since Castiel probably knew anyway. What mattered was that the angel was truly concerned, and that he probably lacked the means to emotionally nuance and convey Sam's state to Dean anyway. "But I think it's over." The angel nodded slowly, then took a single step closer. He held out one hand, slowly bringing it to hover over Sam's chest, his eyes narrowing. Then he nodded again.
"You are right. The blood is out of your system, but your mind is still…"
"Still what?" Sam asked. Did the angel see something else? Panic rose, as black as a non-corporeal demonic billow. Sensing Sam's sudden spike of alarm, Castiel looked at his human charge's eyes, and a small almost-smile touched the dry lips.
"You will be fine, Sam."
"Please don't lie to me," Sam managed, his voice breaking, and he hated it. But he couldn't stand being lied to, even if it meant his sanity got caught in the crossfire. It didn't help at all that Castiel seemed to have become remarkably skilled at falling in with Dean's almost-truths, driven by Deans' over-protectiveness and the desire to still be the hero, the big brother. Sam valued that insight, that realization of love, even as it annoyed the crap out of him. Just like old times, when you were content/discontent with being the little brother, but you allowed it. Great, the voice was back.
"What voice are you referring to?" Now it was Castiel's turn to become suspicious. Sam breathed out slowly.
"Nothing, it's just something in my head. Really in my head, not put there, or communicated," Sam assured.
"Something that is not uncommon amongst schizophrenic patients," Castiel stated, and Sam blanched. Again sensing some line having been crossed, the angel sighed, one eyebrow quirking as if he was resigned to some verbal lashing for his social communication skills. Looking down, he sniffed slightly. "I apologize. That was… rude."
"But you're getting better at realizing it, at least," Sam ventured, trying not to discomfit the angel too much.
"Should I ask Dean to let you loose?" Castiel queried.
"Is he talking to you again?"
"He is… still angry," Castiel said, getting that faraway look that meant he was scanning for Dean's whereabouts. The Enochian sigils kept him from seeing directly, but Dean was near enough for the angel to at least get a cursory emotional ping from any humans in the vicinity. "He is talking to Bobby. Should I bring him down?" Sam realized why the angel was edgy about letting him loose. No need to make a repeat of the last time and release Sam again, even if the youngest Winchester wasn't ready to go kill the oldest demon in existence and free the devil again. Too close to home, and even if the punch hadn't hurt Castiel's face, it probably did hurt the angel's fledgling feelings. Sam nodded, trying to show he was grateful, but the angel simply vanished, the now well-known flutter of wings hanging in the air.
Several minutes passed, and Sam tried to luxuriate in how, despite the terror, horror and anxiety that dogged him whenever he thought about it, he realized that he was, for the moment, again, free of the addiction. When Famine practically exploded in a shower of demons, the effects the Horseman had suddenly vanished. Never mind that it left Sam with a guilt trip the size of Texas, spurred on by Dean's inability to look him in the eye. Never mind that the first words from Sam's mouth, before anyone could say anything, was that Cas needed to get them out immediately, and that they had to lock him in Bobby's panic room again. That was where they were now, and if Sam's mind had not suffered some serious spiral into absolute time dilation, it was about… six days ago.
"Dean will be down shortly," Castiel said, popping in beside the bed again. Sam sighed. At least… no. No, he knew he couldn't just let this slide. He needed to know what his brother thought of this. Dean hadn't said anything about the lapse, either to throw down the gauntlet again, or to tell him it was okay. And honestly, Sam didn't think he would believe Dean anyway, either way. If Dean was alright with Sam taking another dip in the path, then something was really wrong. And if Dean was angry, well, then Sam would just have to work harder to get them back to where they were, before Famine showed. Because there was no going back to anything else, and it was a done deal that neither one of them were safe when separated. Michael showing in 1978 was bad enough, but Lucifer was still trying to get in too. It had been quite a strange sensation, all things considered, that Sam actually felt safer, knowing he wasn't the only one anymore who had an archangel invading his dreams and breaking his will. It was ironic that, when robbed again of any semblance of difference, or of feeling like he was the odd one out, Sam now felt comfort in the fact that he wasn't alone. And who better, who more loved, to share this with, than Dean? Even if it wasn't necessarily a damn picnic to have something like possession driving them closer to each other again. Sam would take what he could, and be grateful. "Something is wrong with your brother." Sam's brows furrowed as he looked at Castiel. The angel had his head cocked in that 'I'm seeing into other dimensions, and space and time don't mean much to me' look. As Dean would joke, it was Castiel's version of Sam's bitch-face, or at least one variety of it.
"What?" Sam asked.
"He was not pleased when we had to put you in here again. I think that is why he punched me two days ago." Two days? Sam swallowed. He'd been out of it for longer than he'd thought.
"I'm pretty sure he punched you because of what you said," Sam tried his best to add a little levity to the seriousness. He began to see now why Dean always had so much fun teasing the angel, or going over his head with obscure references; Dean never could abide anything that stayed serious for too long. "It's okay, Cas, you don't need to feel bad."
"You're lying," Castiel replied, and his tone of voice conveyed no conviction to his words. He still hadn't dropped his faraway look.
"What do you mean I'm lying?"
"It will not be okay, Sam. That is what you said to me before, and nothing good has happened since to change that. Why would you say that?" the angle queried. He was like a child, really, asking grown-up questions with the naivety of a child.
"It's what we do, Cas," Sam stated simply. "It's how people survive everything that gets thrown at them. It's how we've survived."
"Your actions have had little bearing on what is preordained."
"By a Heaven you don't even follow anymore," Sam fired back easily. He was already feeling massive fatigue, simply by conversing with the angel, but he knew he needed to cut it short. He wanted to get out of this damned room as soon as possible. He'd discuss philosophy and whatever else with the angel after he got out. "C'mon, Cas, you know how it goes. Team Free Will, remember?"
"I… have my reservations about that," the angel replied, and before Sam could question the statement, Castiel was gone, and the heavy metal panic room door's lock clicked open. The door was pulled back, and Dean stepped in. He was almost deliberately careful in how he stepped in, as if he wasn't sure what he'd find. On seeing Sam alone, and the precise, normal way his little brother tried to twist his head so that he could get a better view, he seemed to breathe out and deflate a little. He was still fairly slow in approaching.
"So… Cas says you're fine now. Back to normal," the elder Winchester said. He circled the bed in the middle of the demon-proof room warily, taking everything in. Sam's eyes followed him, withholding scorn for the way Dean had made it sound. As if he didn't believe Castiel. As if he didn't believe Sam.
"Define normal," Sam said, and he was rewarded with a snort of sardonic derision.
"Okay then." Dean sighed, then took everything that was on and part of the bed in. "You want me to let you loose?"
"Are you thinking I'll go dark side if you do?" Sam didn't mean for it to be a challenge. After all, he had gone down the deep end again, even if it was via unstoppable supernatural persuasion. But it was hard, not rising to challenge that well-remembered distrust and second-guessing of before, and so he was hardly surprised that there was a bite of heat in his question.
"Sam, I don't want to fight," Dean qualified, and Sam picked up on the heavy tone. Cas was right, something was off.
"Then don't. I mean, let's not fight, okay?" Sam wet his lips, and refrained from swallowing. "Dean, if I'm wrong, if I'm still cracking out, I'll let you put me right back, okay? I did it this time, and I swear, I'll do it again." Dean treated Sam to a stare that seemed to go on forever. It became downright uncomfortable after a while, and Sam wondered if the street didn't run both ways, and that Castiel was affecting Dean as much as Dean was affecting the angel. Sam didn't even want to think what that kind of stoicism in Dean would do.
Dean slowly moved in closer, and Sam didn't miss the small nod. How could he, when it was instantly followed by a small quirk to Dean's lips.
"Sammy, if you so much as try doing something so stupid again…" he trailed off, betrayed by his own thoughts in the middle of his own attempt at laughing it off somehow. Sam sighed, knowing that pushing it wouldn't do any good. At best, Dean would yell at him for prying, and then he'd let Sam go and the rest of the day would be spent in avoiding each other while never moving further away for more than two feet from each other. It was a Winchester thing. So Sam wouldn't pry. But he would say something.
"Look, Dean, I probably know exactly what you're gonna say. But you've gotta know man, I tried, I really did. And Famine was too strong, and I couldn't… I couldn't stop." Sam hadn't realized Dean was this close until he felt his brother's hand resting lightly on his right wrist, the small key letting the handcuff click open. "I'm not saying I'm apologizing for it, it's just…" Dean moved around and unlocked the left cuff, and Sam rose painfully into a sitting position. He held out one hand for the key, but Dean ignored it and went to work on Sam's ankles. "All I'm saying is, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I let you down, and I…"
"No Sam, you don't know what I'm going to say," Dean replied, unlocking Sam's left ankle. "I get it, okay, I do. And you… you proved it, alright? I'm not gonna just slip back into overdrive with the drill sergeant mode. You could've downed those demons like an all-you-can-eat buffet, but you didn't. So that's it. There's nothing more to say, case closed."
"Dean –"
"No, Sam," Dean said forcefully as the last cuff fell away, and he finally looked Sam right in the eye. "That's it. What did I tell you? We don't have time to wallow, we don't have time to over think this crap again."
"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam asked. He took a moment to feel his freedom, to feel that he wouldn't suddenly hulk out and get flung across the room by some last burst of demon blood demanding more of him. He rubbed his wrists, but he didn't look away. Dean was looking into some far-off place again, his eyes wide and almost unseeing. It was a long moment before he looked at Sam again.
"Nothing. Nothing, I just… it's been a long week, you know?" Sam sighed, shaking his head. No way out. Not now. Just the usual: all repression, no progression. And Dean would be extra careful not to set Sam off, in case the dreaded touchy-feely moments descended.
"Okay, so what now?"
"I don't know Sam," Dean admitted. "Bobby and I have been searching for something, anything, but I think it's quiet again."
"That bad, huh?" Sam took the plunge, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. Dean instantly latched on to the peace offering by snorting.
"Dude, give it a rest and be thankful. Nothing bad happened while you were out."
"You know what I mean," Sam said.
"Nope, I don't," Dean returned, completely walling off any further enquiry. Sam rose on shaky legs, but he held out a hand as Dean began swooping in with big brother flags flying.
"I'm okay, it's just been a few days." Nothing followed, except gentle appraisal. Dean never backed off, even now, and Sam would always be grateful. As long as he didn't gush about it, Dean would know, and everything would be okay again. He hovered, even from a distance, and it was enough to give Sam the strength to steady himself.
"You hungry, or thirsty?" Dean asked, going for the standard offer, since anything else was officially off limits, for both of them.
"I just want to get out of here first, I'll worry about the rest after," Sam stated. Dean nodded, and the two of them left the panic room, Sam leading but Dean moving just a little bit closer, just in case. Sam was glad his brother couldn't see his face, or the smile that was plastered all over it. To him, this was gold.
Upstairs, Bobby gave one look at Sam, and snorted heavily.
"Glad to see you up and about again boy, I was beginning to worry."
"Just beginning?" Castiel cut in from his pose near the table. Bobby treated the divine being to a not-so-divine glare, then mumbled something about how angels had no cause to go riffling through people's heads. Dean studiously ignored looking at the angel, but he managed to spare a smile for Bobby's sake. Sam smiled widely, even through his fatigue.
"How you feelin'?" Bobby asked Sam.
"Getting there," Sam admitted. "Just needed to get out. And I swear –"
"Sam," Dean warned, but it was Castiel who jumped him to it.
"Sam is fine, the blood is out of his system, and his mind seems to no longer crave it."
"'Seems' ain't 'is', ya danged trench coat-wearing pigeon," Bobby grated testily. He looked up at where Sam was leaning against one of the chairs. "Boy, you good?" Sam caught the older man's gaze, and he made sure not to answer immediately.
"I am," he replied at last, and it was the truth. All the way. Bobby's eyes glittered, and Sam could have sworn he saw the older hunter's beard move slightly with a well-hidden smile.
"That's good, because I could do without the screaming and the panic," Bobby said, and Sam chuckled, if half-heartedly. Silence descended again on the small gathering, but it wasn't heavily laden and ominous. It was the first breather all four of them had had in a week. "I'll rustle up somethin' ta eat. Oh wait, better yet," Bobby turned slightly in his chair, fixing Castiel with a sly stare that the angel would never interpret correctly before it was too late. "Why don't you and Dean play fetch and get us some grub?" He immediately looked at Dean, silencing the outburst over that arrangement that was already clear of the elder Winchester's lips. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to be subjected to an old man's home cookin',"
"There is nothing wrong with your food, Bobby –" Castiel began, frowning.
"I don't care if you made up for half a year's starvation by piggin' out on two hundred hamburgers in one day, idjit! You ain't no expert, so go!" Bobby snapped. The angel actually looked chastened by the hunter's swift retort, then without further ceremony circled around the table, ignoring Dean's pained look, before placing his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean brushed the hand off, and not looking at Castiel, while his face grew more thunderous, he turned on his heels and walked away.
"We are not teleporting, I'd like to be able to process my lunch, and get rid of it afterwards." When Castiel frowned, it was as if Dean read the angel's mind, even without turning around. His words traveled, even as he made for the front door. "In less than a week!" Revelation dawned on Castiel's face, and the angel simply turned around and followed Dean out the house, to the Impala. When the sound of the car retreating from the property could be heard, Sam loosed a laugh, and Bobby didn't bother hiding his grin either this time. "You're sure you're okay Sam?" Bobby asked, when that much-needed moment of pure happiness had passed. Sam pulled out the seat he had been planting his hands on, and sat down.
"I really am, Bobby, thanks. But I was thinking…"
"Well that's new," Bobby quipped sarcastically. "Do I want to know what about?"
"What's up with Dean?"
"Don't know. Boy's clammed up tighter than tight, he ain't talking. And that blasted angel ain't any help either."
"So you sent them off together?" Sam asked, trying very hard not to grin. Obviously Bobby would know about the tension between Dean and Castiel, and why it was there in the first place. But if anything, Bobby was absolutely capable of letting things sort themselves out, especially since prodding and poking wouldn't do much. There were two Winchesters in his house, after all, and one was always more tight-lipped and stubborn than the other.
"They can either talk it out or explode. I think the angel doesn't know how to read people short of diving head-first into thoughts, so he prob'bly don't know how stupid it is to try your brother on days like this. Should be fun, I wish I could see it." Bobby smiled knowingly when Sam snickered. It was really good to see at least one of his boys having a moment free of all the crap that destiny had dumped on them, so if he had to be all gruff and griping to get a laugh, then so be it. But of course, Sam being Sam, the moment passed into pensiveness, and Bobby decided to bite before he bopped the boy in the head. "He'll be fine, kid, Dean always is."
"Not always," Sam countered, and that same knowing tone that he'd shown, even as a curious little kid aged seven, shone through with so much conviction that Bobby almost had to swallow back a lump in his throat. Damned kid, always did know how to strike at the best moment. Luckily Sam never seemed to know just how effective his observations at times like these were, or how they affected people. He would've been a manipulative, selfish brat otherwise, and thank God he wasn't.
"Ain't nothin' you can do about it Sam, so best you don't try. Come on, kid, you know Dean better than anyone!" Bobby snapped, throwing a hand in the air for emphasis. "'sides, no one can butter him up and get it outta him like you can, so just be patient. He'll tell ya when he's ready."
"Or if he isn't," Sam said, sounding a bit forceful, and Bobby frowned slightly. There it was. That changeable streak in Sam that had come to the fore, just after Dean had gotten out of hell. It was determination, but it was scary as hell, coming from a man who had reminded of an innocent little boy, just moments before. But Bobby berated himself for the observation immediately. There was no call for paranoia. He wouldn't let there be.
"So what else? Food'll probably take a while yet, so you'd better go and wash up, or take a shower even."
"Bobby, there's something I've been thinking of, while I was… downstairs. When I could think straight."
"Go on," Bobby replied. Sam steeled himself, as if expecting the blows to come raining down.
"Just listen before you say anything, because this is going to sound weird." When Bobby made no indication of saying anything, as asked, Sam continued, his confidence growing a little. "Did Dean ever tell you what Ruby said to me, the last time we spoke, before Dean knifed her? In the convent where Lucifer rose?"
"Can't say he has," Bobby said.
"Well, she told me… she told me that I never needed the demon blood, Bobby. That I had it in me the whole time."
"'course you did boy, ole Yellow Eyes dripped it inta yer mouth when you were six months old!" Bobby snapped.
"No, Bobby, not the demon blood!" Sam said, voice growing plaintive and questing. Bobby realized that Sam was begging to be heard, as if he was afraid he would be overruled. "My… my powers."
"What?"
"My powers, Bobby," Sam rushed it out, as if even the words scalded. "My abilities. She got me addicted to demon blood to keep me on a leash, we know that now," Sam said, his face falling. Still guilty over it. "But I don't think she was lying when she said I never needed it. She wouldn't, she thought she'd won, so there was no reason to lie to me."
"What are you getting at boy?"
"Bobby, what if this happens again?" Sam asked, and now the pleading was clear in his words. "I don't… I don't want to go through this again, Bobby, and I don't want Dean to see this again. I can't do that to him. He says he's okay, but he isn't, and I can't just…" Sam's face fell, and his eyes glistened as they gathered moisture. Bobby swore inwardly, hating the distress, but knowing that the only way out was through.
"What are you sayin'?"
"What if I could learn to use my abilities without needing demon blood?" Again it just rushed out, and before Bobby could comment, Sam went right on. "What if knowing how to use them without the blood will let me resist something like this happening again?"
"'s a big 'if', boy," Bobby stated, mulling it over. "Even if you could do it, could get to rippin' demons outta people with yer mind, what good does it do? This stuff won't ever sit easy with your brother, not to mention Heaven probably isn't too keen on you beefing up, just in case the devil tried something."
"Heaven can't find us, Bobby," Sam said.
"They can boy, if they have to," Bobby replied, realizing it was a harsh truth. But it needed to be said, because even though the Enochian sigils carved into Sam and Dean's ribcages did actually work, there was no telling what other resources the angelic hosts had at their disposal. They all had underestimated demons in the past, and underestimating angels never ended well either.
"But they haven't," Sam countered.
"Why are you so serious about this? Haven't you learned anything yet, boy? You and Dean have bull's eyes on your backs, and you exorcising demons with yer mind tricks ain't gonna stay below radar for long if you manage it, with or without the blood."
"I wasn't actually thinking about exorcising demons, Bobby. I wanted to start smaller," Sam said in a small voice. It caught the older hunter off guard. For a moment he had actually thought Sam was entertaining the idea of killing demons again because he could, and he'd tasted that power again, if only briefly. He decided to listen further. "I… I want to be able to block Lucifer from my head. I want to learn how to keep stuff like this…" Sam spread his arms wide, wearily, "from happening again." But he noticed Bobby's lack of enthusiasm, and he sighed. "Okay, fine, just… forget I said it."
"Sam, boy, I know what you want to do. I know you've got good intentions, but kid, psychics don't have it easy."
"And I do?" Sam challenged, once more cutting across the bows with far too much ease, and just as little awareness of it as before.
"Look at what happened to Pamela," Bobby said, and he hated to bring it up, because Pamela's death had just been one more tragedy, and another coffin nail in the guilt barge both boys had been sailing on since they could remember. But Bobby needed to be absolutely sure Sam knew what he was trying to get into.
"Yeah, Bobby, Pamela died because we were careless," Sam replied, trying his best to hide the feelings of remorse eating him from within. "She didn't die because she was a psychic! Look at Missouri!" Bobby had to admit, Sam would have made a spectacular lawyer. The kid's emotions were riding him like a feast-day pony with bells on right now, but he still kept it together logically. No wonder Dean wasn't so riled up about his little brother stumbling down the dark side again, however briefly, Bobby mused. And he also had to admit that Sam was right. Being a psychic wasn't the rub. Being a Winchester, maybe – probably, even. But a Winchester psychic? Bobby snorted, thinking about it. Fat lot of good it had done so far, but he knew he couldn't blame it all on Sam. After all, Heaven and Hell seemed to have it out for Sam and Dean, and both sides had been pulling strings like crazy to get things to this point.
"Okay kid. Okay. I'm not sayin' I agree, or give in. I want you to leave off on this for now. Don't you go throwing a spanner into these works, not with this detox episode so close still. Let me think about it, let me see what or who I can find. And Sam," Bobby stalled Sam's almost painfully hopeful expression, "you don't do anything without me knowing, or your brother or that angel. Can't open that can again, ever, it'll kill Dean." There, he'd used his lowest but most effective weapon against the boy, but it had to be done, even if even he hated doing it. But it was a warning, at least, not a browbeating into submission. "And if I get somethin', the first person we tell – that you tell – is your brother. You got that?" Sam nodded, but the relief was clear in his face. Relief at being trusted, relief at not being blindsided for his supposed own good, the list went on. Bobby knew the kid wouldn't lie to him. Sam wouldn't go behind his or Dean's back again, that much was sure. Too much had happened, and the boys were still not recovered from it all. They never will be. Bobby frowned, and was surprised when Sam grinned at him.
"You've got that voice too?" the Winchester asked. Bobby snorted.
"Boy, everyone does. Yours just probably does a bigger number on yours than most other folks'." Sam laughed again, and Bobby would be damned if he couldn't get enough of it. Their conversation finally drew to a close when they heard the Impala coming in closer again. "Let's see if your brother blew his stack. I tell you, if that boy forgot the food…" More laughter from Sam, and Bobby honestly thought that maybe, if just for a few seconds, that you didn't need to be constantly happy, or even content. You just had to enjoy the moment for what it was, and to its fullest. Sam got to his feet and made for the bathroom to get cleaned up, and Bobby waited at the kitchen table, wondering what would come through the door. He couldn't deal with Sam's request right away, not until both boys and the angel were gone again. But he did know one thing: if cheering Sam up, even a little, was hard, then Dean would be so much harder. Grinning wide, Bobby adjusted his cap somewhat, and prepared to figuratively rise to the challenge. Wheelchair be damned.
A/N: So, there we have it. It could either stand as an open-ender, or it could go on. Six-week hiatus; got to fill that hole somehow, so we'll see. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated. I have some ideas, but hey, we all love the show, we all love the guys, and we're all here for the thrill of adding more to the Winchester lives, so if anyone would like to suggest anything, by all means, I'll definitely look into it. Thank you for reading!