DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural, McDonalds or Big Macs
A/N: Mmkay, this is the last chapter of relative calm before the action starts. We get a peek into Dean's mind this time as well. And as a little note, I probably won't be updating for a while after this, as I'll be off at camp next week. Sorry! Anyway, please read and review :)
Sam lay on his side on the couch, half of his focus on a documentary about the horribly exciting topic of plant reproduction. He would have changed the channel ages ago, if not for the fact that the remote was halfway across the room and he couldn't be bothered getting off his ass. It was Saturday, he had nothing to do, and he was determined to be lazy.
His aunt and uncle had gone over to his aunts' sisters' house for lunch and as everyone going was old and boring, like them, he hadn't wanted to go. He wouldn't have been welcome anyway – he was the bastard child, born out of wedlock to a father who was the black sheep of his family and a mother who was only seventeen. They had never approved of her; never approved of anything his father did, and to them Sam was just a mistake, a lesser human being, undeserving of their time and affection.
After his mother died in his nursery when he was six months old, Tobias Barrett had had yet another falling out with his family about her, this one permanent. Sam didn't really know much, as his father never talked about his family, but he was under the impression that they had been happy about her death and dad hadn't been able to stomach it. Sam could hardly blame him; he himself had had to restrain from strangling the bastards when they had been slagging off his dad at his funeral. He had done pretty damn well, considering; besides the incident when he had broken one of his uncles' noses, he had just kept to insults and had a furious shouting match with his grandmother.
Sighing, Sam rolled over onto his back and stared unseeingly up at the ceiling. He was dealing with dads' death, sort of. There were still times when he felt as though his dads' death had left him with a gaping black hole inside, had ripped something important out of him and left him unable to do anything about it, but they were now becoming fewer. He was glad of that, happy that those nights of lying in bed and crying silent, hopeless, homesick tears were over. He remembered that too well; sitting on his bed, head in his hands, stomach churning as he cried silently, sometimes for hours; he just couldn't seem to stop. After a while he wouldn't be sure what he was crying about anymore.
Making new friends had helped, and he knew he really owed Jess. It hadn't taken her long to see that something was bothering him and she had badgered him until he told her everything. He hadn't been annoyed; despite his stoic attitude, despite repeatedly telling himself that he was strong enough on his own and he didn't need anyone, he had really wanted to get it off his chest. His aunt and uncle were definitely not the sort of people he would ever seek (or get) comfort from, and Jess had been ready and willing to help. He didn't like to think about that heartfelt conversation; jeez, he had cried. In public! Well, if you could call being alone with Jess in her house public… but he still wasn't pleased about it.
God, he didn't want to think about this. With a groan, he rolled back onto his side and off the couch, ending up on his knees on the spotless carpet (spotless thanks to his aunt, who was a total clean freak.) For a few moments he just sat there and stared up at the television, half asleep, and then he levered himself his feet with a groan and lurched towards the remote, snatching it up and starting to hunt for the off button. When he finally found it he slammed it down and slumped against the couch once more, eyes half closed. I really shouldn't have stayed up all night reading yesterday.
He allowed himself a moment more of rest, limp limbs sinking into the dark brown leather, and then he stumbled back to his feet with a sigh. Rubbing the grit out of his eyes, he meandered into the kitchen, hoping that rummaging around in the fridge and cupboard would make previously non-existent food suddenly appear. He had looked just twenty minutes ago, and there had been nothing edible that didn't have to be made from scratch. He was a pretty good cook, but he really couldn't be bothered.
He was just about to open the cupboard again when the phone in the lounge started to ring. Cursing, he whirled around and jogged over, instilled with a sense of urgency at the phones shrill call. He didn't know why he always panicked about not being in time to pick up the phone – if the caller really wanted to talk to him they would probably wait a while before hanging up. Skidding across the linoleum of the kitchen floor with his socks, he scrambled into the living room and wrenched the phone from the cradle, feeling at once victorious and stupid.
"Hello?"
"Is this Madame Grace's psychic hotline?" The voice was rough and hoarse, and most definitely male.
What the hell? "Um, no, you have the wrong number." This number wasn't anything like his work number; how on earth could they have gotten it wrong?
"No I haven't." Again that voice, grating and raw as though he had gravel in his throat. It sounded like someone had wrung his neck, and Sam shivered at the image and also at the man's' strange words, paranoia starting to eat at his gut.
"Yes, you have. This isn't the hotline. This isn't even a toll number! You've got it wrong!" Despite himself, his voice betrayed his growing fright, becoming higher, reedy almost, his words rude and demanding.
"You're Sam." Oh god, is he a stalker?! "I know it. You can help me." It was a firm statement, and Sam was bewildered by the absolute conviction in his voice.
"Help you? How?"
"I can't talk to anyone else. They can't hear me, but you can."
An idea sprung to life and he clutched the phone closer to his ear in a white knuckled grip, almost hissing into the mouthpiece. "Who told you that?"
"We all know."
"We?"
"Look, I don't have time for the twenty questions; you have to do this for me. I've been waiting for years to get justice!"
Sam gulped. "Justice? For what?"
"For my death, of course."
The receiver dropped with a clatter to the carpet, the back popping out and releasing batteries that clacked together before landing and proceeding to roll along the floor and underneath the couch. The sounds reached Sam's ears muted and dull, as though through underwater, and he stared down at the phone with something like terror in his eyes.
What the fuck was that?!
Oh, god, he knew perfectly well but he couldn't believe it. A ghost had called him, on his home phone! A ghost who seemed to know he was psychic; who had told him that 'we' all know it as well! Was 'we' the rest of the ghost population? Would he be constantly harassed by restless spirits demanding things of him? What the hell was going on??
He had to stop panicking, he had to think this through. Taking deep, calming breaths, Sam slid slowly down the wall and landed with an unceremonious thump on his ass, hugging his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. It was probably just a prank call. The fact that he had only recently talked to a dead woman over the phone was just a coincidence. Yeah right. It wasn't like someone talking to him on the phone was a supernatural phenomenon. It is when the caller is dead. How could he put this all behind him and pretend it hadn't happened when logic kept getting in the way?
If this guy was really a ghost, the second ghost that had gotten in touch with him over the phone, it was probably going to become a trend. He was too much of a stickler for the facts to do denial well, so he'd just have to deal with this somehow. He had two options: help the ghosts, or stop them from calling him. Somehow. He had no idea how to do either, and he had never been able to turn his abilities off and on. He couldn't just decide to not receive calls. Hell, he couldn't control his 'powers' at all.
So, he needed outside help. But who did you talk to about something like this? Another psychic? Mrs Moore was somewhat psychic, but the only thing she had to show for it was extremely good intuition, which was really the only thing you needed when you made your money as a telephone psychic (was there a word for that? Telepsychic or something?) What he needed was someone with real, tangible ability. But if there was someone around like that, would they advertise it? Was it only the fake psychics that used their 'gifts' to make money?
He had no idea what to do. Sighing, he pushed himself off the wall and to his feet, swaying slightly as he regained his balance. Gripping his hair in his hands, he tugged slightly, the pain centring him, letting him focus again. If he couldn't do anything about it he would just have to deal, and hope to god that it didn't happen again.
Or cause him harm...
The Impala sat stationary in the car park of the McDonalds, the engine ticking quietly as it slowly cooled down. Dean sat slumped across the front bench seat, listening to the muted strains of Metallica leaking from the speakers as he slowly made his way through a Big Mac. He wasn't really hungry, and the thing had about the same amount of lustre as a piece of cardboard, but it was something to occupy him, distract him from the huge failure that was his current hunt.
There had been a sudden increase of supernatural activity in this sleepy little town a month ago, and Dean had been here for a tiring fortnight, killing what felt like hundreds of creatures without ever finding the source for the sudden influx of things that went bump in the dark. It was both pissing him off and making him feel inadequate, and if he didn't end this thing once and for all very soon he could go crazy. He never failed a hunt, was never unable to kill the bastard who was causing all the trouble. He couldn't allow himself to slip. Messing up was never and would never be an option. What would his father think of him then?
The opinion of John Winchester was the only one that mattered. He didn't give a crap about what other people thought of him, but one bad word or look or gesture from his father made him feel like he was the scum of the earth. He was a soldier, a good son, and he was always striving to make his dad proud. He supposed it was embarrassing; to be twenty years old and still be so desperate to please his father, but it was a hard habit to break out of. From the age of four it was the only thing he had ever strived to do.
But John Winchester hardly ever gave affection freely and despite Dean giving his best effort twenty four seven, he still didn't know if it was enough, because his dad never told him. He was the perfect son, he wanted to always be the perfect son, but some recognition would be good. It wasn't like he had bad self esteem or anything... Okay, well maybe he did. A little. But he would never admit it though, never let it show, least not to the person who mattered most of all. Least not to the person who could change it with just a few words, or a grin, or an affectionate clap on the shoulder. Something more than just a curt nod or the faintest shadow of a smile.
God, he hated introspection. He needed to think of something else. Slumping further into his seat, he chucked the now empty Big Mac packet over the back of the seat and started on his fries whilst trying to think up an interesting topic. It wasn't every day that Dean tried to amuse himself by thinking, but this was a particularly boring day, and there weren't any cute homosexual guys in this crappy little place. Weren't any cute guys, period. The people around here were probably all homophobic hicks who sat around chewing of blades of grass, pig hunting and feeling up cows all day (cause that was what milking was, right?)
Wait, let me take that back. There was one very cute guy in this town, and as an added bonus, he seemed to be interested in him. Dean have a slow, wide grin, and decided that his next topic of choice was Sam.
The kid was only sixteen, but he was so darn tall, almost taller than Dean. Normally he went for guys that were shorter than him (because he was always the man of the relationship, thank you very much) but this one was special enough that he could let it slide. God, he was the cutest thing ever. With those slanted, slightly feline greenish hazel eyes, the shaggy chocolate brown mop, those long bangs he was always ducking behind, the grin that lit up his whole face, and god, the dimples. Those things would be the death of him.
Another thing that made him irresistible was that he had the hugest, most obvious crush on Dean. He was always blushing and stuttering around him, so nervous and unsure of himself, and it just made him even more adorable. Dean felt a tiny bit bad for continually taking advantage of the fact and trying to make him even more flustered than he already was, but it was so hard to resist.
It was hard to resist jumping him, too, but the kid was only sixteen and it might be just a phase he was going through. Maybe he was just experimenting and would soon decide that he was strictly heterosexual. Either way, Dean didn't want to force anything on him; he remembered how confused he was when he was sixteen, his opinions changing constantly, his hormones running rampage. Even if Sam did give consent to sex, he would probably chicken out as soon as things got serious. Dean was fairly sure he was a virgin, and he bet that Sam would feel horribly inadequate and maybe even scared if he did the dirty with a twenty year old. Especially one that he didn't know very well, one that would only fuck him and leave him, and break his unstable teenage heart. Dean didn't mind his reputation as a heartbreaker, but Sam deserved better than that.
Jeez, it sounded like he really cared for the kid, when all this was just a casual thing. Right?
Dean was startled from his thoughts by the shrill ringing of his cell phone. He immediately sprung up, sitting poker straight in his seat, grabbing the phone from the dashboard and flipping it open before pressing it against his ear. He didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.
"Sir?"
"Dean. Have you gotten anywhere with this hunt yet?"
Dean winced. Though his dads' voice was emotionless, he could picture clearly the look of disappointment and disgust adorning his features. "I've killed a lot of things, but not whatever's causing them to come here."
"I thought so." The words were free of judgment, yet they made Dean feel worthless. "I called Missouri, and she says a psychic is behind it."
Shaking off his personal demons, Dean instead did what he did best and focused on hunting. "What do you mean? Are they summoning the creatures, or are the creatures attracted to them?"
"We're not sure, but Missouri thinks that this kid is so powerful that he's acting like a beacon to the supernatural."
"Wait, you know who they are?" Dean frowned, pursing his lips in thought. Missouri wasn't powerful enough to learn who the psychic was from halfway across the country, was she?
"Joshua's had some contact with a psychic in town, Moore or something. Not very powerful, but she manages to make a living out of a psychic hotline."
Dean froze in his seat, blood running cold as a horrible idea sprung to mind. Sam worked in a psychic hotline that his friends' mother owned, right? Fuck, what had her last name been?
"He asked her who she thinks could be responsible, and she said she didn't know, but that she had a new worker who has a lot of psychic power but doesn't seem to be able to control it. He's dangerous, Dean. Even if he doesn't know what he's doing, he needs to be dealt with, or even more creatures will be attracted to him and even more lives will be endangered."
Dean blanched. He had to kill a human being?? "W-What's his name?"Don't be Sam, don't be Sam, don't be Sam.
"Samuel Barrett."
The cell phone clattered to the floor, the snap it made as it closed sounding strangely like the report of a gun, echoing in Dean's ears with horrible finality.
