Something was . . . off. That was a common feeling, working jobs as they did, but that didn't mean Sam liked it. The instant they had driven into Fitchburg, Sam had nearly been overcome by the cloying sense of fear—he slammed his shields up as fast as he possibly could. No more powers. They had said so. Still, as Dean insisted there was a case, Sam wasn't in the mood to argue about that anymore.
"You, uh, going to get the local gossip?" he asked as they pulled up across from a cafe.
"Yeah, and some coffee." Dean levered himself out of the Impala, tapping the roof to get Sam's attention. "Keep an eye on the car?"
Sam nodded. "Sure thing."
He watched his brother depart, and focused very hard on not reading him. In some ways, it seemed that his telepathy had already permeated every part of his being; just another reason it was far too dangerous. Sam shored up his walls once again, wincing at the subsequent bolt of pain. He took a quick glance at the cafe—no Dean. Dry swallowing a couple pills, Sam focused on looking nonchalant in observing the townspeople as Dean re-emerged.
"What's so interesting about that playground?" Dean bumped up next to him, handing him his coffee.
Sam hadn't intended to stare at the playground, but now that he was thinking about it— "What time is it?"
"I dunno, why?" Dean was giving one of his searching looks that meant he wasn't sure if Sam was using his telepathy or not.
"Because school should be out. And—" Sam gestured and let the empty playground speak for itself.
"Looks a bit suspicious, Sammy," Dean murmured. He grinned. "Wait here and I'll go speak to that mom. Ten bucks says we'll have a case."
Sam was going to lose those ten bucks, but he acquiesced with a smirk anyway.
Sam gestured Dean aside, mouthing 'one second' to the motel manager, since Dean prepared to give her a lift.
"Dean, what's going on?" he murmured. "You've been weird this whole time, and I want to know."
"Not now, Sam. Go do some research."
"Dad sent us here. And you know why," Sam stated, hoping to finally draw whatever backstory was going on here out in the open. He had been keeping his shields high, but even so he could tell how off-kilter his brother was.
Out of Dean's sight, he began rummaging for his pills in his back pocket.
"Sam, let it go."
"No, Dean." Sam forgot about the pills and grabbed his brother's arm—rougher than he meant to—swinging him around. "You tell me what's going on or—"
"Or you'll just steal it from my head?" Dean accused him.
Sam flinched and turned away.
"Sammy, I didn't—"
"Dean, you should take her to the peds ward and keep an eye on the kids. See if it's any of the providers doing the life-sucking. I'll go to the library."
"Look, Sam . . ."
"See you later, Dean." Sam strode off to the Impala. As soon as he was out of his brother's sight, he pulled out the pill bottle and shook out a couple. The headaches never seemed to lessen, and he knew that searching small print for names and faces wouldn't help. He had a job to do, though, and nothing would stop him from doing it.
"So, the doctor," Sam said, seated across from Dean in a strange stand-off. "Can we take him out?"
"Sam," Dean murmured after a pause, "earlier, what I said . . . that was uncalled for. I'm sorry."
"It doesn't matter," Sam replied stiffly. "So how do we figure out the location of this witch creature?"
"Well, I was thinking . . . maybe we should use your telepathy."
Tension coiled along Sam's shoulders, and he fought the urge to lash out. "No, Dean. We've talked about this. No more powers."
Dean was the one grabbing Sam's arm now. "And we've had good reasons. But Sam, I mean, even if they are from some evil power, you don't use them for evil. And since when does privacy trump saving lives?"
It would be so easy to give in. It was tempting—being able to know without a doubt what Dean was thinking about him, what others were planning, to lose the ever-constant migraine from keeping his shields fully in place . . .
"What's stopping you, Sammy?"
The childhood nickname that Sam had initially protested was what loosened his tongue. "I know too much," he whispered. "When I can hear everyone it's . . . Dean, it's power that no one should wield."
"Well, I hate to sound like an overused cliche, but that's probably why you can use the power. You're not the kind of guy to be corrupted or something. And if things start going south, I'm here to stop you."
Sam swallowed. "Well, I'll get right on stealing information out of people's heads," he said bitterly.
"Sammy . . ."
Sam blew out a breath. He had to get over himself if their partnership was going to work. "I'm sorry, Dean. Didn't mean to bite your head off. The only other option would be . . . well, we don't have any other options, huh?" His attempted grin wasn't received well, and Dean's face stayed serious.
"Sam, look, you're probably right. Chances are that your telepathy won't even work on the shtriga."
He closed his eyes. "We don't have options anymore, Dean."
"You want to know what happened?" his brother asked suddenly. "Then look."
Sam flinched back. "Dean, I haven't—"
"I know you haven't. I'm telling you to look." Dean's face was heavy with remembrance. Sam reached out, barely touching his forehead.
"I haven't been using it. It might . . . it might hurt a little," he told him softly. "I'll try to be quick."
Opening Dean's mind to Sam's was like unstopping a pressurized bottle. Too much wanted to rush in, and Sam had to focus on control. Slowly, he found himself enveloped in Dean's memories—oddly colored and misty like all memories seemed to be—focusing on the story of the shtriga.
"Dean," he murmured, even as he watched. "You were just a kid, it wasn't your fault." He felt Dean's horror at seeing the shtriga and shuddered. "Dad used . . . oh." He sat back and stared at Dean with his own two eyes, seeing both the child and the man. "He used us as bait?" Sam asked, horrified.
Dean blinked. "What? No he didn't."
"But you . . . he was hunting the shtriga. He knew it was in town. And he left you with me alone."
Open as Sam's mind was, he could feel the terrible disbelief and shattering of their father's image in Dean's. In a rush, he tried to move on. "Okay, so we don't know whether I can kill it. But I can at least try."
He had caught his brother off guard, and Sam closed up his mind again, carefully as Dean floundered for some kind of argument against it. "Sam, that's not—"
"I'll follow him after he leaves work. I'll try and get inside his head and figure out a way to defeat him," Sam promised rashly.
"That's . . . well, it's a good plan, but idiotic," Dean stammered out. "Why don't we just find a kid to use as bait?"
Sam threw him a look. "Really, Dean? Let's use our brains here."
Dean flushed in humiliation. "Look, sorry if I'm not jumping on this plan that depends on a lot of different variables."
"You mean a plan that depends on my telepathy," Sam determined coolly. "It's all right, Dean. We'll get it. One way or another."
Sam peered around the corner. "Okay, give me a second," he whispered. The doctor was exiting the hospital, and Sam slowly unlocked his telepathy, directing it straight towards the shtriga.
The shtriga's mind was . . . well, it was human. Sort of. Sam faltered as he came upon layers he had never encountered before. Time. Power. It was all embedded within a cunning and hunger for the tender young souls.
"Sammy?"
Sam felt the shtriga's consciousness turn towards the soft sound of Dean's voice, and choked on a surge of fear.
And then it was aware of them. Faster than any human could, it slammed into Dean, throwing him. Sam bleated Dean's name in panic, but only succeeded in turning the shtriga on himself.
Its bony hands were around his neck, the doctor's coat incongruently still in place.
Sam was still in its mind, but as it began to suck his soul from his body, he was yanked back into his own body. It felt like the shtriga was draining him of all his energy and self, and Sam went limp in its grasp.
The next thing he was aware of was Dean's hands on his face, worriedly trying to wake him up.
"Dean?" he mumbled. "Wha— the shtriga?"
"Got it. It won't be getting up anytime soon. You feeling okay?"
Sam grunted.
"We'll get you some pain pills," Dean promised.
Sam shook his head, rummaging through his pockets for his bottle. With a sigh of relief, he downed a couple and waited for the aching in his head to disappear.
"Sam, what are these?"
Sam cracked his eyes open to regard his brother. "Just for headaches."
For some reason, Dean looked upset. "How long have you been using these?"
"A while," Sam evaded.
"Since you stopped using your telepathy," Dean guessed.
Sam shifted uncomfortably. "We should get out of here, Dean."
Dean snagged the bottle of pills and pocketed it. "No more. I don't care, Sam, you use your telepathy. Keep limits, but don't hurt yourself."
"Fine."
Dean levered him to his feet, and Sam caught sight of the shtriga, lying prone and shriveled. He bit his lip to avoid shuddering in an abysmally late sense of horror.
"Okay buddy, let's get out of here."
"It wasn't your fault."
"This is a conversation that never needs to happen."
Sam angled his body towards Dean. "I think it does."
"Yes, let's cry together about our terrible childhood and then have a miraculous realization of our bond as brothers and hug and write poetry."
"It wasn't your fault. That's all." Sam brushed his bangs away from his eyes. "I know you're going to dismiss it, but at least promise me you'll think about it."
"As long as you don't bring it up again," Dean muttered.
"Fine. And thank you."
Dean paused. "For what?"
"For always taking care of me, even when I didn't realize it," Sam told him seriously.
"Okay, Sammy." Dean rolled his eyes, but because Sam was now using his telepathy, he could feel the small flush of confused affection.
Sam hid a smile, but sent back a small pulse of his own feelings anyway.
A/N: Can you believe it, I'm actually being consistent about updates. I think. It's like once a week, right? Maybe. Anyway. Not one of my favorite chapters, but it'll do . . . we're gearing up for the culmination of this fic, I think (three more chapters? four?)
Reviews are love :)
