"So, it killed me?" Dean asked, watching as Sam rubbed at his chest, fingers dancing delicately over the shirt he'd been wearing that day, making their way over the invisible wounds that had been felt rather than inflicted.
The younger man nodded, "not before you could kill it first, though."
"And how did I do that again?"
"I don't know exactly. You didn't really do anything. It just started screaming."
Dean leaned back in his chair, careful to keep his feet off the coffee table. The brothers had moved into the sitting room after Sam had snapped completely out of his daze for a little more comfort. "There's something you're not telling me."
Sam shook his head, carefully avoiding his brother's gaze. He wasn't exactly eager to tell Dean about his own pain, the way those cuts had burned across his body without really being there. He wasn't sure how his brother would take it, but had the feeling that the older man would blame himself.
"If it makes a difference," Dean said gently, "I know how you feel." Sam rolled his eyes. "No pun intended," the elder added as an afterthought.
Sammy grinned. "If I tell you, do you promise not to freak out?"
"As long as you don't, I should be ok."
"Well," the younger hunter began, dropping his eyes again, "the demon wasn't the only one that started screaming. I, uh, I did, too. I could feel… it was like I was being ripped apart, but there wasn't any blood. I think-"
"You think I did it?"
"I think it was an accident," Sam replied, choosing his words carefully, "and that you killed the demon. That's what's important."
Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. "Yeah, I guess."
"You all right?"
"Well," he grinned, "it's kinda hard to get mad at myself with your understanding ass in the room."
o0o0o0o0o
It wasn't often that Dean Winchester was scared, and it was ever rarer for him to show that fear, or let it be expressed in any way, which was why Missouri decided to sit down and have a little chat about it.
"Sam had a vision last night," the hunter stated before the older psychic even had a chance to open her mouth.
"I know."
"He saw me kill the demon without even touching it."
She nodded. "That's a good thing, Dean, so why are you so worked up?"
He hung his head. "I didn't just hurt the demon. I got Sammy, too." He brought his head up and locked eyes with the psychic. "I need to learn how to control this before that thing finds us again."
"Well, you're on your way. A lot further along than I ever would have pictured you by now."
"What are you talking about?"
"That honesty," Missouri sighed, "just now. It's not yours. You're channeling your brother, whether you realize it or not, because it's just easier for him to tell the whole story and ask for help."
"That's it?" Dean asked, "I told you something was bugging me and you automatically assume that it's because I'm psychic now. Man, you're as bad as Sam, maybe even worse if that's all the evidence you've got."
"What did I tell you the other day about interrupting me? I wasn't finished. You're projecting, too. I could feel that fear of yours all the way at the other end of the house."
"That's just because-"
"What? Because I'm psychic? Boy, I've had three paying customers leave this morning because of you. One of them was a regular. Been coming here for years. Figured I'd keep the rest of the afternoon open and get this thing of yours under control before anyone else runs into my driveway screaming."
Dean shrugged. "Sounds like a plan to me."
o0o0o0o
Somewhere in the house, a door slammed shut. Sam jumped out of his seat, barely stifling a scream. He'd been on edge all morning, his heart pumping, adrenalin rushing, mouth dry. It was almost like he was scared, but of what was a mystery.
He took a couple of deep breaths and put all of his focus back on the laptop screen. His vision had taken place in a motel room somewhere, he was sure of that. The place had been dumpy looking, small, and lit by dim, blinking bulbs. Not one of the best rooms he'd ever been in, but definitely not one of the worst.
Not that he'd been there. Actually, he was hoping to stay away. As much as he wanted revenge for everything that had happened to him and his family, he wasn't about to knowingly sacrifice that family to get it. He wasn't going to go marching after the demon again if he knew Dean's life was in danger. Hell, if he'd known what would happen the first time he never would have suggested going after the damned thing.
So he scoured the internet, looking for anything the resembled the motel room they'd been in when the demon attacked. He could remember a dark red color scheme, the color of blood, fittingly enough, and stationary with a deer head on it. He'd seen the state abbreviation. IA. Iowa.
Sam tried to narrow his search as much as he could, hardly noticing as the fear that had gripped him all morning slowly gave way to a proud sense of accomplishment.
o0o0o0o0o
Dean practically collapsed into the old wooden chair. He crossed his arms on the kitchen table and rested his head on them, panting slightly as cold sweat dripped from his nose onto the scratched tabletop. "You could have warned me," he muttered.
"Now where's the fun in that?" Missouri asked, grabbing a glass from a cabinet before heading to the fridge. "Thirsty?"
"Just tired."
The psychic nodded. "You're getting better at it, though." She poured herself some lemonade before heading out of the room. "You need anything," she called back to him, "you know what to do." The only reply Dean could muster was a tired moan.
He sat with his head down, exhausted. His whole body ached and felt weak, his mind couldn't stop wandering, and his heart was racing in his chest. But he had done it. He'd made the older psychic cry, had headed out to the park with her and been able to comfort a little girl with a scraped knee from halfway across the grassy expanse. He'd been able to make a couple stop fighting, had pinpointed the hurt that their own child, sitting in the grass and watching, had felt. Even better, he'd been able to turn that hurt into love, and had felt it coming off the kid when his folks had stopped their little shouting match.
It had taken a lot out of him, though. Physically and emotionally drained, Dean didn't even bother to raise his head when he heard soft footfalls on the nearby stairs. He knew it was Sam before the younger man even walked into the room, could feel the familiar mix of concern and sympathy.
"What happened to you?" Sammy asked, walking over to a cupboard and grabbing a mug.
"Practice," the elder muttered, still not bothering to look up.
"Practice?" Sam repeated, crossing to the refrigerator and taking a peek inside, looking for something to drink, "what were you practicing?"
Dean sighed, trying to gather the strength to reply. However, being the constant thinker that he was, he had another, better, more devious, not to mention fun- for him, at least- idea. Head still down, the empath closed his eyes and focused.
Sam pulled a can of Coke out of the fridge and popped it open, waiting for his brother's reply. When Dean didn't supply one, he figured the elder hunter had fallen asleep, or decided to, once again, close every door to him.
Memo to self, Sam thought as he began to empty the contents of the pop can into his glass, never reference "Technicolor Dreamcoat" or Donnie Osmond while near Dean.
In all honesty, Sam could have started quoting "Pretty Woman" and Dean wouldn't have said a word. The empath was off in his own little world, lost in a flood of memories. Cassie, one-night stands, the kinds of movies he watched and websites he visited when he was sure Sammy wasn't around. He summoned the thoughts, reveling in the pure pleasure they provided, and mentally pushed.
"Not in a talking mood, huh?" Sam asked, "I really thought you'd be more open now, man. I mean, you haven't exactly been your usual, Fort Knoxx-y self lately, and-" He stopped, a small gasp escaping his lips and his eyes going wide as he stared into his glass.
Sam leaned his weight against the counter, trying not to collapse, wondering exactly what was going on. This kind of thing hadn't happen to him since he was fifteen. He'd thought it was over. It was supposed to be over, at least, that's what his Sex Ed teacher had said, but she was a chick, so what did she know?
He moaned quietly, a little embarrassed. If he was feeling this way, wouldn't Dean be picking up on it? Dean, who was suddenly so good at reading people and picking up on every little change in emotion. Dean, who had been freakishly open lately. Dean, who had… been practicing?
"You jerk!" Sam shouted, turning on his heels to face his brother, who had finally brought his head off the table and was smiling wide, "I can't believe you… you just…"
"Aw, that's so cute," Dean cooed, batting his eyelashes, "Sammy's getting all defensive. Embarrassed?"
"You did this to me?"
The elder rolled his eyes. "You really think that I could… arouse you? No, Sammy-boy, I think the Coke's doing a pretty good job all by its lonesome. And here I always took you for a Pepsi man."
"Bitch," Sam growled, grabbing his pop and storming awkwardly out of the room, leaving Dean to laugh himself to sleep at the table.
o0o0o0o0o
Old black and white "Twilight Zone" reruns flashed across the screen, filling the run-down house with creepy music as Dean sat on the couch, his eyelids heavy. He glanced at the clock for what seemed the hundredth time that night and began to worry. Sammy should have been home by now.
It wasn't that Dean was afraid that his brother would get into trouble that he couldn't get himself out of, because he'd seen the younger boy fight. No, he was just worried that the ten-year-old wouldn't make it home by midnight.
He'd told Sammy to hurry home, told him it was important. But Sam had been so excited, just bouncing off the walls, and Dean was starting to doubt that his brother had heard his plea.
It was that stupid kid Jimmy, one of Sam's friends, that was keeping the younger Winchester out of the house. It was Jimmy's lavish half-birthday party that had drawn Sam in like a mosquito to a bug zapper, pulled him in with enough force to make him forget what a special day it was.
This wasn't the first time, either. No, he'd skipped Christmas with the family to hand out with Jimmy, whose parents had a holiday cabin on the outskirts of town. Sam had begged, desperate to go, and Dean had given him the ok.
He'd given the ok for this, too, so long as Sammy promised to be home before midnight. Dean was determined not to repeat Christmas, alone in the house, sitting in front of the TV, eating cold lunchmeat sandwiches. No, this holiday would be a celebration.
The front door slowly creaked open and soft footsteps sounded in the hall. "Took you long enough," Dean called, flipping off the TV to meet his brother, "how was the party?"
"It was awesome," Sammy gushed, his excitement flooding the hall and hitting Dean like a tong of sugar-high bricks, "his folks rented out the entire bowling alley!"
"You know," Dean scoffed, wondering exactly how he was supposed to compete with something like that, "renting a bowling alley isn't normal."
"Neither is hunting demons," Sam shot back acidly, bitter resentment flowing off his small body.
"What I mean," Dean defended, leaning against a wall as hid knees began to shake with the force of his brother's sudden anger, "is that it sounds like a fun party."
Sammy backed down. "It was. It was long, too. Should get to bed."
"You think you might be able to stay awake long enough to-?"
"No, Dean. It was a long day. I'm tired."
"But, it's-"
"I don't care," Sam sighed, walking past his brother and toward the bedrooms.
"I got a cake, though," Dean attempted, ignoring his brother's growing annoyance and following the younger boy down the hall to his bedroom door, "it's not chocolate."
Sam stopped, his hand on the doorknob, ready to turn it and head into his room, closing and locking the door behind him to fall into a deep sleep where he would undoubtedly dream of being normal. "You like chocolate, though," he said simply.
"You don't."
The ten-year-old scowled, annoyance building, hating the way that his brother submitted to his every whim. He wanted to work for something, wanted to earn it on his own. Mostly, though, he just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, that was the only thing that Dean didn't pick up on, the exhaustion lingering just below the bitter anger and need to break free from the life of a hunter.
"You're an idiot, Dean," Sam hissed, putting as much anger as he could behind the words before pulling the door open, stepping into his room, and slamming it shut hard enough to rattle the frame and shake a picture loose from the wall.
Dean stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of his brother stomping around behind the closed door. He stood there and let the anger and honesty of Sam's last statement sink in, filling him with his own sense of regret and rejection. Slowly, he turned around and headed for the kitchen.
The teenager pulled open the refrigerator door and searched the nearly-empty appliance. He found what he wanted and brought it out, opening the small box and setting it on the table.
He grabbed a lighter from his pocket and pulled out the little cardboard box he'd swiped from a convenience store earlier that day. He carefully placed the candles and lit them, one by one.
Dean sat down at the kitchen table and watched the small flames flicker. He could still feel Sam and that anger, but concentrated on blocking it out. He realized sadly that he was letting go of the last emotional tie he had, keeping Sammy out of his heart to avoid that anger and rejection. He pushed the thought away, though, and focused on what was in front of him.
He closed his eyes, wondering briefly when his father would get back from his latest hunt. He blew out the candles, not even bothering to make a wish. Wishes weren't real. They never came true.
In the little house, in the middle of the night, with his father bleeding badly in a forest nearly one hundred miles away and his brother tossing and turning in a fitful sleep upstairs, Dean ate his birthday cake. Alone.
o0o0o0o
Dean's eyes popped open in the still darkness of the kitchen as his breath hitched in his chest. Why even try? Wasn't history said to repeat itself? If Sam hadn't changed his mind then, why now? What was different, besides the obvious fact that Sammy could hop in the car and drive away, instead of just walking down the street to his friend's house?
The hunter closed his eyes, wondering if it was really worth it. The feeling of warmth and love that was starting to worm its way back into his system was nice, but it still wasn't good enough. It wasn't Sam. And Sam was all he really had left. If he didn't have Sam, then he didn't have anything.