Supernatural isn't mine.
Many thanks to sasha2002, Nana56, JJaneru, Shinigami061, JuliaAtHeart, SIlwyna, JazzyIrish, fanficmistress18, carocali, GhostWriter, Harrigan, MistyEyes, StarlitEyes17 and FairyElle for their kind reviews :).
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The Crow on the Cradle, Chapter Eleven
She's staring at a page of Sam's notes when the door opens and Sam and Dean step through. She's looked at it twenty times before, but it doesn't stop her trying again, because Sam wrote this, her Sam, and she ought to be able to understand it, ought to be able to understand him, and it's a relief when they arrive and stop her having to admit for the twentieth time that she doesn't, that none of it makes any sense to her.
Dean glances at her, nods, and then looks at John. "Dad, Sam says we need to go."
John looks up from his coffee, raises his eyebrows. It's still early, and she's learnt from bitter experience that John Winchester is not at his best in the mornings (if he can ever be said to be at his best), so she hasn't spoken a word to him yet, has rolled out of bed and showered and dressed and settled down to read (to stare) as if he wasn't there at all. It's how he likes it; she doesn't know if she likes it or not. It feels weird to be sharing her room, sharing her life with this person who is at once overpoweringly present and hardly there at all.
"Go where?" John asks, and Dean glances at Sam, who's looking around, bouncing on the soles of his feet, like he's desperate to get out the door.
"Rockford, Illinois," says Dean, and she's not even sure she's heard of the place before, wonders where on earth Sam picked the name from, and then remembers that Sam's out of his mind and trying to understand his thought processes (his notes, his childhood) is just asking for a headache.
"Hey," Sam says, like the name has reminded him where he is. "Dean, come on. It's time to go, man."
"OK, Sammy," Dean says, "just let me talk to Dad, OK?"
Sam glances over at his father, and his brow furrows. He lowers his voice, like somehow that'll stop it carrying across the ten feet that separates them. "Dean, Dad won't let us go on our own. We can just... It's important, you know?"
"I know, kiddo, I know it's important," says Dean gently. "We'll bring Dad with us, OK? And Jessica, too."
Sam's jaw tightens, and he looks like he's going to argue, but John interrupts them, saying, "Dean, ask your brother why he wants to go to Rockford." She looks from one to the other, and it's stupid, it's stupid, Sam's standing right there, but she knows she would have done the same thing, she hasn't addressed a word directly to Sam for longer than she can remember, and she knows why, too, knows that she's terrified she'll say something to him and he'll look through her like she's not even there, because she and John seem to be like shadows on the edge of his awareness, like only Dean is real to him.
"Sammy," Dean says, but Sam's looking around again, staring at each corner of the ceiling like he's seeing something fascinating there. "Hey," Dean says, and grabs Sam's face, turning it towards him. "Sammy, you with me? Why're we going to Rockford?"
"Got some, got some," Sam says, and blinks a couple of times. "It's ghosts, Dean, there's so many... but they're not the problem, they're just... It's OK, if you come, though, right, it won't go like before? Because man," he sighs and laughs sadly, wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand and then puts a hand on Dean's chest. "Fuck, Dean, I'm so sorry," he says.
Dean glances at his father, and John says what kind of ghosts?, and she can't believe her ears.
"Jesus," she says, before Dean has the chance to relay the question. "You're not serious? You're thinking about going there?"
John looks at her like he'd forgotten she was there. "It might be worth looking into," he says. "Might be a case."
"A case?" She hears her voice rise, but she doesn't care, she's standing up now, pushing her chair back, and it falls to the floor. "Dammit, John! Sam's fucking insane, he doesn't even know where he is, and instead of getting him some help, you're going to take him off on a hunt?" Her hands are trembling, and she clenches them, because even though the trembling is from rage and not fear, she knows he'll see it as a weakness, this man who can keep still for hours, this man who's been keeping still for weeks researching demons while his son slips further away.
John doesn't move, doesn't even twitch. "Rockford might have something to do with whatever did this to Sam," he says. "If there are ghosts there, they might have messed with his head."
"Or it might just be a name he picked out of the atlas," she says. "Sam says crazy stuff all the time, every day. You're going to follow this one up because he mentioned ghosts?" And in the meantime, no-one is helping Sam, they're all just watching as he wanders in the dark, Jesus, just watching. And now, and now John wants them to push him even further into that dakrness, and the very thought of it makes the backs of her eyeballs hurt like someone's scraping glass along them, because they've found Sam and they're not helping him, there's no-one to help him but them and they're just fucking watching.
"Jessica," John says, and he stands up now, too, looms, and she's tall, she's always been tall, but John is more than tall, John is massive, John's presence fills the room like a physical thing. "Sam is my son. I'll make decisions regarding him."
She laughs incredulously. "Oh, Jesus, now I see why he had to get away," she says, and John's face goes suddenly dangerous, and she thinks he's going to hit her, is readying herself for the blow, when Dean says Sam, hey, Sam, what's wrong? and they both turn to see Sam clutching his head, his knees buckling, and Dean moving forward instantly (because Dean never stops looking, never takes his attention off Sam for a moment), catching him before he hits the ground, lowering him gently.
"Fuck," says Dean, and Sam's making this pained whine, grinding the heels of his hands into his temples like he's trying to push them through his skull. They're all crouching now, Dean holding Sam up in a sitting position, she and John hunkered down, trying to see what's wrong. And then Sam's body stiffens and his eyes snap open, and he's staring right at her, right through her, and this is it, this is what terrifies her, Sam doesn't see her, Sam doesn't see her.
"Sam," Dean says again, and his voice is low and rough with panic, he's trying to turn Sam's head to face him, but Sam is staring, staring, his eyes moving like he's following something, back and forth, back and forth, like he's reading a page of text or watching a movie. He's looking straight at her (straight through her), and she sees that his pupils are huge, like there's not enough light in the room, even though the sun is streaming through the window.
"Sam," she whispers, even though she knows he's not seeing her. "Sam, baby." Look at me, Sam.
And then Sam's face scrunches up again, his head drops and his hands go to cover his eyes. "Sam?" says Dean, and she thinks John's the only one who hasn't called to him, hasn't tried to bring him home, but John's crouched beside her and when she glances at him his eyes are dark with something that she thinks is fear.
"Dean," says Sam, and even though she knew that would be it, it hurts anyway, that Sam is always turning towards Dean, away from her.
"I gotcha, Sammy," Dean says. "You're OK. Everything's OK." He glances up at them, his arm around his brother's shoulders and his eyes wide, bright in the sunlight, like he's trying so hard not to lose it.
"Dean," says Sam again, and he's already struggling to his feet, the bridge of his nose pinched between his finger and thumb in a way that brings back a rush of memories so sudden it's almost painful. Sam's always had migraines, ever since she's known him, and she's always hated them, or so she says, has never told Sam that actually, sometimes she welcomes them, welcomes the way they make him so dependent on her, because she doesn't want to see Sam hurting, of course she doesn't, but she wants him to be hers. She sees it now, that gesture, and takes a step forward, even though she knows that Sam isn't hers any more, that somehow, he's been taken from her, taken back by those who have a prior claim. He's leaning on Dean, and it makes her shoulders ache.
"Take it easy, there," says Dean, and Sam opens his eyes, cautiously, one at a time.
"We've got to go to Rockford," he says. "We've got to go, Dean."
Dean tries to push Sam into a chair, but Sam won't be pushed. He stands there with his shoulders hunched, lips tight with pain, and says, "For God's sake, Dean! People are going to die!"
She stares at Sam, and then at Dean, but it's John who is moving. He steps forward, grabs his son by the shoulders, and she thinks maybe it's the first time she's seen him touch Sam since the hug the night they found him. "What people, Sam," he says. "What's happening?"
Sam looks him in the eye, and for a minute she thinks he's going to speak to him, but then at the last second he turns his head and looks at Dean. "I saw it. I saw it. You're the one who... we can't just let it happen."
Dean looks lost, looking from Sam to his father, his lips slightly parted, throat working like he's trying to say something but nothing's coming out. But John gives Sam a shake, just a tiny one, enough to get Sam's attention back on him. "Just now?" he asks. "Did you see it just now?"
Sam cocks his head on one side like he's not really sure what's going on, and she knows the feeling, John's question makes no sense to her, and it's like they've got a secret language, she would feel left out (she always does), except that Dean looks as confused as she does.
"Answer me, Sam," John says. "Did you see what's going to happen in Rockford?"
Sam blinks twice, then again, and says, "Yeah. Yeah, Dad, Dean, we've got to go."
John stares into his face for a moment longer, and Sam stares back, pleading, those eyes that can knock you dead at thirty paces. Then John lets go, turns sharply, starts grabbing stuff and shoving it in a bag, and she can't believe it, she can't believe it, and she's about to open her mouth and say as much when Dean says, "Dad, what?"
"Visions," John says, and when Dean just stares, he says, "Your brother's having visions, Dean. Of the future."
Dean's jaw actually drops, and she always thought that was just a figure of speech. "But..." he says, but she's not letting him take her turn again.
"You're kidding," she says, too loud, she's always had this thing about being too loud when she's trying to stay calm. "Tell me you're kidding, tell me you're not going to Rockford to hunt ghosts Sam saw in a vision."
John stops what he's doing and turns to look at her, and she knows that he doesn't have a problem with being loud, she knows that he doesn't even try to stay calm, that when he's mad he's either roaring like a hurricane or as cold as ice; she knows all this because she's seen it; she knows it because she knows John Winchester.
"What do you suggest we do?" he asks, and it's ice this time (which doesn't mean it won't turn into a hurricane later).
"Sam's sick," she says. "He's sick. He needs professional treatment, not ghost hunts."
"He's psychic," says John, and she rolls her eyes, not because she doesn't believe him (although she doesn't, she doesn't care what Missouri says, she doesn't care about all the things she's learned in the last seven months, it's just too fucking ridiculous), but because she doesn't really see how that's relevant.
"So's Missouri," she says. "She can still manage to put a sentence together so it actually makes sense."
Dean flinches, but John just gets calmer. "Dean," he says, "go get the car started."
"Dad," Dean whispers, but John doesn't look at him.
"Take your brother and go," he says, and when Dean still doesn't move, he says, "Now, Dean. Go."
Dean starts at the words and grabs hold of Sam's arm, hustling him out of the room like it's on fire. She waits for the storm, drawing herself up, not as tall as John, certainly not as massive, but she's not backing down.
"What do you think will happen, Jessica?" he asks, and she clenches her jaw.
"They'll help him," she says. "He needs help."
"He needs his family," John says, and there's an edge to his voice that says not you.
"Not if all they're going to do is stand by and let him break," she says, and it's weird, she's calm now, too, as if John is contagious, even though the blood is beating in her eyes almost too loud to hear John's voice.
"You still don't get it," John says. "You should go back to Palo Alto. We'll take care of Sam."
And then he grabs his bag and leaves, just like that, and she's still waiting for the hurricane. She stares after him until what he said registers, and then she's packing her stuff faster than she ever has, slamming out of the door in time to see John and Dean arguing about something, and sliding into the back seat of the Impala before they can drive off without her.
Dean gets in the front, glancing back at her in the mirror and then over at Sam, who's slumped in shotgun, his eyes closed, all his energy dissipated now they're on their way. John shoots her a look through the glass before getting in the truck, and she looks right back at him. He may be Sam's father, but he doesn't own Sam any more than she does. She used to think that no-one owned him, that no-one could, but now she looks at the two men in the front seat and wonders if maybe she was wrong.
----
It takes them all day to drive to Rockford, and Sam has two more attacks on the way (she's not going to call them visions, even though he surfaces from each one gasping and babbling about ghosts, urging Dean to drive faster). There's still an hour or two of daylight left when they get there, and Dean follows the truck down a turning towards a motel, but Sam grabs his arm, tugs on the elbow hard enough to almost make Dean lose control of the car.
"Jesus fuck," says Dean. "Sam, what the hell?"
"It's not that way," Sam says, his voice urgent. "We've got to... Dean, come on, it'll be, it's tonight, we don't have long."
"We're just going to find somewhere to stay, OK?" Dean says, but Sam shakes his head.
"No, no," he says, "it's, it's left, Dean, you need to go left." Dean frowns, glancing from Sam to the road, and Sam's jaw clenches. "Dean!" he says, and for a moment, watching them, she sees the way they must have been, all those years growing up, Sam always knowing what he wants (he always knows what he wants) and unafraid to ask, and Dean torn between his father's orders and wanting to give his brother everything. The moment passes, and Dean looks away, fumbles with his cell phone, turns left.
"Dad," he says into the phone. "Sam says we need to get over there now. He's giving me directions. Can you follow me?"
He listens for a minute, then says OK and hangs up. Sam's leaning forward in his seat, tense, his left hand on the dash, still awkward and stiff. He raps out directions, left, left, right, and then they're pulling up outside a Victorian building that she really doesn't like the look of.
"Here," Sam says, looking up, and Dean reads the sign.
"A lunatic asylum?" he says. "Jeez, Sam, you sure know how to pick em."
And then John's rapping on the window, and they clamber out, the four of them staring at the massive hulking building, and God, it's so creepy that she half expects bats to fly out of the eaves any second now.
John gives it the once-over like it's nothing special, then goes for the trunk of the truck. He hands Dean a shotgun and takes one himself, along with the EMF meter (and she wonders when she got to the point where she can recognise an EMF meter). "OK," he says, "ghosts. Should be simple enough. There's still enough daylight to do some recon. You two stay here," he adds, nodding at her and Sam.
"Dad," says Dean, looking worriedly at Sam (he's worried to leave Sam alone with her, she realises, worried to leave him alone with her, who was the closest person in Sam's life for three years), but John shoots him a sideways glance and Dean straightens up and turns towards the building. Moments later, they're both gone, and she's left standing at the side of the road outside an apparently haunted lunatic asylum with the man who used to be her lover, her Sam (Sam's been gone two hundred and seven days).
Sam glances at her quickly, and looks away. "Why do you do that?" he asks.
She stares, wondering if he's really speaking to her or seeing someone else. "Do what?"
He gestures at his head, right hand wild, long fingers flexing, left hand curled and crippled, and she thinks there it is, right there. The Sam that was and the Sam that is, and she doesn't know how to reconcile the two, doesn't want to, just wants the old Sam back. "It's the nightmares," Sam says, hands still in the air, but still now. "Always dreaming. It's not what you think."
She looks back at the building. Roosevelt Asylum. It's closed, has been for years. It's so fucking ironic, that Sam should bring them here, to a mental hospital, but she can't even make use of it because it's fucking closed.
But Rockford isn't a small town. There's probably – there must be – another place to get psychiatric help.
She looks at the door where John and Dean disappeared, going to hunt ghosts, abandoning Sam to his illness. She knows they'll never forgive her if she does.
"What's the date?" Sam asks suddenly, and he sounds frightened.
"It's April," she says. "Twenty-seventh."
Sam looks at her, and his face splits into a grin. "I'm glad you're here," he says.
She makes her decision then, grabs him by the hand. "Sam, baby," she says, "let's go for a little walk, OK?" Dean has the keys to the Impala, and she doesn't know how to hotwire it (he offered to teach her once, but she said no, and now she's kicking herself), but they passed through a shopping district a minute or so before they got here and there'll be taxis, she thinks. She starts walking, pulling Samwith her, refusing to think about the fact that she's touching him, the way his skin feels warm against hers, the way his huge hand engulfs hers like she's a child. He follows her for a few steps, and her heart's hammering like crazy but she thinks maybe she can do this, maybe she can fix Sam. And then he stops, so sharply that he almost pulls her over, and she turns to see him looking back at the asylum.
"That's not," he mutters. "Dean, you know... Don't let him. Shit."
"Sam?" she says, tugging on his hand. "Come on, Sam, just a little further. We can go and see the nice doctor." And Jesus, she's talking to him like he's a four year old, and she hates herself, suddenly.
Sam glances back at her, then turns to the asylum again. When it comes, she's not ready, and he's jerked his hand out of her grasp and is running, reaching the building before she can even register he's gone. She curses and follows, but Sam's got legs a mile long and by the time she gets to the door, he's long disappeared into the dark. She stands for a moment, biting her lip, because she's seen plenty enough horror movies to know not to go into a creepy (haunted) abandoned lunatic asylum, especially not when it's going to get dark soon.
But Sam's gone in there, and if she's learned one thing in the past seven months, it's that where Sam leads, she will follow.
----
It's dark inside the asylum, darker even than she expected. Dingy, she thinks, and she's never really thought about that word before today, it conjures up images of peeling wallpaper and stained carpets, but this, this is what it really means, light so thick with grime it's almost liquid, falling in cloudy shafts on a floor strewn with rubble and trash. She shudders, tries not to remember what Sam said about ghosts, tries not to let herself realise that this is stupid, this is stupid, OK, so she's trained some, she canmore or less hit a target with a knife or a gun, but she doesn't have either right now, doesn't even have a flashlight, and she's walking right into the belly of the beast. But it's still daylight, and Sam doesn't have a gun either. She's lost Sam once before, and it almost killed her. She won't lose him again, even if it does kill her.
"Sam?" she calls, but quietly, like she's afraid someone else will hear, and her voice sets the dust trembling in the air. She hears him calling to her up ahead, and stumbles forward, grateful that at least he's not far away.
He doesn't wait, though, he won't wait for her (she searched for him for half a year and he won't wait for her), and she finds herself walking deeper and deeper into a maze of corridors, and it's cold, it's colder here than outside, and her fingers are going numb. Then she passes a flight of stairs, and Sam's voice calls to her from below, louder now, urgent. She stares, because it's dark down there, and she feels invisible fingers crawling over her skin, she doesn't want to go down there, she doesn't. But Sam calls again, and he sounds worried, panicked, and she steels herself, steps forward and down, forward and down.
She's never seen a ghost before, and even though she's more or less come to terms with the fact that they exist, has seen too many things not to, it's still a shock when she comes face to face with a man who is quite obviously dead. She doesn't have time to scream, though (although she would have, no doubt about that) before he grips her head with both hands, whispering soothing words, and pain sparks through her brain so intensely that it's like seeing God. Where's Sam? she thinks, and then she blacks out.
When she comes to, the dead man is gone, and everything is tinged with red. That's OK, though, that doesn't matter; for the first time in months, her mind feels clear, clear of doubt, clear of confusion. Everything's clear to her now.
Picking herself up off the floor, she goes to find Sam.
