Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

It took a long time for John to release Sam from his embrace, even after words stopped being spoken between them. He hauled Sam back upstairs and to his bed, then got a fresh glass of icy water that felt great on his dry, scratchy throat and set it on the night stand. Maybe he wanted to have more secret conversations and brought it as a way to avoid eavesdroppers who got out of bed just for a glass of water, the most cliché story in history for snooping children in the middle of the night. But John just pulled a chair up next to Sam's bed and made himself comfortable.

"You need anything else?" he asked.

Sam shook his head.

"Try to get some sleep, then."

He rolled onto his side, letting his back face his dad, and pulled the blankets tighter around himself. He couldn't stop the tremors, and being coherent during a fever made it so much worse than being unaware and living in a daze. His body refused to listen to him, and kept complaining that his skin was on fire while his organs were made of ice.

When he felt another blanket being wrapped around him, he looked over his shoulder to see his father behind the action, his face set in a worried expression.

"We might have to take you to see a doctor if this fever doesn't break soon, Sammy," he said.

Sam shook his head. The last time he saw doctors, they wanted to hurt him more than they wanted to help him.

"I know you don't want to, but you might need treatment that Dean and I can't give you."

Sam stayed silent, keeping his eyes firmly on the bedroom wall.

John sighed. "Maybe, if we need to, we can find a doctor willing to make a house call. You won't be left alone with them for even a moment, then."

Sam nodded at that, and John seemed satisfied enough to fall silent for the night, though Sam still felt his eyes as they drilled into his back from the chair beside his bed. He wondered where this John was every other time he needed him. Why did it take so much for him to try and be a father?

There were so many opportunities for John and Dean to prevent everything that happened to him from happening at all, and he was the one who had to live with the experiences of human trafficking. He was the one bought and sold and traded like property. He was the one given a collar like a dog and branded like cattle. Twice. He was the one drugged to the point where he couldn't tell what was real, and then spent weeks afterward unable to tell if he was even alive.

Tears spilled from his eyes that his father could not see. For himself. For someone else. For everyone else. He didn't know. There were so many things he didn't know that sometimes that lack of knowledge felt too heavy on his shoulders. He just knew that the tears felt refreshing against his skin, overheated by fever and infection.

Two days after arriving at Missouri's, Sam's fever broke. He had the impractical belief that his fear of seeing a doctor attributed to his recovery. That his fear fueled his healing.

He never mentioned it to Dean. He knew how ridiculous it sounded. It sounded crazy in his own mind, which was already fairly crazed compared to the average mind.

But Missouri seemed to know and told him that the mind is stronger than he can imagine, especially for a psychic. He met her properly only after his fever broke, and he felt a connection immediately. He loved the warmth of her voice and how her words were like the honey in tea, soothing and sweet.

He admired the unspoken authority that she had over John and Dean, how they never argued when she told them to do something. To fix something on her house or do yard work for her in exchange for staying at her home. She was everything that he imagined his own mother would have been, had she had the opportunity to live and raise them.

"Morning, Sam," she said, setting a plate down for him at the table.

"Morning," he said. He liked Missouri's cooking, he did. He loved the smell of homemade meals filling the house, too. But he never seemed to have an appetite anymore, even for the bland foods served to him.

"Just try and eat what you can," she said. "You're gonna need the food if you want to get better anytime soon. And once you get better, I can start teaching you ways to control that power in you."

"You can teach me?"

"Well, I can do the next best thing and give you ways to learn about it on your own. Things like meditation are powerful tools for a budding psychic. It ain't gonna be easy, but it'll be worth it."

Sam shrugged. He wanted to forget that he had any sort of power. He wanted to deny the addition of one more reason that he just didn't fit, that he wasn't normal. He never realized before how right the other kids at school were when they called him a freak.

They didn't even know the half of it.

"Now, Sam, you shouldn't be thinking that way. You aren't a freak, you have a gift."

"Doesn't feel like a gift," he said.

"Maybe not right now," Missouri said, taking the seat across from him at the kitchen table. "But you'll learn. You'll see that you can use your abilities to do real good in this world."

Sam shrugged. For so long, he pretended that the only thing wrong with him was the trauma he'd been through. With his family finding out about his abilities, it felt like he was being suffocated by the truth of them and the truth of everyone knowing. And he didn't know what any of it meant for him or his future. He couldn't see a future for himself anymore, not since he was taken and everything he knew about safety was stripped away from him. It became a chore just to be alive and pretend that he was almost okay.

"Enough of that thinking," Missouri said. "Now, eat up. Don't make me force feed you."

Sam's heart stopped at her words, his head filled with memories of Jerry and Rich and Liu, all wanting him to eat and look healthy, regardless of whether he wanted to eat. Sour bile rose in the back of his throat, scorching it.

He barely registered Missouri's words when she said, "Oh, honey."

Reading minds probably wasn't pleasant when someone was violently thrown into a flashback.

He got up from the table, intending to go to the room he'd been using upstairs, but only managing to make it to the first floor bathroom before he threw up bile, and not much else, into the toilet, the physical exertion of it leaving a trail of hot tears flowing down his cheeks. His feet ached, healing cuts were torn back open, but the pain felt far away, like it was happening to someone else and not him.

He felt his jaw being pried open and chalky, lukewarm protein shake being poured into his throat until he had no choice but to swallow it, and the memories brought another bout of heaving without anything more to bring up. He thought that he was over this, that he wouldn't be the victim to his own mind again, but it seemed like that's all he was. And out of all the flashbacks, the one that led him back to reliving the times he was force fed seemed the most prominent, the easiest to trigger.

No wonder his ribs became more and more defined each day. Food, alone, held too many bad memories.

He heard knocking on the door and Dean's voice calling him, asking him to open the door, even though it wasn't locked. He hated himself for continually putting Dean through all the stress and worry of dealing with a little brother who was, for all intents and purposes, fucked up. He hated himself for falling back into flashbacks again. Why couldn't he just pick up all his pieces and put them back together already?

Soon enough, the intensity of the memories faded until they were ghosts that couldn't be salted and burned. He saw the clean surface of Missouri's bathroom, not another form of cage meant to contain him until he was used, or while he was used. His lungs registered that there was indeed air in the room, plenty of it, and he could breathe a little easier. Deep breaths, reminding himself that he was safe now.

"Sammy?"

"You can come in, Dean," Sam said, his voice raspy and his throat sore.

The door was opened before Sam finished his sentence, and Dean knelt next to him, hand hesitantly placed on his back.

"Missouri told me what happened," he said.

"I thought you'd be angrier."

"Yeah, well, I made the same mistake. I just didn't have to listen to your mind afterward."

"I'm sorry."

"Sam, you don't have to apologize for any of this. You have every right to not be okay, and if anyone should be apologizing, it's me. And Dad."

Sam shook his head.

"Yeah, Sammy. It was our fault, not yours. We left you alone when you needed us the most."

"You couldn't know," Sam said.

"Maybe, but there was enough going on that I should've suspected something," Dean said. "Look, we can't change what happened, but it's a nice day out. Think some fresh air would do you some good?"

Sam shrugged, but he felt Dean's hands helping him up and guiding him out of the house to the bench in Missouri's backyard patio. It was still a little cold, but there were warm promises of summer in the air.

Being outdoors was nice, and it was bittersweet to realize that this is close to the area where he would have grown up if there was never a fire at his house. If his mom had been spared and they were able to live in ignorance about all the terrifying creatures that shouldn't exist, but did.

"Do you think that you might need professional help?" Dean asked, even though Sam could tell how much it took for him to get the words out. How many times would they ask him for his opinion on whether he needed a shrink before they decided for him?

"I'm not sure how much help a professional would be."

"Then, what do you need? What can I do?"

"I need Liu dead," Sam said.

Dean nodded. "I'll talk to Bobby and Caleb, see if they found anything from sticking around in New York."

"Do you think I'll be able to do it?" Sam asked.

"Do what?"

"Face Liu. I mean, a handful of words was enough to leave me trying to puke up my guts in the bathroom. How am I supposed to face Liu?"

"I think that Liu will die by the hands of a Winchester," Dean said, "but that doesn't mean those hands have to be yours."

"And if they are mine?"

"After everything that bastard put you through? You would deserve to be the one who kills him."

Sam sat for a long while before going back inside, deciding that the sunlight was too bright for someone with so much darkness in them.

Dean didn't understand meditation. He couldn't grasp the purpose of sitting and clearing his mind, but it seemed to help Sam. If it helped Sam, well, he was just going to have to stay to the side and let Missouri run that show, trying to keep his mind blank if only to keep her from calling him out on his thoughts.

There was something about Missouri that he liked. She was so different from most of the women he interacted with, the ones who only wanted to know him for his looks and a good lay. She had an air of authority and no tolerance for the sailor's mouth that won him the hearts of many pretty ladies. No, Missouri would rather beat him with a wooden spoon than listen to profanities spill from his mouth (a punishment that she also threatened John with many times, but never Sam).

He wondered if it was an insult to Mary that he found Missouri motherly, that he imagined that Mary would have had that same tough love attitude as they grew up. That she would be a slave driver like Missouri, making John and Dean do all the work around the house and out in the yard.

He bounced his leg on the ball of his foot, sitting on the bed opposite of Sam (who wasn't allowed to be on his feet, unless it was to use the restroom, until the cuts finally healed. As if he listened to that restriction, though). Missouri took up residence in a rickety chair next to the bed and was leading another meditation session.

After a glare from Sam, he stopped bouncing his leg. He didn't have to stay, but he didn't trust anything that involved Sam isolating himself in his mind. Not when Sam's mind was loaded with terrible memories that could send him into a flashback with ease. Or lead him back into believing that his own family was going to hunt him. Or send him back into the catatonic state he was in at Pastor Jim's place. Or lead to him inadvertently contacting the demon that was haunting his dreams.

Yeah, no way that meditation could go wrong. Missouri promised him that she prepared for the possibilities of Sam searching his own mind and was going to make it as safe as possible for him. But when Sam was involved, his safety was never guaranteed. When Sam wasn't involved in things, his safety was still not guaranteed.

He lounged on his bed, listening to Missouri's voice, but not her words. He wasn't a praying man, but he prayed that this would help Sam. There wasn't much that he wouldn't give to help Sam. To pull him out of the downward spiral that he kept falling into.

He must have fallen asleep, even if he didn't remember doing so, because when he opened his eyes again, he was alone in the room and it was silent. He dragged himself up and out of bed, finding everyone else at the kitchen table enjoying their supper.

"I was going to wake you, but you really needed the sleep, Dean," John said.

Dean filled a plate for himself and sat in the open chair. "I'm fine."

"You looked like you were ready to fall over," John said. "You haven't been prioritizing taking care of yourself."

Dean snorted out half of a laugh at that. Of course, he hadn't prioritized himself. Throughout his life, he was taught to prioritize Sam's well-being over his own.

"You're no good to others if you're gonna fall over, Dean," Missouri said, reading his thoughts.

"Yeah, well, I slept," Dean said. "Happy?"

He got one shrug and one nod, and looked at Sam, who never joined in on the conversation because pushing his food around his plate was apparently more interesting. The fevered flush was gone from his cheeks, but now his skin color was too pale. Except for under his eyes, where the color was too dark.

"The food won't bite you, Sammy. You're supposed to bite it."

The glare Sam shot him was half-hearted and laced with fear, and Dean's joking attitude was snuffed out by it. If he could, Dean would have sucked the words back into his lungs. Sam had enough issues with eating, there was no need for Dean to call him out on it, yet he hadn't been able to stop himself.

A joke used to be enough to take away the tension, but now it only worsened it, and Dean was sick of trying to learn rules that were always changing.

He was glad for the small mercy of John and Missouri being finished with their meals and politely excusing themselves, though John lingered in the doorway like he was wondering if he should stay. He left, but Dean got the feeling that he was missing something.

"Sam… you need to eat," Dean said. "If you really don't feel up to it, no one is going to do anything you don't want. But you can't go back to living on smoothies, man. I don't want to watch you waste away like that."

"Dean… I can't. If I take another bite, I'm gonna throw up."

"Is it the aftereffects of the fever, or is it the flashbacks?"

"I don't know. Both?"

"Do you want me to take you back to the bedroom?"

Sam shook his head. "You've barely touched your plate."

"I can come back and get it after you're settled."

"It'll be cold."

"Sammy," Dean said, "it's already cold because I was sleeping."

"I can walk upstairs on my own," Sam said. "My feet don't hurt that much anymore."

"That doesn't mean you should walk on them and keep reopening the cuts."

Sam got up and moved towards the door, his unsteady steps giving away the pain he still felt each time his feet touched the ground, but he stopped next to Dean. "Could I borrow your phone?" he asked.

"Where's yours?"

"I, uh, think it's still in New York. I couldn't find it in my bag," he said. "I just want to call Amy and let her know that I'm not missing."

John probably wouldn't be very happy with the fact that Sam's phone was gone again, not after he just got a new one for Christmas. But Sam never lost a phone out of his own carelessness. There were always circumstances that forced him to leave it behind.

Dean made a promise to himself to earn Sam's trust back when they were driving to Austin, and now Sam at least trusted him enough to ask for a favor. Maybe he needed to trust Sam, too. Show that he didn't secretly fear that Sam was trying to set up another escape from his own family.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Sam. The smile he received in return convinced him that he was making the right decision. In that moment, he saw a glimpse of the old Sam. The Sam from before the trafficking.

Maybe getting him back wasn't as hopeless as it sometimes felt. They could do this.

Dean could do this.

Dean stayed in the living room when he was done eating, doing his best to give Sam privacy to make his call to Amy. He didn't fully understand the relationship they had, but Sam needed to be able to feel like he could trust people. His family, and maybe some friends who helped him out however and whenever they could. He doubted he'd get the chance to thank Amy for being there for Sam, but that didn't make him any less grateful to her.

Like always, Missouri must have heard his mind running at a million miles per second because she walked into the living room and told him to sit his ass down.

"There's something I want to talk to you about, Dean," she said, sitting next to him on the couch.

"Well, I guess I have the time."

"Whether I wanted to listen to it or not, Sam's mind is loud," she said. "There's a lot in it that I would never wish on anyone. Fear. Anger. Loneliness. Hatred, towards himself mostly. Sometimes towards others."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dean asked.

"Even with all that darkness and negativity in his head, do you know which feeling takes over when he sees you?"

Dean's mind conjured the memory of Sam backing away with wide eyes, hands held out in front of him and begging him to stay away. Begging him to not come any closer.

"Fear?"

"No, son. Safety. When he sees you, his mind quiets down and the feeling of safety is stronger than anything else."

She gave Dean's shoulder a few gentle pats. "There are a lot of horrors in that boy's head, but just by being around, you help him more than you think."

She left Dean alone on the couch, with a heart that felt warmer than it had in a long time. With a heart that felt like it was just then starting to beat again. He felt useful and needed.

When Sam started his independence streak years ago, Dean realized that he liked the feeling of being needed by his little brother. But by then, Sam had decided that he didn't need anyone else.

And Sam needed him again. He wasn't about to throw that away.

Sam said he needed Liu dead. Well, once he was done with the phone, Dean had some calls of his own to make.

He should've thought to call Amy earlier, but with his infection and fear he hadn't found the time. She was reasonably pissed off, but not completely at him, and she'd sleep better now that she didn't think he'd vanished off the face of the Earth.

Sam shook his head. Dean used to tell him that an angry woman was terrifying, and now Sam believed him.

He didn't make promises that he would keep in touch, and she didn't ask him to. Their lifestyles didn't allow for delusions about maintaining contact with distant friends, especially when one of those friends had a family of hunters. Either way, he was glad that Dean gave him the chance to say goodbye to her.

Missouri had a lot of interesting books in her library, but Sam was having a hard time focusing on the one opened on his lap. He was sick of laying around, and beyond curious as to why Dean was making phone calls in another room. What was it that he didn't want Sam to hear?

Dean knocked before entering the room they were sharing, like he was interrupting something.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"I called Caleb and Bobby and asked if they found anything back in New York," Dean said, taking a seat on the wooden chair left at Sam's bedside.

"Did they?"

Dean took a deep breath. "Not much, just that Liu has a lot of contacts in high places. I think we're going to have to go to Asia to get to him. We know that some of the trucks with slaves go to his house, so we'll have to do some tracking."

"You're saying all of that like you're actually going to include me in it."

"But I thought you wanted to be included?"

"I do," Sam said. "I just… I don't know. Having a plan makes it feel real."

"Are you going to be able to go through with it? Pastor Jim wouldn't mind having you around if you wanted to stay back."

"I need to do this, Dean. I need to be there and be a part of it," Sam said.

"You don't need to force yourself, Sammy. No one is going to think any less of you. Hell, none of us could go through what you did and not break. We won't go until your arm is healed. Besides, we need to get you a fake passport and round up some plane tickets."

"I thought you were afraid of flying," Sam said.

"What? I've never told you that."

"Caleb told me when I was at Pastor Jim's. I didn't respond, but I heard him."

"That fucking asshole. Did he tell you that he was the one losing his lunch on a boat ride? But whatever. I'm facing my fears, and you're facing yours."

Sam took a few deep breaths, trying to quench the nausea brought on by his memories of his first plane ride and his fear of seeing Liu again. He felt himself shaking at the prospect that the last living coordinator of his nightmares had a limited number of days left.

"You'll be just fine, Sammy," Dean said. "You won't be alone this time."

"I know."

It was strange feeling determination again. It was strange to have a purpose again, but Sam liked it. He savored it, and he knew Dean was right. He didn't have to face his nightmares alone this time.

He knew Dean would be right there with him, helping him end the man who ruined his life and the lives of too many others.

Author's Note: Time to transition into the last arc of Becoming Human: the hunt for Liu. There will be a part three, which I will give more information about when we're closer to the end of this part. Anyway, as Season 12 ends, the season for using fanfiction to fill the wait for Season 13 begins!

Thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, follows, and favorites! Your support means the world to me.

Leave a review before you go?