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"Took you long enough," John gravels when they make their way back to their seats.
"Sammy had to fix his makeup," Dean quips in a thin, pale imitation of their normal back-and-forth.
"And Dean's really constipated," Sam tosses back, letting himself rise to the bait and trying, trying not to be floored, not to be shaken to the core, because this is deeper, is so much worse than he ever thought it could be.
He props his elbows up on the counter and presses a palm to his eyes as subtly as he can. The harsh fluorescents of the diner are sending tendrils of pain through his head, sparking behind his shuttered eyelids.
Sam always feels like this after a vision, faint and torn-up on the inside, aftershocks rippling through his skill. In the past, he's been able to force it down, at least a little, with the rush of adrenaline that comes from a ticking clock and a mountain of research. He wishes he could pull out his laptop, track down somewhere near this shit hole with a decent Wi-Fi signal and get to work instead of sitting around cooling his heels until he hears back from Ash, trying to act like everything's just fine for Dad's benefit when it's anything but. When it feels like everything is crumbling around them to the tune of a clock ticking away, counting down to zero and flames and ruin.
Maybe it's wrong to keep it from Dad. Sam may not be feeling particularly charitable towards the man at the moment - or, well, ever - but he has been hunting this demon for more than twenty years. What it did to Mom… Sam knows, probably better than anyone now, how deep that wound runs. How it feels to wake up from dreams of blonde hair and blood and flames into a world that is missing a vital piece, a world that keeps on running just the same when it feels like it should be crumbling away from the foundations. Sam's known for a long time that what's kept John going all those years wasn't love but vengeance, a fire burning in his belly, the need to make this demon pay.
Sam's understands that now. He feels it too.
In some ways, John deserves to know the truth, deserves to know about the Colt and Sam's visions, about the thing that Sam knows is waiting for them somewhere too far away and too close all at once, and even if he didn't, he knows more about this demon than Sam and Dean do, knows how it thinks, at least has some idea about what it wants. It would be better for all of them if Sam could just put it all on the table, safer, easier, and in a different world, he would probably do just that. In a world where Dad hasn't been drinking whiskey like it's water, hasn't been throwing his weight around and pulling his weapon at the slightest provocation, looking at both of them like they're more enemies than allies. In that world, Sam might tell him all of it and take the consequences, but now? Well, he's been on Sam's case enough as it is. He's as much as said he doesn't trust Sam, and if he finds out Sam has neglected to tell him something this big? This important?
Sam doesn't want to think about how he'd react.
'He might just take a shot at me out of spite,' Sam thinks wryly.
Even in his own head, it's a bad joke.
He glances up at Dean out of the corner of his eye, thinks about his brother fingering the keys to the Impala last night. The idea of Dean even thinking about leaving Dad behind - Dean, who has spent a year trying to get them all back together, to convince Sam to forgive and forget the fact that Dad nearly got him killed - is hard to fathom. Dad's not the only one who's been acting strangely lately. Dean's jumpiness, the way he's been positioning himself oh-so-subtly between Sam and Dad? Dean agreeing to hide the Colt, and now, hiding the visions without Sam even needing to ask, when the Dean Sam used to know would be itching to give the man a full report?
Sam's not sure what to think.
To top it off, there's that stuff he'd said in the bathroom.
"You're my brother. Not a freak, not a monster. My. Brother."
Where the hell had that come from? Because that's way beyond Dean's normal big brother protectiveness, too intense, too passionate to have come from nowhere. Sam's usually pretty good at reading his brother - way better than vice versa, no matter what Dean thinks - but he's got no idea what's been going on in that brain for the past few days...
Dean senses his gaze and glances up, a forkful of green ooze poised halfway to his mouth. He raises one eyebrow, a silent 'You okay, Sammy?'
Sam shrugs minutely and turns back to his own, untouched meal which is looking less appetizing by the second. He's about to touch his ankles to Dean's under the table in a reassuring gesture before (heavy press of his brother's body shoving him back against the tile, thrill of pleasure curling hot in his belly) he thinks better of it, letting his foot drop back onto the linoleum.
He pulls his elbow back from where it's lightly brushing Dean's and shovels a forkful of greasy, lukewarm egg into his mouth.
Somewhere out there, the demon who killed Jess, who murdered Mom and ripped their family to shreds, is about to do the same thing to another family, Sam's own father hates him, and Sam may be one morning jerk-off session away from sending the only good thing he has going in his life walking out the door.
Right now, Sam can't do anything about the demon. He can't stop the strange images from shoving their way into his mind and upending their lives, can't control the powers that he knows are inside of him waiting to burst out and leave devastation in their wake. He can't force Dad to like him, just like he can't make him respect Sam as a hunter, but he can control himself. He can and will nip these weird feelings for his brother in the bud, can smother them now before Dean ever has a chance to learn about this new and horrifying way Sam is finding to be a freak. He can, and he will. He has to.
Because this may be the only thing in their incredibly, amazingly screwed up lives that Sam has any control over, and goddammit, he is not going to fuck it up.
After four hours of following John Winchester's truck down every back country road in southern Colorado, Sam would classify himself as beyond antsy.
"Seriously, where is he leading us?" he snaps again.
"Dunno," Dean grunts, eyes fixed on the windshield.
"I mean, is he just driving in random directions? Or is there some kind of master plan he just doesn't feel like sharing?"
"Dunno," Dean repeats.
Sam huffs.
"Okay, this is too much. I've got to call him," he says for what feels like the tenth time. "Give me my phone."
There's a smirk tugging at Dean's lips now.
"Nah," he says, shifting a little to rub in the fact that he's sitting on Sam's goddamn cell phone, snatched it right out of Sam's fingers around hour two and stuffed it under his ass like he's sixteen and playing keep-away with Sam's homework.
"Come on," Sam complains. "It's not funny anymore. You're being a jerk."
"And you're being a whiny little bitch," Dean tosses back pleasantly.
"I'm serious," Sam tells him. "We're adults. You can't tell me this need-to-know crap doesn't drive you crazy."
"And what is calling him going to accomplish, exactly?" Dean asks, serious now, glaring out the windshield at the asphalt. "Except give you two yet another chance to yell at each other? You know he's gonna clue us in eventually, so just… Keep your head down, would you? Don't go picking fights with the man when you don't have to."
Sam scowls down at his own knees.
It's a familiar admonition, one he's heard said a dozen different ways, ever since he'd started to have problems with Dad as a kid.
"Come on Sam, why'd you have to say that?"
"Do what he says and he won't get mad."
"Just quit pissing him off, would you?"
It may be that easy for Dean, but even then, Sam knew it couldn't work for him. Most days, it felt like he made Dad angry just by existing, and even when he tried with everything he had, he couldn't live up to whatever it was Dad wanted from him. He was never around when Dad needed him, or he was getting in the way. He talked too much, or he was being accused of sulking because wasn't talking enough. He was spending too much time with his head in his books, or he was being lazy. He didn't care enough about the hunt, or he was asking too many damn questions, and there was just no winning, because the problem wasn't what Sam did or didn't do. The problem was Sam. Once he finally figured that out, it had seemed like the best thing to do was drop out of the race entirely. Stop trying and just do things his own way.
Good luck getting Dean to understand that, though. Dean's always known the right things to say to Dad. Dean likes the same music, likes cars, likes hunting, falls into step with Dad as effortlessly as breathing. Dean's a better shot, makes a better soldier.
Dean remembers Mom.
It's not really a surprise that he's the favorite son. And Sam doesn't begrudge Dean for that, he really doesn't. He just wishes his brother wouldn't assume it's as easy for everyone else to stay in their dad's good graces as it is for him.
Truth is, right now, Sam really doesn't give a damn whether he starts a fight or not, and he's certainly not trying to play the good son. That ship sailed a long damn time ago. But if they're going to hunt with Dad, they can't be going in blind. It's too goddamn dangerous, and it's not like Sam hasn't already proven that John's perfectly capable of screwing up.
If it were up to John, they'd still be in that cabin in Chicago waiting for God-knows-what, the Colt would still be picking up dust in Daniel Elkins' safe, and they wouldn't have a single lead on this demon, so if Sam wants to second-guess John's little backwoods tour – or anything John does, at this point – he thinks he should have every right.
Sam starts from his thoughts at the trill of his phone's email alert.
"Hey, give me the phone," he demands quickly, smacking Dean on the arm when he takes too long to lift up.
"Okay, jeez!" Dean says. "Hold on."
Sam shoves a hand under his brother and grabs hold of his cell, ignoring the… interesting faces Dean is making.
"I feel violated," Dean informs him emphatically as Sam hastily taps his stylus against the "Mail" icon.
Sam feels his cheeks heat but ignores it in favor of concentrating on the email from "elcazador69 " in his inbox.
He blinks in confusion when, instead of information about the demon, he's met with a security question prompt.
Question: What's the magic word?
Password: _
He swears and punches in Ash's number, tapping impatiently against the footwell as it rings.
"Y'ello."
"Ash, I got your email, and it's asking me for a password," Sam tells him, groping around in the dash for a pen.
"Ahh, Winchester Numero Uno," Ash drawls. "How's it hanging?"
"Great," Sam says tersely. "Password?"
"Right," Ash says, then adds in a hushed voice. "It's encrypted. Top secret. Password is a Skynrd song, starts with an 'F.' Oh, and there's numbers instead of letters. You should know which ones."
Sam blinks.
"Your password is 'Freebird' in Leet?" he asks slowly.
Dean snorts loudly in the driver's seat.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Ash exclaims. "Don't be sayin' that shit out loud! That is highly sensitive information."
Sam can't stop himself from grinning a little.
"It's okay, Ash. The only person here is Dean, and he's such a Luddite that for all he knows 'Leet' is a dialect of Ancient Sumerian. He's probably the only person left under the age of fifty who buys his porn from a store," Sam tells him, and then adds: "Ow!" as Dean socks him in the arm.
"He's like a CAVEMAN," Sam says loudly as Dean pries the phone out of his hands and puts it on speaker.
"Ash," Dean says in greeting.
"Hey, Winchester Numero Dos! What can I do you for?"
"You—" Dean starts, then says, "Wait, why am I 'Winchester Number Two'?"
"'Cause I'm Number One," Sam tells him with a grin.
Dean glares at him.
"You wanna just tell us what you found while we got you on the line?" he asks Ash.
"Can do," Ash says. "The full work-up's in the mail, but long story short, you wanna find that demon? You're gonna want to get yourselves to Tennessee, pronto."
"Tennessee?"
"Yeah," Ash confirms. "That picture you sent me? It's the Tennessee State Park Association logo. So, I plugged the info into a program I've been working on and came up with a hit on three of your omens up in the mountains outside Knoxville."
"Three omens?" Dean asks, frowning. "Which are?"
There's the sound of a keyboard clacking on the other end.
"Right," Ash says. "Well, first we got your freak weather. The high this time of year's usually around the mid-eighties, but the other day? Full on snowstorm. In July."
"Yeah, in the mountains," Dean adds skeptically, and Sam glares at him.
"True, true, but then you've got to explain away the algae," Ash says.
He pauses significantly while Dean gives Sam a "What the fuck?" look.
"We're seeing a whole mess of lakes and rivers startin' to turn red with it," Ash elaborates. "Nobody knows what's causing it yet. Well, except yours truly, that is."
"And the third one?"
"Yeah, now, that one was hard to track down. Finally found a dude complaining on the Morgan County community message board about how the sheriff can't catch the kids who've been killing his cows. Bam! There's your cattle deaths."
Dean raises an eyebrow.
"That's… not a lot to go on, Ash."
"Not yet," the other man agrees, "but that's three out of six omens popping up in the same state you've got intel on. The laws of probability do not lie, my friend. The rest of those omens are coming. Give it a few days, and it'll be impossible to miss 'em. Then a day or two after that, you'll have another house fire on your hands, I guarantee it. I'd look at this as a head start."
"You're right, Ash," Sam says. "Thanks for your help."
"No problemo," Ash chirps. "I'll keep going through this stuff, shoot you an email if anything else comes up."
"Perfect," Sam tells him. "Man, I'm going to owe you so many orders of chili cheese fries next time we're at the Roadhouse."
"Hell yeah, you will," Ash says, grin evident in his voice. "Later."
He hangs up with a click, and Sam tugs his phone out of Dean's hand. He exits out of his email and starts typing in numbers.
"What're you doing?" Dean asks suspiciously.
"What do you think? I'm calling Dad to tell him we've got to go to Tennessee."
"Okay, hold up a second," Dean says, making a grab for the phone.
"'Hold up a second'?!" Sam parrots incredulously. "You heard Ash. We know where this thing is!"
"Based on what, exactly? A couple of dead cows, some snow, and algae? It's not exactly conclusive evidence, Sammy."
"What are you talking about?" Sam furrows his brow. "We know what's going to happen! I saw it!"
"That's my point, Sam!" Dean exclaims. "You had a vision! And outside of that, our proof is pretty damn flimsy!"
Sam stares at him, trying to process.
"So, what, you're worried Dad's not going to buy it?" he asks.
"I'm worried he's gonna be asking you when you found the time to figure out all of this crap and what makes you so sure this isn't just another wild goose chase," Dean tells him.
Sam wants to argue that the trip to Colorado wasn't a wild good chase at all, but yeah, fair. It's not like Dad knows that.
"He's just going to have to trust me," he says, sounding weak to even his own ears.
"Yeah, okay," Dean scoffs, and Sam can't say he disagrees with him.
He sighs, rubbing his fingers against the bridge of his nose.
"You're right," he says reluctantly. "I'm going to have to tell him about the visions."
"What?!" Dean starts and slams his foot on the brake, sending them both jolting forward.
Sam grunts as the seat belt catches him solidly, digging a deep groove in his hips.
"Dean, what the hell?!"
His brother looks about as surprised as Sam feels. He presses his foot to the gas again slowly and clears his throat.
"That's not what I'm saying," he says with an air of forced calm. "You didn't want him to know about those, right? We decided we weren't going to mention them to him."
Sam feels like he's missed a few steps somewhere.
"We… didn't decide anything, actually," he says slowly. "I mean, yeah, I'd rather not have anyone know if I can help it, and I know he's gonna be pissed we didn't tell him in the first place, but I don't really see another choice here. People are going to die."
Dean pinches his eyes shut.
"I know, I know, just—" he breathes out through his nose. "I don't think telling him's a good idea."
Sam stares, uncomprehending.
"Why? What, do you know something I don't know?" he asks, then seeing Dean's expression, "Did he say something?"
Dean's face falters for half a second, but that's all Sam needs.
"He did say something, didn't he?" he demands. "About me? About my powers? Is that why you've been acting so weird?"
"You've been… weird," Dean returns lamely, eyes shifting all over the car.
"Ugh, I should have known!" Sam exclaims, fighting the urge to smack himself in the forehead. "You had yourself closed up in the bathroom when I got back last night! And the hug? God, I'm an idiot."
Dean grimaces, still half-trying to play dumb.
"What did he say?!" Sam presses.
"Nothing!" Dean exclaims, and then, apparently noting Sam's Hellfire expression, adds: "He just- He knew about that stuff in Lawrence. I don't know how, 'cause I sure as hell didn't tell him! He wanted to know if it was still just feelings or, you know, something else."
"But you don't want me to tell him about the visions, so you…" Sam trails off, eyes going wide. "Dean, did you lie to Dad?"
Guilty silence.
"Oh my God, you did! You lied to Dad! You?!" Sam bursts out. "Dean, what the hell were you thinking?!"
"Hey, it's not like you were all gung-ho to let the man know you've got the Shining!" Dean defends.
"Yeah, but I didn't lie about it, either! God, we are screwed! How are we supposed to keep hiding this? The visions are all connected to that demon. We're hunting it, Dean!"
"I know, okay?" Dean snaps. "But you weren't there! You don't know…"
"What?" Sam asks, dread pooling in his stomach. "Did he say something else?"
"No," Dean says quickly. "No, I just- I got the feeling it would be better not to clue him in on this one. That's all."
"Because he thinks it's bad," Sam finishes hollowly. "Because he was asking about it like a hunter."
Dean shakes his head.
"Dad's not going to hunt you," he says firmly. "This kind of crap just freaks him out, you know that."
Why doesn't Sam believe that it's quite that simple?
"Look," Dean starts, "I trusted you on the gun thing. You gotta back me on this one, okay?"
Sam thinks about that for a moment, brow furrowed.
"Okay?" Dean prompts.
"Yeah," Sam agrees, reluctantly. "But then how exactly are we going to convince him to drive out to Tennessee. Like you said, without the visions, we don't have much of a leg to stand on."
"I'll make it happen," Dean nods firmly, all Big Brother spine, jaw set tight.
Sam bites his bottom lip and hands him the phone.
"Okay," he says. "Make it happen."