Thank you so much Shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod for beta'ing and VegasGranny and Ncsupnatfan for pre-reading.

Chapter Sixteen

Sam worked for the rest of that day on moving the pillow, throwing it around the room with increasing ease.

It was exhausting but satisfying, though his head was pounding by the time he left Clark's room and went to Mary's to find his family reading journals and talking. Mary took one look at him and instructed him to go to bed until dinner. No energy to argue, Sam obeyed, and only dragged himself up again two hours later to dull the growling in his stomach that his vending machine lunch with Clark hadn't stifled.

He crashed again soon after they got back to the motel, and woke the next morning feeling energized and hopeful for what he was going to do next. With the achievement of his progress the day before, he was feeling positive about his training, as if he was finally doing something that really mattered. He could turn telekinesis into an offensive weapon that could help. He couldn't do that with visions.

He still didn't tell Mary and Dean what he had been doing though. When they asked, he just assured them it was going well and changed the subject. He knew they would support him and what he was doing with Clark, but that was because they loved him and Missouri's warnings about his powers being stifled hurting him was still in their thoughts. He didn't want them really seeing what he was capable of. It was too far from normal.

When he left them after breakfast and walked to Clark's room, their words of encouragement followed him.

Clark looked tired when he opened the door and gestured Sam in. The room smelled of stale smoke, and Sam saw there was an almost empty bottle of whiskey on the table.

"Sit," Clark instructed. "We need to get to work."

Sam expected him to put the pillow on the bed again, ready for Sam to start, but he didn't. Instead he took a book out of his duffel and dropped it onto the table. "Pick it up," he instructed.

"I'm not moving it?" Sam asked.

"No, we're trying something different today. You've got the basics of telekinesis down, so you can work on that alone. I want to try you out with psychometry. This should be easier as it's rooted in the visions you already have. You're just flipping it on its head. You're seeing what came before not what's to come."

"I've seen things that are already happening, too," Sam said. "I saw my friends in real time, and my concentration broke when I saw them calling me. My phone rang at the same time."

Clark raised an eyebrow. "That's pretty impressive. You've got a better handle on it than I thought. Or maybe it's just rooted deeper than I realized." He shrugged. "Whatever. It will help you to do this. Pick it up."

Sam picked up the book and held it in both hands, feeling the creases in the cover and the paper that warmed against his touch.

"What do I have to do?" he asked. "Do I have to get angry again?"

"Do you for a vision?"

"No. That's more about calming myself."

"Then we'll start with that. Go ahead."

Instead of slowing as Sam tried to calm himself, his heart began to increase its pace with anxiety. Calm could mean drifting thoughts and that meant Jessica.

He had sworn he would keep trying, even deal with his grief it if came, but he was nervous about it. He didn't want that kind of pain, not while there was so much more to concentrate on. If he was crippled by grief, he wasn't going to be able to commit himself to what he was doing with Clark.

"What's wrong?" Clark said. "You've gone all muddy again."

"I'm just nervous," Sam said.

"You don't need to be. This book is mine, and there's nothing that you're going to see that will hurt you. I chose it carefully. You're most likely to see me reading it in college which will be a nice and safe first try. And boring."

Sam nodded and tried to relax again. He concentrated on the way his muscles felt, hard as rocks, and tried to relax them one by one. When they felt suitably soft, he turned his attention to his breaths. They were coming too fast though. He had nothing to measure them against and lock onto. The last time he'd done this, when waiting for a vision, he'd used Dean's breaths to regulate his own, but he didn't want to ask Clark to do that. If felt too intimate.

"Okay, stop for a moment," Clark said, his irritation obvious. "What's the problem?"

"I'm not sure what I'm looking for," Sam said.

Clark blew out a frustrated breath. "What does it feel like when you have a vision?"

"I get a headache, and I see an aura around objects. There's a kind of tingling on my scar."

"And do you feel that now?"

Sam drew his attention in for a moment and assessed what he felt. "I feel something. My headache is building, and there's definitely an aura. My arm feels normal though."

"So it's trying," Clark said thoughtfully. "Your gift wants to see. What do you have to do to open yourself to it?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I need to breathe. Dean helped last time."

Clark rolled his eyes. "Then ask him to help again. Give him a call." His eyes brightened. "Get him to bring one of those books they spend all their time reading, an old one. That will have more memories for you to connect to."

Sam bit his lip. He wasn't sure he wanted Dean to see this. It was another power. It wasn't the same as being able to make things fly around the room, but it was still different. Did he want Dean seeing this?

"If you don't call him, I'll go get them both," Clark said.

"No," Sam said quickly. "I'll call."

It was bad enough that Dean would have to see, but he didn't want his mother watching, too. And he didn't think it would help him relax knowing there was more of an audience that was necessary.

He took his phone from his pocket and hit speed dial.

Dean answered quickly, his tone confused, "Sammy, you okay?"

"Yeah. Can you come here for a minute? I need you to do something. And bring one of the journals, an old one."

"What's going on?"

"I'll tell you when you get here."

"Should I bring Mom?"

"No, it's okay," Sam said, his voice modulated carefully so as not to show the strain. "I just need you."

"Be right there."

The call disconnected and Sam tucked his phone back into his pocket. "He's coming."

"Good," Clark said with satisfaction. "Let's see what this self-sacrificing bond can do for you." He quirked an eyebrow. "Your mom's not coming though."

Sam shook his head. "I only need Dean for this."

"Probably a good idea," Clark said. "Your mother isn't exactly a soothing person." He looked intently at Sam. "It's all about the aura."

Sam knew he wanted him to ask more, sure that there was some hidden message behind his words, but he didn't want to examine it and so didn't answer.

He got to his feet and went to open the door to wait for Dean. He heard him coming, his footsteps were fast, and when he reached him, his eyes were worried.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Sam said, gesturing him in and closing the door behind him. "I just need your help again."

"Hello, Dean," Clark said, managing to make the greeting sound threatening.

Dean stiffened. "Hey, asshole."

"Quit it, both of you!" Sam commanded.

Clark grinned. "Sorry, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he growled, knowing Clark was only using the nickname to bother Dean. He hadn't called him Sammy once when they'd been alone.

It was obviously working as Dean's free hand curled into a fist and his fingers dug into the cover of the book he'd brought with him.

Sam tugged the book out of his grip and said, "Sit on the bed, Dean. I need to breathe with you again."

"Cozy," Clark said snidely.

Sam glared at him. "Do you want this to work?"

Clark rolled his eyes. "Well, duh."

"Then stop making it so hard for me to relax."

Dean shot Clark a smug smile and sat on the bed, his leg curled on the blanket so he could face Sam.

Sam took his seat opposite him and placed his hand on Dean's chest. "Just like last time," he said.

"You're going for a vision again?" Dean asked.

"Not exactly," Sam said. "I'm trying to see the past. I'll explain later."

"It's psychokinesis," Clark said. "He's trying to tap into the memories attached to that book. Now be quiet while your brother concentrates." His voice became serious. "Close your eyes, Sam, and reach for it. Tell me what you feel?"

Sam pressed his hand tighter to Dean's chest, feeling it move in and out slowly as Dean's exaggerated his breaths. After a moment, Dean put his hand over Sam's and patted it. "I got you, Sammy."

Sam nodded and tried to clear his mind. It was like the power had been waiting for him to tap into it, as if the book wanted to be seen. Pain built behind his eyes and his scar tingled like it was being tickled by a coarse brush.

"It's coming," he said, his voice distant to his own ears. "I can feel it."

"Good," Clark said. "What can you smell?"

Sam drew in a deep breath, inhaling the smell of smoke, and then something new came. The smoke changed. It was more like the cheroots Jessica's artist friend smoked instead of Clark's Marlboro. There was also the smell of whiskey and something Sam thought was sage. There was also a different scent, something bitter he didn't recognize.

"I can smell everything," Sam said quietly.

"Good," Clark said, his voice echoing. "What can you feel?"

"I'm cold." Sam shivered as the chill registered.

"Now open your eyes."

Sam obeyed and found himself in a small shack with wooden walls that was lit by a dim oil lamp on a table. The oil lamp was the least remarkable part of the scene, even though it told Sam he was far away in time from the motel he was physically in. There was a man sitting at the table, wearing a faded brown shirt and black neckerchief. His face was lined, but Sam didn't think it was just age. It looked more like hard living that had changed him.

He was polishing a gun with a swatch of leather, a very old gun. Sam knew less about weapons than Mary or Dean, much less than Bobby, but this gun had to looked like it had come from frontier days. It would have looked old even in one of Dean's favorite westerns.

The man set the leather swatch down and ran his finger over the engravings on the barrel. Sam moved closer and saw that, as well as the careful etchings, there were words on the barrel. He squinted at them in the dim light and saw they spelled out Non Timebo Mala. He felt a lurch in his stomach. He thought he knew what gun this was.

The man set down the gun and pulled over a bowl to him. In it he tipped a dribble of water from a silver flask, and shook what Sam recognized as sage leaves and something brown from a small, glass bottle. He swirled the bowl to mix the ingredients then took out a small leather bag from his drawer and tipped thirteen bullets into the bowl.

He murmured in Latin, "Signum est imitandum. Signum est imitandum." and swirled them again. After a moment of staring into the bowl with a look of intense concentration, he picked them out one by one and put them into a wooden case with separate compartments for each bullet. The last, with a number one carved into it, he loaded into the gun and aimed at Sam.

Sam cried out in shock and stumbled back, lifting his hands, thinking the man could see him and was going to shoot, but he looked through him and smiled grimly.

"It's not going to work."

The voice came from behind Sam and he spun on his heel then lurched to the side. He had seen grotesque pictures in Bobby's books on demonology, but he had never seen a real one. It looked like an ordinary man, his clothes tattered, but its black eyes denoted his true form. It was a demon.

Its arms were raised above him and its wrists tied by a rope that hung from a beam in the ceiling. The rope seemed to have burned its wrists, and Sam saw water dripping down from the knots to the demon's arms, leaving smoking burns in its wake. The rope had been soaked in holy water.

"It's not going to work," the demon said again. "Nothing you can make can kill me."

"Maybe not," the man said. "Let's find out."

He pulled back the hammer and Sam saw his finger start to squeeze the trigger. There was a loud bang and the demon was swinging back in his suspended position, a wound appearing in the center of its forehead. Light crackled around the wound and then spread over its whole body, jolting it as it flashed.

When it stilled, the last spark dying, the man walked forward and prodded the demon's body so it swung from the ropes. He smiled slightly and said, "I guess it works."

An ax of pain cleaved Sam's head and he gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. He heard a voice saying his name, but he couldn't respond for a moment. He was bowed over with his head in his hands, sliding toward the floor. Someone caught his shoulders and held him up.

"Dean?" Sam asked weakly.

"Yeah, I'm here," Dean said, his voice tense. "I'm guessing it worked."

Sam nodded and groaned. He sat further onto the bed and opened his eyes. Dean was squatting in front of him, his hands on Sam's shoulders. When he saw Sam was steady, he pulled out his phone and said tersely, "You need to come. It's Sam," before dropping the phone down onto the bed and gripping Sam's shoulders. "Mom's coming. Do you need to lie down?"

"No," Sam panted. "It's getting better already." That was a lie, if anything the pain was building, but Sam wasn't going to lie down like an invalid with Clark watching.

He breathed through the pain for a moment, feeling it slowly start to recede from unbearable agony to manageable, and then winced as someone hammered on the door.

Clark opened it and Mary rushed in. "Sam!" she said, her voice strained as she crossed the room and sat beside him, her arm curling around his shoulders and pulling him close. He leaned against her, taking comfort in her embrace and warmth, and then straightened up and looked at Clark who was watching him with an intense look on his face.

"What did you see?" he asked.

If Sam had not been in so much pain, he would perhaps have been more wary of what he said, but he was reckless as he bent to pick up the book again and open the front page to check the name. It was as he'd suspected, the copperplate script spelling out the name, Samuel Colt. "I just saw Samuel Colt" he said, handing the journal to his mother.

She gasped and blinked at the name, as if not sure she was really seeing it properly.

"That's his?" Dean gaped at Sam for a moment and then grabbed the journal out of his mother's hands and ran his finger over the name reverently.

"The gunmaker?" Clark asked.

"Yes," Sam said.

Clark's eyes became intense but Sam missed it as he tried to breathe through a particularly brutal spike of pain.

"Did you see the gun?" Mary asked.

Sam drew a deep breath. "I saw him using it." He dug his fingertips into his temples. "It worked."

Mary drew a shaky breath and Dean made a sound of triumph that pierced Sam's head.

Clark leaned back in his seat. "That was a pretty big slice of history you got there, Sammy."

Sam scowled at him, knowing he was needling Dean on purpose again.

Dean stiffened. "Let's get you back to the room, Sammy. You need to lie down and you need painkillers."

"In a minute," Sam said, not sure he could even walk yet. "I need to tell you what I saw."

"It can wait," Dean said, shooting a pointed look at Clark.

Clark laughed. "You don't think I've heard enough already? You don't think I already know what this means. You've been searching up those books, looking for the Colt! I didn't even think it was real." He fixed his eyes on Sam. "It really worked?"

Sam nodded. "I think so."

Clark leaned forward and snatched the journal out of Dean's hands. Dean grabbed at it, but Clark pulled it away and his eyes became distant. Sam knew he was seeing what Sam had seen. When his eyes focused again, a look of almost greedy pleasure spread across his features. "I need that gun."

"We need it more," Mary said as Dean glared at him.

Clark laughed and the sound made Sam's head pound so hard he groaned.

"Enough," Mary said firmly. "We can talk about it later. Sam, you need to rest."

"You can't run from this," Clark said. "I'm getting that gun."

Dean's hands fisted. "We're getting it. You can watch."

"Stop," Sam said weakly. "Later."

Clark nodded stiffly. "Later then. Come back in a few hours, Sam. We need to talk."

"Tomorrow," Mary said. "Sam needs more than a few hours rest."

"I'll come back," Sam said.

"We will all come back," Dean said.

Clark shrugged. "If you like. Just make sure you do. If you don't, the race is on. Don't think you can run on me. I'll be watching."

Dean jumped to his feet and grabbed the journal out of his hand. He held it against his chest.

"We'll be here," Sam said. "I promise."

He got to his feet and tested his balance before staggering across the room to the door. This use of his power had debilitated him more than anything he had do before, and he felt weakened and vulnerable.

"I'll be waiting, Sammy." Clark said, making it sound like a threat.

Sam nodded and stepped out of the door Mary was holding open for him. He would go back and they would work something out. They had to. Sam needed Clark to train him. That vision or whatever they called it was intense and it had shown him something incredible, but it had also opened his eyes.

The Colt was real, it existed and worked, and they needed to find it. If it took a deal with Clark to find it, he would make sure a deal was made. Sam had a feeling they needed him to find it now. There had to be a reason Dean had brought that journal instead of any other. It was fate that had shown him that memory. And if fate was showing him that with the power Clark was training him in, maybe fate was also telling him it would take them all to find it.

So… Sam saw the Colt being used for the first time. I enjoyed writing that scene, giving Sam a real slice of history to see, and hope you enjoyed reading it.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx