Thank you so much Shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod for the awesome beta job and VegasGranny and Ncsupnatfan for being fabulous pre-readers.
Chapter Eighteen
Clark huffed in frustration, "You can do this, Sam. You've just got to calm down."
Sam's hands fisted. Did Clark really think that was helping? Telling Sam to calm down was having the opposite effect. He was trying to relax himself, to let go of his tension, but he was wound too tight.
"I need Dean."
"No, you need you," Clark said. "You've got to learn to do this alone. You can't rely on Dean being there to hold your hand every time you want to calm down. There is no danger; I am here to protect you. All you need to do is breathe and let go."
Sam forced his hands to unclench and tried to relax his locked muscles. He knew Clark was right, Dean wouldn't always be there with him, but he couldn't calm his breaths enough to focus on anything else.
Clark wanted him to try astral projection, something he said was going to be among the hardest thing they'd ever done as he had to reach a complete calm to achieve it at first, but Sam was as far from calm as it was possible to be. He was tired and overwhelmed, and frustrated that Clark didn't understand that it would be so much easier if Dean was there.
He hadn't slept well the night before. Perhaps it was because he had spent the night in unsatisfying dreams in which he wandered around a cemetery searching for something.
It would be easy to dismiss it as a dream born of the tension he felt during the day and the information overload of the vision of Samuel Colt, but he knew that wasn't it as he knew what he had been looking for and where. He had been wandering the cemetery in Sacramento, searching for Jessica's grave. He knew if he could find her grave, he would find her, but it was as if the wooden marker at her grave was gone completely. No matter how many graves he checked, it was never hers. He felt like there was something he was missing, as if she was waiting for him there, even though he knew it was impossible.
"Take a breath, Sam," Clark said in a bored voice.
Sam obeyed, but it was shaky and didn't feel like it was filling his lungs properly.
"I need Dean," he said again.
He knew it was wrong to want him. Dean and Mary were busy searching through the boxes of journals for more from Samuel Colt. The one Sam had seen was from 1835 and it had been more personal than a hunter's journal. It had been his own recollections kept for himself, and they believed there was going to be one for each year of his long life.
Sam shouldn't take Dean away from that, but he needed him.
Clark sighed and got to his feet. "Fine," he snapped. "You sit there and breathe like a landed fish and I'll get what you need."
"Dean?" Sam asked, ashamed of the hopeful note in his voice.
Clark didn't answer. He yanked open the door and then let it slam behind him when he'd gone through it.
Sam felt his breaths coming calmer now that he knew that his brother was going to be there soon. It wasn't right and he shouldn't allow himself to become dependent on Dean's help, but perhaps just this one time, the first time, he needed him.
The door flew open again and Clark stomped into the room followed by Dean. Clark threw himself into a chair and Dean came straight to Sam.
"You okay, Sammy?" he asked, worry making lines on his forehead. "Clark said you needed me."
"He needs you to hold his hand," Clark said scathingly.
Dean nodded. "Okay. Sure."
He sat down on the bed and waited for Sam to join him, angling himself so they were facing each other. Clark lit a cigarette and threw open the window.
"You do know Sam had pneumonia, right?" Dean asked, his irritation obvious as he glowered at Clark.
Clark blew a cloud of smoke toward the window and said, "Why else would I be freezing my ass off here just so I can have a smoke. Get on with it. Help your brother."
"I'll just text mom and tell her where I am," Dean said, pulling out his phone. "She's gone to the store. We're out of coffee." His thumbs flew over the phone as he typed out a message and then he set it down and said, "Okay. I'm ready."
Sam placed his hand on Dean's chest, feeling the wash of calm already as his breaths slowed to match Dean's slow and regular ones.
"Perfect," Clark said, annoyance dripping from the word. "Now you're yellow."
"Shut up, Clark," Sam said mildly. "Tell me what to do."
"You just need to let go," Clark said. "With what you've handled so far and what's under the surface, this should be easy for you now that you're nice and chilled."
"How do I let go?" Sam asked.
"Good question. Think of who you want to see and reach for them. Don't use words. Just picture a face. Let them draw you to them. As long as you stay focused, you should reach them."
Sam closed his eyes and fixed his mother's face in his mind. His head began to swim and his hand pressed harder onto Dean's chest, steadying himself, and he willed himself to move.
"Mom," he said quietly.
"No words," Clark said irritably and Sam's eyes flew open. "Words ground you. You need to think of her face. Imagine you never learned words or names. All you have is faces."
"That sounds easy," Dean said sarcastically.
"Be quiet, hand-holder," Clark snapped. "Your job is just to help him relax. Try again, Sam."
Sam closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his mother. He saw her appear, her hair around her face, and her grey eyes fixed on him.
"You can do this, Sam," Clark said, his words seeming to come from a distance.
Sam felt pressure against his hand and Dean said, "You've got this."
Sam felt a dizzying rush and then he was rising up. It was just like when Clark took him to see his mother and Dean. He was looking down on the room. He and Dean sat facing each other on the bed. Dean's hand was holding Sam's to his chest, and his eyes were worried as they fixed on Sam's face. Clark was in the chair, blowing a stream of smoke into the room and smiling smugly.
"He's got it," he said with satisfaction.
Sam floated over them for a moment and then he felt something pulling at him. He allowed himself to be drawn out of the room and outside. He saw the wind blowing trash across the parking lot, but he didn't feel it. He felt nothing physically at all. The sensation of touch had been left behind with his body.
He passed over the rooms quickly, drawn forward, and came to the other side of the motel where Mary's Jeep was just pulling to a stop beside the Impala. She grabbed a bag of groceries from the seat beside her and climbed out. She let herself into her room and set her bag down on the bed. Her phone was sitting on the table, and when her eyes fell on it, she said something inaudible and checked the screen. She frowned as she opened the message and then her eyes tightened and she rushed out of the room.
Sam was drawn after her as she strode quickly around the motel to Clark's room and knocked roughly on the door. It was opened by Clark who rolled his eyes and said, "They're busy. Leave them alone."
Mary pushed past him and into the room. Her eyes fell on Sam and she looked scared. "What's wrong with him?"
"He's okay, Mom," Dean said. "He's trying something new."
Mary didn't seem reassured. She crossed to the bed and reached for Sam, ignoring Clark's harsh command, "Don't touch him. You're going to screw it up."
Mary pressed her hand to Sam's cheek and she said, "Sammy, can you hear me?"
Sam felt himself being yanked forward and then he was drawing a gasping breath, back in his body with Mary's chilled hand on his cheek. His head began to pound and he squeezed his eyes shut again against the light.
He felt Dean's hand move to this shoulder and he heard the window slam closed and then the swish of drapes being drawn before Clark said, "Okay, Sammy, you can look."
Sam opened his eyes and blinked into the dim light that was coming through the drapes.
"How did that feel?" Clark asked.
He pressed his fingers to his temple. "It hurts now."
"Obviously, but how did it feel when you were doing it?"
Sam smiled slightly. "Pretty cool."
"How far did you go?"
"Only to Mom's room."
"You'll go further," Clark said confidently. "Distance is no object when you're looking for a place or person."
"It looked freaky," Dean said, his hand squeezing Sam's shoulder and then dropping to his side. "It's like you weren't even breathing. You were just… gone."
"He was," Clark said happily. "Pretty damn well for the first time, too. He sustained it until you interrupted." He scowled at Mary.
"I'm sorry," Mary said sardonically. "Maybe if you had a son that you saw not breathing, you'd be a little worried, too."
Clark shrugged. "You're going to be pretty awesome, Sammy, given enough practice. I can't wait to see what else you've got in that head of yours."
Sam flinched as a particularly hard pulse of pain throbbed in his head. "Is it in my mind?" he asked. "I mean, where exactly do these powers come from?"
"Good question," Clark said, grinning as all eyes fixed on him. "The gift itself is in your soul, but it's your mind that controls it. That's why it gives you a headache when you do it."
"But it won't always hurt?" Mary asked.
"No, it'll be easier with time. It would be a lot better if there wasn't the battle going on at the same time."
Not wanting Clark to start talking about how it was something in Sam's blood that was wrong, that something tainted him, he said, "I want to try again."
"Sure, go ahead," Clark said. "But alone this time. No hand-holding. You know you can do it now, so do it."
Sam glared at him, knowing Clark was pushing him too hard intentionally, and then closed his eyes and tried to relax himself. He knew within less than a minute that it was pointless. He couldn't do it. He could feel Dean shifting restlessly beside him, making the bed move, and he knew that if he could just use Dean, he would be able to do it. He felt the bed move again and his eyes opened to see Mary had taken a seat on his other side. She gave him an encouraging smile and Sam closed his eyes again.
He tried to focus on the fact that they were close to calm himself, but his breaths still came to fast and his head throbbed.
"Okay, don't bother," Clark said tiredly. "You're not going to be able to do it like that."
"Why not?" Mary asked as Sam looked at him, sure he knew the answer already.
"Because he's got a crappy muddy aura, and that's not going to help."
"He's in pain," Mary said defensively.
Clark shrugged. "Then he'd better go lie down." He looked at Sam. "Go now and get rid of that headache. I'll come get you when it's time to try again."
Relived but feeling guilty, Sam got up and moved to the door. Mary and Dean stood to follow him, but Clark said, "You two can wait. I want to talk to you."
"What about?" Sam asked suspiciously.
"Your surprise well-done-on-building-your-psychic-powers party," Clark said and clapped a hand to his face. "Damn. I guess it's not a surprise anymore. Oh well. Leave us to plan the theme at least. You can't know everything about it."
Sam narrowed his eyes at him. "What are you doing, Clark?"
"Talking about you not to you, Sammy. Go lie down before you drop."
His words were accompanied by his fist hitting the table which made Sam's head pound.
He didn't think leaving Clark and Dean alone with only Mary to referee was a good idea, and he wanted to know what they were going to talk about—he was sure it really was going to be about him—but his head was throbbing with his pulse and the lure of lying down in darkness was too tempting to refuse.
Assuring himself that Mary and Dean would tell him whatever it was Clark said later, he grabbed his coat from the bed and pulled it on and then made for the door.
xXx
Sam was waiting for something. He wasn't sure what, but it felt important, and he was pacing back and forth. He couldn't tell where he was as the light was too dim. He could just see a few feet in front of him before the darkness blocked it out. Looking down he could see that he was standing on wooden floorboards, though, and he was wearing his favorite Stanford hoodie. It was the first time he'd seen it in weeks as it had burned in the fire along with everything else.
He was vaguely aware that he was dreaming, but it didn't seem to matter as if it felt so real, like a vision dream. There was no sense of danger though. It was more like one of the waking visions he'd had when he saw things that should upset him but merely made him feel bad and confused that he didn't feel.
Just when Sam was starting to wish he could wake up or move onto a different dream, the darkness around him began to lift and he realized where he was, what he had missed before. The floorboards he had walked on should have been recognized at once as they were his own—at least they had been.
He was in his apartment's living room.
Behind him was the couch that he'd gotten from a friend's brother and had taken six of them to get into the apartment. In front of him was the coffee table, and on it were the notes he'd been studying for his interview. Beside it was the empty coffee cup, exactly where he'd left it when Jessica had announced it was time to stop studying for something he was going to rock anyway and go to Scotty's. Jessica's sketchbook was on the table with a box of charcoals, and a barely started sketch was left in the process of forming on the page. Sam couldn't tell what it was going to be yet. The air smelled like Jessica's perfume and the coffee that Sam had brewed for his study session.
It felt like a vision dream, but it couldn't be. This apartment was a charred shell now, everything they had kept and treasured there was gone up in flames. But it felt so real.
"Hey, Baby."
The voice made Sam's heart stutter and his breath freeze on an exhale.
This couldn't be a vision, as the owner of that voice was dead.
He turned slowly and Sam saw Jessica standing in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a red dress Sam recognized, and the short leather jacket she wore was one Sam had brought for her himself after seeing her lingering over it in the mall. It had cost more of his scholarship money than he should have spent, but she had been so happy with it.
In her ears were the diamond studs her parents had brought for her as a high school graduation present. She had been looking for them only a few days before she died, wanting to 'class up' her Halloween outfit. Sam had said there was no way to class up a sexy nurse's outfit with that short a skirt, and she'd laughed at him. Her hair was flowing around her face. She could have stepped out of the memory Sam had of their reunion dinner after Sam had come back from his summer visit to Sioux Falls.
He took in each detail in the moment of seeing her before his locked muscles could relax enough for him to exhale, and it wasn't until she had crossed the room and stopped in front of him that he gasped oxygen into his lungs again.
"Jess," he whispered.
She smiled, her beautiful face lighting up. "I missed you."
"This can't be real."
"Why can't it be real?" she asked softly.
"Because…" Sam felt tears burn his eyes and slip down his cheeks, hot against his skin. "I'm sorry."
"Shhh," she soothed. "It's okay."
"I should have known," Sam said. "I should have saved you."
She frowned. "How could you have known?"
Sam shook his head and looked away, he couldn't bear to tell just how guilty he was, not when she was here now.
"You tried to save me," she said. "I saw. It was too late though, and you couldn't reach. Then the fire came, and you didn't stand a chance." She bit her lip. "I saw what happened after. You wanted to stay with me, didn't you?"
"Always," Sam said fervently.
Her eyes became sad. "That's not what I meant. You wanted to die."
"I did. I couldn't bear to be without you."
She smiled the beautiful, blissful smile he had always loved most. "I love you, too. I always will."
"I love you," Sam said fervently.
He didn't doubt that. Even when he had felt nothing at all, he had known he had loved her and he remembered how all-consuming that felt. Now, faced with her, he felt it all again. It was like a swelling in his chest, as if his heart was finally filling working right again, really pumping the life-giving blood.
"Jess," he said, savoring the word on his tongue.
She stepped closer and stared into his eyes. "Sam…"
Sam felt wetness on his face and his eyes burned. He was crying for her. For the first time since he had stood in that burning room, his tears were for her. It felt like too much and not enough all at once.
"Shh," she soothed. "I'm here now. I have been waiting for you for a long time. I thought you were never going to let me in."
Sam pulled back and looked at her. "You've been waiting for me?"
"I've been trying so hard," she said.
"But you're dead," Sam said.
"I am. But does it have to end there?"
"Are you a ghost?" Sam asked.
"I'm not sure what I am. Do I look like a ghost?" When Sam didn't answer, she smiled and said, "Why does it matter. I'm here. You're here."
"You are," Sam said, his voice weak. "I am."
He didn't realize how much he had needed it until she was there. Now he felt the absolute peace that she had always brought him. He felt the swell of love that she had always incited.
"I love you," he said again. "I love you so much." He raised his hand and then dropped it to his side again. He wanted to touch her, but he wasn't sure he could. If his hand was to move through her, it would break his heart.
She lifted her hand to his face, but just before it made contact, there was a thumping sound that jarred through Sam.
"What is that?" he asked.
"I don't know." She bit her lip. "I think someone's coming. You're going." She began to walk backward, away from him.
"No, Jess! Come back!" he cried.
"I will be waiting," she said, her voice weak with distance. "You have to come to me."
"I will," Sam promised. "I'll find you again."
If she replied, it was lost in the thumping on the door, and Sam's eyes flew open to the grey-white of the ceiling in his and Dean's motel room. The thumping came again, and Sam realized it was someone hammering on the door.
So… Whoever is hammering on the door has a lot to answer for, right? ;-) The Jessica dream was supposed to come earlier in the story, but I realized it wasn't quite time and Sam agreed. It had to wait until now.
Until next time…
Clowns or Midgets xxx