Thank you so much ShadowHuntingDauntlessDemigod for beta'ing, and Ncsupnatfan and VegasGranny for pre-reading. This story wouldn't be worth much without the input of those amazing ladies.
Chapter One
A shout ripped Dean from sleep, and he bolted out of bed and stared around the room, his hands curled into fists and his heart racing. He was poised to defend or attack, whichever was needed, but there was no one there. The only activity in the room was Sam tossing and turning under his blankets.
He realized what had happened as Sam cried out again. "Jess!"
It was not the first time it had happened, and Dean was sure it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't even the first time that night; Sam had woken him in the early hours as he shouted his way through a nightmare.
Dean's fisted hands relaxed, and he rubbed them over his face, weariness making the movements slow and uncoordinated. He was exhausted. In the two weeks since they'd arrived home after bringing Sam back from Sacramento, the nights had all passed like this.
It wasn't just the nights that wore Dean down though. There was only so much time he could spend watching his brother suffer before he started to break, too, and hiding that took all his remaining energy.
They had all known that when the grief finally hit Sam it was going to be bad, but Dean had not imagined this. Sam's nightmares were probably the easiest part of it to handle. It was during the day when Sam could not or would not accept comfort that it was hardest.
"No, Clark, don't! No! Jess!"
Dean closed his eyes a moment and then crossed the room to his brother's side and shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Sam. You're having a nightmare."
Sam jostled but did not wake, and with a heavy heart, Dean shook him again, digging his fingers into Sam's flesh.
Sam's eyes flew open and roved the room. "Jess?"
Dean released him, knowing the touch was unwanted now he was awake to feel it, swallowed down his own feelings about that, and said, "No, Sammy. It's just me."
Sam looked at him, his eyes confused, and murmured, "Dean?"
"Yeah, I'm here. You okay?"
Sam blinked up at him for a moment, his pain showing in the tense set of his jaw and wet eyes, and then he swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and sat up.
"I'm fine."
Dean had expected the answer; it was the one that he always got now, and he hated it. He wanted to help. "You want first shower?" he asked, grappling for something normal to take away the stress of what had passed.
"No, you go ahead."
Dean watched him for a moment, wondering if there was some form of comfort he could offer that would work where none had before, but he couldn't think of anything. Sam never wanted to talk about it, he didn't want to be touched, he didn't want their words of assurance.
He took clean clothes from the dresser and carried them through to the bathroom with murmured over his shoulder to Sam, "I won't take long."
Sam made no response, and Dean didn't look back to see if his words had penetrated Sam's thoughts. They probably hadn't; they rarely did. If the pattern of the past weeks held, Sam would want space now to work through his pain alone. Not that it ever seemed to help him.
In the bathroom, Dean set the shower to running and used the toilet while the water temperature regulated itself. The plumbing in the farmhouse was old and you had to deal with its contrary ways if you weren't willing to be scalded or frozen by rushing. When the water was right, Dean stripped off his clothes and stepped under it, letting it loosen his tense muscles and wash away the last of his drowsiness after another broken night's sleep.
He shampooed his hair and soaped up, making the movements slow so as to give himself a little time before going back to the bedroom where Sam would probably still be sitting on the edge of his bed, lost in his pain. That would be hard to deal with but familiar. What was perhaps worse was going downstairs and reporting to his mother and Bobby that they'd had yet another restless night. Mary always seemed so hopeful that things would be better. Dean understood it, she was wishing for improvement, but he felt like an asshole when he had to disappoint her again.
When he was clean and feeling that it would be unfair to deny Sam the use of the shower any longer, he shut off the water and stepped out. He dried himself off roughly and ran a cursory towel through his hair then dressed and picked up his dirty clothes from the floor and carried them out of the bathroom and into their bedroom.
Sam was gone when he got back to their room, and their beds had been neatly made. That was unexpected as Sam usually drifted through the days, not seeming to be aware of what was really happening around him.
Feeling slightly bolstered, maybe Sam was going to be doing a little better today, he sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled on socks and boots then straightened the blanket and walked to the stairs and down.
He was only halfway down when he smelled the smoke, and he hurried his pace, jogging into the kitchen where Sam stood at the counter, his hands gripping the side and his head bowed. There was a skillet on the stove that smoke was rising from and fat was spitting. Dean knew it was about to catch fire at any moment.
With a gasp of his brother's name, Dean shoved him aside and grabbed the handle of the pan, feeling the heat that had transferred into the wooden handle, and took it from the heat and put it down in the sink. From the charred strips in the pan, Dean thought Sam had been trying to cook bacon.
"You could have burned the house down!" Dean said, the words coming harsher than he had intended.
"I was trying to help."
Feeling like an asshole, Dean flipped off the heat and opened a window to let out the smoke that was drifting around them. The icy air from outside flooded in, and Dean saw Sam shiver.
"I'm sorry," Dean said. "You just caught me off guard. I'm not pissed."
Sam shrugged. "Okay."
Dean sighed a rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not. I'll fix you some bacon in a minute."
"I'm not hungry."
"Then why were you cooking?"
"I wanted to help," Sam said. "I figured you'd be hungry."
Dean stared into his eyes, seeing the confusion there, and he felt a wave of pity for his brother that was separate to what he had been feeling for months. This was Sam trying, and it had gone so wrong because his head wasn't all the way with them still. It couldn't be. Sam was still too lost in grief.
"I'll go shower," Sam said, walking to the door.
"Sammy, wait! Just talk to me for a moment."
Sam stopped and turned back, his brow furrowed.
"Look, we don't need this," Dean said. "You trying to help, I mean. We can take care of ourselves. It's you that we want to help. I know you can't talk about it yet, and I understand, but you have to tell us what to do for you. We can't keep on like this."
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and Dean saw tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes. "I don't know what to say," he said quietly. "I know I am making it hard for you all, and I know you want to help, but I don't think anyone can."
"What do you need?" Dean asked, his voice pleading.
"I don't know. I'm trying to do better. I thought if I could make breakfast, you'd all be happy, and I want you to be happy. But I messed it up. I'm trying to be me, but I feel like…"
"Like what?" Dean asked.
Sam was silent for so long that Dean thought he wasn't going to answer and then he whispered. "I feel like I'm the one that died."
The words sank in and Dean felt like a fist was clutching his heart and squeezing.
Sam was saying more than he had since Clark had killed the shapeshifter, and Dean had wanted him to talk, but now he was he had no idea what to say. He wasn't even sure he could bear what he had heard.
Sam stared at him for a moment and then walked away into the hall. Dean sucked in a shaky breath as he heard his footsteps moving up the stairs and then transferring to the second-floor hall with its squeaking boards.
He should have said something else, Sam had needed something from him, but he didn't know what it was or how to give it.
The smoke had cleared so he closed the window, blocking the chill, then stared at the charred skillet. He should make breakfast for them, there were no signs that Bobby and Mary had eaten already, though there was a half-full pot of coffee. They all needed to eat, but he didn't want to reinforce what had gone wrong for Sam by making something else.
Sam had been trying to help them, cooking breakfast, and he didn't need to be shown how wrong he had gone by seeing Dean succeed. If he would even care. After what he had said about how he felt, Dean wasn't sure he would feel anything at all.
What kind of nightmare was his brother living?
Dean took a protein bar from the cupboard and poured a mug of coffee for himself then pulled on his coat and went outside in search of his mother and Bobby. The cold air hit him as soon as he opened the door, and he burrowed deeper into his coat to offset the chill.
They were nowhere in sight, but he could hear voices coming from the service bays and he went there and pushed open the door. Mary was sitting on the chair, cradling a mug of coffee in her hands and leaning close to the portable heater out there. Bobby was bent leaning against the hood of the Shelby, a wrench in his hands that he was patting against his leg in an absent-minded way. They both looked up at him as he entered, and Mary smiled.
"Morning, honey," she said.
Dean smiled in return then set down his coffee and unwrapped his protein bar and took a bite.
"How did you sleep?" Bobby asked, the knowing look in his eyes telling Dean he knew that Sam had at least one nightmare.
Dean shrugged and chewed before swallowing. "It was okay," he said, hoping that would end the questions and save his mother knowing the truth of Sam's nightmares.
"No nightmares?" she asked, dashing his hopes.
"A couple," Dean admitted, then, thinking he might as well be completely open if she was going to know that much. "And he almost set the kitchen on fire trying to fry bacon."
Bobby frowned. "He was cooking?"
"He was trying," Dean corrected. "He was trying to do something nice for us. He… I guess he couldn't keep the focus long enough."
Bobby sighed and shook his head and Mary's face fell.
Dean understood how they felt as he felt it, too. They all loved Sam and wanted to help him, but none of them knew how. Sam couldn't tell them either. They were, all of them, at a loss in this.
"Was he dreaming of Jess again?" Mary asked.
Dreams weren't the right descriptor for what Sam went through at night, terrors were more apt, but Dean didn't contest the word. He just nodded and said, "Yeah, he was calling for her again and talking to Clark."
"I think she's going to be playing a regular role in his nightmares for a while," Bobby said. "He did just see her die, again."
"It wasn't her though," Mary said. "He knew that. He gave Clark the go-ahead to do it."
Bobby nodded slowly. "He did, and he knew intellectually that it wasn't her, but he didn't have time to get used to the idea before she was dead. No matter how you come at it, it looked to us all like it was Jessica being killed. It's going to take him time to get over that, and that's what he's feeling on top of the grief that hit him about the real Jessica's death. It's too much for any one man to handle."
"What do you think's going to happen to him?" Dean asked, and Mary looked up and fixed her intense stare on Bobby, too.
"Honestly, I don't know. We all knew it was going to be bad when he did feel it, and that was before this happened. Sam thought he had her back. He spent weeks with her. We know from what we saw that she played her part well. She was Jessica to him, the woman he loved more than anything. Then he was slammed with the double blow that she was a monster and that she really was dead, the grief hit him like a wrecking ball…." He shrugged. "I don't know how long it would take for anyone to over that. I don't know if Sam ever could. He feels everything so deeply."
"What do we do?" Mary asked. "How do we get him through this?"
"I really don't know," Bobby said. "I guess we just be here for him and let him show us what he needs."
Dean sighed. That would be great if Sam knew what he needed. He was as lost as them. He said he felt like he'd died.
Dean would never tell his mother that Sam said that, it would break her heart.
It was a measure of just how far gone Sam was, though, and Dean had no answers for that, no way to bring him back to himself.
"I asked him what we can do," he said quietly.
Mary's eyes widened hopefully. "What did he say?"
"He doesn't know," Dean said. "He's just feeling… lost." That was the closest he could come without destroying her.
Mary's expression became downcast and she sipped the coffee in her hand. Bobby stared at Dean for a moment, perhaps searching for a sign of what he knew Dean was hiding—he was an unusually shrewd man—and then he shrugged and went to his toolbox and rooted through the drawers.
"I'm thinking we can work on the fenders today, Dean," he said.
Dean nodded. "Sure."
He ate the rest of his protein bar in three bites and stuffed the wrapper in his pocket then sipped at his coffee that was already cooling.
"I'll go in and see if Sam needs anything," Mary said, getting to her feet and walking to the door. She glanced over her shoulder and said, "We've got to make a run to the grocery store. I'll see if he wants to come. It might be good for him to get out of the house for a while."
Dean didn't think it would help Sam to be out of the house, but nor would it hurt him. Maybe some time with their mother would be good for him. He might be able to open to her a little as they'd both experienced the loss of the person they loved. It might be too optimistic, but Dean was going to hold onto what might help because he had no ideas himself.
The door had barely closed behind Mary when she came back in, her lips a thin line. "Clark is here somewhere. His truck is parked outside."
"Awesome," Dean groaned.
Clark hadn't visited since they'd gotten back to Sioux Falls, and Dean had hoped the period of grace would last a little longer. He would want to know what they'd been doing about finding Daniel Elkins and the Colt.
The truth was that they'd done nothing; they'd been preoccupied with Sam. Anyone normal would understand that and give them a break, but Clark wasn't normal. He would be pissed, and he wouldn't hide it.
"I'll go find him," Mary said.
"I'll come," Dean said. There was no need for her to face his pissiness alone.
He drained his coffee and went outside and into the house, Mary following him, to find Clark sitting on the couch with a book open on his lap and his ankle resting on his knee. His body language was relaxed, but his face tense.
"Finished your little heart to heart?" he asked.
Dean scowled. "How long were you standing out there listening to us?"
"Long enough. I was going to come in and say hey, but I didn't want to deal with the angst echoing off you all. You guys don't create the greatest emotional climate for an empath. I figured I'd let you get it out of your systems and then come find me. That was a waste of time, obviously, as Mother Mary is still all twisted up and you, Dean, have reset to your default pissed position." He set the book down and planted both feet on the floor. "What did I miss?"
"Sam is struggling," Mary said.
Clark rolled his eyes. "He is? Imagine that. If you hadn't told me, I'd never have known. It's not like I've got a full tsunami insight of what's going on with him slamming me from upstairs right now. Man, that kid can emote."
Mary wiped a hand over her face, smoothing the lines of sadness for a moment before they fell again. "It's bad?"
"Of course it is. What else did you expect?" He shook his head. "How's the Elkins hunt going?"
"We've not heard anything," Dean said.
"That genius of yours not come up with anything at all?" he asked.
"No."
"We've not heard from him," Mary said. "He would have called if he had. So would Jim."
Clark narrowed his eyes. "But you've been chasing them on it? Calling around on all your other hunter friends? You've been doing something other than wringing your hands over Sam, right?"
"We've been taking care of him," Dean said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Clark's face flushed with angry color. "Do you have any idea how dumb that sounds when I can feel exactly how he's doing? You've done nothing for him. He's worse than he was when he was holding that monster's body. Whatever you've been doing to help has actually done nothing but harm. You should have been working the actual problem instead of following him around and wiping his tears."
Dean tried to tap down his anger to speak civilly but failed. "Screw you! I get that you're laser-focused on the Colt and getting revenge for your girlfriend, but Sam is still alive, and he's needed us more. You don't know what it's been like here with him. We've been trying to help."
Clark jumped to his feet and advanced on Dean. For a moment, Dean thought he was going to throw a punch, but he merely glared at Dean and then walked out of the room to the hall and called up the stairs, "Sammy, come down a minute."
"What are you…?" Mary started, but Clark held up a hand to her and she fell silent.
There were the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and then Sam came into the room. He looked blankly from face to face and then asked, "What do you need?"
Clark stared at him for a long moment, seeming to be appraising him, and then he said, "What do you need, Sam?"
Sam frowned and shot Dean a quick glance. "I don't know."
Clark nodded. "Okay. Maybe you don't know. I tell you what we need. We need the Colt. We've got to track that Elkins guy, and nothing's been done about that since we all got back to town. Me, I figured I'd give you a little space and let the rest of your family keep at it, but they've done nothing."
"That's enough," Dean growled.
Clark held up a hand to him again, and Dean felt a nudge to his chin that snapped his teeth together. Clark was using his damn powers to silence him. Now Dean was the one that wanted to throw a punch, but Sam was speaking and drawing his attention.
"What do you want me to do?"
Clark eyed him for a moment and then said, "I don't think there's anything you can do right now, is there?"
Sam shrugged.
"No, I'm getting the full load of what you're feeling, and I get why you can't help." He pressed his fingers to his temples. "But we're not going to make any progress here until we have done something for you." He considered for a moment and said, "How would you feel about a vacation, Sam?"
"A what?" Mary asked, but Dean thought he understood what Clark was leading them towards.
"Sam's not going anywhere," he snarled.
"Not asking you," Clark said dismissively, his eyes fixed on Sam. "Right now, they're all blind to what matters as they're focused on you. We need to work the problem though, so we've got to make them focus. Is there somewhere you can go and just… rest?"
Sam nodded. "I can get a motel or something."
"No!" Mary said. "You don't need to go anywhere." She turned her attention to Clark. "Okay, maybe we've not been focused lately, but we will be from now on. Sam doesn't need to go anywhere."
"And if he wants to?" Clark asked.
"He doesn't want to," Dean growled.
"Sam?" Clark pressed. "Do you want to?"
Sam ducked his head and said, "Yeah. Maybe it'll be better."
"You want to leave us again?" Mary asked, her quiet voice betraying her hurt.
Sam shrugged. "You need to focus. It's not like I'm going to feel any worse being alone in a motel than I do here. If I'm gone, maybe we can actually do something that matters. We need that gun." He raised his eyes to Mary and Dean saw they were wet. "It might help."
Mary leaned back slightly, distancing herself from his words.
Dean understood how she felt. He wanted Sam with them, and the idea that it would be easier for him to be alone was painful, but he thought Clark might actually be offering them a way to help him. Sam had almost started a fire trying to make breakfast as he wanted to do something good for them, to help. Maybe if he was away, he could relax that need to protect them and work through his feelings in his own way while not needing to try to help them at the same time.
"You could go to Jim's," he suggested. "You know he won't mind."
Sam nodded.
"Sam," Mary said. "You don't have to do this."
"I think he does, Mom," Dean said sadly.
Clark clapped his hands together. "That's sorted then. Where's this Jim based?"
"Minnesota," Dean said.
Clark nodded. "Great. Get your stuff together, Sam, and I'll give you a ride over."
Without a word, Sam nodded and left the room, his plodding footsteps on the stairs drifting back to them.
Mary rounded on Clark, her hands and voice tremoring with anger. "You had no right to do that. Sam is our family, not yours. We are the ones that will help him, not you. You don't get to send him away from us because it's interfering with what you want us to do."
Clark stared back at her, his eyes dark and face expressionless. "Yeah? Because all I care about is my own revenge. I don't want this demon stopped to protect Sam at all. And the fact I felt his relief when it was suggested that he could get away from this place means nothing. Yep, I am that big of an asshole."
"He was relieved?" Dean asked.
"Yes. He was damned relieved. I might be wrong, I obviously don't know him at all or have any added insight past what you have as family, but I think he might actually need this space to work through what's happened to him alone without needing to hide what's going on from you all."
Mary looked at Dean and he saw the tears at the corners of her eyes. He understood how she felt, he didn't want Sam to go away and the idea that he would feel better away from them hurt, but if it was what he needed, it was what Dean was going to deliver for him.
"I'll drive him over when he's ready," he said. "I'll see him settled and then be back by dinner. We can start calling around again when I get back. If we get a lead, I don't want to be left behind because I'm not here."
Mary nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I'll tell Bobby what's happening and then call Jim and check it's okay for Sam to stay there a while."
It would be fine and they both knew it. Jim was a good man and he cared about them all. He would be happy to have Sam there if it would help him.
"I'll go help Sam get his stuff together," Dean said.
"And I will make myself comfortable." Clark went to the dresser where Bobby stored his liquor and poured himself a measure of whiskey then went to the door, taking a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and shaking one into his hand.
Dean stared at him for a moment, wondering how someone that managed to piss him off so much and that knew so little about them was the one that had been able to see what Sam needed and deliver it when they, who loved him, had been helpless.
Dean was glad of it, but it didn't endear Clark to him at all.
He was still a dick.
So… Sam is on his way to Blue Earth. I know it may seem a waste to remove him from this part of the family and progress, but I promise there is enough interesting stuff going on with Jim to keep you going. I've got a big twist planned for his character.
Until next time…
Clowns or Midgets xxx