Thank you so much Shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigodfor beta'ing and VegasGranny and Ncsupnatfan for pre-reading xxx
Okay, seriously people, I am done being patient and understanding, and pretending I don't care. The world is crazy, we're all living in a crisis, and I'm struggling with that like you are, but I am not forgetting to be grateful. Over 100 of you read the first chapter of this story, and only 3 of you reviewed. Only one of them, Blondie 20000, was reading the chapter for the first time.
If you enjoy what I spent days creating today, please take a moment to let me know. Fanfiction doesn't make money, but it takes a lot of work on days I'd rather be lying in bed and chilling, or reading something for myself. I love writing, but what makes me do it day after day, even on the ones that make it difficult to get out of bed, is the fact people like you are waiting to read it.
Chapter Two
The drive to Blue Earth was only a couple hours, but it still felt long to Dean with his brother a silent presence at his side.
He tried to make things normal, playing the music too loud and attempting to engage Sam in conversation, but it was all wrong. Sam didn't talk beyond monosyllabic replies and always turned to stare out of the window as he answered, as if even looking at Dean was a challenge.
Dean was relieved when he pulled the Impala to a halt outside Jim's small house behind the church and cut the engine.
"Here we go, Sammy," he said in a forced cheery tone. "Your bed and breakfast awaits."
Sam nodded and climbed out without a word then went to the trunk to get his bags while Dean watched him warily.
Dean got out and went to help Sam with his bags, but Sam already had them over his shoulder and in his hands. There was nothing left for Dean to do but slam the trunk closed and follow Sam to the front door.
He knocked and it opened, revealing Jim in his full pastor outfit, a welcoming smile on his face. "Sam, Dean," he said with a peaceful smile. "You're just in time. I have coffee ready and there is fruit cake left from the post-service gathering. Mae has just left."
Dean was relieved Mae wasn't there for Sam's arrival. Jim's housekeeper was a kind woman, and they'd always gotten on well with her when they were there, but Sam would need space.
Jim stepped back and gestured them inside.
Sam went in and stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking around the hall with its dark floorboards and green rug and stair runner.
Dean followed him in, and Jim closed the door behind them and said, "Do you want to have a drink, or would you prefer to drop your bags off first, Sam?"
"I'll dump my bags first," Sam said.
Jim nodded. "There's no need for you to squeeze yourself into the twin room this time as you're here alone. Take the larger guest room. We'll wait for you down here."
Sam thanked him quietly and walked up the stairs.
Dean watched him go and then followed Jim along the hall to the kitchen which was filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. There were three places set at the table with plates, forks and mugs, and generous slices of fruit cake on a plate in the middle.
Jim gestured him into a seat and said, "Coffee?"
"Please."
Jim took the pot from the warmer and poured some into a mug for Dean and then one for himself. He put the pot back and sat down opposite Dean. "I understand you've had a difficult time," he said.
Dean snorted. "Yeah, you could say that. What did Mom tell you?"
Jim considered a moment and then said, "The bare minimum, I think. Sam was tricked into believing his girlfriend was back as a ghost by a shapeshifter, that he is struggling with grief and shock, and something else that she only alluded to. Will you tell me more?"
"It's not my story to tell, Jim, I'm sorry. If Sam feels like sharing, that's down to him."
"I expected you to say that, and I understand, but there is something I need to know. Is Sam safe?"
Dean frowned. "Safe?"
"Is he going to harm himself?"
Dean sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn't even considered it before. The idea that Sam might turn to suicide as a way to escape what he was going through was abhorrent, and he would never have thought it of him before everything went to hell, he would have said it was impossible, but now…
"I don't think so," he said stiffly. "I don't see Sam doing anything like that to himself."
"But?"
Dean shrugged. "But he's going through something big." He sighed. "No, I don't think Sam would hurt himself, but he is in a world of pain, so you need to watch him anyway."
Jim nodded thoughtfully. "This is very hard for you, isn't it?"
"It's damn impossible. I've never seen him like this, and I've never seen the kind of cruelty he's been through recently. He's not the same man he was last summer, and I don't know how to help him. I didn't want him to come here at first, when Clark suggested it, I was pissed, but I think it's probably better that he come." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't even want to admit it to myself, but it'll be easier if he's here."
"Out of sight, out of mind?" Jim suggested with a quirk of his lips.
"No! Never that. It's just there's stuff we need to do, and none of us can concentrate on that when we're so focused on him."
"Of course," Jim said. "I shouldn't have suggested it. I know you better than that." He drew a deep breath. "I am going to do what I can for Sam, you know that, and I will keep him safe from any outside threat. Mary said he is in danger."
"Yeah, he really is."
"Demons," Jim said. "This place is as protected from them as your home with Bobby. I can protect him. And Sam is capable, too. He may not be as experienced as you in the hunt, but your mother said he has faced more than she ever wanted for him recently, and he was the victor."
Dean watched him for a moment, wondering if Mary had told him anything about Sam's powers. He didn't want to ask in case he didn't know anything and it revealed too much. If Sam wanted Jim to know, he would tell him. And if Mary had thought he should know, she would have done the same. It wasn't Dean's story to tell.
"Have some cake," Jim said, pushing the plate towards Dean.
Dean picked up a slice and set it on his plate then said, "I will in a minute. I think I'll just check on Sam."
He got to his feet and left the room, going through the hall and up the stairs to the second floor where there was one door standing partially open—the door to the guest room Jim had instructed Sam to take. He knocked on the frame and pushed the door all the way open. Sam was sitting on the bed, a parcel box open in front of him and a glossy piece of paper in his hand that Dean could only see the white back of.
"You okay?" Dean asked, moving deeper into the room. "What have you got there?"
Sam set the picture down on the bed and Dean saw it was a photograph of Sam and Jessica. She was riding on his shoulders and they were both facing away from the camera. Dean drew a shaky breath. "Oh."
"This is what Michael and Elizabeth sent me at home. It's some of the stuff from her room. They knew we lost everything in the apartment." He looked up. "It's all that's left. Everything else we had burned. All her clothes, our pictures, the CDs we'd listen to together and the DVDs we'd watch. There's nothing left of our home at all."
"There's you," Dean said.
Sam's lips curved in a bitter smile. "Yeah. There's me."
Dean perched on the edge of the bed and said, "Sammy, Jim asked me something, and I need to ask you about it now."
Sam looked quizzical. "Yeah?"
Dean drew a deep breath. "You're not going to hurt yourself, are you?"
Sam looked confused for a moment and then his eyes widened. "What? No!"
Dean breathed a sigh of relief and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even asked. I know you better than that."
Sam eyed him for a moment and said, "It's not like I didn't… But no. I'm not throwing away what was stolen from Jess. I wouldn't do that to her, and I wouldn't do it to you, Mom or Bobby. You don't need to worry about that stuff."
Dean wanted to know what the rest of Sam's truncated sentence was, but he thought it was better to not ask. Sam had stopped himself saying it for a reason.
"You want to come down for some coffee and something to eat?" he asked.
"No, I think I'm going to crash here for a while. I didn't get much sleep."
"Okay," Dean said. "I'll tell Jim. You want me to stick around a little longer? We can have dinner together before I leave."
Sam shook his head. "You should get back. Clark was right, there's stuff for you to do now you don't have to worry about me. You should go do that."
Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder and said, "Okay, man. I'll call tonight, just to check in, and if you need anything, you call us. Okay? Even if you don't need anything. If you just want to talk…"
There was something more than sadness in Sam's eyes; it looked almost like pity. He probably knew just as well as Dean did that he wasn't going to want to talk for a long time. He wasn't going to want much more than to be alone to feel. That and revenge. He was going to need the Yellow-Eyed demon stopped to avenge Jessica and for his own safety.
That was what they all needed.
When Sam finally got himself together enough to venture downstairs, it was dark and his stomach was rumbling with hunger. He could hear the rattle of pots in the kitchen, and the smell of rich tomato sauce was drifting along the hall.
He braced himself to face Jim, to play at being a functioning man for a while, and went towards the sounds. Jim was standing at the stove, stirring a pot, and he looked around as Sam came in and said, "Your timing is impeccable; dinner is just about ready. Would you set the table?"
Sam felt a wave of relief at the ease of the moment. As much as he loved them, the solicitousness of his family over the past week had been difficult. He'd just wanted to hide from them and it all, and their concern had been a constant presence around them when he was there. He'd wanted normal, or at least as much as he could have, but he'd not been able to find the words to tell them that. This, Jim acting like it was any other visit, was perfect.
He took cutlery and placemats from the drawer and set two places then went to the cupboard for water glasses and a pitcher.
"Let's do away with the soft drinks tonight," Jim said. "I have beer in the fridge, and I am sure you'd appreciate one as much as I would. I'm as close to off-duty as it is possible to be for a pastor now, and if I have to leave again, I will use a breath mint."
Sam set the glasses back in the cupboard and took two beers from the fridge and set them down at the places.
"Sit," Jim said. "I've made spaghetti and meatballs. I remember it being a favorite of yours growing up."
"Great, thanks," Sam said, taking a seat.
Jim piled two plates with pasta and the sauce then carried them to the table and set one down in front of Sam. It looked even better than it smelled, and Sam's stomach gurgled with anticipation.
He hadn't felt the need for food as anything more than sustenance for weeks. When he'd been with Jess, or the shapeshifter approximation of her, he'd eaten for necessity and when she encouraged it. He would have neglected all human needs in the course of his time with her as he'd been in a state of almost addiction then. Now he actually wanted to eat.
Jim bowed his head and Sam did the same, closing his eyes as Jim murmured a prayer of thanks for the meal, and then picked up his fork as Jim raised his head and said, "Dig in."
They ate in silence for a while and Sam concentrated on his meal, finding it easier to do that here than it had been at home. There was something about Jim's home that he'd always loved growing up. It was peaceful here, close to the church and with the rolling fields and attached farm beyond.
The old farm—abandoned before Sam had ever been here—had always been a point of curiosity to Sam and Dean growing up. They'd wanted to explore it, creating stories about the ghosts that lived there that they would need to hunt in the days before they even knew what hunting really was. It was the one place Jim had never let them go when they visited. He said it was dangerous there, the floorboards rotted and broken, but a nine-year-old Dean had once been brave enough to sneak in when Jim was at service. Sam had stood outside, too nervous to join him inside, and Dean had only lasted a few minutes before coming out again. Sam had been eager to know what was inside, but Dean had said it was boring and there was nothing to see. Sam wasn't sure he believed him as Dean had looked spooked, but they'd found out about the real hunting world not long after that and neither of them had mentioned investigating the place again.
"Do you want to talk about it, Sam?" Jim asked.
Sam pulled out of his thoughts with a jerk and shook his head.
"I understand," Jim said. "But when you feel ready to, I will be here. It sometimes helps to talk."
"Okay. Thanks," Sam muttered then took another large bite so he would not be expected to say anything else.
Jim considered him for a moment and then began to eat again. Only when their plates were empty and their beers half-drunk did Jim speak again. "Can I leave you the dishes? I have some paperwork for a fundraiser to work on."
"Of course," Sam said with an unconscious smile.
It felt good to be asked as it was normal. When they stayed with Jim, they'd always shared chores. No one had asked anything of him for a long time, nothing but for him to be open. He liked that things at Jim's were going to be different.
Jim thanked him and pushed away from the table and stood. "I'll be in my study if you need me."
Sam got up and carried the dishes to the counter and started the water running. He'd come here to give his family space, never imagining that his words to Dean—'it might help'—could be true. But it was helping. He felt better here. There was still a heavy weight of grief on his chest, and Jessica was close to the forefront of his mind, but it wasn't consuming him.
When the sink was full, he dumped in the dishes and scrubbed them clean. The motions were familiar and simple, he and Jessica had always done the dishes together, no matter who'd cooked, as it was a chance for them to do something together. Though they'd lived together, their course loads kept them busy, and it was sometimes hard to find time to just talk without distractions and thoughts of what they were supposed to be doing for school.
Even the memories of those moments didn't bring Sam to his knees the way they would have a day ago now, and he didn't feel guilty for it either. He should hurt, he should mourn, especially after so long without, but Jessica, the woman he'd loved not the shapeshifter, would want this lessening of the pain for him.
He heard the phone ringing in the study and then the rumble of Jim's voice that he ignored and continued with his task. He was just drying the pot Jim had cooked the pasta in when he felt the cleaving pain across his skull, and he dropped the pot into the floor as his hands flew up to cradle his forehead.
The pain was searing and, though he knew what was happening wasn't going to damage him, that it was a vision not illness, he found it hard to breathe against what he was seeing. Sam forced himself to breathe in and let himself fall into the vision.
Missouri was in her kitchen, facing away from him, and her shoulders were shaking. He felt the same sense of menace he'd experienced in some of his visions before, he and knew this wasn't going to be a simple slice of life to witness. He moved closer to her, circling the table to get a better look, and then froze, his hands flying to his face as he saw her fully. Her face was twisted with misery and shock. Sam felt the same shock, what could have happened to his friend to make her look like that? He moved closer to her and then stumbled back a step as he saw something at her feet that stole his reserves of strength that had been keeping him upright. He collapsed to his knees on the blood-soaked floor.
It was Clark. The little of his skin that wasn't coated with blood was white, and his throat was gaping in a sick smiling wound. His eyes were glazed, and his lips parted but no breath passed between them. He was dead.
Sam reached for him, even though he knew he couldn't touch in a vision and it was too late to save Clark, but before he could get close, he felt a hand on his arm and the vision faded to leave him kneeling in the kitchen of Jim's house, his hands fisted in his hair and his breaths coming fast.
Jim was crouched beside him, his hand gripping Sam's arm tight enough to hurt him. "Sam!" he snapped. "What happened? Are you ill?"
"No," Sam whispered. "I'm fine. I need to…"
What did he need to do? His mind was so overwhelmed with panic that he couldn't think. He had to do something. If he didn't stop it, Clark was going to be murdered. By Missouri…
What could have happened to make her do that? Or had it not been her? Her reaction was shocked and scared. Had she found him like that? What could have happened to Clark?
What could he do? He had to stop it. He needed to save Clark. He couldn't let his friend die.
He scrambled to his feet and ran from the room to the bedroom where he snatched his phone up from where he'd left it charging on the bedside table and dialed Dean's number.
It rang three times before Dean answered, sounding surprised and wary.
"Sammy, you okay?
"No! Sam said breathlessly. "It's Clark. He's going to die!"
So… Clark is dead/dying soon, and Missouri is apparently the murderer. This should be fun ;-)
Until next time…
Clowns or Midgets xxx