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Chapter 7

At first, Dean felt used. He hated himself for being so goddamn girly, even in his own head, but Sam didn't seem to need him in the same way that Dean needed his brother. Sam's expression never changed from that alert and intensely direct stare, never a hint of that brilliant smile he once possessed. He would slide into bed with Dean, no matter what Dean said. Sam just continued regardless.

And the most embarrassing thing was, Dean's cock couldn't get enough. Sam only had to brush a hand against his and suddenly Dean was aching for him, for more. Each night Sam would coax his body into higher pleasure, wringing orgasm after orgasm from him until he couldn't move, lay there limp and sweaty and shivering uncontrollably as the aftershocks ran through him in waves.

But then Sam would roll Dean onto his side, spooning up behind him. He would lay one big hand low on Dean's belly, twine the fingers of the other with one of Dean's and then nuzzle at the damp spiky hair at the nape of Dean's neck. And Dean slid into sleep feeling safer and more loved than he could ever remember feeling.

They'd reached Kansas a week ago. John had left them at a motel, telling Dean to take care of Sam while he went on some unknown trip. Dean wanted to bitch at the man, demand to know why they'd been dragged halfway across the country on John's urgent orders only to end up languishing in some motel half a mile from their destination. But he didn't. Didn't say a word. It was kind of darkly funny; Sam was the one who did the questioning and the protesting. With him silenced, Dean couldn't find his own voice to do it for the both of them.

But - and he hated himself for being happy about this - it did give him more time alone with Sam.

More time to sit pressed close together on the motel bed, Sam drawing feverishly and Dean watching TV and revelling in the simple ability to touch. He could reach up and stroke Sam's hair away from his eyes if he wanted to. And god he wanted to, so badly that sometimes he thought he'd choke on it. He rarely gave into the impulse though. Sam initiating something was one thing, Dean doing it was another. Because no matter how he looked at it, he was still taking advantage of his mentally disabled little brother.

Sam was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed when Dean woke up. His brother had already gone through the pad of paper Dean bought; motel pads making do until Dean could run out and pick up another.

He looked up as Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, his dark hair falling into eyes that revealed nothing.

"Mornin' Sammy." Dean rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of one hand, scrubbing it through his hair.

Sam blinked once and went back to his drawing. The crayons were being run down into stubs as well. He should buy a second box, just to be safe.

Dean's cell phone trilled from the dresser. Sam didn't seem to notice, only glancing away from his paper when Dean stumbled from the bed, trailing bedclothes in his wake.

"Hello?"

"Dean."

"Dad. Where are you?" Dean's senses went on alert, his back straightening like his father was in the room with him.

"I'm heading your way. You still in the motel like I told you?"

"Yessir."

"Good. I'll be there in a few hours, and then we'll take Sam to Missouri's."

"Take Sam where?" Dean blinked. Missouri? What were they doing in Kansas then, if this psychic was in Missouri?

"Missouri, that's the name of the woman we're going to see."

"Oh."

"Have him ready when I get there." John hung up without waiting for a reply.

Have him ready. Like Sam was a child again, needing someone's help to get dressed in the morning. Dean frowned, looking over at his brother sitting on the bed in boxers. Sam did need someone to dress him. But yet he had no trouble working out how to drive Dean crazy with a touch. Had learned the best ways to make him come. If he could learn that, why wouldn't he relearn what he already knew? Dean shook his head. He didn't have time to ponder the mysteries of Sam's addled mind.

"Okay Sammy, let's get cleaned up and ready for breakfast."

Sam could eat by himself now, but he didn't like to use knives and forks. Dean had found this out the hard way after ordering his brother oatmeal the first morning they'd been here. Sam disregarded the spoon completely and instead dipped fingers in the thick mess, paying no attention to the fact that they were in a diner filled with people. Dean had been struck dumb watching the younger man lick oatmeal from his hand, tongue snaking between his fingers in an unintentionally erotic display. This new Sam was always one hundred per cent focused on whatever he was doing, meticulous as he went about the task. It turned Dean on harder than anything.

Now he made sure to order only soup in a mug or something Sam could eat with his hands. Trial and error. It was inappropriate for Dean to be squirming in his seat five feet away from a family with young children eating their breakfast.

This morning he'd ordered Sam pancakes, cutting them up himself when they came so that Sam could pick up the pieces with his fingers. It only brought about a mild hard-on, which Dean thanked God for.

He reached over just in time to stop Sam running maple syrup-covered fingers through his hair.

John turned up just before midday.

"How's he been?" His dad looked over at Sam briefly before his eyes came to rest on Dean. It irritated Dean for reasons he couldn't say. That his dad was so willing to see Sam as dead before, and that he couldn't see him as a functioning adult now. So maybe Sam was hunched over on the floor, scribbling away like his life depended on it and chewing on his thumb. It didn't mean he was a child or some kind of mental-deficient.

"Sam's been fine. I've been fine. How've you been, dad?" John either didn't notice or chose not to acknowledge Dean's veiled sarcasm.

"Okay. Let's pack up and get out of here, Missouri's expecting us."

Dean automatically started packing their stuff into duffles, stepping around Sam who paid him no heed at all. It could be worse, he supposed. Sam could be trying to jump him in front of their father. But so far his brother seemed to have a better sense of their dad than he did, one minute nuzzling Dean's neck and the next on the other side of the room, all seconds before John opened the door.

"So what exactly is this woman gonna do?" Dean asked.

"She's gonna…probe him, I guess. Whatever psychics do. Look into his mind and see what's going on."

Dean tried not to flinch. Hopefully she wouldn't look too far. Although if she was that good a psychic, she wouldn't even have to look into Sam's head to see what they'd been doing together. Dean was pretty sure he was advertising it in his thoughts to anyone who walked past.

"So, will she be able to help?" He tried to get his head back on track.

"I don't know. But hopefully she'll be able to find out if there's anything…supernatural, doing this."

Dean repressed a sigh. "Dad, I already told you, there's nothing wrong with him. Not like that. We'd know if there was."

"Better to be safe." His father insisted, glancing sidelong at Sam.

They drove across town, Dean trailing John's truck with Sam in the passenger seat focusing on his fingers playing along the creases of his jeans. They turned onto a side street lined with semi-detached houses, all pleasant and so alike Dean thought he might throw up at the thought of actually living in one of them. This normal had once been Sam's highest ambition, and no matter how hard he tried Dean couldn't find the appeal in it. Everyday houses, everyday cars, everyday lives. All of it so blindingly monotonous and dull. Dean stroked a hand along the wheel of the Impala, feeling the hard cracks of leather beneath his fingertips and wondering why anyone would need more.

The house John stopped in front of was one of the same, only differentiated by an abundance of bright flowers in hanging baskets and painted flower-pots on the porch.

He'd been expecting something different for the residence of a powerful psychic, something…flashier.

John stepped out of the truck. Before he could take a step toward the Impala, the front door of the house was thrown open. Dean had a flashback to the last house John had brought them to and the strange woman who seemed to know his father a little too well for Dean's liking. But if he was expecting more of the same treatment here, the notion was soon dispelled as the psychic called Missouri made herself known.

Missouri was a short black woman with a smile that matched the flowers on her porch. Dean looked her over as she made her way toward the two cars. He couldn't guess her age; she could be anything from twenty-five to fifty. She bustled down the steps, hands spread wide to cup John's face like he was a favoured nephew. His dad smiled fondly at her and Dean saw some of the worry lines fade from around his mouth.

"John Winchester, where have you been? I've been expecting you for days! Now, you and your boys come on inside, I've put a pot of coffee on and little Sandra down the street just brought me some fresh cookies over this morning."

Dean climbed out of the car, leaving Sam where he was for the time being. His baby brother didn't seem to mind, now absorbed in fraying the hole at the knee of his jeans. Missouri and John both looked over as he straightened.

"Uh, hi." He said, feeling uncomfortable. "I'm…"

"Dean. No need for introductions, honey." Missouri smiled warmly at him. "We've met before, but you probably wouldn't be remembering that, now. You were just a boy." Her smile turned wistful for a moment.

Dean blinked. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from a psychic woman, but it was definitely not this, being welcomed like he was family. He wondered if she could really read his mind.

"Well, you bring that brother of yours out here, and we'll go on into the house." It was an order given in a careless and airy tone and Dean barely caught himself before he could say 'yes ma'am' and salute.

Missouri turned back to John and the two made their way toward the house, John offering his arm to the older woman with a gentlemanly manner that Dean rarely saw his father display. He watched bemusedly for a second, waiting for her to turn back and start cursing him for incestuous desires or something. When she just continued walking to her door, he shrugged to himself and went to help Sam out of the car.

Sam sat quietly in the wooden chair Dean steered him to, drinking milk through a straw and picking at the cookie Dean had broken into pieces for him. John kept glancing over at Sam as he ate, a frown darkening his features. Dean didn't want to try and work out his dad's thoughts.

Missouri on the other hand didn't seem fazed by his black hole of a brother. She carried on light conversations about trivial things while they ate her cookies, and didn't hesitate to break another into chunks after Sam had finished his. She didn't seem afraid of Sam in the same way their father did, and had no reservations about meeting his eyes when he looked at her. Dean thought maybe he loved her a little bit for it. She busied herself in the kitchen, which was as bright and cheery as the outside of her house. There were even scatters of magnetic animals on the refrigerator door.

"So, Missouri. Can you do anything for Sam?" John asked bluntly once the cookies were eaten and the coffee had been drunk.

Missouri didn't answer straight away, fussing with clearing the table. She settled herself on a chair facing John over the kitchen table with undue care before she met his eyes. "It's not as simple as that, John. You should know that by now. I can look into his mind, read the surface, but I can't fix him."

"I wasn't expecting you to…"

"Yes, you were." Missouri said. There was no trace of anger on her placid face. "And anyone else who claims to be able to straighten out his head isn't someone you should trust."

"But you could, you could find out what's wrong and…"

"And what?" The small woman suddenly seemed to grow in size before Dean's eyes, becoming something formidable and uncrossable. "And take it out? Alter your son's mind? You don't want that, John. I can tell you right now, there's nothing in that boy that isn't him. If I were to go in there and find what's causing this, if it's even that simple, then removing it wouldn't be an option because it would be removing a part of Sam."

John sighed heavily, lowering his head to stare at the wood grain of the table. His hands cupped around his coffee mug as if he was trying to warm them with the heat. "But he can't stay like this. We can't take care of him, it's not practical."

"Dad, we're not going to abandon him!" Dean broke into the conversation. It felt like he was going to have to argue the same point forever. Weariness hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. "It's Sam. Even if he is like this I'm not gonna leave him by himself somewhere just so we can go hunting!"

He looked over at Sam just in time to see his younger brother's eyes narrow and dart away from their father's face.

Missouri reached over and covered Dean's twined hands with one of her own, squeezing. "Dean, honey, why don't you and Sam go into the living room for a while. You can watch some TV while I talk to your daddy." The tone didn't leave any room for argument and Dean found himself on his feet before he knew he was going to move.

The living room was decorated in earthy tones, knotted throw rugs on the floor and glass vases containing more flowers on the surfaces. Dean stopped in the doorway, feeling distinctly out of place among the picture frames and knick-knacks. His baby brother didn't seem to have the same problem. Sam walked straight in as if he owned the room and settled cross-legged on one of the rugs on the floor. He looked up at Dean expectantly, dark eyes unwavering. Dean absently pulled the crayons and new pad of paper out of his bag and handed them over.

He thought maybe Sam smiled as he took them, just a small twitch of lips, but when he looked again there was no trace of it.

"Dean?" The voice pulled him out of a nap Dean hadn't known he'd fallen into. "Dean." He blinked. John stood in front of the muted TV with hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

John was looking at Dean oddly. "Dad? What?"

It was then he realised that he wasn't the only one who'd decided on an impromptu nap. Sam had somehow curled his body up on the floor beside Dean with his head pillowed on his big brother's thigh. Apparently whatever sixth sense Sam developed that told him when John was about to come into a room didn't work while he was sleeping.

Dean flushed. He met John's eyes and looked away fast, busying himself with rearranging Sam on a sofa cushion. Sam made a tiny noise in the back of his throat and one hand reached out to paw at Dean's leg.

John seemed content to pretend he hadn't seen anything. "Missouri says she'll read Sam tomorrow morning, after she's had time to prepare."

"Prepare? For what?"

John frowned. "Now's not the time for questions, just be grateful she's willing to do it. We can stay here tonight. There're two guest bedrooms so Sam can have one and one of us can sleep on the couch."

"I'll share with Sam." Dean said without thinking.

John looked at him sharply.

"Uh, I mean…I'll take the floor, 'cause he might wake up in the night and freak out." Dean stammered. "Someone should be there to watch him."

John watched him for a long moment with an unreadable expression. Dean was about ready to start squirming in his seat when the older man just gave a brusque nod and left the room without comment. On the floor beside him, Sam wriggled until his head was pressed against Dean's thigh again, his eyes tightly closed.

Missouri sat across the kitchen table facing Sam. Her hands held his lightly and she stared at him with half-closed eyes.

Dean stood in the doorway at his father's side. He'd expected some sort of special ceremony; atmospheric candles or tarot cards or something. Not this, his brother sitting in the same chair he'd eaten breakfast on an hour earlier and the dirty dishes still soaking in the sink. But he kept his mouth firmly shut.

Missouri was taking deep breaths, in through the mouth and out through the nose. She sat motionless, as she'd been doing for the last five minutes. Surprisingly enough Sam seemed content to forgo his usual manic colouring spree and imitate the small woman. His brother held Missouri's gaze unabashedly. Dean wondered if they were communicating in some way he couldn't read. It brought up a spit of jealousy in his stomach and he felt stupid for it.

Finally Missouri let out a heavy breath and seemed to deflate. Sam remained in place as she untangled their hands.

"So?" John began without preamble. "What's wrong with him?"

Missouri closed her eyes before answering in a slow and measured voice.

"John, I told you yesterday, there's nothing wrong with him. It's all him in there. But," She paused "there's…something."

"Something?"

Missouri nodded sombrely, her dark eyes meeting Dean's almost furtively. "Yes honey. I hate to be the one to have to tell you like this, but…Sam is a psychic."

Dean blinked. "He's what?" He wanted to be surprised, shocked by the confirmation. Except while he'd been so vigorously denying it to his father, the sneaking suspicions had taken root.

Missouri laboriously rose from the table, like it had weakened her to do the reading on Sam. She didn't meet anyone's eyes, walking over to the sink and beginning to wash the dishes instead. Dean could feel the tension radiating from his father beside him.

"What's causing this?" The older man asked in clipped tones.

Missouri sighed heavily before turning to answer. "It's his own power. It's too strong for him to handle, it came on too fast for him to adjust. Sam can see things, people in trouble. Imagine," her forehead creased as she searched for the right words "imagine there are levels of reality. Most people can only see the one, the physical level that we live in. But there are others, ones that can only be accessed by certain people. Psychics, like me, and Sam. I can…read minds, if you like," the corners of her mouth turned down as she said it, as if she found the cheap phrase derogatory.

"That's only one level, though. I see the surface, what people are thinking. And I've had practise at shutting the thoughts I don't want out. Other psychics can read empathic waves, sense feelings. And some can feel the heightened emotions of people in trouble. They get…visions, of a kind. Sam…well, Sam seems to be able to read all of that, and maybe more." Missouri met John's eyes then, her face ashen. "From what you've told me, this was probably triggered by the demon's attack on his girlfriend and then his friends. He's probably always had latent talents, but they should have grown slowly. It seems like his gifts were unlocked all at once."

"So," Dean started, trying to keep the waver out of his voice. "He's been able to see all of this…stuff, all at once?" He vaguely wondered what Sam had been seeing in his own mind, all those nights he'd been locked in fear and despair.

Missouri nodded sadly. "That's exactly what I'm saying, honey. Even the development of one of those gifts is a terrible thing to try and handle. I've-I've never seen a psychic with Sam's abilities before. Apparently, the only way Sam could deal with it was to…shut down, to try and limit his sensory input."

Dean felt light-headed. He stepped toward the table in a daze, intending on sitting down before he fell on his ass. Except apparently his hand had latched onto the doorframe without his knowledge. His fingers were digging into the wood tight enough to leave nail marks and it took a second to will the muscles to release.

John seemed to be taking the revelation with his usual stoicism. Only Dean could see the minute tells that told him his father was as shaken as he was.

"What…what can we do?"

Missouri pulled out a chair for him and Dean sank gratefully into it. His eyes met Sam's and he couldn't help himself scanning those empty holes for any sign that would tell him it had all been a mistake, that Sam had been messing around this entire time and now he'd come to himself with a teasing smile.

Sam tilted his head to one side and blinked languidly.

"We can't do anything." Missouri's firm words had Dean's attention in a flash.

"What? What the hell do you mean, we can't do anything? There has to be something!"

She shook her head gently. "Dean, sweetie, I know you're scared for your brother. But while he's like this, no one can do anything for him. He has to work it through by himself." Missouri reached out and patted the back of his hand in a way that was supposed to be reassuring. Dean couldn't feel it. "I can try to help him find his way, I'll look up some rituals, call some people who might know more, but ultimately it's up to him. And…his mind might not be strong enough."

The slam of a door made them both twist in their chairs, even Sam looking in its direction. John had vanished from the doorway. The cough of his truck starting up sounded like a death-rattle.

John didn't return that night. His cell phone had been switched off and Dean had left eighteen increasingly strained voicemails to no avail. Finally he gave up, throwing his own cell onto the sofa where it was lost amongst the piles of cushions.

Dean found himself wandering around Missouri's neat house aimlessly, sleepless with worry for his fractured little family. He was ready to scratch his own skin off when the woman herself sat him down the next morning with a sharp word.

"Dean, honey, I know you're upset for your brother, and you have every right to be. I know it was a big shock." That's putting it mildly, Dean's mind whispered, bitterness tainting the thought. Missouri frowned. "But for god's sake, stop moping around and make yourself useful. Run to the store for me and pick up these things." She handed him a list.

Dean looked at it, scanning the exotic names written in ornate curling handwriting. "Will this stuff help Sam?"

Missouri rolled her eyes. "It's a list of groceries for dinner tonight. But if it'll motivate you to get out from under my feet, then yes, it'll help Sam. That boy can't sort his head out on an empty belly."

Dean blushed, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Missouri caught it and her face softened a fraction. "Look Dean, I can understand your frustration. But this is something Sam has to work out by himself, in his own time. He's already made amazing progress."

"What?" Dean looked up. "What do you mean? He's been like this for days."

"He's pulled himself out of a comatose state, just three months after having everything upturned in his head." Missouri leaned forward and took one of Dean's hands in her own. "Honestly, I can't think of anyone, psychic or otherwise, who has the kind of willpower needed to do that in such a short space of time. Now, I can't say whether he'll get better. It may be that this is what he'll be like for the rest of his life. But you have to trust in your brother in this one."

Dean blinked, taken by surprise on feeling tears blurring his vision. He rubbed them away roughly with the sleeve of his shirt and stared at the cream rug between his feet. Missouri squeezed his hand once and let go.

Dean returned from the grocery shop with two plastic bags in each hand and a clearer head.

Sam would be okay, whether he got better or not. No matter what John Winchester said, Sam was his top priority and Dean wasn't going to let his baby brother down again. Sam didn't seem unhappy in his current state. Hell, Dean would even go so far as to say that his brother was happier now than he'd been before. He seemed content to be looked after and to do as he was told. And the death of his girlfriend, which Dean knew would kill the old Sam, didn't even seem to register with this version.

Secretly, he knew he was being just a tiny bit selfish. There was a part of him that loved this new Sam. An even larger part of him loved the physical turn of their relationship, the freedom to love his brother as he'd never permitted himself to act on before. Maybe if – when – Sam came back to himself, his brother would be repulsed by what they'd done. Dean knew he had every right to be.

He'd wondered with a vague terror whether Missouri had been able to read his unbrotherly love in his thoughts. But if she knew, she wasn't saying anything and Dean decided to let sleeping dogs lie.

He stepped into the kitchen and placed the bags on the table. Sam was seated at one end, happily scribbling with his crayons like a little kid.

"Hey Sammy. Whatcha drawing there?" Dean glanced over at the paper. It depicted a stick figure holding an L-shaped black stick. Next to the person Sam was drawing in an indistinct grey blob. "Aw, that's real nice, Sammy. Good work." He could do this. He could live like this, maybe get a little apartment somewhere with Sam and spend his days taking care of him. The idea of domesticity didn't make him itch. Not if he had Sam with him.

"Dean? That you, boy?" Missouri called from somewhere in the house. The creak of the stairs announced her and she entered the kitchen a moment later. "Did you buy everything? Thank you, honey, now why don't you sit and I'll make you a cup of coffee."

"Have you heard from my dad at all?" Dean asked as he settled into the chair beside Sam.

"No, I'm sorry. I take it his cell phone's still off? Well, you know your daddy, he's probably off somewhere, venting some anger. He'll be back." A cup of coffee appeared on the table in front of him.

Dean nodded automatically, his eyes watching Sam as he drew. His brother was looking at the piece of paper in front of him like it was the only thing in existence. The hand holding the crayon scribbled sharply, back and forth. It was only after watching him for long moments that Dean realised the knuckles of his fingers were white, the crayon digging into the paper hard enough to flatten the pointed tip. Sam's jaw was tight, his entire body radiating tension like a trap about to spring.

"Sam?" Dean reached out a hand to still the violent colouring. Sam ignored it like it wasn't there. "Sammy, what's wrong?" He looked up at Missouri as she came to stand beside him, a frown on her face. "What's wrong with him?"

"I…I don't know." The words were almost a whisper. "His mind…the things he's seeing…"

"What things? What's he seeing?"

Missouri blinked, her face lined with anxiety. She reached a hand to Sam that hung in midair without ever making contact.

Sam looked up at her, the crayon dropping from his fingers. It fell with a clatter to the tabletop and rolled unnoticed onto the floor.

"He's seeing…" Missouri paused. Dean pulled out the chair beside him and she sank into it without breaking eye contact with Sam. "He's seeing…things that haven't happened yet."

"What, like the future?" Dean asked, a hysterical laugh in his voice that died as soon as he met Missouri's deadly serious eyes.

"How many of these drawings has he made?"

Dean thought of the pages upon pages stuffed into his backpack. His throat dried and he could barely croak out an answer. "Hundreds."

Missouri's lips drew tight together. She pulled the now-completed picture toward her. Sam seemed happy to let her do it, his attention now captured by the painted glass vase sitting beside him on the table. He reached a hand out to it, fingers stroking the smooth glass reverently.

"Are…are you saying that my brother is making psychic predictions…in crayon?" Dean asking incredulously. The finished picture in front of Missouri still showed a stick man holding a black line and a grey blob.

"I'm saying that your brother is drawing what he sees in his head."

"So what the hell does that mean?" Dean gestured to the picture on the table. "What, a man's gonna play fetch with a grey puddle? C'mon, this is…" His voice trailed off.

Missouri shook her head, picking the drawing up with both hands and holding in front of her like she could transform it to show Dean what Sam saw. "I saw what was in his head while he drew this. It was a spirit, an angry one. And," She looked him directly in the eye "it was going after your daddy."