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New chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I'm glad you guys are enjoying it :) I'm hoping to get this finished in the next couple of chapters, which means the whole story will only be about 20k longer than I meant it to be… Anyway, hope you like the chapter!

Chapter 8

Dean drove as fast as he could, cutting corners and leaving angry horns blaring into the night behind him. The Impala responded to his urgency like a sentient being, as if it could sense his panic. The thrum of the powerful engine around him helped soothe some of his burnt nerves.

Sam had been drawing the future. People in trouble, people who needed their help. And Dean hadn't known. He was supposed to know Sam, to know what his little brother needed before Sam knew. That was his job, his life.

If his dad was hurt because of Dean's failure, he didn't know how he could forgive himself.

A sharp bend in the road, almost turning back on itself. Dean stamped on the clutch; threw the car into a lower gear and swung the wheel around hard. The engine groaned at the choppy handling but flew around the corner at his command like it was a part of him, like it could read his thoughts. At least he could still rely on his car to stay the same.

The interstate approached, lights from other vehicles flashing past in synchronised dance. Dean barely paused at the junction, slipping into the flow seamlessly.

Sam was safe at Missouri's, probably sitting down at that big kitchen table while the woman herself spooned out gumbo and prepared sugar cookies for his dinner. He hadn't wanted Dean to leave; had followed him around Missouri's house with big vacant eyes, pawing at his shirt, silently begging him. After what Missouri had told them, Dean was in no doubt that Sam could read his intentions clear as if he'd spoken them out loud. Shutting him inside like a pet when he tried to trail his big brother out the front door made him feel like the lowest scum, like he was sneaking off to drown kittens or something. But his dad had been right about one thing; with Sam in the state he was in, there was no way they could bring him on hunts. And there was no way Dean could stop hunting either. Not as long as Sam was drawing those creepily childish pictures. If his brother had to see all that in his head then the least Dean could do was make the world a little safer, take away a little of the pain for him.

He hoped he wasn't too late to stop this one.

John had said that Sam couldn't have known about his previous hunt. Dean gritted his teeth. God, his dad had said, and he'd ignored it, denied it. And now they had no idea how these…visions worked, no idea whether Sam saw them as they were happening. If he did, then no amount of speeding could save his dad.

The turn for Topeka came up on his left and Dean cut across a line of traffic without slowing. Missouri said his dad was in a wooded area somewhere, near water. The only place Dean could think of nearby that met both requirements was Lake Shawnee.

He followed the signs and prayed.

Half an hour later and Dean was cursing his dad loudly in his head. If only Sam were around to hear him now. The old Sam would probably have fallen on his ass in shock to hear Dean badmouth their father, his pissy little bitchface firmly in place, just to be contradictory. Dean missed his brother so much it hurt sometimes.

Rain had started pouring down as soon as he'd stepped out of the Impala. He left it in one of the parking lots for the private golf course, fervently hoping the shitty weather would keep the ticket inspectors away. The last thing he needed right now was to get clamped for being on members-only property. The place was deserted and he'd just tripped over what seemed like the millionth tree root, almost ending up on his ass in the wet mulch. His teeth chattered in the cold.

He tried calling John's cell phone again, going straight through to voicemail. Goddamnit dad, turn on your frickin' phone for once. His boots were sinking into the muddy grass as he tramped aimlessly around the park and the sodden cuffs of his jeans slapped and tangled around his legs, sticking to his clammy skin.

The rain blanketed most sounds, leaving him alone in a bubble. Dean strained to hear through it. Resisted the growing urge to call out. He hoped he could remember how to get back to the parking lot. God, he hated nature.

Then a boom of sharp sound tore through the rain, somewhere to his left and he ran toward it without thinking, his heart leaping into his throat. A second shotgun blast sounded and in his haste he stumbled on the uneven ground, falling to his knees and slipping. The churned mud beneath him sucked him into the ground, and he pulled a hand free with a pop, blindly clutching at air to try to find something to pull himself free.

The yelp came out before he could suppress it, jolted free by his fall. "Dad!"

John didn't reply and Dean forced himself forward, ignoring the low hanging branches that caught in his hair and slapped at his arms.

"Dad!" He yelled again, louder.

"Dean?" His dad finally answered. John's voice sounded dry and shattered, like he'd been screaming for hours.

"Dad, where are you?" Dean yelled into the wind.

Another shot and John finally, finally came into view. He stood in the centre of a copse, black trees casting strange shapes behind him. A pale figure shone in the dim light, a woman with matted hair and a torn mouth. She flickered and Dean brought up his own shotgun.

John was in a fighter's stance, legs splayed wide and shotgun held in front of him like a holy talisman. A dark mound of earth was piled up beside him, an abandoned shovel lying on the ground in front of it. John met his eyes briefly. "Dean, keep it busy!" He commanded, scrabbling for the shovel as the woman spun back toward him.

Dean shot, watching the spirit disintegrate into slivers of silver and light. He took two steps toward his father and then it reformed in front of him, mouth an open bloody maw as it screamed. It looked like someone had hit her before she died, smashing her teeth and ripping lips. She might have been pretty at one point. Dean blasted again, digging in his pocket for spare rounds. Dirt flew from the hole John had been halfway through digging and Dean stepped forward to cover his dad.

The wind howled around them, whipping up falling rain and driving it into his face and eyes.

A wet crunch told him his dad had hit the body and he turned, picking up the gasoline waiting on a tarp beside the shallow grave.

"Dad, get out of there!" John scrambled out, slipping and sliding on earth turned to thick mud. Dean poured half of the lighter fluid on the rotting body, dropping the shotgun in favour of the salt canister. The spirit reappeared to his left, and he just had time to empty the salt over the corpse before it hit him, throwing him to the ground.

A sharp pain stung his left temple like teeth biting into the thin skin and bone. A flare of brilliant red and white told him John had managed to use the distraction to light the bones. Dean watched the spirit woman burn up like dry paper. Watched John sink to his knees, exhaustion carving lines through his dad's body. Mud and ice-cold rain soaked Dean's clothes, his skin, stuck his hair to his head. He closed his eyes and let consciousness fall away.

Dean came around to a ticklish sensation on his stomach. His head ached slightly, but not as badly as it could have, considering. He looked around, seeing the knick-knacks lining shelves in the bedroom, frills on the curtains. Missouri's house, he thought, relief a warm trickle in his belly. He was lying on the soft mattress in Missouri's guest bedroom, half-propped up by pillows behind his neck.

He looked down to see Sam lying beside him, his feet tucked under Dean's pillow and his head resting on Dean's hip. Someone had changed him, removing the wet clothes and dressing him in dry sweatpants. They felt warm and fleecy-soft against his skin.

The clean tee shirt he'd been dressed in was currently tangled about his chest to reveal his abs. Sam was deeply involved in drawing unseen patterns on the skin with his index finger, his face set in a slight frown as he traced lines only he could see. The finger trailed over the ridges and swells of muscles like it had a purpose, like what Sam was writing on Dean had a vitally important message. Maybe it did. Only his brother could know.

Dean watched him for a while, revelling in the simple comfort of the room and his brother. He studied Sam's expression with his head tilted to one side. He'd always known his brother to be focused, but the one-minded concentration that he possessed now seemed overwhelming, even for Sam. He wondered what Sam was seeing right now, what he was hearing in his head. Dean almost wished he had a magic fix for his brother, something to make him as he was before. He tried to remind himself that Sam was still Sam, nothing had been lost. He was just different now. But Dean had helped, just a little bit. Destroying that spirit had taken one bad thing out of Sam's reach.

He reached a hand out and buried fingers in Sam's hair, scratching at his head in silent apology for running off, for not figuring out what Sam was trying to tell him. For wishing Sam was someone he could no longer be.

"Hey Sammy." Sam didn't look up, didn't seem to hear his words. Dean scratched a little harder and was rewarded by the press of Sam's head into his hand, arching into the petting. Sam blinked slowly and turned his gaze on Dean's face. It was like a brilliant white light being shone in his eyes, and suddenly it made Dean want to smile, to be glad to have Sam's undivided attention.

He looked toward the closed door, wondering where his dad and Missouri were.

And then Sam rolled forward a fraction, bringing his lips to the patch of skin beneath Dean's belly button, his hand splaying on Dean's chest. He stuck out his pink tongue and licked the skin like a kitten, tongue disappearing again behind his lips. Dean couldn't help the tiny gasp that escaped him. His cock began to swell in his sweatpants and he felt vaguely disgusted with himself for responding so quickly, so obviously. Sam always did have a hold on him no one else could beat. The tongue darted out again, licking that same spot, slicking the trail of hair leading below his sweatpants until it was dark and wet. Sam's tongue flashed a third time and Dean bit down on a moan. They couldn't have John or Missouri coming up to check on them. Not now, not yet. His cock was suddenly full and begging for touch but Dean knew Sam wouldn't hear him no matter what he said. Another lick to that same patch of skin had his hips lurching upward involuntarily. Sam held him down, continuing his game. It would play out Sam's way, because Sam's way was the only way.

Dean was chewing his bottom lip ragged. His hand lay forgotten in Sam's hair and he twitched uncontrollably, unable to look away from his baby brother's face. It was the expression of a cat grooming itself, methodically devoted to that one task and almost dainty in his movements. Dean was panting, his dick a solid line in the crotch of his sweatpants. Sam ignored it, lavishing attention on Dean's belly until Dean's vision began to dance.

"Sammy…Sammy, oh." He gasped out, unable to hold the words in. His back arched, trying to press closer to Sam, but Sam rolled with his body, still absorbed in his licking. Dean felt himself climbing higher with each swipe of Sam's tongue, almost writhing in his desperate need. "Sammy…please." At his words Sam rubbed his cheek against Dean's belly, the rough rasp of stubble an overload on his senses, and Dean felt the world invert as pulse after pulse of delirious pleasure rippled through him, contracting every muscle. He heard his voice, wiped of all words except his brother's name, repeated over and over.

When he came back to himself, Sam had crawled right way up on the bed, one of his legs between both of Dean's. His hand was resting on Dean's belly and his nose and mouth were snuffling at Dean's temple, nuzzling against the hair. Dean turned his head, catching Sam's eyes. Sam blinked at him with no expression and Dean leaned in and pressed his lips to his brother's.

"Yeah, I missed you too, kiddo. I'm sorry."

"Hey. You're up." John looked up from the kitchen table at Dean's entrance, a sheepish look on his face. A red line that would soon darken to a bruise cut across his chin, but other than that his dad seemed unharmed. "Feelin' okay?"

Dean flashed a fake smile at his father, sliding into the chair beside him. "Never better, dad. I love a good fight in a dark rain-soaked park." His dad had the grace to blush, his eyes falling to the table in front of him.

Sam made a snuffling noise from behind Dean, drawing his attention for a second. His baby brother still seemed to think he might disappear again at any time and refused to let Dean out of his sight, following him around like a lost puppy.

"Oh, hush child. What's done is done, no point fighting over it now." Missouri said, looking up from her dinner preparations. "Your daddy knows he was wrong to take off like he did. No one got seriously hurt, so let's forget it and move on, shall we?" She eyed both John and Dean like she expected them to start arguing.

Dean glanced over at his dad before nodding brusquely. It wasn't over; that much was clear. Maybe his dad was sorry for running, for taking a hunt by himself and almost getting himself killed in the process. But the reason he ran was still valid. Still standing behind Dean and chewing on a hangnail, his green cat's eyes burning a hole in the back of Dean's head. John was watching Sam from the corner of his eye, as if he was too ashamed to look at him head on.

Missouri steered Sam into the chair opposite John before anyone could speak, perhaps reading Dean's worries and anger floating silent in the air. Dean flushed for a second thinking of what else she might have read. Whether or not she might have overheard the thoughts he was certain he must have been broadcasting earlier. Thoughts like oh Sammy, oh Sammy, I love you, or something just as sappy.

But if she heard she wasn't saying anything. Her expression broke into a soft smile as she settled Sam, fussing with the cuffs of his sleeves. Sam watched her hands working with detached fascination.

"So, uh. How long was I out?" Dean said, tearing his gaze away from Sam's big eyes.

"A few hours. It took a while to get you back here after you passed out. You hit your head on a rock as you fell." John said. A thought occurred to Dean and he opened his mouth only to be stopped by John's raised hand and amused smirk. "And before you ask, I drove the Impala back. I'll go and pick up my truck tomorrow."

An unwilling grin twitched Dean's lips. He really, really wanted to be mad at his dad for how he was treating Sam. But John had always been bad at dealing when the situation was a personal one. Especially when it came to his youngest son. Dean couldn't quite forgive him for it, but his dad was trying to help in his own way, and he was sure Sam knew it somewhere in that scrambled mind of his.

"Well, now that everyone's here and awake, we can eat." Missouri said, a smile playing on her lips. "And then maybe we can get started with your brother."

Dean's thoughts caught on food, his stomach reminding him he hadn't eaten anything for way too long. And then he replayed the rest of Missouri's words. "Wait, what?"

Missouri gave him a look that clearly said you're really not that bright, are you. Dean had seen the same look countless times before on Sam's face. "I've been looking up some rituals and spellwork. Something to…weigh your brother's soul in his body, if you like. I'm not certain it'll work, but it can't hurt to try."

"I thought you said we just have to wait for him to figure it out for himself?"

"I said ultimately it's up to him, but I didn't say we couldn't try encouraging him. I'm not letting you boys stay here and eat me out of house and home indefinitely, you know." She stood up, suddenly brisk and businesslike. "Now, Dean Winchester, you get your butt over here and start chopping some vegetables. John, you can lay the table."

Dean looked over at his dad, exchanging bemused looks. When they didn't move Missouri huffed, shooting a sharp look at the table.

"Well? You boys need an engraved invitation? Get to work! Dinner won't make itself, you know."

Dean was on his feet before he knew he was going to stand up, and a glance over to the other side of the table proved that his dad wasn't immune to Missouri's commands either. He didn't miss the tiny amused smile she turned toward Sam.

After dinner, Missouri instructed John and Dean in moving the furniture to clear space in the living room. Sam sat in the centre of the room, watching with mild interest as Dean strained with the heavy couch. He seemed to calm down during dinner, content to allow Dean to move around without tagging along after him as long as he stayed within some mysterious Sam-approved perimeter. Stepping outside this invisible boundary meant his little brother would suddenly appear from nowhere and attach himself to Dean's side, as Dean inadvertently discovered during a trip to the bathroom.

"Careful with that couch! Move it back slightly…no, not that way, the other way." Missouri stood beside Sam like an overseer. Dean half-expected her to start cracking a whip. He gritted his teeth against the instinctive retort, watching his dad do the same as he steered the other end of the couch. Missouri probably heard anyway, but she was kind enough not to call him on it.

"So why are we doing this again?" John asked after positioning the couch to Missouri's specifications. He cuffed sweat from his forehead and straightened, a hand going to his back.

"Because I need space to work."

She settled herself on the floor opposite Sam, her body somehow graceful despite her age.

Dean frowned. "What, that's it? You're not gonna light candles or something?"

Missouri sent a sharp look his way. "Boy, what do you think I am, some kind of cheap sidewalk palm reader?"

"No, I just…"

"I don't need to put on a show for you. This'll work just as well without a tacky display beforehand." The irritated expression dissolved into serenity as she turned back to Sam. "Now, are you boys gonna be quiet and let me work, or do I have to find some chores to keep you busy?"

John held up his hands in a placating gesture, pulling Dean down to sit quietly on the couch.

Missouri reached out, taking Sam's hands in her own. Dean watched curiously as Sam's eyes fluttered shut. The swell of hope rose in his gut, and it might have been his imagination, but he could swear the corners of Sam's mouth twitched in a smile.