Chapter 29: Complicated Convalescence
Sam watched the living room fire dwindle in the early hours of morning, buoyed in reality by the sleeping auras around him. Gabe's was the most intense, washing over him in rhythmic waves that aligned with his breathing. He'd exhausted himself towards the end of his narrative, and Sam had insisted he get some rest. It'd only taken him two minutes to curl up into his side on the couch and pass out, finally draining the last of the lingering worry from his aura.
Sam didn't begrudge him in the slightest. Like this, he could adjust in peace to the new clarity of auras.
Paws clicked on the hardwood, pulling him away from an experiment in purposefully tuning out faces. Sam turned his head to see Rumsfeld stroll in, meandering towards him only after he'd given Cas' hand (which dangled off the armchair he'd curled up in with his laptop) a curious sniff.
Animals didn't have auras like people did. A few flares of emotion were detectable, but for the most part, Sam couldn't get much from them unless they were domesticated and unusually intelligent. Rumsfeld, while loyal and filled with doggy wisdom acquired through age, didn't have the most scintillating auras.
"Hey, boy," Sam rasped, throat still dry despite the water he'd drunk earlier, "Who's up?"
Rumsfeld snuffled his empty palm (sleepy, but happy) before wandering back to the doorway, where a person with a grey-blue aura and cane stood just outside of the firelight's radius.
Fancy friend indeed, Sam thought, taking in the expensively cut clothes and austere bearing.
"Balthazar, I presume."
"Correct," Balthazar replied, stepping in with care. At first glance, his aura was remarkably similar to Cas in terms of shape and quality of blue, but silvery shades reminiscent of gauze made it unique. "Tell me. Do you see wings in my aura?"
"Among other things," Sam said, narrowing his eyes at Balthazar's cane, "Your cane is more confusing."
Objects could retain people's auras—some better than others—but except for truly strange (dare he say supernatural) items, physical objects didn't have auras. They just absorbed traces from people, and given enough time, formed an atmosphere, such as buildings. Transient places like the old Roadhouse came to mind, along with historical buildings.
Balthazar's cane was different. A strange blue glow stemmed from the end resting on the ground, swirling up the stick to meld with where Balthazar's palm, and aura, met the silver handle.
"Oh, this thing? It's a bit of a long story," the man replied, tapping it on the floor. Each tap sent bits of blue glow skittering like stars, but the source at the end never dimmed.
"Hm," Sam grunted, deciding to puzzle through it later. For a mystery, it seemed more on the harmless side. "I should be thanking you. You're the one that woke me up?"
"Technically, I facilitated," Balthazar started, looking between Cas and Gabe.
"Neither of them will wake up," Sam said in response to the sky-blue hesitation that ran across Balthazar's aura, "So, explain away."
"The feather is what I call an artifact," Balthazar continued after sitting in the armchair Dean had relocated before leaving in a huff on some mysterious mission. "The origins of artifacts are mysterious. Lore would say that the feather I used is an angel feather, and it certainly doesn't match any bird in human record, but who's to say? I've seen enough in my work to believe it could be, but I can see in your face you're more skeptical."
"I'm an open-minded realist," Sam countered. Seeing auras meant he had a certain tolerance for the inexplicable, but the concept of angels and demons being real in some capacity superseded his parameters just a tad. At minimum, he needed more time and proof to wrap his mind around the concept.
"Whatever floats your boat," Balthazar said dismissively, unconcerned with his skepticism. "On to the feather itself. Artifacts essentially hold energy accumulated over a certain period and don't do much on their own. They need guidance from an outside force. An Enochian ritual is sufficient, but I've found that someone with a particularly strong will is equally valuable."
Balthazar looked meaningfully at Gabe. "Enochian is hard to define. It's a tool of control, as well as rituals, but the power works at its best and wildest when guided by intuition. Gabriel has that innate spark. Did he tell you about that car of his?"
Sam nodded, unconsciously pulling the blanket draped over Gabe higher.
"I've studied Enochian for years and have a fair grasp on it and the other powers that may be surrounding us. What he did required imagination. It's also a sign of how powerful he could be if he wanted to be."
"But he doesn't want to be," Sam argued, "He's been running from this for years."
"He's coming around. He's the one that powered the ritual I set up for the feather. Just a few words and it worked marvelously. Perhaps a little too well," Balthazar emphasized.
Sam caught on quickly. "My memories."
Balthazar nodded. "Don't be too mad at Gabriel for that. He's not aware he was the driving force behind it. That is the downside of intuition-based wielding of Enochian. Desire seeps in, and it influences the final product in ways that can't be predicted until it's done. He watched you suffer and wanted to take the pain away. That's all."
Sam cleared his throat, desperate to change the subject. Like hell he was going to discuss Gabe with someone he barely knew. "Is your cane an artifact?"
"It's my failed attempt at one. Now I just use it as a conduit."
"That explains the…glow," Sam said, waving his hand in an aborted gesture at the cane when he realized that he couldn't see it.
Balthazar's eyes sparked with interest. "Fascinating. I've been told you can see such things, but there aren't many like you around anymore."
"Gabe gave me the impression there isn't much of anyone around left anymore."
"Unfortunately," Balthazar sighed, his aura shifting towards a deep, sorrowful blue. "Did he tell you about the Men of Letters?"
At Sam's nod, he continued, leaning his cane against the side of the chair to steeple his hands.
"I don't wish to startle you, but you should know that I believe both sides of your family have connections to the organization."
"Both?"
"My research uncovered a man by the name of Henry Winchester among old Men of Letter documents."
"My grandfather. But he disappeared," Sam frowned, recalling the single time Dean had made the mistake of asking John about him. That was possibly the only topic more volatile to discuss with John than Mary. "Walked out on the family."
"I believe that wasn't as voluntary as your father might've been led to think," Balthazar remarked, "But that avenue is less clear and pressing in comparison to the Campbells. What do you know about them?"
Sam haltingly told Balthazar what little he knew. He also told him about what Yellow Eyes had confirmed about Mary in his nightmares.
"Yes, she would've had that talent. The Campbells were one of those old families that had a high concentration of the gifted. They wouldn't have taken kindly to someone like Mary leaving the ranks."
"Why? Because it was all supposed to be a secret?" Sam asked, his never-ending curiosity stirring. He'd never considered until recently that the Campbells could have any role to play in his immediate life.
"That, and because seeing auras in such detail is rare and incredibly useful. She would've been a great asset to the Men of Letters before the war, and by tradition, she made the family look good. As it is, Mary made the best choice to leave. I think the Campbells sensed the changing winds too late because they're nowhere to be found."
Sam mulled on this in combination with Balthazar's aura: cerulean honesty, pale blue sleepiness, and a thin white wire of tension. The Men of Letters civil war would've been a big motivator for Mary to leave, regardless of what opinion she held of her family. A city as big as Lawrence was the perfect place to hide.
"And they're nowhere to be found? At all?"
Balthazar nodded. "My research unearthed that, but your brother knew before I ever found out. He and Castiel went on some trip and discovered the Campbells long disappeared from their property."
"Trip? When did they…oh," Sam said to himself, recalling the out of the blue visit to Mary's grave Dean had taken with Cas. Of course Dean would've tried his hand at visiting them with the man by his side for support. "Do you think the Campbells had anything to do with the babies in churches thing?"
A flash of surprise passed through Balthazar's aura. "I…hadn't considered that."
"Wouldn't put it past them," Sam said wryly, "My father said they were jerks, and that's something coming from him."
They lapsed into a brief silence. Balthazar stared into the fire, and Sam let his gaze drift over Gabe. He wasn't sleepy, but exhaustion gnawed at him. Mentally, he'd been through a lot.
"What do you know about Yellow Eyes?"
"Not much more than you," Balthazar replied, not looking away from the fire (no lie detected, but not quite the truth). "I have my suspicions, but all I can say for certain is that he's the opposite of us."
"A demon in man's clothing."
"If one believes in such things."
"I can," Sam said, recalling the proof that had spilled off of Yellow Eyes in black, swamping waves of cold oil.
Balthazar side-eyed him, silvery shades rolling off his aura like mercury.
"Odd. Your brother shares a similar sentiment. He believes in demons much more readily than angels."
That didn't surprise Sam one bit. After coming face to face with hard realities as children, it was much easier to grasp the concept of evil incarnate than good. Auras exposed all, and Sam hadn't seen secretly good people nearly as much as he'd spotted hidden rotten apples.
Balthazar pulled a disappearing act shortly after. Sam idly wondered how Bobby felt about the man coming and going so erratically. How was he even getting in and out? Enochian?
Another harmless mystery. It joined the others in occupying Sam until the sun started to rise. At that point, he slowly extricated himself from the couch, feeling himself up for the task. He didn't worry about waking Gabe; he was so deeply asleep that he didn't even stir at the change.
Sam shuffled to the kitchen, veering around the canine obstacle half sprawled beneath the table. The short walk, to his irritation, had sapped most of his energy. Cooking would have to be left to someone else, but he'd be damned if he couldn't start at least one pot of coffee.
"Ugh," he grunted, collapsing heavily into a chair surprisingly clear of the books that spawned endlessly in Bobby's house.
Rumsfeld wagged his tail sympathetically against Sam's toes. Sam smiled at the fleeting aura he caught before his eye was caught by something else.
A deep crack bisected the table's width. Near the center, where a slight depression suggested a fist, he caught a snatch of lingering, crystallized emerald rage with his fingertips.
Sam sighed, pulling back when the table groaned ominously. He wasn't the only one who'd changed. How strong had Dean become?
Pink light began to filter through the narrow window set above the sink. Finished coffee awaited, but Sam couldn't bring himself to get it. Lethargy was one reason, but he was also fairly sure that if he nudged the table in any sort of capacity, it'd collapse into a kindling pile.
Just as he dredged up both the courage and energy to risk it, someone unlocked the backdoor. Two pairs of feet tramped in, and the hair on Sam's neck bristled as a blood-red aura seeped towards the kitchen.
"Crowley," he said flatly to cover up the surprise of Bobby leading the man into his house. Their auras aligned in a way that designated familiarity, and an odd sense of respect that Sam would've associated with friendship if the men in question weren't complete opposites.
How do they even know each other?
"Samuel. Good to see you alive and at least partially well," Crowley replied blasely. The leather portfolio tucked under his arm rang alarm bells, along with Bobby's refusal to meet his gaze. "Don't look so shocked. I know all sorts of people, and Bobby is a dear one. He originally came to me with such courage to save your brother from my clutches all those years ago, but you know how I am with contracts."
"You always have to go and run your mouth," Bobby muttered, nodding confirmation when Sam (who'd never known Bobby had done something so crazy) looked at him in shock. "I tried. Now, this fool sends his cars my way to fix."
"Huh," Sam said dumbly, shaking his head to clear his mind. What he'd been told was just too weird to contemplate so early in the morning. "What are you doing here?"
"I was serious when I said I'd be employing your services."
Sam shook his head as Crowley approached the table with the portfolio, a rebuttal poised on his lips, but he was pointedly ignored.
"It seems Dean has struck again," Crowley frowned at the crack, a tinge of interest lightening his aura.
He gingerly touched the surface. Rumsfeld whined, scrabbling out from underneath it just as the table gave one final groan and split down the middle, spilling books into Sam's lap and onto the floor.
"You shouldn't have touched it," Bobby sighed, grabbing one end as Sam kept the other from falling into his already full lap.
"I apologize for nothing," Crowley said, a petulant flash crossing his aura.
They're worse than children, Sam thought, deeply uncomfortable as the two began to quietly bicker. It was going to take him a long time to reconcile this particular connection.
They relocated to Bobby's study with coffee and the mysterious portfolio in hand. This was the heart of the book overflow, and since Sam was recuperating, he got to sit behind Bobby's desk, which had the only free chair in the room.
Crowley clearly didn't like this dynamic, but he didn't remark on it. He had a bigger battle to pick, and with a sinking stomach, Sam realized that he might just win it. Crowley could use Dean as a bargaining chip, and even worse, the man possessed a wealth of information and the means to acquire more of it that Sam could admit would be useful. The portfolio was just a small taste of what Crowley had to offer.
But at what cost?
"Demon blood is getting out of control," Crowley started after planting himself on the biggest clear patch of rug in the center of the room. Bobby tucked himself in between some of the taller stacks off to the side, nursing his mug of coffee in neutral silence. "Cases have already reached the area's hospitals, and while the general public hasn't cued in yet on the growing mess, health officials are starting to."
"And how do I fit into this?"
"After the disaster with the Dead Eyes, I've my hands full making a message out of them. I only employ the best, and since my best are occupied at the moment, I need to outsource this particular assignment."
Sam studied Crowley's auras as he spoke, picking out nuances he hadn't been able to see before. Even Crowley's deceptively flat aura held noticeable shifts in emotion, and he smiled to himself when he parceled out the underlying reason Crowley had come to him.
"I see. Is everything alright at the Arena?"
The burgundy darkened fractionally (suspicion, irritation, too perceptive for his own good). Sam gazed back innocently over the lip of his steaming mug as Crowley's eyes narrowed.
"The Arena's status remains as always. Highly lucrative and stable."
"Stable," Sam echoed, half scaring himself by how ballsy he was being with the man that held his brother's life in one soft, contract-pushing hand. "Dean still bringing in the big bucks?"
"As usual," Crowley said slowly. "He remains a constant in the ever-changing lineup."
Sam sipped his coffee. Fighters came and went from the Arena; that was just the nature of the business, but Crowley had been right at the motel. Drugs occupied people better than fights, and Crowley already stretched himself thin by with his diversification. The downside of having your fingers in so many pies was that it was hard to adjust when some of the pies started to go rotten.
"You know I won't sign a contract with you."
"This offer isn't my traditional contract," Crowley said bitingly with a side glance to Bobby that spoke volumes Sam couldn't even begin to decipher. "The cons for you are shockingly and disappointingly low."
"How generous. I still don't want your money," Sam replied coolly.
"You'll need it soon."
Sam frowned at the cryptic statement. Bobby clicked his tongue, shaking his head at Crowley.
"Do you want to break the news?" Crowley asked in a farce of politeness.
"Tell me what?" Sam asked, concern rising at the way Bobby's normally calm aura turned sour with displeasure.
"Your housing is no longer sustainable," Crowley started with an errant wave of his hand, "Which I can gather from your face you are aware of, but what you aren't aware of is that the press simply won't let up. The pressure is getting to that roommate of yours. My sources confirm he plans to move, and your finances just aren't cut out to pay for housing on your own."
Sam's protests died down. Bobby's aura revealed that Crowley wasn't lying about anything, and really, was any of it so hard to believe? Kevin had been embroiled in the case in a side capacity from the very beginning, and Sam couldn't fault him for this latest incident being the breaking point. Sam no longer worked at the Roadhouse and thanks to the attention fixed on him, he was a walking liability.
"Cheer up Sam. It's not all bad," Crowley remarked, gently shaking the portfolio. Something clinked inside. "Mystery, intrigue, and enough money to keep you afloat. I'm not even asking you to step into the Arena."
Sam scowled, but mostly out of habit. His curiosity, ever disloyal, was rearing its head at the prospect of what awaited in that portfolio.
Besides, he could tell that there was no squirming his way out of this one. Sam would have to bite the bullet, and hope that it wouldn't bite him back later.
This is probably the worst idea I've ever had, and I ran right into a serial killer trap last week.
"Alright. It's not like I have much choice," he grumbled, accepting the portfolio and all of its invisible hooks and strings.
Crowley's smile would've put a shark to shame. "I'm glad you see it my way. I'll be around shortly to check on your progress. This is more of an in-person business to handle."
The odd duo left shortly after, though who led who out remained a mystery. Sam sensed that there was The last thing he wanted was to see the King of Hell in these times, but they were officially out of the frying pan and falling into the fire. Catching Max Miller helped, but his atrocities would pale in comparison to the havoc Yellow Eyes could wreak.
He sighed, draining the last of his coffee before turning his attention to the contents of the portfolio. Nothing made sense anymore around him, and the clinging lethargy didn't help matters. Maybe Sam could make some sense of whatever information lay within.
…
There was absolutely no way to make sense of anything inside the portfolio.
No, scratch that, Sam thought as he set an interview transcript down. There's no way of making any sense of why Crowley chose to include what he did.
A knock at the door cut through his troubled thoughts. Sam already knew who was on the other side and smiled as shades of gold flooded into the room ahead of Gabe.
"Bobby told me who swung by," he said, the force of his concern unhindered by the fact that he was still half asleep. "Are you alright? Why is that bastard so insistent you work for him?"
Sam shrugged, only somewhat less confused than his boyfriend. "It's some weird trust thing. If Crowley can even trust anyone."
Everything in Gabe's countenance demanded elaboration. Sam gestured for him to come closer, and only explained when he'd snagged Gabe by the waist and tugged him into his lap.
"Dean's worked with Crowley for years. He's his longest-lasting fighter, and due to both his contract and Dean's nature, he hasn't screwed Crowley over in anything other than petty matters," Sam said, resting his cheek on Gabe's shoulder blade right where his aura began. A zinging sensation ran deep down to the bone, striking nerves like dancing embers along the way. It wasn't unpleasant in the slightest, but so strong that he had to pull back and rub his cheek.
Gabe didn't seem to notice the discovery Sam had made. He was absorbed in the materials laid out on Bobby's desk, studying them with quickly awakening eyes.
"I take it Crowley's employee roster as a high turnover?"
"Incredibly so. The only people that Crowley can be said to have known for years are either those uninvolved in his business or those with equal power to him. Neither are very prevalent."
"So…he wants you to work for him because he trusts in the reliability of Winchesters?"
"Something like that. I think it's more that he knows he can control us, and he's maybe deluded himself into making the rest fit. He's gotten weirdly fond of Dean."
"His aura?" Gabe asked sagely, to which Sam nodded.
"I only just picked it up this morning. He also gets you by proxy," Sam admitted, "He knows how good of an investigator you are."
"My reputation precedes me," Gabe said airily, "But don't look so guilty about that. It doesn't sound like you had much choice in this matter."
Sam squeezed him tighter as both an apology and acceptance. Sleep had taken away much of the worrying colors in Gabe's aura he'd woken up to find, but an undercurrent of worry lingered to dampen the subtler pastel shades he enjoyed viewing.
"Let me see," he murmured, tipping Gabe's chin his way. His bruises were healing up well, except for the one around his eye. The swelling had gone down, but the bruise remained dark as ever.
"Cas wanted to fix me up, but that'd be hard to explain to my coworkers," Gabe explained, offering his best cheeky smile, "So this time, I'm the roguish fighter."
"There can only be one of those in this relationship," Sam said solemnly, spinning Bobby's chair around so that they faced the window behind them.
Strong noon sun greeted Sam. He'd lost more time than he'd anticipated caught up in his research. Outside, Bobby's street was as quiet as ever; tree-lined and devoid of all the hustle and bustle of Lawrence's most populous districts. Sam hoped it'd stay that way. Bobby had been incredibly generous so far, but he didn't think he'd forgive him if journalists set up shop on his lawn.
"So, what did he bring you?"
"Most of it is stuff from the old Yellow Eyes case," Sam said, turning them back around, "He even included a tape recorder to listen to the interviews. There's also some stuff on what places and hands demon blood has passed through, and who might be behind it. This stuff is mine."
He tapped a small stack of papers. "My visions, dreams; whatever you want to call them. There are a few things that I recall from when I was asleep, but not much."
"Good," Gabe muttered, eyeing the stack with trepidation. His aura confirmed what Balthazar had theorized earlier. There was no sign he was aware he had anything to do with Sam forgetting most of the experience.
Sam pressed his cheek against Gabe's shoulder blade and kept it there. He'd bring it up later when there was less going on, but for now, he could let it lie. Whatever useful information he might've acquired for the future wasn't worth the mental scars the rest would've formed.
"The LPD interviewed John," he said, reaching the recorder, "Just listen to it."
Having already listened through it several times, Sam started the tape at the spot where things had started to get interesting all those years ago.
"I'm telling you, Mary wouldn't leave like that. She wouldn't leave either of our boys and she sure as hell wouldn't leave Sammy like that," John stressed. He sounded a bit younger, but the restrained rage was easy to hear in his voice. Sam had heard that tone a thousand times before.
"She was young and pretty. Could've had a lot of prospects ahead of her," said a voice Sam knew belonged to a now deceased detective assigned to the original task force.
"She was also blonde and fit the damn profile your department drew up to a tee," John retorted, "Why are you interrogating me when it's clear what happened?"
"The whole point is that nothing's very clear at the moment. We know you and Mary were having troubles. Neighbors said they heard you fight."
Gabe made an interested noise as tape-John scoffed in disgust.
"Who'd you talk to? The Pollards? Bill's had his eye on Mary since we moved in and Charlotte's been jealous of Mary because of it. They'd lie through their teeth just to spite me. Mary and I have our arguments like any young married couple, but we're fine. Next question."
Sam smothered a smile as Gabe's aura lit up with surprise. He still disliked John, but on this particular tape, he'd been nothing short of hilarious in his righteous indignation at the bullheadedness of the LPD.
"We have multiple sources," came the slightly delayed, half-coughed response.
"Yeah, sure," John said, "I'm telling you right now that Yellow Eyes took my wife, just like I've told you about every five minutes since you hauled my ass in three hours ago. Now, either charge me with something so you can pat yourself on the back and lie to yourself that Yellow Eyes hasn't struck again or let me out of here so I can look for my wife myself."
Gabe whistled as papers were shuffled. A different, deeper voice cut in to respond. Sam hadn't been able to positively identify it in his first listens through.
"Mr. Winchester, we understand your frustration—"
"Like hell you do."
"—but we're trying to cover all avenues before we jump to conclusions. Now, is there anyone you can think of that would want to harm Mary?"
"What, besides Yellow Eyes?" John asked sarcastically.
Patiently, the unknown voice said yes. Sam held his breath here as he always did at the prolonged pause.
Had John suspected anyone else at the time? Surely he'd known about Mary's estrangement from the Campbells, but had she let him in on the big secrets that lurked beneath the ordinary world? He'd figured it out at some point—the cabin memory attested to that—but had he been pointed in that direction before or after Yellow Eyes?
"No," John said evenly, "Not anyone that I know of."
"He's lying," Gabe interjected, stopping the tape. His aura was a riot of confused colors, but he sounded confident in his conclusion.
"I thought so too. He's always been a good liar, but—I don't know," Sam confessed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It hurts my head to think that all this time, he knew about my ability, and I've been hiding it from him for nothing."
Gabe looped an arm around his shoulders with a sigh. "How many times have you listened to this?"
"Too much," Sam replied, "You know, he never told us about this. He told us he "talked" to the LPD. Never mentioned they considered him a serious suspect. No wonder he hates them so much."
"I saw mention of an interview in the file I was given but chalked it up to standard protocol. Spouses always get interviewed," Gabe admitted, scratching the stubble ghosting his jaw, "I wonder if this was part of what John wanted to tell you."
"Maybe. I get the demon blood stuff, but I don't understand why Crowley included the stuff on Yellow Eyes."
"To incentivize you?"
Sam had to agree. Crowley knew what buttons to push when it came to Winchesters; not that they made a grand attempt at hiding them. Everyone who knew John Winchester knew the large chip in his shoulder he carried and partly succeeded in passing down to his sons. Revenge didn't even begin to encompass the feelings the man had let simmer for two decades.
Gabe stuck with him a little longer but was forced to leave when he got a call from the LPD. They wanted his version of events that led him to tussle with Max Miller beneath the city in writing; a task that Gabe made a big show of dreading.
"They want everything in triplicate," he whined, carefully combing his hair back in the foyer mirror. Michael was on the way to pick him up, as Gabe had stopped using the Beetle to get to Bobby's in case some intrepid journalist remembered he drove the distinctive vehicle around. "It's ridiculous!"
"It's for the courts," Sam said, amused despite himself as Gabe tried (and failed) to keep his hair back without product.
"The courts. Who cares about them?" Gabe scoffed, tossing the comb aside and resorting to his hands.
"Um, I do!"
"Of course, Mr. Lawyer-in-the-Making. My apologies, dearest."
Sam pushed himself off of the wall. For a moment, he felt lightheaded but recovered quickly as he buried his hands in Gabe's hair.
"It looks nice messy," he said, ignoring Gabe's squawked protests and squirming, "Besides, the more disheveled you look, the less they'll push you."
Gabe looked back at him in the mirror. He looked completely different from the reflection Sam had finally confessed his feelings to. Here, weariness dominated despite the mischievous grin forming. His bruised face tried valiantly to hide it, but Sam could see it in his eyes and aura.
It haunted Sam long after Gabe enthusiastically kissed him good-bye and left. Sometimes he forgot that despite his crime-fighting experience, Gabe had never been so embroiled in a case of this caliber. He needed rest—they both did.
Dean came back shortly after, aura caught in an awkward place between petulant and pissed off. It didn't take a genius to know who he'd talked to.
"That rat bastard just can't help himself," he ranted, walking off his excess energy by pacing the entire first floor of the house. Cas and Sam watched him from the living room, neither of them up to calming Dean just yet. "I hate him. Getting…"
Dean walked out of the living room and down the hall. Cas and Sam exchanged a weary look and waited for Dean to circle back. For Sam, watching Dean was especially exhausting due to his overwrought aura.
"…he's so fucking smug! I just want to punch him sometimes. King of Hell, my ass. He shouldn't have meddled."
"Crowley always meddles," Sam pointed out as Dean flopped into Bobby's armchair.
"And punching him is a bad idea," Cas added fretfully.
Dean vigorously scrubbed his hands over his face, ignorant to his injuries as always. Cas made a concerned noise and stood, stretching his hand out towards him.
Sam watched with interest as shades of blue flowed from Cas's hand, scattering into little, crystalline threads that flew over Dean's lip. Across his back, lighting flashed between his shoulder blades; the ghost of wings there and gone. In an instant, the cut was healed, and Cas's aura withdrew like a receding tide.
"Fascinating," Sam muttered, knowing full well he must've looked like a creeper with how intently he was watching. "You would've been damn useful to have around when Dean was in high school."
"Right?" Dean asked, flashing a thankful smile at a now blushing Cas. "Isn't he great?"
Great indeed, Sam thought, tactfully excusing himself to the study. He still wasn't sure if the romantic situation had progressed past their auras to mutual awareness, or if they were still dancing around each other. At this point, they had to know, and whatever hesitance on their parts was born from different factors, of which they had a fair few.
But Sam didn't think the hurdles would trip them up. From the beginning, it always seemed that Cas would be the one for Dean. All the signs had been there, and auras didn't lie. Whatever remained what was up to them to sort out.
…
A room number (12), the long stretch of a fingerprint smudged steel table, threadbare carpet. Dust, creeping mold, a gasping air vent. Another gasp squeezed out of a surprised throat.
Two-way glass framing two people. Dark glass, blurs for silhouettes.
Cold sweat, rough cloth, the clink of handcuffs. Wide eyes, sharp tongue, broken words. Sweet strawberry, an olive-green sleeve, a violent clatter and bloodbloodblood—
Sam reeled back, grasping the edge of Bobby's desk for support. He gave himself one moment to clutch his head, then breathed through it, fumbling for his phone.
"Sam?"
"Don't interview him. Miller," Sam said sharply, scattering papers as he searched for a fresh sheet and something to write with. He'd never had a vision so clear yet play out so out of order. "Don't do it. Don't get into that room."
Gabe caught on quickly, lowering his voice. "Alright, I won't. Anything I should know?"
"He'd get you. Somehow. Yellow Eyes taught him some new tricks," Sam hissed, rubbing his temple and urging the horrible images away. Thank God Gabe had picked up the first try.
"Fuck. I was just thinking of going in to give things a shot. He hasn't spoken to anyone else."
Cold fear trickled down Sam's spine. "Well, don't. Leave it to the FBI or something."
"I will, don't worry," Gabe reassured, "Are you okay?"
"I am now," Sam said. Relief that he'd managed to use the vision to his advantage mingled with the quick subsiding of the pain in his head. In an hour, he'd have no headache at all.
He'd have to watch his sleepwalking, if he even did that anymore. Balthazar believed (and the man had all sorts of opinions) that the sleepwalking was a side effect of the original protections cast on him and would ease substantially with time. His power had been restrained, but premonitions existed in some separate realm. Trying to tamp them down had led it to find ways to squeeze through, beginning in his dreams and bleeding outward.
Sam made note of the vision and tried to continue with his day. Everyone wanted him to rest, but he felt it was his duty to put his unique position to use to the fullest potential. Besides that, he had regular life things to work out, such as his schooling and the tiny fact that his apartment was now unlivable.
College was surprisingly easy to work out. Things on campus had already been shaky after the trio of librarian murders, and between general traumatization of previous events and the current heaping of stress on LU that a student was The Crucifier appeared too much for the administration to bear. That, and someone had already reached out to LU on his behalf.
"The administration has decided to call for an extended spring break, and then offer online accommodations for the rest of the semester for those uncomfortable with returning to campus," the chief departmental advisor—a person he'd only met once—said when Sam asked who'd spoken to staff. "Regarding your scholarship, I can assure you that this situation won't affect that, Mr. Winchester. Your godfather has already cleared the way. He was very insistent we do not stress you considering your, er, situation."
"Oh? He never told me," Sam replied, calling upon every ounce of customer service experience to keep his voice level. Damn Crowley. He wouldn't be surprised if the man was behind LU's academic epiphanies.
After settling that, Sam gave Kevin a call, knowing that his roommate was probably stressing about having to break the news to him. Neither of them wanted to part, but both were intelligent enough to understand that the situation called for it. Luckily, the journalists weren't getting much. Peripheral neighbors only knew him as a college student who was willing to put his height to good use if asked politely (Sam had screwed in more lightbulbs than he could count), and Kevin had been conveniently unavailable for comment.
"I wish I could help you get packed and stuff," Sam said, watching from the living room as a news van, discouraged by the lack of activity, pulled away from the curb and off-camera. In the foreground, a journalist rattled off some of his basic life facts "Your mom already has so much on her plate."
"Do I need to sic her on you to get it through your head that we don't blame you for any of this? Because I will, dude," Kevin threatened. "Don't worry about us. Just focus on resting up."
Sam shuddered at the thought of getting chewed out by Mrs. Tran. That lady did not play around.
"Does she know about what you've been up to?"
Kevin laughed nervously. "No, and don't tell her. I've quit hitting the party scene after the break-in. If all goes well, I can just slip away from that scene without anyone the wiser. It wasn't as if I helped many friends out anyway."
Sam doubted that was the case but didn't say so. Kevin was stressed enough as it was, and it was only a mild suspicion anyway.
Dean got called into Mayhem Arena, leaving Sam in the house with Cas. This bothered neither of them and in fact, suited their efforts. Cas had phenomenal research skills, and unlike Sam, could go out and about. After spending a bit of time coordinating what they had to gather and Cas extorting a promise out of him to not strain himself, the Enochian expert left, leaving Sam home alone.
Not even an hour later, the doorbell rang. Sam glanced at Rumsfeld, who was typically a good indicator of what kind of visitor was at the door. Judging by his neutrality, it was someone more familiar than a deliveryman, but less so than someone like the Winchesters and extended company.
Sam sighed, shuffling towards the door. He might as well see who it was.
Out of the various possibilities that flitted through his head, Sam hadn't expected Adam to be on the other side.
"Hi?" he greeted questioningly, opening the door wider.
"Hey," Adam said weakly. His aura held knots of emotion: sickly stress, anticipation, worry, guilt, so much guilt—
"Everything ok? You don't…look so good," Sam said, gesturing vaguely at Adam's drawn face after he stepped into the living room. Now that auras were so strengthened, he kept noticing body language second.
"I have something to tell you. And you're going to hate me for it," Adam blurted out.
"That seems a little extreme," Sam hedged, taken aback by his vehemence.
Adam chuckled darkly, his empty hands curling into fists. He radiated misery. "No, you will. But I have to tell you. This has gone on long enough. I don't give a shit what the old man tells me to do at this point."
Nervousness curled in Sam's gut. Adam's bitterness sounded a lot like his own when it came to John Winchester.
"Adam…"
"John Winchester is my father," Adam said through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head to the side, as if the words pained him to say, "He's my father, and I've known about you and Dean since forever. And I never said anything, because he told me not to, and I'm sorry."
Sam took an unconscious step back, shock making it feel as if he'd been slapped with the stunning words. He'd had half-formed suspicions born from what could've easily been coincidental similarity. He'd thought the worst of John Winchester for being treated the way he had. But to father a child with another woman?
He's my half-brother.
Habit took him in a circuit towards the fireplace, where the flames burned low. Adam gave him space, watching him warily. However, Sam didn't look at him. His convoluted, emotion-filled aura gave him enough to chew on as he put himself to the task of stoking the fire back to life. By the time he'd finished, he'd gained a bit of clarity.
"Ugh. C'mon, Rum," Sam said, calling the dog to him as he made for the couch, "You too. I want to hear your side of things."
"Really?" Adam asked quietly, rooted to the spot.
Sam's face softened at the brief, bright blue flare of hope kindling in Adam's aura. "Of course. You know me. I like hearing all sides to a story."
Adam huffed and sat down on the couch. He wasn't as close as they usually sat together as friends, but Sam didn't push it. The story needed the space between them.
"Um…God, I don't even know where to start," Adam sighed, pulling his beanie off and spiking his blonde hair in the process. "I guess I should start with the fact that I was a total mistake. Not planned at all. Mom said it was a fling, and that John saved her the trouble of a sperm bank."
"Practical," Sam remarked. He'd never met Adam's mother and wondered now if that had been a contrived circumstance.
"That's Mom to a T," Adam said wryly, "I didn't meet him until you guys came back to Lawrence. They worked something unofficial out. He'd spend some time with me, leave some money, and that was it. Did the typical dad shit. Play catch, take me to sports games."
A sharp pain lanced through Sam's side. John had played catch with Adam. He'd treated him normal.
Rumsfeld whined at his feet, and he shushed him, gesturing for Adam to continue. Adam did so cautiously, keen eyes flitting over his face.
"He also taught me some self-defense, but he told me to never use it unless I had to," he said, tentatively continuing, "He…didn't treat you guys the same, did he?"
"Not quite," Sam confirmed with a deprecating smile.
Adam's mouth thinned with anger. "I thought so. He said things were different for you two, that you two were in danger. He forbid me from reaching out. To him, we had to lead different lives."
Sam seized the twisted line of John's logic. He and Dean were Mary's children; all that was left of her. He knew now that Yellow Eyes had some sort of personal history with Mary, which naturally extended down to her progeny. Adam, born to a different mother, could dodge that bullet as long as John kept him at arm's length from the Winchester legacy. Adam had no powers handed down to him. He had a chance.
That, and John's infamous grudge against Yellow Eyes had surely reached the killer wherever he'd been all these years. Yellow Eyes would toy with the man just for fun now that he was back in town. Anything John held dear was fair game.
Whether or not Adam would be targeted was a tossup, but Sam bitterly understood why John hadn't been keen to tar him with the same brush he had his first two sons.
"In a way, he was right. Yellow Eyes is dangerous, and it's best he doesn't know you exist," Sam explained vaguely. "He doesn't discriminate when it comes to hurting his targets, and us Winchesters are back in his line of sight; especially me."
Adam's eyes widened. "Yellow Eyes is back?"
Sam mentally cursed. With so many strings to keep track of on who knew what, he'd forgotten that Yellow Eyes' presence in Lawrence wasn't publicly confirmed. The news could bring back the old devil all they wanted through insinuations and retellings of the past, but he hadn't killed yet.
"Don't tell anyone I told you that," Sam said severely.
"I won't."
Sam suspected he promised so earnestly because he wanted to get back on his good side, except Adam had never left it. Despite everything, Sam still saw Adam as a friend; one of the closer ones he had.
"You said you always knew. So, when we met in high school…?"
"Yeah. I intended to steer clear of you, but then Kevin pulled me into the right mutual circles," Adam said, relaxing a bit, "Once I had the opportunity to know you…I know it was selfish of me, but I couldn't resist. John had said so much about you two, and then had the gall to say I could never be close."
"It wasn't selfish. You were just curious." Just a kid.
Certain things now made sense with a different light cast on them. Adam had been remarkably quiet, even with his underclassman status factored in, but he'd taken a shine to Sam. A couple of friends had said Adam looked up to him, but Sam had blithely dismissed the theory. Adam was perfectly intelligent and capable on his own: why would he look up to a gawky, floppy-haired upperclassman?
Adam shrugged. "Maybe. Either way, it's done. I've wanted to tell you for a while, but then John came around the other night."
"Huh. He did the same here while I was, er, asleep, but he got driven off before he could say anything," Sam said, suddenly remembering that Adam had been one of the few to see him in that vulnerable position the night he'd stupidly gone out on his own to campus. "Wanted to reveal secrets. "
But Adam didn't appear to want to question him about that night. He was more preoccupied with John.
"He tried to convince Mom to leave town with me, but she refused. Then he told me to keep my head down. He said he was going to tell you guys about me, and that you guys might get mad. Mom didn't like the idea of that, but after he left, I convinced her that you wouldn't immediately beat me up if I came over here."
Sam snorted, and Adam flashed a grin before his face turned somber.
"I'm glad I got to tell you instead of him. It's weird. I looked up to him when I was little, and I still do to a degree, but now that I know for a fact we were treated differently…it doesn't feel right," he said, eyes fixed on the fire. "Why does he have to be such a fucking complicated man?"
"I've asked myself that every day for years," Sam sighed, empathizing with Adam's confusion, "It doesn't get any easier. But I will say this: I'm glad you got something normal from him."
And Sam truly was glad for Adam. He could simultaneously be jealous that Adam had a healthier relationship with John and not hold that against him. Adam's existence and John's decision to treat him the way he had wasn't Adam's fault. If anything, Sam was more upset that Adam had known all this time and hadn't said anything. Sam understood why he hadn't said anything, but it'd take him longer to get over his emotions surrounding that.
Adam left shortly after. He didn't ask for a change in relationship, which Sam was grateful for. He still had a lot to process, and there was still one person that needed to be informed: Dean.
However, Sam suspected he had a way of making the news more bearable.
"How long have you been there?" he asked as he shut the front door.
There was a pause before Cas stepped out sheepishly from the kitchen. Sam had caught the edge of his blue aura about halfway through Adam's narrative but refrained from saying anything. He was so entrenched in Winchester family business that Sam didn't mind him knowing.
"A while. If you're worried about Dean's reaction, you should know that he's had his suspicions about Adam," Cas revealed, gesturing for him to come into the kitchen.
That was news to Sam. Dean hadn't breathed a word of any of this to him.
Is that really surprising?
He followed Cas in, where (unsurprisingly) the coffee machine was just beginning a brew.
"How long has he known?" Sam asked, sitting at the new kitchen table. It was a dated relic dragged up from the basement, but it served the purpose, and more importantly, still clear of books for the time being.
"High school. I should clarify that he doesn't know it's Adam," Cas said, rapping his fingers impatiently on the counter as he waited for the coffee. "But he suspected John fathered a child. Outings where he wouldn't tell Dean where he was going, certain purchases, that sort of thing. Dean told me he didn't have the courage to confront him."
Sam didn't blame his brother one bit for that. John had pushed Dean's training hard in high school before the ill-fated contract with Crowley had been signed.
"He's only discussed this once with me, but he seemed hurt by it," Cas continued, "And this was before he decided he'd had enough of John."
"John practically idolized Mary. He passed that down to Dean. He probably sees it as a betrayal on John's part," Sam sighed, running his hand through his hair. For fuck's sake, Adam was only a few years younger than him. What a mess.
Cas prepared them both cups of coffee in contemplative silence. Not wanting to ruminate deeply on the touchy subject, Sam reached for the items Cas had brought back from the library. Most were just physical copies of news archives from the Yellow Eyes era, but he'd also brought back some texts on poisons. They'd agreed that just because demon blood wasn't a standard drug, that didn't mean it didn't have some biological basis.
"Do you think we should tell Dean it's Adam?" Cas asked once they got settled in.
Sam's mouth twisted at the dilemma. On one hand, Dean needed to know. It'd be pointless keeping the secret from him, especially after he'd spent so long agonizing over the maybe-probable existence of another sibling. On the other hand, Sam knew Dean wouldn't take it nearly as well as he had, and he didn't want Dean potentially taking it out on Adam.
"You should tell him," Sam eventually decided, fixing Cas with a gaze filled with all the seriousness he could muster. "You know how to handle Dean, and he'll take it best from you."
Cas blinked, surprised at being assigned the task. "Are you sure?"
Sam nodded, amused. "Of course. Just because my brother is an idiot in the love department doesn't mean you're not the best person to break the news to him."
At this, Cas flushed and looked down into his coffee. A lot ran through the poor man's aura, and Sam politely let the conversation drop. It was only recently that the two interacted outside of the parameters of pressing circumstances, without either Dean or Gabe around.
However, Sam was sure he'd like Cas as he got to know him more. The Enochian expert could sift through piles of raw primary sources and read cramped print without complaint, and research standards like that earned Sam's everlasting respect.
…
"Are you leaving?"
Sam looked away from the TV (he'd watched more TV in a single day than he had the past several months) to find Ben perched on the couch. He'd been so absorbed in the news cycle that he hadn't heard Lisa and Ben come in.
"What makes you ask that?" Sam asked, gesturing for him to come closer. Ben did so, but reluctantly, his aura filled with concern at his admittedly paler than normal appearance.
"Momma said so. Thought so," Ben corrected after a second, lowering his voice. "You can't go home cause of the nosy reporters. I think you should come home with me and Momma, but everyone's saying you're gonna go. Even Daddy."
Sam ruffled Ben's hair, thinking over his next words carefully. The downside of Ben picking up on people's impressions so keenly was that the concept of truth was now much harder to teach.
"I'm thinking of going, but not forever," he replied, making that clear right from the start. Ben's grasp of time was a little better than the average child's, but it still stretched like honey for him. To a child, a few weeks was an eternity. "I have to do some very important things. Get my life together."
He huffed, cutting himself off and doing his best to clear his mind. Ben didn't need to know all that.
"Do you have to go?"
"Probably. All those reporters won't let up for a while," Sam said, nodding to the TV.
"But you could come home with me and Momma!" Ben blurted out, not having it. "Or you can stay with Daddy, or you can keep staying here—"
"Ben," Sam cut him off softly, squeezing his shoulder. "What's the matter?"
An explosion of royal blue and green engulfed his aura, collapsing into a fiery red that Sam had only seen rarely from his nephew. Ben's face darkened, eyebrows scrunching together into a fierce expression reminiscent of Dean's.
"I don't want you to go! There's no point!" he yelled, hurling himself off the couch and running out of the room.
Sam watched him go helplessly. Ben wasn't one to lose his temper, but he knew from previous instances that it was better to let him cool off before intervening.
Lisa came in a few minutes later after a hissed whisper conversation with Ben. Her tired, yet understanding face only made Sam feel worse.
"I'm sorry. I should've warned you," she sighed, taking Ben's place on the couch. "I tried to explain to him the situation, but he was very adamant you stay with somebody. Even tried to fix up the guest room."
"Do you think it stems from my coma?" They'd started calling his time asleep a coma, for lack of a better term.
"Part of it," Lisa concurred, crossing her arms as she gave it thought. "I think part of it is also a response to how things are changing, and not just sleepwalking. You used to babysit him a lot, Sam."
He had. Of course, Sam hadn't minded much—always eager to spend time with Ben—but those times were over. Not only were Lisa and Dean united on the let's-not-stress-Sam-out-with-extra-responsibility front, but Ben would be 5 in a few months. Kindergarten loomed on the horizon, and all the days they wiled away exploring the city would be put behind them.
No wonder Ben was upset. Sam was upsetting himself thinking about Ben starting school. Part-time preschool didn't count. Kindergarten was the beginning of the end.
"Oh, don't catastrophize," Lisa said, grasping his forearm in response to Sam's stricken face, "Ben's going to be alright. Things change. That's the way of the world."
I don't have to like all the changes.
"The journalists aren't bugging you, are they?"
"No. Just people at work that know Dean is my ex," Lisa sighed, "Asking me stuff as if I'd tell them. I hate being part of the gossip."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be. It's not your fault," she said sternly, cobalt aura darkening, "You just need to rest. All of this drama isn't good for you."
It wasn't, but Sam didn't have the heart to tell her that he was used to brief recovery periods. Back then, he'd only had Dean, but now, he had multiple people concerned for him. Sam didn't know what to do with all the attention and found it a bit suffocating.
Conflicted, and now being given the cold shoulder by his nephew, Sam decided to retire early. He'd originally intended on waiting up for Gabe, but the day had been unbearably long. He didn't think his boyfriend would mind if he got some rest.
Dean practically carried him upstairs. Déjà vu hit Sam as he sluggishly brushed his teeth —hadn't they done this very same thing at Lisa's?
"We did," Dean replied, and only then did Sam realize he'd spoken aloud, "We had waffles that morning. Good times."
The bed rose to greet Sam with a warm embrace. He didn't remember falling into it, but he did remember the room going from light to dark as Dean turned the light off. Whatever else his brother did beyond that, Sam couldn't say. He was already asleep.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Did I finish this chapter instead of working on my 2 final papers, a presentation, and project? Yes, yes I did. It's finals week, and I will cope how I wish.