A/N: As always thank you for the feedback. Now enjoy a new chapter as my birthday treat to you all.

Chapter twenty-two

Dean was only mildly surprised to find he was the last one awake. Bleary eyed, he followed the sound of murmuring to the kitchen and found Bobby and Pamela sat in muted joviality around the kitchen table.

"Hey sugar," Pamela greeted, "you want some coffee?"

"Sure," he agreed then dropped himself into a seat while he waited for the promised beverage to be placed infront of him.

While he gulped the dark, magical nectar that transformed him from a goblin into something approximating a human being, he noticed his muscles were aching in places that had no business garnering his attention this early in a morning.

Speaking of muscle mass, there was a distinct lack of it in the room. "Where's Sam?" He asked.

"He's out already, I don't think he could wait for you any longer," answered Bobby.

Dean frowned and glanced outside to note the sun was hovering barely above the towers of cars piled outside. "This early? How long has he been out?"

Pamela raised her eyebrow at Dean, "Were you planning on joining that sasquatch you call a brother?"

Dean opened his mouth to retort yes but a quick inventory of his bodily functions persuaded him against it. "I was thinking about it," Dean admitted casually, "but why would I wanna go out there when there's a smoking hot lady in here?"

Bobby scoffed and Pamela rolled her eyes but grinned at the flattery, and the pair allowed Dean to serve breakfast instead. Dean had decided he wouldn't do himself the indignity of trying to keep up with Sam infront of Pamela - fitness wise anyway. The only reasons Dean didn't just bury himself in a hole out of lost pride while Sam was literally running laps around him were: firstly, Dean was definitely the handsome brother. Not that Sam was bad looking... But it was clearly Dean who was the chick magnet out of the two. And secondly, they were fairly evenly matched when it came to shooting and sparring, although Sam had a lot more training and undoubtedly years of experience, Dean had a lot of experience too and... Well, he just had a knack for it, like he was born to be a fighter. Anyway, he would go out and train on his own while Pamela was occupied with Sam.

Dean hadn't been entirely sure about Sam's plan to lean into his psychic-demon side - even if the demon was really a fallen angel - but he realised he was too in the dark about this crap still for his opinion to carry any weight. Anyway, Bobby had said that Pamela had demanded tocome here and play Mr Miyagi to Sam's karate kid; not that Dean had a problem with her presence, far from it, it was just a little weird watching Pamela flirt with Sam after she had slept with him.

A sweat soaked, heaving Sam pushed his way through the door, nodding a greeting at everyone and made a beeline for the fridge. Dean got that uncomfortable feeling again when Pamela started eyeing him greedily as he chugged a glass of orange juice. He wasn't jealous, exactly, but he was a little worried about Sam ruining his chances of a second round with Pamela.

"Maybe cute was the wrong word..." Pamela muttered under her breath as her eyes landed on Sam's ass.

"Huh?" Sam asked as he turned around. If Dean hadn't borne witness to Sam's romantic - and even just flirtatious - ineptitude with Jess, he would never have believed his innocent act.

"Nothing handsome," Pamela lied as her eyes bounced up to Sam's face. "Why don't you go ahead and get showered and then we can start on our training." Sam grimaced and gave himself a once over before following her instructions. "Hope you didn't wear yourself out too much!" She called after him.

"So what kind of thing will you two be doing exactly?" Bobby asked suspiciously.

"Well I wasn't going to go for the big guns just yet Bobby, we'll start slow and see how far we can build his powers up. Don't worry, your boy is in safe hands." Pamela assured.

"He better be," Bobby warned, "it don't matter that we're friends, if he comes to harm because of your training, I've got a shotgun out back that I'll be pointing your way."

"Well, would you look at that?" Pamela smirked, "You're really just a big old softie at heart, aren't you?"

"Not too soft to put a round of buckshot in your ass." Bobby grouched.

Dean gathered the plates from the table and dumped them in the sink before heading to the living room, partly to escape whatever was going on with Bobby and Pamela, and partly to gather some clean clothes.

As he rifled through his pile of clothes, his phone fell out the pocket of the jeans he had been wearing the day before. He picked it up slowly, he should phone his dad - he hadn't spoken to him since he had left and he probably should at least let him know that Sam had turned up. But then John would probably ask more about Sam and he would have to divulge the whole hideous plan and Dean could just imagine how that would go down.

Like a turd in a punch bowl.

Dean still had yet to decide either way when Sam bounced down the stairs and came upon him still staring at the damn phone.

"Dude, you ok?" He asked, a look of concern in his face.

That kinda pissed Dean off. "No, Sam. I'm not ok. We went to rescue you, I even went into the deepest, darkest corners of your mind to save you from the unspeakable horrors of your worst memories and you just abandoned us. And now I've abandoned dad. I haven't spoken to him in three weeks and I know I should call him but what the hell do I actually say? Oh hey dad, it's me, your disappointment of a son. By the way, your other son is alive but planning on doing some really dangerous shit so he might not stay that way for long." Dean stopped his rant and took a deep breath.

Sam stared at Dean cautiously for a second, as if trying to assess the likelihood of another eruption from the fount of Dean's wrath, and slowly took a seat on the sofa beside him. "I think if you call him, the worst he can do is put the phone down, but at least you tried... and I think if you don't call him, you'll wonder what would have happened for the rest of your life. Now that might be only two months, but it could be longer."

Dean could feel each of Sam's sentences slotting themselves into the machinery of his mind, he felt gears that sat idle for years starting to spin with rusty shrieking and other gears which had been rotating quite nicely grind to a shuddering halt. "Yeah, alright Spock, I see your point. Don't you have a training session to get to?"

Sam gave a tight smile and made his way over to the library while Dean scrolled through his contacts. To be honest, Dean was relieved when he heard the generic voice instruct him to leave a message instead of his dad's rumbling bass.

"Hey dad, it's Dean. I was just phoning to let you know Sam turned up yesterday, so he's still alive..." He was about to hang up but then thought screw it, he probably won't even listen to this anyway. "And we're both training to go and kill that demon. I know you don't exactly approve of what I'm doing, you stopped that years ago, but at least this time I'm doing it for the right reasons." He took the phone away from his dad and jabbed the button to end the call.

He continued to sit on the sofa as he stewed in his thoughts, turning his phone over and over in his hands. His eyes were unfocused and he wasn't paying attention to what they were telling him anyway, so it took a while for him to realise that someone was holding a mug of coffee out to him.

He quickly fumbled to grab it and looked up at Bobby. "You heard all that?"

Bobby grimaced, "Thin walls." He nodded at Dean and, mission seemingly accomplished he trudged back towards the kitchen. He stopped at the threshold and added, "A father's approval is a mighty fine thing, but it's not nearly so fine as knowing in your bones you're doing the right thing."

With that pearl of wisdom rattling around in his head - and upsetting the internal mechanics of his mind even more - and Bobby disappearing into the kitchen, Dean turned to the mug of coffee he had been given. He smiled to himself at the gesture, until he felt the burn as the liquid flowed down his throat, a burn that had nothing to do with temperature, and everything to do with alcohol content. He spluttered in surprise and cursed, "What the hell?"

Bobby's response came from the kitchen without him appearing in the doorway this time, "You sounded like you needed it."

Dean smirked and shook his head fondly as he sat back to nurse his coffee, which tasted like it had more Irish in it than a leprechaun. Dean decided to forego his workout and opted for a steamy shower instead, once the hot water had had time to replenish. Afterwards he knocked on the door behind which Pamela and Sam had ensconced themselves, and at Pamela's invitation, pushed the door open balancing sandwiches and drinks for everyone.

"Thought you guys might be hungry," Dean explained.

"Thanks Dean," Sam said gratefully as he took the proffered fuel out of Dean's hands.

"Mmm you're an angel," said Pamela, also relieving Dean of his burden, "I think it's about time we took a break."

"So," began Dean as he joined them, "what have you guys been up to so far?"

"Giving me a lot of headaches," replied Sam, rubbing his temple with the fingers of one hand.

Dean inspected Sam, but the kid didn't look seriously distressed, he sported a tired grimace but there was humour in his eyes.

Pamela waved a hand dismissively, "You're doing fine, you just need to relax into it. And a crap-ton more practice."

"Easier said than done," retorted Sam halfheartedly.

Pamela shrugged in response and they fell into an easy chatter while they ate, until Pamela declared it was time to get back to work, so Dean picked some reading from the shelf and spread himself out on the sofa.

Sam hadn't really known what to expect from Pamela and her psychic training, but it was... different. Even though he dealt with the supernatural on a daily basis - and oh boy was the irony blaring at him loud and clear - he was still sceptical about all that tree-hugging, be one with the universe crap.

"You need to open yourself up, Sam. You're trying to see the future, you need to be open to the possibilities; you need to find that thread and follow it wherever it may lead, you can't control it." Pamela coaxed.

"That makes sense," Sam conceded, nodding slowly to himself. And it did make sense, of course it did, That wasn't the issue. The issue was: that for all Sam tried relax and open himself to the possibilities and be one with the universe... But there was something coiled deep inside of him that would not relax no matter how hard he tried. He raised his head and caught Pamela looking at him with a strange expression on her face. "What?" He asked a little uneasily.

"You didn't listen to a word I said, did you?" she said with a knowing smirk on her face.

"I'm trying," Sam replied, "it's just taking some getting used to, I've never tried to open my mind before." Even as he said it he felt ridiculous,

Pamela rolled her eyes, "I meant back in Kansas, when you'd just woken up from that demonic coma you were in?"

"Oh..." Sam said as he cast his mind back, "you said there was no lasting damage, that there wasn't any more of Azazel's influence inside my mind."

"True," Pamela acknowledged, "but I believe what I actually said was that there wasn't a drop of evil in your big floppy head." Pamela smirked and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sam to make the connection. But apparently she wasn't interested in waiting too long, "evil doesn't always mean demonic, Sam. I got a pretty good look in your noggin last time - don't worry, I didn't pry - my psychic abilities are more of an empathic nature anyway, not actual mind reading. But I meant what I said, I know what evil feels like and you are not it."

"But I might turn evil. I've met some of those other kids like me and they didn't start out evil either, Azazel slowly turned them evil, one by one." Sam countered and began to chew at his thumbnail, "what if Bobby's right? What if this is a bad idea? What if I'm not strong enough?"

Pamela leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other, "why do you think so little of yourself?" She said, putting Sam in mind of a therapist as she did so.

Sam shrugged, "I'm a demon infected freak, a ticking time bomb of evil and I can't even protect the people I'm closest too, what more is there to say?"

"Well, Caleb certainly had a lot to say. Bobby pointed me in his direction after I'd helped you guys, and that overgrown man-child couldn't stop singing your praises once I mentioned you."

"He doesn't exactly know what I am though, I can't imagine he'd be singing anything about me if he knew."

"I highly doubt that. But if that did happen, then Caleb is an idiot who's not worth a second thought, and I'm a terrible judge of character."

Sam shot her a doubtful look, he had demon blood in him, how could anyone trust him, let alone a hunter?

Pamela studied his expression for a while before sighing and and drumming her fingers in a quick staccato on the arms of her chair and leaning forward. "Well, I can see I'm not going to convince you in one day, so why don't we carry on with what we both came here to do? I think we've spent enough time on your visions today, how about we work on your telekinesis instead?"

Sam nodded and took a deep breath, readying himself, "what do you want me to do?"

Pamela looked around and plucked a book from the shelf nearest to her. She held it out in front of her, it wasn't one of Bobby's big, heavy grimoires, just a small hunter's journal, but when she told Sam to move it, he couldn't.

He concentrated on the innocuous, leather-bound book until he felt the familiar headache creeping back in, but the damn thing wouldn't budge, not even an inch. He shifted himself and leaned forward, staring intently again and ignored the tension that wrapped around his head and began slowly constricting like a vice.

Sam lost track of time as he stared at the journal, but eventually, when he could no longer ignore his headache or keep from reacting as it stabbed at him and throbbed, Pamela brought and end to the session and sent him to lie down for a while before dinner.

"I'm fine," he insisted in the face of Pamela's stern expression.

"You're doing a really good job of pretending you are," Pamela admitted, "but that iron grip you have on your feelings slipped for a moment there and I felt that headache Sam. You're not fine, you need to go lie down before you have an aneurysm."

"I've had worse, and I'm pretty sure I can't get an aneurysm from a headache."

"Maybe not, but why risk it? You should go lie down." Pamela argued.

"Doesn't matter, if I can't learn how to control this then how am I supposed to stop Azazel before he kills anyone else, or worse, raises Lucifer?"

"Sam, you have to take care of yourself too, or else you'll never be in any sort of shape to go up against Azazel."

"It's only a headache."

"Sam I'm not going to help you hurt yourself, go lie down and we can try again tomorrow." said Pamela with a finality in her voice that Sam was reluctant to argue with.

He deflated as he left the room, he was tired and the headache was really beginning to pound behind his temples as he crawled onto the sofa and collapsed with a huff. His head swam a little as he closed his eyes and tried to release the tension he was carrying, it wasn't long before he fell asleep.

He wasn't exactly sure how long he had been asleep for before someone shook his foot as it was hanging over the arm of the sofa. He kicked out on reflex but Bobby's chuckle as his foot connected with thin air was a balm as he came back to his senses.

"Grub's up," Bobby said as he walked over to the kitchen.

Sam was a little surprised to find a blanket had been draped over him while he was out and he wondered who the culprit was for a moment, but the growling of his stomach and the delicious scent of the food distracted him and he hurried to take his place at the table, stifling a yawn as he went.

He fell on his food like he was afraid it would be taken away any second. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was mildly disgusted with himself but with the way his stomach was growling at him, he found it hard to resist, especially as he was still sleepy from his too short nap.

After they had eaten, and had all settled into the living room for the evening, Dean insisted Sam experience the cinematic delights of the first instalment of the Die Hard franchise. Sam felt rather amused as he watched Dean have a small intellectual crisis over the fact that apparently it was meant to be a christmas film and they were about to watch it in the height of summer, but he eventually decided that it was more important that Sam expand his knowledge sooner rather than waiting six months.

Sam ended up enjoying the film, but he did question the validity of Dean's turmoil beforehand.

Sam fell asleep quickly, in fact he didn't remember falling asleep at all; he didn't remember much after the credits started to roll and he didn't remember the others going to sleep either. In fact all available evidence suggested he had crashed pretty damn early and pretty damn hard too since someone had managed to pull off his boots and arrange him comfortably on the sofa under the blanket without disturbing him.

But since he had dozed off so early, it was early again when he rose, the birds were cheerfully hailing the rising sun and the dawn was clear as crystal. Sam rose on socked feet and picked his way stealthily towards coffee. Like the day before, he was the first up and since he wasn't planning on taking it easy any time soon, no matter how tired he had been the previous evening, he went about his day in much the same way as he had the day before.

After he had traipsed back inside, almost leaving a trail of sweat behind and showered, he met Pamela again in the library and resumed his psychic training.

"Make yourself comfy," Pamela said as she gestured to the sofa, "now try to relax. Close your eyes, it helps."

He relaxed against the cushions, hands resting on his thighs. Again he began with trying to open his mind to his visions - he felt like he was trying to turn himself into some kind of supernatural lightening rod trying to attract scraps of the future as they darted past on intangible temporal currents - until Dean appeared with lunch and then they concentrated on his telekinesis.

At some point in the late afternoon Pamela sighed, "Maybe-" she began but Sam cut her off.

"No, it's ok. I'll get it, just let me try again," Sam protested as he fixed his gaze back on the journal.

Pamela let him try again for a few more minutes, until it became clear that the journal was in no danger of shifting even the smallest of increments, and then dropped it on the table next to her. Disappointed, Sam looked back up at Pamela wondering how the hell she thought they were supposed to get anywhere with this if they started slacking.

"You can give me those puppy-dog eyes all you want Sam, but you're not going to be moving anything with your mind until you switch up your approach."

"Puppy-dog eyes? You think I have puppy-dog eyes?" Asked Sam, momentarily side-tracked by the absurd expression.

"Of course you have puppy-dog eyes," scoffed Pamela like it was obvious, "now, back to business."

Sam warily pushed all thoughts about his eyes out of his head and scrubbed a hand down his face, "I don't know what else to try. I've done it once before, I don't know why I can't do it again."

"Tell me about the last time you used your telekinesis," Pamela ordered, looking at Sam intently enough to make him squirm.

"I was hunting a ghoul," Sam said, scratching the back of his neck selfconsciously as he recounted the hunt. "I let myself get trapped in the crypt it was using as a nest but there was a kid in the park opposite. I hadn't spotted him earlier, he was just a teenager in the wrong place at the wrong time but I knew he was seconds away from being ghoul-chow and I just panicked. The doors just blew right off."

Pamela hummed and continued appraising Sam as she contemplated his story, and Sam bit his lip as he looked back at her, wondering what she saw in him, wondering what she was even looking for. He felt himself tense as the anxiety of not knowing how to be what Pamela needed gnawed at him; he felt like he was being tested somehow, like when his mother used to look at him, but he had never managed to do anything but disappoint Mary.

Pamela's face softened into a warm, sympathetic smile, "Sam, relax. Just because you didn't get it right away doesn't mean you failed. You haven't let anyone down yet, we just need to try something different."

Sam huffed and tried to get a hold of his anxiety, "what kinda thing are you thinking?"

"Well, so far you've been clearing your mind and focusing on just kind of commanding the journal to move. But when you moved those doors, you weren't focused, you were emotional. Maybe you need to start wanting the thing to move."

"How do I do that?" Sam asked.

Pamela shrugged, "I dunno. But why don't you give it a try anyway? And then when you figure it out you can let me know."

So Sam did try, but moving the journal was inconsequential, how could he ignite the desire to move it like he had felt the night he blew out the doors to that crypt?

Plus it went against years of habit after living with Mary to let his emotions flow rather than suppress them.

After another hour of staring intently at the book he pushed off his seat in frustration and ran both hands through his hair as he paced over to the window. "Why can't I get this?" He asked the universe in a frustrated plea he knew he would get no answer to.

"Well I wouldn't give up hope too soon," commented Pamela from behind Sam, pointing towards book as he turned to see that it had moved halfway across the table.

Holy crap.

As all lingering doubts about him actually having a second ability were brutally quashed and the ramifications of him being even more of a freak hit Sam like a freight train, the book shot off the table and into the opposite wall.

"Ok so now that we know what works, we just have to figure out a way to control it." Pamela said thoughtfully as she stared at where the book had landed on the floor.

The book began to tremble, softly at first, but the shuddering was quickly becoming more intense, until Sam shut down his burgeoning panic attack.

Pamela raised an eyebrow at the book and turned her gaze to Sam, "you ok there, Professor X?"

Sam gave a half-hearted snort, "don't you start with the ridiculous nicknames too." He bantered, trying to ground himself in the trivial.

"Are they ridiculous if they're applicable?" Pamela shot back.

"Yes," Sam replied very firmly.