As far as Dean was concerned, 9:55 was close enough to "after ten". He hammered unapologetically on Gi's door, balancing an assorted dozen and a bag of dark roast in his free hand. The door opened abruptly and Dean cut off any potential complaint before it could surface by shoving the packages at the younger man. "No cinnamon, decent coffee," he said before pushing his way past Gi's dismayed expression into the apartment. "So, how do we do this?" he asked from inside.

Gi, still at the door, took a second to process, "Sure, come on in," he relented as if he got a vote. What was the point in resisting? He didn't need a full reading to tell that Dean was going to keep pushing until he got what he wanted, whatever that was. At least he'd gotten a bag of name brand out of the deal.

He retreated to the kitchenette to coax the nearly dead coffee maker into beginning a new cycle while discreetly watching Dean, who wasn't settling anywhere. The hunter was antsy as he paced the room, hands jammed deep into his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting with things. Gi wasn't sure what it was Dean needed, but it sure wasn't a cup of coffee or any sugar. The poor guy looked about ready to spontaneously de-rez.

Gi knew it was nuts to keep letting Dean into his place. Something about the guy was just off, not off like crazy, but yeah, that too. He felt so lost. No, it was more than lost. He was...disconnected was the only word that really seemed to fit. Gi was curious about that, which was part of the reason that, against his better judgment, he continued to tolerate Dean's presence in his life, less endearing personality traits aside. The rest was the emotional blend of two parts pity, one part guilt that made people feed stray animals. You know you're going to regret it, but you also know you'll hate yourself if you don't.

Taking a healthy bite of a sugar dusted cream filled Gi wondered how much he was going to end up regretting going down this road.

XXXXX

Gi rubbed at his temples with his fingertips, trying to massage away the ache. They had been at this for hours. The candle flame struggled to remain lit in the overfull pool of melted wax that had collected over the lengthy process of failed attempts. Why was he doing this? He would have kicked a paying customer out by now. "OK," he said, "the beer didn't help. Time to pull out the upgraded BFG."

Dean, seated across the spool table on the lumpy sofa, assumed that translated into something stronger. "I can make a run. Been meaning to pick up a bottle anyway." he said.

"Nope, if booze was going to work, it would have by now." Gi said. He moved the candle aside, knocking over one of the bottles Dean had emptied sending it rolling off the table to clatter onto the floor. The motion drowned the weak flame in a slosh of wax. Gi reached down into the uncovered center hole of the spool and fished around, coming up with a baggie of hand rolled cigarettes.

"Is that…"

"Less than strictly legal herbal relaxant," Gi said before Dean could finish the question.

Dean looked dubiously at the baggie.

Gi took note of Dean's reaction. "Not the way I like to do things, dude. Reading somebody that's lit can get freaky." he said, "But you're like New Vegas on survival without the console commands. If I'm getting in, looks like we're gonna have to hack your system." He held out the baggie for Dean to make a selection.

Dean regarded it hesitantly. He would have trusted the situation a lot more if he understood what Gi was saying more than just half the time. It wasn't impossible, or even unlikely, that this was an attempt to pass off a drug trip as a psychic experience. He hadn't seen any real proof of Gi's supposed "powers" that he could really call solid. Was he really this desperate?

My last thought was, I was leaving Sam alone with that hell bitch. I failed him again.

He collapsed back on the bed in a crumpled heap, "Oh god, Sammy, no."

Of course he was. What other option did he have? Wait for the next bizarre event that never happened? Yeah, cause that had been working so well up to now. He had nothing and he knew it. His only hope was trying to figure out what was going on in his head.

Screw it he decided, reaching forward to dig into the baggie. It's not like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Didn't even make the highlights reel.

Gi reburied the bag and repositioned the candle over the hole. He relit the wick before tossing the matchbook over to Dean.

XXXXX

Gi had felt strong emotion, epic scale in some cases. He'd been pushed and pulled in a vicarious way by fears and sorrows not his own. Through his connections to various subjects, he'd been tossed about on stormy seas of grief and scalded by unresolved, buried anger. He experienced it all in a distant way, insulated from it by the knowledge that those feelings were not his own. No matter how intensely real they sometimes felt he was just a hitchhiker on someone else's path, there to guide them through the maze of their own emotional baggage. Distance helped him maintain control.

Nothing in his previous experience had prepared him for the chaotic nightmare that was Dean Winchester's emotional landscape.

He broached the barrier, finally, ready to, as he always did, remind himself that he was a visitor. This place and the things stored within it were not his. He didn't have to carry them.

Right off, he sensed that something was wrong. Everything about the place was wrong. It felt like aan out of sync audio, or like everything there was a half inch to the left of itself.

Dean's emotions were strong, but hollow, like an illusion, a hologram. Gi had once worked with an abuse victim who had been subjected to some extreme gas lighting. That was the closest comparison he could draw to anything he'd encountered before. A queasy tickle sprouted in his stomach and grew into cold tendrils that spread thoughout him and wrapped around him.

Tentatively he cast about his awareness, hoping to locate the source of the unease.

A nightmare image flashed before him, gone before he could really see it, but he saw enough. The details he caught, too many teeth jutting out at awkward angles, blood spattered, twisted features, inhuman howl, put Lovecraft to shame, leaving him relieved he hadn't made out more. That was enough. He was done. He pulled back from the connection.

He'd always been able to just step back, pull out whenever he needed to, but something wouldn't let go. Like trying to race to the surface of deep water while a held breathe waned in the lungs, Gi struggled to free himself from Dean's psyche. It fought to drag him back in like quicksand.

When he was able to pull himself free, his body jerked backward, nearly toppling himself and the flimsy lawn chair. Sweat soaked his forehead, pasting wisps of hair to his skin. Fear ragged breaths heaved through his slender frame, as the solid world took root around him.

Across the spool, Dean blinked, like he was shaking off a daydream. Whatever had happened, it didn't seem to him that all the effort had yielded much in the way of results.

Gi stared at him with wide, troubled eyes, tinged with fear. "Dude," he whispered shakily through gasping breaths, "what the hell are you?"