Sam told Sarah about Illinois and then Charleston, beginning with the mysterious coordinates that had appeared on Dean's phone, and finishing with his desperate phone call to Missouri. The psychic listened intently, occasionally reaching out to touch the objects that Sam mentioned as he related the series of events that had led him to Raleigh. When he finished, he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Almost an hour had passed.
"Sam, do you have your brother's cell phone?" asked Sarah. Sam had forgotten to place it on the bed with the other items, since it was in his pocket and not the duffel bag.
"Sure," he said, standing quickly and retrieving the phone. As Sarah took it from him, her eyes widened and Sam saw fear.
"We have to hurry, Sam," she said.
"What? Why?" Sam's eyes flew to the still figure on the bed. Dean's skin looked waxy; his breathing was imperceptible from this far away.
"I was hoping to have more time to prepare you, but the thing that's after your brother is far more powerful than I thought."
Sam took a couple of deep breaths, fighting to calm himself, to focus on the room, Sarah, and Dean. "What is it? How do I stop it?"
"I'm going to help you enter your brother's mind. This creature is killing him by draining his mental strength and energy--feeding on them and replacing his vitality with weakness and despair."
Sam nodded. He knew all about the ability of spirits to affect the mind. "But we've been to two different places, put down two different ghosts--are you saying they're working together? How is that possible?"
Sarah shook her head. "No, this thing isn't a ghost, but I think it's using ghosts in locations where it can manifest its abilities more easily. It's hard to explain, but whatever this thing is, it isn't strong enough to take Dean out physically--yet. By luring your brother to locations where the boundaries between this world and the next are already thin, it can get to him and get inside his head. Dean's the key somehow...it needs him, needs his strength."
"So it sent us those coordinates." Sam mentally replayed the phone call he'd gotten inside the asylum. "And then it lured me downstairs to Ellicott..." he trailed off and Sarah finished for him.
"Knowing that you would either kill Dean yourself or at least weaken him sufficiently for the creature to gain a foothold in his mind."
Sam closed his eyes, cursing his weakness.
"Don't blame yourself, Sam. This thing is good--it knew just what to play on to get you to come to it. That's what makes it so scary; that and the fact that technically the effects of this attack should have lessened the further you got from Charleston and the creature's sphere of influence. Usually for a psychic attack to work the attacker has to stay in fairly close physical proximity to the victim, but this one is different--stronger--and that's why I'm worried." Sarah looked back up at the pale, fatigued and frightened young man standing on the other side of the bed, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
"I'll be with you, but since Dean doesn't know me, he might not trust me to help him." Sarah's voice was full of conviction as she continued, "You can do this, Sam. You don't even really need my help--you're strong enough on your own."
Sam swallowed, determination replacing the fear in his eyes. "Okay," he said.
Sarah and Sam sat cross-legged on the bed on either side of Dean. They each grapsed one of Dean's hands, and then each other's, completing the circle. Sarah looked at Sam sternly, blue eyes firm.
"Everyone has fears they keep hidden. A powerful psychic attack begins with the perpetrator planting seeds of doubt and panic in the victim's mind. As the victim grows weaker, the attacker can locate their worst fears and makes them real, locking the victim inside the nightmares in his head. If you fail or die often enough in your dreams, Sam, your physical body shuts down, too." Sarah looked down at Dean, reading his aura. It had already been a pale green when he arrived, and had now faded to a muddy greenish-gray. Her forehead creased in concern.
"You can't actually fight this creature yourself, Sam. Dean has to do that. Your job is to pull him out of his own nightmares and convince him to fight off this thing. But whatever you do, you can't let yourself get pulled into Dean's nightmares, no matter how awful or real they seem to you."
The psychic paused and cocked her head slightly, lifting an eyebrow. "You're more afraid of possibly finding out what your brother thinks of you than you are of this creature, aren't you?"
Sam only gave her a sickly half smile, remembering a sewer and something wearing his brother's features taunting him.
"You really are a goober, Sam Winchester. Your brother loves you more than life itself."
Sam swallowed nervously and focused on Dean's face. "That's what I'm afraid of," he said.
"It's a weakness, true--and it's probably what the attacker is using to get to your brother." When Sam looked up, guilt on his features, Sarah shook her head at him. "It's also your greatest strength. He'll fight if you ask him to, Sam, no matter what."
Sarah closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, and Sam followed suit. "I need you to clear your mind, Sam," she said, giving his hand a warning squeeze as a snort of disbelief escaped him. "Just listen to my voice and concentrate on the physical connection between you, me, and Dean. How our hands are touching, how they feel...where you end and we begin..."
A sudden vision of Dean sitting in a protective circle with Sam, laughing and asking him if he was trying to use the Force, left Sam breathless. Had that only been 14 hours ago? Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, and held tightly to Dean's hand, letting Sarah's voice lead him.
Dean was back in Kansas again, but this time he was on the floor, propped against the wall and watching helplessly as the fire creature approached Sam. The shotgun lay mere inches from his right hand, but Dean didn't have the strength to reach it.
"It's okay, Dean," said Sam. "I know who it is now."
When Mary Winchester stepped out of the flames, Dean tried to call out her name, but couldn't find his voice. As if in slow motion, he watched as his mother stepped past him to Sam, eyes only for her younger son.
"Mom?" Dean finally managed to whisper. "Mom?" Mary turned from Sam and glanced at Dean, but her eyes didn't linger on him for more than a moment. She tilted her face to the ceiling and addressed an unseen spirit.
"You. Let go of my son!" she said, and Sam moved, freed from the spirit's control. Mary reached behind her, grasping Sam's hand and drawing him level with her.
As if in unison, the two of them turned to look at Dean.
"You can have him instead," said Mary, then she and Sam turned and walked away, hand in hand. A wall of flame sprung up across the exit after they left, though Dean didn't have the strength to run or even to call out for help. He didn't have the strength to do anything except sit and wait for the end, alone with his fear and despair.
Sam found Dean slumped in the burning house, eyes closed. Although he knew that the flames and smoke weren't real, he could swear he felt the heat and that the smoke was making his eyes water. He tried to grasp his brother under the arms to drag him outside, but his hands passed right through. Panicking, he looked at Sarah, who was right behind him.
"We're too late!" Sam cried. "He thinks he's dying!"
"Talk to him, Sam," the psychic urged. Yell at him! Wake him up!"
Dean's eyes fluttered open, skittering over Sarah and fixing on Sam. "Sammy?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, lids drooping. "I'm sorry."
Sam tried again to grasp his brother's face, growling in frustration as his hands swept through nothing. "Dean. Dean! Look at me!"
Cloudy hazel eyes sought Sam's.
"Shotgun's right here. Finish it, please. Don't let me burn up, Sammy, okay? I know it's my fault but don't let me burn." Dean's gaze dropped to the shotgun on the floor.
Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat, focusing on keeping his brother awake. "Dean! None of this is real, Dean! We're in Raleigh and something is trying to make you think you're dying. You've got to fight back! You've got to get up and follow me out!"
Dean met his brother's eyes, trying to focus. Sam held Dean's gaze, trying to send his brother strength. A long moment passed, then finally Dean said, "Raleigh?" Sam almost shouted for joy.
"Yeah, Raleigh. Think, Dean. Remember Charleston? Abigail and the Cashion place? The headaches, the thing that chased you? It's attacking your mind, Dean, making you think this is real."
Dean's eyes drooped closed again and Sam grew frantic.
"Dean!" Sam turned to Sarah. "Can't you do something?"
She shook her head. "I can't touch him, either. Just keep talking to him, Sam."
"Cornbread," said Dean faintly, and Sam whipped his head back around to look at his brother.
"What?"
"Good cornbread. Charleston." Dean opened his eyes. They seemed clearer now. "Gonna burn that damn house down, too."
Sam nodded, encouraging. "Believe me, I'll help you. But you've got to get up and follow me."
"Tired, Sammy." But Dean was trying to move.
"C'mon Dean, you can do it." Sam watched as his brother slowly swung his legs around and braced his right arm on the floor, coming to all fours. He noticed that Dean was favoring his left arm and breathing hard. Sam glanced back at the fire, which was coming closer.
"Dean, hurry, there isn't much time," Sam urged, earning a pale imitation of an irritated glare from his brother.
"Quit nagging, Sam." Dean sounded frustrated, probably at his own weakness, Sam surmised. But he was moving, slowly gathering his feet underneath him and pulling himself up by using the wall. Once there, he leaned against it, tilting his head back and catching his breath.
"Take the gun," said Sam suddenly.
Dean shot his brother an "are you freaking kidding me?" look. "I just barely got vertical and you want me to bend and lift? What the hell do I need a shotgun for where we're going? Dammit, Sammy, just lead me into the light or whatever the hell and let's get out of here."
"Take it," Sam repeated.
"You take it, if you want the damn thing so much."
"I can't," said Sam.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," began Dean, but he didn't finish the complaint, and Sam watched his brother's eyes fix on a point behind him and to his right.
Sam turned to see John Winchester standing in the middle of the room, a shotgun trained on Sam's chest.
"Dad?" Sam said involuntarily.
"That's not your father, Sam," said Sarah, stepping forward.
The fake Winchester turned to her, smiling coldly. "You weren't invited," he said, swinging the gun around and firing at Sarah. Sarah gasped and then vanished.
"Sarah!" cried Sam, looking around frantically. "What did you do?" he demanded of the thing in the room.
"In Dean's head, rock salt banishes spirits. He saw her as a spirit, and poof! Banished." Sam's not-father pumped the second round into the shotgun's chamber. "Guess what he thinks you are? "
Suddenly Dean was between Sam and his father, clutching the shotgun in his right hand. "Leave him alone, Dad."
"Dean, that's not dad," began Sam, but Dean didn't seem to hear.
"Sam's dead, Dean." said John calmly. "Don't you remember? You got him killed on your last hunting trip. He's haunting you, son. Trying to pull you out of this world. Don't fall for it."
Dean blinked in confusion. "No...he's trying to help me."
John laughed. "Help you? Why would he do that? He resented you, son, for pulling him back in and getting his girlfriend killed." John stepped closer, ignoring Sam. "He tried to kill you, remember? Pulled that trigger how many times?"
Dean's arm dropped, the shotgun now pointing harmlessly at the floor. "Sammy isn't dead," he insisted faintly.
Sam was yelling at Dean, screaming at him to fight, but Dean wasn't looking at him anymore.
"You're confused, son. Grief does strange things to weak minds. Come on with me, now, and I'll help you." the fake John put his hand on Dean's shoulder, urging him forward.
Dean hesitated, turning to look at Sam. "Sammy?" he asked quietly.
"Please, Dean. Fight it. For me." Sam realized he was crying, and wished his brother would mock him or call him a pussy or something, but Dean only looked unspeakably sad and defeated.
Both John and Dean Winchester lifted shotguns, firing simultaneously.