Disclaimer: Everything "Supernatural" belongs to lots of other people. Nothing is mine. Darn. And definitely not making any money off of this.

Characters: Dean, Sam

A/N: Just a speculative attempt to reconcile some of what we've seen with Sam's abilities.

FREAK

"Dean!"

Sam stared upward toward the ceiling of the old warehouse, where Dean dangled in the grip of a demon. He couldn't believe how badly this had all gone.

It was a malevolent spirit. That's what everything had indicated. And a ghost that went after children, which had definitely gotten Dean's protective instincts going full blast. Investigation had suggested that the spirit's remains were probably somewhere in the warehouse itself or nearby; all indications were that the man the ghost once had been had disappeared, probably murdered, in the vicinity of the warehouse. They had headed out, prepared to rescue any children still there, and to find the bones and burn them, ending the reign of terror once and for all.

The four children taken last were in the warehouse, still alive and relatively unharmed though clearly frightened. He and Dean were about to shepherd them out of the building when the spirit had appeared. A blast of rock salt had dispersed it. They would get the children out and search for the bones.

Then it had all gone to hell in a handbasket. The spirit had been but a minion of a demon. He had heard Dean curse under his breath and mumble something sarcastically about getting the cast of characters in advance and how nice it would be if everything went right for a change. With their demon weaponry all neatly tucked away in the Impala's trunk, they were completely outgunned.

The demon had swooped low and Dean had shouted, "Cristo!", which had made the demon flinch back.

His older brother had emphatically gestured for Sam to get the children away, a sharp chopping motion of his hand cutting off the younger man's protest.

"Not now, Sam!" he had said. "Get them to safety—and get something that will work against this damn thing!"

Sam had gritted his teeth but he had seen the logic and the necessity. He had herded the children out as fast as he could as the name "Elohim" rang out behind him, sending them down the hill toward the quiet road and sternly admonishing them that, under no circumstances, were they to approach the warehouse. He told the oldest child that if he or his brother were not back out in ten minutes, she was to start off down the road in the direction of town. Then he had raced to the trunk of the Impala and opened the hidden compartment, revealing Dean's and his formidable stash of weaponry. He grabbed a silver athamé with a double-sided, almost foot-long blade he knew to be sharp enough to slice a piece of paper floating down slowly in the air. It was not merely honed to an incredible edge, however; it had been blessed by a priest. He also snatched a flask of holy water.

Powering back into the warehouse, he had been greeted by the sight of Dean in the demon's stranglehold and well off the floor, toward the center of the main storeroom. Desperately, he searched around the room for something, anything, he could use to reach the pair, but there was nothing. His eyes fell on a steadily growing red puddle on the floor below the fighters and he knew that Dean had been slashed by the demon's talons.

He could feel the panic beginning to rise. Dean was not more than thirty feet away from him, but his brother might as well have been on the moon for all he could do to help. What damn good was the athamé or all the holy water in the universe if he had no way to reach the evil son-of-a-bitch?

Sam saw the demon start to twist Dean's head and he knew that in no more than a heartbeat, it would snap Dean's neck. From somewhere deep inside, fear and rage combined in one great surge and he roared out, "No!" Almost instantly, the knife was torn from his hand. It flew, straight and true, and slammed into the demon's back with enough force to end up projecting slightly out of the beast's chest. The fiend howled, an anguished cry that brought a grim smile to Sam's face, then the sound was cut off and it began to fall, taking Dean down with it. It slammed into the ground, by some miracle ending up on the bottom and cushioning Dean's fall.

Sam ran forward and gently slid his arms around his brother's still form, lifting him up and off the demon. As he did, Dean moaned and began to cough, one hand feebly brushing at his bruised throat. Sam rubbed his hand slowly in a circle over Dean's back, trying to help him catch his breath. When Dean seemed to be breathing more easily, he laid Dean back on the ground to take a look at the three long slashed across Dean's chest. He was pleased to see that they didn't look deep—while a demon could clearly kill with its talons, it was the demon taint they carried that often did more damage. He sighed slightly. It was holy-water-in-the-gashes time, something akin to pouring acid over a wound. He didn't look forward to having to do it to Dean when they got back to the motel room.

He met his brother's pained, slightly glassy gaze. "Ready to go?"

"I've been freakin' ready since we got here," Dean rasped back.

Sam bit back a smile. Dean couldn't be too badly hurt if he was already hitting his sarcastic stride.

Thank Cristo, Elohim, Jehovah, Shiva and anyone else who was listening.

Sam wearily leaned against the cracked sink in the small, dimly-lit bathroom. The smell of mildew permeated the entire room. The Happy Rest Motel was hardly the most well-kept hostelry they had ever stayed in. Still, beggars and all that.

After bundling Dean into the front seat, where his older brother had slumped back, eyes closed, and the four children into the back seat, Sam had raced the Impala toward town. Wanting to avoid any entanglements with the local police, he had stopped the car near a small park across from the town library. He had helped the children out of the car and had knelt down in front of them.

"That thing is dead," he had assured them. "It can't hurt any of you anymore. We're going to leave you here, okay?"

The oldest had nodded her head and then she had leaned forward and given him a hug, whispering in his ear, "Will he be alright?"

Sam had smiled at the concern in her tone, somehow more mature-sounding than her actual years. Nodding, he said, "Yes, he's a tough guy." He had watched for a moment as the four ran across toward the library, then he had re-entered the car and headed out of town, toward the isolated motel the brothers had check into the previous night.

He glanced over his shoulder past the open door at Dean lying on one of the twin beds in the room. The "tough guy" was somewhere between unconsciousness and sleep, resting on his back instead of his usual stomach position because of the gashes.

Cleaning them out had been as bad as Sam has known it would be. He had given Dean something to chomp down on and had liberally poured the holy water into the open wounds. Dean being Dean, the stubborn idiot had stayed conscious long after a sane person would have tumbled into Comaville. Grateful that his brother would at least have some respite from the pain, Sam had hurried to complete the holy water bath and to bandage the slashes before Dean should rouse again.

Sam's mind wandered back to the events of the warehouse. There was no doubt that it had been his—what? Gift?—of telekinesis that had ended up saving Dean's life. And he was grateful that it had chosen that moment to kick in, but what the hell, why couldn't he figure it out? This was only the second time it had raised its psychic head. What good was it, if he couldn't summon it?

On the other hand, Max had been able to summon it and look where that had gotten him.

Sam had come to the conclusion that his visions popped up only in situations that somehow touched on the demon that had ruined the Winchester family. Jess. The problem at the house where it had all started. Max.

But the telekinesis...it seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason. The first time, at Max' house where he had seen Dean die. Since then, they had been attacked by daevas, and he himself had been about to be "eaten" by a shtriga. Not to mention, the incident with the haunted painting. Not only was he about to die, but also a woman he liked and found attractive was in the same predicament.

Hell, if none of that was enough to ramp up his fucking "gift", why then had it worked the two times he had used it? What the hell was there in common between the two situations?

Sam suddenly straightened up and stared into the mirror, eyes wide. He turned and looked at his brother, still lying motionless on the bed.

The common factor.

Both times, Dean had been about to die. Frowning, Sam shook his head. Hadn't that been true with the daevas as well? He ran his mind around the puzzle for moment before an answer popped up and cheekily waved at him. With the daevas, there had been another available solution. The flares. He hadn't needed the power to save Dean.

He slowly walked into the main room and sat down on his bed. Sam had never told Dean his latest thoughts on the subject of his powers. Despite his older brother's protestations, Sam was pretty sure that the idea of his abilities was worrying Dean. So, he had kept his current revelation to himself.

He was pretty sure that the "gifts", if such they were, were some kind of outwash from the demon's attack on his family. Some sort of damned demon radiation that had seeped into him. And Max. And who knew how many others.

And with demon-inspired powers came darkness. Darkness that had come to full flower in poor, pathetic Max. Max could have used his new-found abilities to free himself, not only from his family, but also from fear. Instead, he had used them to murder. While Max had reason a-plenty to hate his family, Sam was pretty sure that Dean had been right and, in the end, it would not have stopped with his father, uncle and stepmother. Soon, anyone who frightened or threatened or even angered him would be a target.

The idea that these powers came with a soul-stripping darkness had terrified Sam. He had been living on a knife-edge these last few months, afraid that his telekinesis would blossom, along with an increasing willingness to misuse it. He was most afraid of hurting Dean. Lord knows, there was no one in the world at the present time that he loved more than he loved his pain-in-the-ass older brother, but it was the pain-in-the-ass part that worried him. No one could infuriate him faster than Dean at his worst. He had lain awake nights wrestling with the fear that he would one day turn on his brother with his newly-awakened arsenal.

But now...now he began to suspect it was an unfounded fear. He had no idea why he was suddenly so sure about it, but in the last few minutes a certainty had taken hold that he could never harm Dean with his power. He was absolutely positive that, after the demon had done its damage, someone, something, had stepped in and redirected his "gift". Away from the darkness.

And not for his sake, either. If it had been, he would have been able to use the abilities to, if not to save himself, then certainly to save Sarah and any other innocent. No, they had been redirected to one purpose, and one purpose only.

To protect Dean.

Sam shook his head in amazement as he stared at Dean. Some being powerful enough to override the demon's own purpose had stepped in to turn Sam into a buckler for his brother.

Which, of course, beggared the question.

Who really was the freak in the Winchester family?