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Dean was still chuckling over the memory of Shelly slapping his brother when Sam gasped and hunched forward, the heel of his hand pressed between his eyes. At first Dean thought it was the unavoidable pothole wreaking havoc with his hung-over passenger. But when Sam remained hunched and still, failing to make a bitchy comment about his driving, Dean realized what was happening.
"Sammy?" he questioned, pulling over to the side of the road. Sam remained unmoving, silent except for the rapid, shallow breathing that always accompanied these things. A think line of sweat made a path down his cheek and the hand pressed to his face dropped bonelessly to his lap. His eyes moved rapidly side to side, tracking something only he could see.
"Shit," Dean whispered, hating the uncertainty, the helplessness of watching his brother disappear inside himself. Sighing in frustration, he reached out to rest his palm on the back of Sam's neck, waiting.
Five minutes later Sam trembled under his hand, his eyes sliding closed and his body beginning to slump forward. Dean quickly adjusted his grip, clasping his brother's shoulder and drawing him back gently to lean against the seat.
"Sam? You with me, little brother?"
"Yeah, just, uh – give me a sec…" he mumbled, eyes still closed. A rivulet of blood dribbled lazily from his right nostril and dripped from his chin.
Dean cursed and grabbed a wad of fast food napkins from the back seat, pressing them under Sam's nose. Sam opened his eyes, seemingly bewildered.
"I'm bleeding."
"No shit, Sherlock. Hold these there and tilt your head back. Watch the upholstery."
"Your bedside manner sucks, Dean."
"You're not in a bed, genius, you're in my car. When you're in a bed, feel free to hemorrhage all over it. But until then try your best to clot quickly."
Sam shot him a look, the wad of napkins slowly turning red.
"So where are we going?"
"What?"
"Your vision. What did you see, and where do we have to go?"
Sam looked briefly confused before his entire face closed down. Dean could practically hear the shutters slamming.
"We already have a job – in Haughtenborough. Remember?"
"Yeah, but dude, no one even lives in that house. It'll keep. Now, whatever you saw must be important – you don't get these things for nothing."
"Well, this time it is apparently for nothing. It's too late, it already happened."
Sighing, Sam pulled the tissues away from his nose, satisfied that the bleeding had stopped. He glanced at the bloodstained paper and gulped, looking queasy.
"Are you sure? Maybe-"
"I'm sure, okay? Please, just – trust me on this? There's nothing we can do for her."
Dean didn't like the hopeless look on his brother's face, or the grim certainty in Sam's voice, but he really couldn't argue with him over the visions – those were Sam's alone. There was something... off about his brother's reaction to this vision, but Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it.
As he eased the Impala back onto the road he darted another look at Sam, who was slumped tiredly in the seat.
"What did you see?"
"Dean – it doesn't matter. I don't want to talk about it." There was a note of finality in Sam's voice – he was done discussing the subject. For the second time in as many days, Dean found himself wondering what the hell was going on with his little brother, and what it was going to take to pry the information from Sam so he could fix it.
"Fine. Whatever." He grumbled, feigning indifference. Sam ignored the sarcastic comment, closing his eyes and turning his face away, apparently to sleep.
Sam, what the hell am I gonna do with you?
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Sam pressed his forehead against the window, hot anger and hopelessness coursing through him. So much for avoiding them. Apparently he was going to see this shit one way or another – asleep or awake. As irrational as he knew it was, he couldn't help but feel that the pain of a waking vision was punishment for having tried to avoid it. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sunlight and the vicious scene replayed behind his eyes –
A young woman, dark hair, pretty face. Walking home from work, pulled into an alley. Raped and strangled, her body abandoned to the trash and rats.
Sam felt dirty, having witnessed her brutal violation, and wished desperately for a shower. They were still three hours from Haughtenborough and the poltergeist, and he didn't relish the thought of avoiding Dean's questions until then. His brother was a pit bull when he latched on to something, and he had obviously decided that Sam was hiding something. When Dean said 'fine, whatever' what he really meant was I'm letting this go for now, but I'll get it out of you later.
Sighing, Sam let his body relax into the seat. If he were going to be able to fend of his older brother's inquiries later, he needed to rest now. And as much as he hated the dreams, the visions while he was awake were worse. If he had to see it, he would rather see it discretely in his sleep.
The residual exhaustion from the vision and the smooth motion of the car had him drifting off before he realized it, and soon he was dreaming again.
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The woman from his vision stood before him, pink waitresses uniform torn, smeared with dirt and blood and other unthinkable things. The little yellow name tage that hung from the spoiled fabric read 'Cindy'. Her exposed breasts were covered in scratches and bruises, her neck raw and bruised where her attacker had strangled her. But worst was her face, twisted in grief and horror, her eyes wide with desperation.
"I needed you to see!" She cried, her voice clear despite her ruined throat.
"Why? I can't help you! I can't do anything!"
"You're my Witness." Ciny gasped, her eyes glazing over and her body draining of color. Her flesh began to droop, and a horrified Sam watched as twenty years of decay occurred in ten seconds. Her yellowed bones clattered to the ground before him, her skull rolling until it came to rest against his feet, empty eye sockets staring upward. He stood frozen as the jaw creaked open and the skull spoke, using Dean's voice –
"Sam! Wake up!"
Sam jerked forward, gasping. He was in the Impala, his brother staring at him, a hand on his shoulder.
"What?" he asked, trying to push back the lingering threads of his dream.
"We're here." Dean said, gesturing towards the front of the car. They were parked in front of a generic-looking motel room. Dean was staring at him, a calculating look on his face. Sam wondered uneasily if his brother had been able to tell he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes tiredly before opening his door and standing, his back popping and stretching.
"I'm going to go take a shower, if that's cool with you." He said, avoiding Dean's gaze as he grabbed his bag from the back seat.
"Yeah. Sure. Just save some hot water for me." Dean grinned, goading him. Sam smiled back at him in relief – sparring he could handle, it was the serious stuff he couldn't deal with right now.
"Don't worry – despite having grown up with Neanderthals, I somehow managed to acquire some basic civilized manners."
"Neanderthals? Hey, would a caveman be able to handle more than thirty kinds of weapons?"
"Maybe with the proper training."
"You know, that would be kind of cool – a heavily armed caveman assassin. Encino Man meets The Terminator."
"Dean, only you would think that's cool."
"Oh, come on! Anyone with testicles would think that's cool! I geuss that's why you don't seem amused…."
Sam swatted at him as they entered the room, Dean's immature jibes almost enough to banish the memory of Cindy's wide, pleading eyes.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Woo hoo! One more chapter and this becomes the longest story I've posted on this site. I credit all the kind feedback. :)