A/N: Okay, so I know I just posted not long ago but with travel plans, I wanted to get this out sooner as opposed to later, especially as it's finally getting into the more action-based part of the story. As always, the reviews make my day, and so much thanks and credit goes to my fearless beta who truly appreciate Sam in all his Sam-ness and who understands that a limp Sam is the best Sam EVER. Seriously, people, LIMP SAM. If you need an explanation, I will be happy to provide one. Right, so, onto the story!
Chapter Seven
Sam seemed slightly better rested the next morning, and Dean felt relieved. Neither spoke of the sleep-walking incident, both hoping, for different reasons, that the other had let it go and that it would disappear into the void of unspoken topics that lingered between them. Dean headed back to the garage for his daily car update, and Sam had offered a vague plan to take another walk around town.
They met back at the motel just before noon.
Sam seemed excited, pulling the door back before Dean had a chance to pull his key out of the lock.
"I went back to the pawnshop. Get this. They're gone. Those Celtic relics."
"So someone's been shopping. Big deal." Dean tossed his key on the table and folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the dresser.
Sam's eyes flashed. "You don't think it's just a little coincidental? I mean, my interest, then, just like that, they're gone?" Sam accentuated his words with jerky hand movements.
"Sam, they were trinkets in a pawnshop--"
"What if they're idols—some sort of tie to a god or demon or something."
"But they're in a pawnshop. To have power, usually they have to be in some sort of shrine, have someone paying homage to them. Can't do much harm on a shelf gathering dust."
"Sure, so maybe they're dormant. Maybe the thing's just lurking, waiting for someone to awaken the power. Which is why they're gone now."
"I don't know. What would wake them up? Why now? Why you?"
The question stopped Sam. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "Maybe…maybe psychic tendencies could have sparked it. This is a small town—maybe they haven't been in contact with anyone with abilities since coming here."
Dean pushed off the dresser, moving closer to his brother. "That junk is a fluke, Sammy. You don't get them all the time. And what about your vibe guy?"
"Fine. You have any bright ideas?"
"Yeah, just one. Not everything's a job. While the car's out of commission, let's just take it easy. We have enough trouble without looking for it."
Sam sunk into a chair, sulking.
"Can't you just let go a little, Sammy? Have some fun?"
"I just think there's something going on here and you can't focus for five minutes to have a serious discussion about it."
"Maybe if there were something worth investigating—"
"What do you think I'm trying to tell you?"
Dean's exasperation was evident. "Has anyone died?"
"No."
"Are there any rumors of mysterious sightings, disappearances?"
Sam stuck his chin out defensively. "No."
"Has there been any EMF activity?"
"No." Sam's voice was low.
"Have you had a vision?"
"No."
"Exactly. See? You're grasping at straws, Sammy. Avoiding the fact that you simply do not know how to have fun anymore."
Sam's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I wish you would have at least looked at the relics."
Dean groaned.
"I just--I don't know, Dean. I can't shake this feeling." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring up at Dean beseechingly.
Sam sounded so desperate, so uncertain, Dean could not crack a joke. With a sigh, he asked. "Where's this pawnshop anyway?"
Hope flickered through Sam's eyes. "Right at the end of the street from the diner. Three story building. Can't miss it."
"Maybe I'll get down there sometime and have a talk with its fine owner. See if he can...remember what happened to those relics."
"Really?"
"Sure," Dean replied easily. "Not like we have much else to do."
Sam said nothing, but the grateful look in his eyes was enough.
"But first," Dean said with a grin, "There's a pinball machine in the general store. I think we may need to break a record or two before we get down to business."
Sam rolled his eyes, but followed his brother.
OOOOOOO
Three hours and nearly 20 dollars later, the Winchester boys found themselves back in Milo's Diner, looking over the same grease-stained menus in the same booth by the door.
Sam, his spirits high from Dean's half-promise to look at the pawnshop, appeased his brother by ordering a burger and a shake, which he poked at half-heartedly. Dean devoured his chicken sandwich and had flirted with the new young waitress who waited on them today.
"Dude, you better finish that," Dean said as he chewed the last of his French fries.
"I'm full." He moved around the pieces of his lunch, hoping that it would look like he had eaten more than he had.
"Like hell," Dean snapped, easily seeing through his brother's attempt at subterfuge. "We're paying good money for that, and you're eating it. You know how many pool tables I had to hustle to pay for that?"
"We could part time jobs while we're here."
Dean grinned. "But then that wouldn't be much of a vacation now, would it?"
"We're only here because the car broke down."
"So? Seizing the moment. And this town, despite its size, does offer some small attractions."
"Yeah, all the good looking motel hostesses and waitresses you can ask for, right?"
Dean could not contain his smile. It felt good to hear Sam bantering with him again, offering his inanely normal suggestions for passing time and earning money. "You're still eating that."
Sam sighed, withdrawing emotionally again. "I'm telling you, I'm not hungry."
"You're going to eat that or I'm going to open your mouth and force it down your throat."
Frustrated, Sam made a show of taking a bite of his burger. "What's the big deal, anyway?" He was tired of being treated like a five year old who had to be reminded to eat his vegetables.
"The big deal is that if you could skipping out on meals, Sammy, you're not going to be able to hold your own when it counts."
"We're on vacation."
"Doesn't mean we're letting up on the training," Dean said. "Maybe we should try some sparring later."
"Right. Now that's my idea of a good time."
"You just know I could take you."
"Whatever."
"Yeah, whatever, Sammy, you know it's true."
"Dude, I'm not having this argument with you."
"Wuss."
Sam glared at him and took another bite. "Can we leave yet?"
Dean studied the plate and looked critically at his brother.
"Forget it. I'm going to the bathroom. Pay the bill," Sam said, scooting out of the booth.
"Chicken," Dean called after him. He snarfed down one of Sam's untouched fries before making his way toward the cash register.
OOOOOOO
Sam's gait suggested that he was more together than he felt. In truth, the continued effects of sustained lack of sleep were still having a profound effect on him. One night had not made up for it. In fact, he felt even groggier now than he had the day before.
The last thing he needed, though, was Dean's watchful eye keeping track of everything he did. But the illusion of acting normal was draining.
When he got into the bathroom, he let his facade down, leaning hard against the sink. He looked up and studied his reflection in the mirror, taking in his bruised eyes and the peaked cast of his skin. No wonder Dean was worried.
He bent to wash his hands and then turned the water to cold, splashing his face to try to rid himself of the tiredness he was still feeling.
When he stood up, white spots danced in his vision and he had to grip the edge of the sink to keep himself upright. He swallowed reflexively, willing himself to relax. It took a moment, but then his body seemed to comply.
He pushed open the door just as the bells of the diner's entrance chimed. He looked over to see a thin, balding man walk inside.
And then he heard it.
Betrayer.
Sam stopped, stiffening before letting his eyes follow the man walking toward him.
You cannot resist.
There, in the waistband of his pants. It glinted as he moved, his shirt sliding up just over the handle.
The gun. He had a gun.
His heart thudded against his chest. He didn't know what it was, what it wanted, but it was the voice, the one that stalked his dreams.
The man was approaching him.
Betrayer.
The hiss made him freeze.
Sam opened his mouth to speak, to ask the question, but as he met the man's black eyes, his low and deadly voice answered it before he could speak. "Try to stop me. Betrayer."
Sam felt the twitch, watching the world slip by in slow motion, but still speeding faster than he could keep up. The activity of the diner pulsed behind him, the trivialities melting in a distant cacophony he felt separate from. Innocents. Everywhere. Eating lunch. Serving plates. Taking orders.
The man's hand reached, finger gripping the metal, and a smile spread wide across his teeth. The eyes threatened darkly, leaving no doubt as to his motives.
There was a little girl in a booth, her blonde hair glinted in the sunlight streaming in from the window. There was a group of businessmen, in ties and jackets, their briefcases lined up at their feet. There were two old women, leaned forward over tea, chatting as they mopped up the crumbs on their plates with biscuits.
No.
Sam screamed—what he said, he didn't know, he could never remember—and flung himself forward.
He attacked with speed and agility, his motions trained and unconscious. The man went down, but Sam could hear him laugh, see him smile, and Sam knew it wasn't safe. A demon would never be sated with a punch.
"Sam!"
The voice sounded insistent, echoing eerily.
"Sam, stop!"
And hands pulled him away, yanked him so hard he stumbled, nearly taking them both down.
He thrashed. The threat was still there—didn't they understand? The laughter welled, reverberating demonically.
"Sam! Stop it!"
Dean, he thought, he knew, just before his legs gave out and things faded to black.
