A/N: This chapter ends kind of funny, I think, but I'm terrible at deciding chapter breaks sometimes, so that's just how this one ends. This is my last post before my vacation, so I hope to be posting again a week from today with the next chapter. During the drive I hope to think up many more ways to make Sam limp and may even develop a plot bunny with man-eating sunflowers just for my lovely beta, geminigrl11 :)
Chapter Thirteen
New Junction, Utah was the most average town Dean had ever heard of. There had been few murders in its uneventful history, and all had ceased to be of import to local lore within years of their occurrence.
There was one string of animal mutilations in the 70s, which had looked promising for occult connections. But, as Dean uncovered more on the story, he learned the culprit had been a maladjusted teen, who, after serving time and undergoing extensive therapy, recanted of his ways and ran the local animal shelter until his passing due to lung cancer.
Several people had disappeared, but most were teenagers involved in sketchy pastimes. One younger mother had vanished without a trace in the 80s, and the case was mysterious, but there had been no leads, no myths, nothing.
There were no unusual police reports lately and no uneasy rumors about the town. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Except Sam.
Dean had searched through stacks of town records, scoured all newspaper clippings, done countless Internet searches—and they all yielded the same results. There was nothing unusual about New Junction.
Dean wanted to believe Sam. Time had proven Sam's abilities real and to be trusted, but Dean could not quell the doubts.
In the past, Sam's nightmares and visions had taken on a predictable pattern. They had shown the future, made clear connections for Sam to follow. Sam had always been resolute following his visions before.
Whatever was happening now was making Sam a wreck. His thoughts were chaotic, his responses confused and uncertain. This recent string of events didn't fit any norm Dean could postulate.
Dean would have laughed had he not been so worried. Sam's abilities were anything but normal on the best of days. And with the sudden onset of daily visions and the telekinesis, Dean couldn't rule out the growing progression of Sam's powers.
Still, if it was something supernatural, Dean would have picked up on some hint of it by now. There would be something, somewhere to indicate that there was something suspicious going on.
Leaning back in his chair, Dean considered one last option. It was possible something was preying specifically on Sam, that he was the sole target, which would explain why nothing unusual was popping up around town.
He sighed. But if something were preying on Sam, he would have noticed something. Sam spent no more than a few hours apart from Dean at a time, and Dean had been in Sam's presence several times when Sam had shown signs of instability. The EMF was showing no signs of anything unusual. What kind of creature could have such an intimate impact on its victim? Sam was too terrified to be possessed himself.
He tired to remember some of the other things Sam had mentioned, the signs that had made Sam so positive that there was evil at work around him. The Celtic relics sprang to mind. Eager to get away from the books, he headed to the Reference Desk and hailed a librarian.
"Yeah, I was wondering if you could direct me to the pawn shop?"
The librarian tilted her head. "What pawn shop?"
"I don't know. The one near downtown."
"I don't think there is a pawn shop downtown. There's not one in the whole town in fact," she said thoughtfully, glancing at the other librarian.
"Nope. There's one in Saylorville though, about ten miles down the way."
"What about a consignment shop? Antique store?"
"There is an antique store, but it's outside of town."
"You sure?"
"I've lived here all my life, I'd better be sure," she said with a chuckle.
Dean mumbled a thank you, running a tired hand over his forehead. Another dead end.
He wanted Sam to be right with all his heart. He had always trusted in Sam's intellect, in his ability to reason and think. If Sam were wrong...
He hated to think about it.
If Sam were wrong, then he'd failed to protect his brother in the most fundamental way. What good was saving Sam's life if Sam lost control of his mind?
This was something he didn't know how to deal with. The doctor's diagnosis was impossible to accept. They were far better equipped to deal with a supernatural problem than a psychological problem. Hell, he didn't even know what dealing with Sam's problems would entail--aside from taking a prolonged break from hunting. Maybe even a permanent one. Brief reactive psychosis. Posttraumatic stress. Who knew if Sam would recover at all?
No. It wasn't like that. Sam wasn't like that. Sam was strong. He was a Winchester. Sam would be fine. All Dean had to do was figure this out, then he'd take care of Sam like he always did.
The library suddenly seemed stifling, and Dean couldn't handle another book that yielded the same message of normalcy. On his way to the motel room, he recounted every thought, every fear Sam had given voice to, but nothing fit together. By the time he finally got to the room, Dean felt drained. He had spent most of the previous night waiting for news on Sam, too haunted by the vision of his brother convulsing to attempt sleep. Adrenaline had gotten him through his time at the library and the police station, but with still a few hours before he could visit Sam again, he was spent physically and emotionally.
There was nothing unusual in New Junction. Nothing except a pawn shop that didn't exist and a psychic kid brother who was on a psychiatric hold.
Too lost to think, Dean meandered to the café. He needed energy in some form or another, and at this point, something artificial seemed easier than the real thing.
He half stumbled inside, ordering a coffee, leaning hard against the counter as he waited.
The store manager peered at him as he made the coffee, studying him in that way small town people had a tendency to. Dean was ready to respond to questions about where he was from and what had brought him to town as he met the man's gaze wearily. But he was surprised to hear a totally different question posed. "You related to that other kid? Tall, dark shaggy hair?"
"Yeah," Dean said slowly, not able to gauge the man's intentions.
The man paused, bit his lip. "I normally wouldn't say anything—everyone has their own things and it's their business. But, he worries me. I've watched him. Comes in every morning, orders the same thing and then drinks it. Same corner table over there."
"So?"
The man hesitated again. "He talks to himself."
Dean's heart sank.
He continued. "It's usually pretty quiet. At first I thought he was on his phone, but…he wasn't. And he would make gestures, stare at the space next to him, like he was talking to someone who just wasn't there."
Dean couldn't remember if he said thank you, just took his coffee and retreated to a corner of the cafe.
The pawn shop. Talking to himself. What kind of force could make Sam do that?
That question propelled him for the next hour as he poured over his father's journal, and typed endless prompts into the laptop, looking for something, anything to explain his brother's behavior.
Nothing. Nothing could cause that. Nothing supernatural anyway.
He hadn't intended on looking at the medical links, but after typing in things like seizures and hallucinations and erratic behavior, they seemed to be all that popped up.
After everything that Sam had been through and the fact that Sam had barely even had time let alone the desire to really deal with it, how could Dean honestly say that a breakdown wasn't possible? Not everything in life was supernatural, and Sam's grief and absence of coping skills didn't bode well. A breakdown wasn't just possible, Dean realized numbly. It was practically inevitable.
Dean swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. He had never put Sam's losses in context before--he'd only viewed them against the backdrop of the family business. Jess's death--all the more reason to dive into the quest for vengeance. There was no time for grief, no time to come to terms with the image of the woman he loved bursting in flames above him, no time to forget the feeling of her blood on his forehead, no time to deal with the guilt for lying to her, for running away and having it all come back to bite him. There was no time for any of it. There was a father to find and a demon to hunt and a thousand other priorities along the way.
Grief was a luxury they hadn't had when their mother died. Grieving wasn't something their father had ever given them a chance to do, just plunged himself into vengeance regardless of everything. That had seemed normal to Dean, to kill instead of cry, to hunt instead of grieve. But Dean had never thought about it with relation to Jess. He figured Sam would handle it like the rest of them, deny what was there and move on. And Dean no reason to doubt that it was working...that was, of course, if Dean ignored the things Sam didn't say, the things Dean could sense but never made Sam talk about. If he could ignore the simmering anger that seemed to lurk just below the surface when Sam was confronted with supernatural evil. If he could ignore the lost, broken expression that haunted Sam at odd moments. If he could ignore the nightmares and the visions and the telekinesis that seemed to wrench Sam painfully from normalcy and peace whenever he tried to look for it.
Brief reactive psychosis. Posttraumatic stress.
Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose.
It was a wonder Sam had made it this far.
The doctor was right. There were no other explanations. His father had recorded no case similar to this. None of the reliable supernatural sites did either. There was simply nothing.
Why had he not paid more attention, looked into this sooner? Why had he not seen that Sam wasn't okay?
More importantly, how was he going to help Sam get better?
OOOOOOO
Sam was awake, sitting up in bed, and looking more than a little restless by the time Dean returned to the hospital. "Dean," he cried out, his voice nearly cracking with relief. "Thank God. We need to get out of here. They won't let me leave."
That might not be such a bad thing, Sammy. "Yeah, I know."
"So we've got to make a run for it," Sam whispered, leaning forward.
Dean collected himself. "Look, you need to stay the night here, okay? We can talk about what we're doing next in the morning."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "I don't want to stay here."
"Well, you're not leaving."
"Dean—"
"Sam, you had a seizure. Two of them. We're not messing around with this."
The severity of Dean's words were lost on Sam. "But we can't let it go free! We have to stop it!"
"Sam, you have to calm down!" Yelling at Sam while he was lying on a hospital bed never did seem right, especially now, with Sam's psychological status seeming so tenuous.
But Sam was adamant, trying to push his way out of bed.
"Listen to me," he said, grasping Sam's arms and forcing him to be still. "You're in bad shape, okay? You were dehydrated, sleep deprived, and you've had two seizures, Sam. Two. I got to be front-row and center for the first one, and that's not an act I plan to catch again. Ever."
Sam watched him with wide eyes, shocked into submission by his brother's words.
Dean eased off his grip. "So I really don't care about anything else that you think is going on. All I care about is you getting healthy again. And for now, that means staying here. Do you understand?"
It twisted Dean's heart to see that hurt, pained, betrayed look on Sam's face. But he breathed a sigh of relief when Sam nodded tightly, even though he turned his head so that he wouldn't have to look at Dean.
"It's going to be okay, Sammy. You're going to be okay. Just, please...for me, okay? Stay here for me." Dean knew it was low to guilt Sam into this, but he was running out of options and patience. If Sam couldn't do this for himself, Dean would use whatever means necessary just to be Sam got the treatment he needed.
Sam still wouldn't look at him, but he didn't protest. Though Dean ached to have Sam understand, Dean didn't blame his brother for not meeting his eyes. If their positions were reversed, Dean knew he wouldn't be too thrilled with him either.
His throat felt tight, but he knew he couldn't back down. Sam needed this, and even if Sam resented it now, it would be best for him in the long run. He had to believe that.
He squeezed Sam's shoulder once before turning to go. "I'll be back in the morning."
Not waiting for the response he was sure wouldn't come anyway, he headed out the door.
