A/N: And just for you, my dearest readers, another fun update to Tuesday's Child.
Remember, reviews are love. They also make me feel this crazy urge to update faster...
Enjoy...
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not My Sandbox
Tuesday's Child – Chapter Eight
"Stolen"
Book was about three the first time his psychic abilities announced their presence. There had been moments, in the past, that had given Gabe pause, but he'd never been able to determine for certain that Sam was having visions or getting readings from things, as opposed to just remembering random things from the other time line.
As he held the frightened child in his arms, healing the nose bleed in an instant, he worried.
Other time line Sam hadn't gotten visions until his early twenties, when Azazel had stepped up his game.
Did this mean the demon blood was actually acting up already, or had the demon blood in the other time line simply activated psychic powers already latent in Sam?
If that were the case, then the changed time lines could account for the ability.
Or, it could be come combination of all of those things.
"He took them, Gabe." The child in his arms whimpered piteously. "He took them away."
"Who, Book?" Gabe questioned gently.
"The other kids. The bad man sent the monsters to take them away." The child replied tearfully.
"What bad man?" Gabe asked with a sinking in his stomach. Was Book referring to the other children who'd been infected with demon blood?
"The man with the yellow eyes..." The boy replied softly, and Gabe's arms tightened around him.
"He took the others away, and he wants to take me away, too."
Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural
Dean gestured to the two, side by side graves.
"So, you getting anything?" He asked hopefully.
Book's lips twitched in amusement. "It doesn't exactly work like that." He said softly, kneeling, balancing carefully on the balls of his feet, getting as close to the graves as he could without too much actual full body contact.
If one of the graves were 'hot', so to speak, likely to trigger a vision, the intensity of the vision would be tied directly to the amount of full body contact he had with it.
There was nothing but a low buzz, however. Definitely some spirit activity, but not the kind Book would expect from a raging, homicidal ghost.
He looked up at Dean. "I'm not getting much."
Dean made a face. "But you're getting something, aren't you?" He said morosely.
Book shrugged apologetically. "Yeah, but the graves are so close together, I can't tell which set of remains are hot. It's female, but that's it. I almost want to say it's coming from Miranda's grave, but that goes against everything we just learned at the museum."
Dean chewed his lip, nodding. "Well, your the real psychic. We'll start with Miranda. Don't suppose you feel like helping dig?" He asked hopefully.
Book laughed. "Yeah, I think I can do that. It's gotta suck, having to dig graves by yourself all the time."
"You have no idea." Dean testified, with a shake of his head. He tossed Book a shovel.
"Digging up psychics in Lily Dale..." Dean grumbled as they set in, and Book laughed again.
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For all his grumbling and complaints, Dean was having...fun.
It had been years since he'd worked a case with a partner, really worked a case, not just stepping in to help with a slash and burn on a black dog pack, or calling Bobby for research on a voodoo case.
Book wasn't like anyone he'd ever met before, but they seemed to work together seamlessly. Dean would voice a question, and Book would provide an answer. Or Book would point something out, and just his mere words would seem to trigger the needed action in Dean's mind. The give and take was refreshing, and it made Dean wonder why more hunters didn't have partners.
Dean had never considered himself particularly personable. None of his close acquaintances were, save Jo, who was still as likely to start a fight as a conversation.
Hunting was rough business, and having a partner you didn't trust, or who didn't trust you, was dangerous.
Dean had grown up in the business, and the transition from always working with John or Bobby had been a lonely, though necessary one. There simply weren't enough hunters in the world for someone to hold your hand.
Dean had become used to silent nights lost to darkness and digging, to lonely roads and empty silences.
Honestly, most of the time, people almost seemed to much, too loud, too obnoxious, too abrasive to deal with for long.
A one night stand with a hot chick was one thing, but more than that was beyond anything Dean had ever been capable of.
He'd even found it hard, as he got older, to connect emotionally with Jo and Bobby and Ellen, like there was this space around Dean, in between Dean and the rest of the world, insulating him from everyone else.
Either Book didn't seem to feel the space, or it didn't faze him at all, because he seemed to move in and out of the bubble of solitude that Dean had been surrounded in for the last few years.
Even when he moved quickly, or spoke when Dean wasn't expecting him too, he didn't trigger any of Dean's razor sharp instincts.
Dean never found himself spooked by Book's actions, never felt himself unconsciously reaching for his blade or his gun, the way any given hunter usually did half a dozen times a day.
The world was dangerous, after all.
"Well, at least Melinda's motivations make more...sense". Dean huffed, as he scooped up another shovel full of dirt.
"Hmmm?" Book said, looking over at him. "Oh, because of Miranda's death?"
Dean nodded. "Hell, if I thought someone poisoned my brother or sister, I'd probably rip their lungs out."
Book stilled for a moment, before shrugging again. "Well, it was doubtful she was murdered. Psychics are pretty good at picking up on things like neighbors with murderous intentions."
"So, what, you think she just got sick and died, and Melinda went over the deep end?" Dean asked, pausing to wipe the sweat off his brow, leaning against his shovel for a moment.
Book continued to dig, obviously in good physical health, not that Dean had really doubted it.
"Well, she might have been right about the other thing." Book said thoughtfully, after a moment.
"Medical care and nutrition weren't exactly top notch back then. An if she felt her livelihood was threatened, she might have pushed herself too far."
"What, she died of exhaustion?" Dean asked, resuming digging.
"Hmmm, it's not that simple." Book amended, thinking out loud.
"Using psychic powers take a physical toll on the psychic. It's like using a muscle, practice makes it stronger. But unlike real physical exercise, it doesn't actually strengthen your constitution, your overall physical health. You can practice until your talents are extremely precise, but you're still going to have the same amount of physical fall out. You don't do the maintenance, you get sick."
Dean paused again, looking over at him. "Explain."
Book laughed a little, shaking his head. "I should learn to shut up." He murmured. "Okay, well, using psychic powers take a toll on you, physically. Everything from headaches and stomach aches and nosebleeds to-"
"Low blood sugar?" Dean guessed shrewdly.
Book shot him a look. "Maybe. Every psychic is different. You can learn to use your powers better, more precisely, so you can do more with less energy, I guess, but you still gotta do the maintenance. Know any other real psychics, other than me?"
Dean nodded, thinking of Pamela. "Yeah, one, out in the Midwest."
Book nodded. "Okay, well, you probably have never seen her sick, because anyone who works their talent full time does it right, or they quit, the symptoms just get too painful. But if you were to open their fridge, I bet you'd find everything from electrolyte sports drinks to meal replacement shakes. Psychics can burn calories fast. Open their medicine cabinet, and you'd probably find some pretty good painkillers, too, along with about half a dozen vitamins, maybe even glucose tablets. You don't eat enough, sleep enough, practice enough, you get run down, and then the first cold to come your way takes you down hard."
"Speaking from personal experience?" Dean asked, thinking back to last night, when Book's blood sugar had dropped, after he had spent the day doing readings.
"Some." Book acknowledged. "My brother made sure I knew the consequences, but everyone learns from experience, also. We're all different. I used to get nosebleeds kind of easily, but that's better now. I have to push myself pretty hard for that too happen."
"But, you just said psychics need all this stuff, food and drinks and vitamins, how can you use your abilities and just wander, without even a car or anything?" Dean asked, slightly horrified.
Book shook his head. "It's not as bad as all that. I don't make my every day living off of using my powers, the way Miranda did. I have visions sometimes, and I can use them, like earlier, before we started digging, but as long as I grab a meal in a couple of hours, I'm fine. My talent is...pretty big." He admitted awkwardly. "I don't really have to push the way some would to do what I need to do most of the time. The strain on me isn't quite so bad."
"Looked rough last night." Dean said a little pointedly.
Book shot him a look. "Last night I pushed it a little further than I expected. But I was fine once I ate, and I'm fine today. Miranda, though, wouldn't have had access to shakes and vitamins and stuff. If she'd gotten too run down, any cold or virus could have taken her out."
Dean nodded. "So, in a way, Melinda was right. It was the phony psychics fault Miranda died."
Book made a face. "Well, I guess you could look at it that way."
"How do you look at it?" Dean asked curiously.
"I'm responsible for my actions." Book stated immediately. "How I handle a situation, good or bad, that's on me."
As he spoke, his shovel clanked against something more solid than the dirt he'd been shoveling.
"Bingo." Dean said, kneeling to wipe away the remaining dirt. Book helped and after a moment, they were able to push aside the rotted wooden lid.
Miranda Dale had been petite, but little remained of her former beauty but her bones, pale and white inside the faded white rags that had once been the dress she had been buried in.
Book climbed out, then reached down to help lever Dean out. Dean accepted gratefully, as his knee had started aching again.
He hadn't mentioned it, but from the look Book gave him, he apparently didn't need to.
"Think we should take a stab at Melinda before we torch this one? The graves are awful close together." Dean said, looking over at Book.
The look on Book's face had him reaching for the can of salt, however, and now he could feel it also, the dropping temperature, the feeling of electricity in the air.
"Book?" He yelled, over the rising wind.
Book looked over, eyes concerned. "I think it's Miranda!" He called back, crouching to avoid losing his balance in the pocket windstorm that had now enveloped their section of the old cemetery.
Dean tossed the salt liberally over the bones, keeping one on Book as Book looked around, like a hunting dog trying to catch the scent.
Just as Dean was splashing gasoline over the salted bones, a woman, dark haired and dressed in white began to appear, directly in front of Book, who took a step back quickly, but then held his ground."
"You have to stop!" The apparition yelled, and Dean saw Book wince. He could only imagine how loud her words must have been to the psychic standing only a few feet from her, and he was do with Melinda Dale and Miranda Dale and Lily Dale in general at this point.
Miranda was raising her hand, trying to reach out and touch Book, and with a snarl, Dean tossed his zippo onto the bones, which ignited with a whoosh of flames.
The apparition wailed as she lost solidarity, her form dissolving as her bones, her physical link to this world, was destroyed.
Book had knelt comepletley down at this point, eyes still squeezed shut, and Dean knelt by him quickly.
"Book, you okay?" He asked, slightly panicked by the pained look on the young man's face.
"Yeah...yeah, I'm good. She was just...really, really loud." Book said, opening his bloodshot eyes to look at Dean.
"She was definitely a real deal." Book added, rubbing his forehead, and Dean guessed he had the mother of all headaches right now.
"Strong enough to take out a couple of phony psychics?" Dean asked, helping Book to his feet.
"Strong enough? Yeah, she was strong enough. She didn't feel particularly malicious, though." Book said, as they looked over at the burning bones.
"Maybe she wasn't, towards you. You're a real psychic, like she was." Dean countered.
Book chewed his lip. "Could be, but..." He knelt again, this time over Melinda's grave.
"Don't..." Dean started to say, remembering all the things Book had just said about psychics pushing themselves too far.
"I'm fine..." Book murmured, shaking his head. "Okay, that's weird. Maybe it was Miranda. Melinda's grave is totally cold. I don't sense any kind of activity at all there. It doesn't even feel like a grave."
Dean grinned. "Then we did it, kiddo." He looked around. "We'd better move, this is a pretty open cemetery, someone could see the fire from the road. Let's get cleaned up, and we'll get you some food."
"Hmm?" Book looked up from where he had still been focused on Melinda's grave. "Nah, it's cool. I'm good."
"Humor me." Dean said sternly.