He walked through the snow, brisk wind blowing around him, chilling him to the bone. He looked back at Sammy, who had fallen back into the snow and was busy rolling around, making snow angels. A flood of happiness rolled off the boy, and Dean smiled.
"Come on, kiddo," he sighed, walking back to where his brother lay in the snow, "time for school. You don't want to be late on the first day after the break."
Sammy reluctantly climbed back to his feet and wiped himself off. "I wish break was longer."
"So do I," the elder boy agreed. He hated school, hated any kind of crowd. The classrooms were bad, but school-wide assemblies were worse. Too many people, all antsy and jumpy and excited. He couldn't sit still, couldn't keep quiet, and spent a lot of time in the principal's office because of it.
The large brick building loomed up ahead of them, heating system sending large billows of smoke into the sky. "Dean," Sammy began, clutching his brother's hand with worn mittens, "why does daddy make us walk to school?"
"He's busy," Dean explained, "you know that."
"Yeah, but it's so cold. I can't feel my nose."
"You'll warm up when we get inside," the older boy stated, pulling his own thin coat more tightly around himself. They got a lot of second-hand stuff lately, especially after their father's last poltergeist hunt. The noisy spirit had gone straight for the weapons compartment in the trunk, and only a few knives and guns had come out unscathed. Most of their money had gone to restocking the trunk.
People milled around outside the school, parents in big vans dropping their kids off, buses pulling up and unloading. Dean could feel them all, the bus drivers who were worried about the icy roads, the parents who were glad to get a little peace and quiet, the kids who were depressed the moment they stepped foot on school grounds.
He pulled into himself, a trick he was just starting to get the hang of. He couldn't maintain whatever weak mental block he'd produced for long, but if it kept the other people out for a little while, he didn't really care.
A couple of teachers were standing outside the front doors as the brothers approached, watching the morning routine. "Look," one of them whispered, pointing at the shivering boys, "what kind of parent would make their child walk to school in this kind of weather?"
"They just moved in a couple of weeks ago," the other teacher explained quietly, "live in a motel room. I hear the dad's a drunk."
Dean dropped his gaze as he walked past, but that couldn't keep them out, couldn't mask the sympathy that rolled off of them in waves, flooding his system, making him want to cry.
"Hey, boys," the first teacher, a young woman with raven hair, began, "how would you like to come into the teacher's lounge with me for some hot cocoa?"
Sammy smiled, always happy to be included, but Dean just kept his head down. This kind of thing had been going on for a while now, people trying to cover sympathy with kindness. "No thank you," he muttered, tightening his hand around his brother's and pulling the little boy away.
"But I'm cold, Dean," Sam complained, trying to pull away.
"I'll give you my coat when we get inside," Dean muttered, still pulling, suddenly hating the teachers for trying to turn his brother against him, for taking that warmth and love and happiness that he always felt when he was around Sammy and turning it into contempt and bitter anger.
No, Dean didn't like school at all.
o0o0o0o0o
"You know," a soft voice said from behind him, pulling Dean from his memory, "flashing back is never a good thing."
The hunter turned around, tired eyes dropping to the ground before he could meet Missouri's gaze. "You saw that, huh?"
She nodded. "I did."
"Man, I don't even remember that happening. Don't remember the school or the town or the teachers. Why?"
"You blocked it out," she shrugged, "or, most of it, at least."
"But why now?"
"You tell me."
He sighed. "If a person asks a question, it usually means that they don't know the answer."
The psychic walked into the room and pulled up a chair beside him, gently closing the book in his lap. "You know your brother loves you."
He set the book on the floor and got up to leave. He wasn't ready to talk about it yet, to talk about his own doubts and insecurities. He had more important things to worry about, like saving Sam and keeping his own empathic ass out of harm's way.
That was when he felt it. Not sympathy, but close. Understanding. The want to help. He sat back down.
"He sure has a funny way of showing it."
She nodded. "He's been a little preoccupied lately. A demon has plans for him, his father's dead, his brother's been acting weird. He's got a lot on his mind."
Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well, so do I. I mean, out of everything out there, why did I have to get stuck with something that's not even useful, huh? There are kids out there that can toss people against walls and control minds and who knows what else. Hell, even Sammy isn't completely useless."
"You know," Missouri said softly, leaning forward in her chair, "this gift of yours isn't completely useless, either. It can work two ways."
"What do you mean?"
"Right now you're working as a receiver. You're picking up the emotions of everyone around you. You can work as a sender, too. It would take some work, but if you wanted to you could push these unwanted emotions onto other people."
"Go on."
She smiled. "I might not be able to help you get rid of this, but I can help you control it. If you can learn to use this, it can become an asset."
Dean nodded. "When do we start?"
o0o0o0o0o
Dean closed his eyes, letting the wind blow through his short hair, and pulled his jacket a little tighter around his body. He was starting to like parks. They seemed to be gathering places for children and families with so much happiness and love within them that it radiated out, filling the wide open space with a warmth and comfort that Dean hardly recognized.
There was a playground near-by, full of kids who were busily playing and climbing and running and jumping. There were parents sitting on the other benches, watching with apprehension, waiting for the inevitable scraped elbows and bruised knees. They were worried, but their worry was different that Sam's. It was lighter, happier, warmer. They didn't actually think anything bad would happen, didn't think that danger loomed.
It was nice.
It was gone. No more warm, happy anything. It wasn't cold, not exactly. Just… not as warm. Not as nice. It was worry. Different worry. Sam's worry.
"How'd you find me?"
"Missouri."
Dean cracked his eyes open to look at his little brother, who'd sat down beside him on the bench. "Figures."
"She says you're gonna try to get this under control."
"Is that a problem?"
Sammy shook his head, long hair flapping around his face. "No, it's just not what I expected."
Dean eyed his brother. "Oh, really? You jealous? Not feeling so special anymore?"
"You wish. What are you doing here, anyway?"
"You see those kids out there?" Dean asked, pointing at the playground equipment, "they're happy. That makes me happy. You see the parents on the benches? They're happy, too. That makes me even happier."
"So, you came out to the park to get a happy fix?"
Dean shrugged. "Pretty much."
"And how's that working out for you?"
"Actually, it was working pretty well until you and your little black cloud of angst came along and started raining on my happy parade."
"Cloud of angst?" Sam snorted, "man, you are high. Come on, we should head out. Missouri's expecting you to make dinner."
Dean struggled to his feet, fighting back a yawn and stretching. "Yeah, all right, but you're helping."
"Fine," the younger man muttered, heading off down the concrete path that led out of the park and into the neighborhood where their psychic friend lived, "hey, can I ask you something?"
"Depends."
"Yesterday you were sure that Missouri hated you, so why suddenly opt to stay at her place? Answer honestly, now."
"Not like I really have a choice anyway," the empath muttered, "not with you hanging around, Mr. Open Book."
"Well?"
"It feels good, ok?"
"What feels good?"
"Her place."
"You want to stay at her house because it feels good?"
"Yes, all right?"
"Describe good."
"I don't know," the older hunter fumbled, "warm, happy, comfortable."
"That's it?"
"Safe." It was a low whisper, almost inaudible over the soft breeze.
Sam stopped. "What?" Dean just kept on down the path, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. Sammy watched him go, that word playing over and over in his mind. Safe. Why did it matter that the house felt safe? Didn't every place they went feel safe? Or was Sam the only one who got that sense?