Chapter Eight

Ten minutes later, Dean returned to the motel, two steaming cups of coffee and a box of donuts in his hand. Looking up at him, Sam sighed. He knew that what he was about to say would hurt his brother worse than the disease which had been slowly draining the life from him last summer, but he had to tell him the truth.

"Dean? I think I know why Dad left."

"Yeah?" The words sounded muffled, a jelly donut stuffed in Dean's mouth, and Sam smiled wryly. "Yeah. And you're probably not gonna like it."

"Since when have I ever liked that crap anyway?" Dean handed his brother one of the Styrofoam cups and leaned against his brother's chair, sipping his own drink. The webpage displayed on Sam's laptop was still on the one describing the significance of the yarrow. The brothers were quiet as Dean read, Sam gingerly rubbing his temples as he waited. "So, this plant is associated with witchcraft, huh? So Dad's working some hoodoo mojo here? For what, revenge?"

"Keep reading."

Dean obliged, and Sam cringed when his brother finally spoke up: "No. No way. Not even possible."

"Dean, man, I'm not saying it's definite, but you gotta admit that it makes sense."

"Then you just gotta research more." Because there was no way Dean was ever going to believe that his father had made a pact with a crossroads demon. He felt his stomach churn and for a moment, Dean was afraid that he was going to lose his breakfast.

"But everything adds up, Dean. You have to admit that much." Sam began stating his case, each fact leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, like bile. "The plant grows frequently at crossroads, namely the ones where demon pacts are made; Dad vanishes mysteriously when you're literally hours from dying; you miraculously recover as soon as he skips town; he doesn't even bother to try to contact us…."

"And how is that anything new?"

"Shut up, Dean and let me finish."

"No. Let me. You go on about how you think Dad landed himself a one way ticket downstairs, all this yarrow shit, and you have no fucking clue where you even came up with the idea. You just get this random idea to look up plants and crossroads demons because you need an excuse about Dad ditching us. You know, that's pretty low, Sam, even for you."

"If you'd just shut up for one minute I'd explain!"

"I'm all ears, Sammy."

Sam closed his eyes, drew a deep breath. He knew that this would probably sound ridiculous; hell, sometimes even he didn't believe what had happened the night before with Jess. But Dean had every right to be upset, to want some solid proof regarding his theory. "I had this dream last night."

"Clowns or midgets?" A hint of the old Dean Winchester attitude, and Sam smiled despite himself. Inappropriate humour was always a sign his brother was trying to smooth the waters between the two of them; or as a coping mechanism. Or, in this case, likely both.

"Neither. It was Jess." Dean softened as he noticed the look of exhaustion and sorrow on his younger brother's face. Sam's hazel eyes were bright and he blinked back a few tears, hoping his sibling wouldn't notice. "She was here, we, well..." Dean smiled faintly, sparing his brother the embarrassment, and gratefully he continued. "Anyway, after that, she said something about Dad leaving and how you suddenly recovered from the cancer. And she left this." He reached behind his laptop and handed Dean the sprig of yarrow; the latter's eyes narrowed as he examined the plant, occasionally glancing at the computer screen for comparison. After a moment, he reluctantly nodded. "Ok, this is definitely yarrow, but how the fuck did it get in here? You said Jessica came to you in a dream."

"But maybe it wasn't a dream after all."

"Sam, what are you saying?"

This was it. The moment of truth. He hadn't mentioned it last summer, having chalked it up to his fear that his brother was going to die. Hell, the odds had been in the Grim Reaper's favour practically from the moment Dean had appeared at his doorstep that night in June. So it was perfectly normal to dream of your brother suddenly recovering from near death. And to dream of their dad ditching them? Hell, it was pretty well the only thing John Winchester knew how to do.

But it was not normal to dream about your fiancée dying only days before, of that Sam was certain. And with scarily accurate details. Everything, from the location of the cabin to the type of wounds, to the clothes she was wearing. All in perfect detail, days before Jessica's death. Her blood was on his hands. Sam felt himself shaking and immediately Dean was at his side, one again in protective brother mode. "It's ok, Sammy. You know you can tell me, right? I'm your awesome big brother."

"You'll probably think I'm a freak."

"Dude, when do I ever not think you're a freak?"

Sam chuckled faintly. "And that's supposed to be comforting how?" But the banter was actually helping to calm his nerves. "Remember, Dean. This is serious. And I'm not making this shit up."

"Then just tell me already, Sam. What's going on?"

Sam sighed. Moment of truth.

"When you were dying, I had this dream. Or what I thought was a dream. That you would be pretty much dead, Dad would leave, and voila, you're cured practically the moment he splits."

"Creepy coincidence."

"Yeah, I thought so too. Until I dreamed of Jess dying. Two days before."

Dean nearly choked on his coffee at that comment. "You did what now?"

"You heard me." Sam leaned back in his chair, hoping to ease the nervous tension in his shoulders. "And this wasn't just a dream of her dying. Hell, after what happened with you, it kinda makes sense to. But…." Seeing Dean's so what's the problem facial expression, "it's not normal to dream of her dying exactly how it happened. I mean, everything. The time, how she died, even the goddamned outfit she was wearing…"

For the first time in years, Dean Winchester was rendered speechless. He'd hunted every messed up creature known to man, stuff you'd probably have to be on drugs to even consider believing. But premonitions? Especially when they involved pain in the ass little brothers. Not that had to be bullshit. Right?

"What are you saying, Sam?"

"I'm saying that if I can have premonitions or whatever, is it that far a stretch that Jess could communicate to me through dreams? Like a spirit?"

Dean's mind was running a mile a minute, trying to process what his kid brother had just told him. Sam was a freaking psychic. Had actually witnessed his fiancée die: twice. And no doubt felt guilty as shit for doing nothing to stop it. How was Sam not a complete basket case right now? But one thing he knew for sure: the last thing his brother needed at the moment was to see his older sibling lose his shit right in front of him. So Dean drew a deep breath, steadied his fraying nerves, not once revealing the anxiety that in truth was threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.

"Yeah, could be," he answered instead. Dean raised his coffee to his lips, looked at the drink as if in disgust, and tossed it into the trashcan. "So we're gonna have to look at this like any other hunt. We don't have proof that Dad sold his soul, but we have a lead. And we have, what, like ten years to figure it out? That's more than enough time to get him out of it, right?"

"Yeah. Sure." But despite his brother's faux optimism, Sam's instincts were telling him otherwise. It was true that the typical payment for crossroads deals was ten years of the good life before the hellhounds came to collect. But even though he knew that his father was not one for calling just to chat, Sam had a gut feeling that his father didn't have ten years.

XXX

John stood in the darkness outside the boys' motel, a wooden box between his arms. He knew he was taking a huge risk just by being here; and the weapon in that box, the one weapon that could kill the demon, was adding even more to the stakes. But no other hunter had volunteered to take on the insane task of killing the Yellow Eyed Demon, and John knew for sure that if he were to try himself, the odds would not be in his favour. John rubbed his thumb against the rough wood of the box, where the fabled Colt rested like a crown jewel. He had been searching for this gun for years, even before he was one hundred percent convinced of its existence. Now, all he had to do was pass it down to his sons and pray to god that this little loophole in the deal would go unnoticed.

"It's up to you, boys," John muttered.