Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I love hearing your comments! The next chapter will be up same time next week :)

Chapter 3

An unending ream of curses ran through Dean's head as he heaped spoonfuls of brown sugar into a mug of milky tea.

Mrs Hopkins' husband had shown up at the door fifteen minutes earlier, rain-drenched and frantic with worry for his wife. He'd checked with her office, her grandmother, her work associates. No one had seen her. Missouri suggested she go with him to see if she could sense anything, and Margaret had refused to leave her side. Funny how Missouri never argued with her, Dean thought bitterly, tossing the spoon into the kitchen sink. Funny how Margaret was allowed to stay with the person she cared about, whereas Dean was banished to the kitchen when Sam needed him.

He carried the mug of warm tea into the living room, crouching down beside the armchair. Sam was still pale and shaking, but at least the nosebleed had stopped. The kid still held the stained tea towel though, clutched to his face like a little boy's blanky. He was wrapped up in the knitted throw from the back of the couch, and his other hand stroked over the rough weave repetitively.

"Hey, kiddo. Feeling better?" Dean said, making an effort to keep his voice soft. He held the tea out to him.

Sam blinked at him from under his bangs, making no move to take the offered mug. Instead he used the tea towel to point at the coffee table. "Can you…?"

Dean glanced over. The cards were still arranged on the table, three strange pictures that made no sense to him but seemed to cause Sam so much pain. He picked up the stack of unread cards, shuffling the three into it.

"There ya go. Better?"

Sam nodded, his eyes on Dean's hands as they put the pack facedown on the table again. The kid hunched down, tugging the throw around himself more securely. It made Dean's heart ache to see him, looking so young and scared yet simultaneously older than his years. There were shadows on his face and in his eyes that had no right being there.

To distract himself, Dean took one of Sam's limp hands and wrapped it around the mug. "Here, I made you some tea. Lots of sugar. I heard that's good for shock? Or something, I don't know. Drink it, please?" Dean's voice cracked on the last word, turning high and reedy. He turned away quickly, biting down on his tongue before it could betray him, maybe beg Sam to let them leave. Missouri said this was going to be hard, get harder, and if Sam was already so broken after one day, what was he going to be like after months?

The kid lifted the mug to his lips, his eyes on Dean's the whole time, an obvious act to try to reassure him. The pitiful attempt at a smile made Dean's teeth grit, and he stood up fast. "I'll go…get you another blanket."

They couldn't leave. Correction, Dean thought, Sam wasn't going to let them leave. And he couldn't, wouldn't, go anywhere without Sam. Instead of trying to change the kid's mind, Dean went to find a blanket. At least that much he could do.

Distantly Sam heard Dean stand up, murmuring something indistinguishable before leaving the room. He didn't turn to watch the older man's retreating back, even though he wanted to.

The pack of cards was still on the table. He could feel it, each individual card like a hum pitched so high it could only be felt by the prickle of hairs on his arms. If he closed his eyes he saw them, each of them flicking past clear as day, like a card-sharp's deal only face up, and never mind that he'd never actually seen them in real life. So he kept his eyes open, wide as they'd stretch until they started watering and he was forced to blink. But he couldn't redirect his gaze. He stared at the pack atop the shiny walnut wood of the coffee table, bigger than regular playing cards but still small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. If Dean were here he'd make some vaguely humorous comment there about Sam's giant paws, maybe something about bodily proportions, topping off his joke with a wink and a lewd eyebrow wiggle. A corner of Sam's mouth twitched in reaction to the thought, as if Dean had actually spoken and was waiting for Sam's laugh.

Dean would also tell him he was being stupid. Afraid of a deck of cards, Sammy? What, are they gonna come after you in the night and papercut you to death? But it wasn't the cards he was afraid of, he thought as he held a deep breath in his chest. They were just cards, pieces of thick paper with pretty pictures on the front. Cards couldn't hurt anyone. Not by themselves.

Sam started as a heavy weight landed on his shoulders. His head snapped up, mouth a silent moue of surprise.

Dean stood over him, his brow creased in concentration as he tried to arrange a thick fleece blanket around Sam's body. He hadn't noticed Sam's reaction. "Here. It might get kinda sweaty, but I couldn't find anything else to use. It'll stop the shivering at least."

"Thanks." Sam whispered, his voice rusty. His eyes wandered over to the cards again.

"You haven't drunk your tea."

The indignation in Dean's tone and the absurdity of the statement made Sam blink, and suddenly the cards weren't important anymore. A grin pulled at his lips and he looked up at Dean's frown. "Dude, when did you turn into a woman? And a nagging woman at that?"

Dean's eyes widened for a second. A hesitant grin grew in reply to Sam's, relief colouring his face. "Hey, I made that tea special, just for you. I wanna see some appreciation."

Sam rolled his eyes, taking an exaggerated swig and making mmm noises.

"That's more like it." Dean said with a firm nod, the grin still in place.

The sound of a car door being slammed outside made both of them turn to the window, tension seeping back into the room. A rattle of keys and the click of the front door lock signalled Missouri's entrance. The woman looked tired, her face pulled tight and her eyes downcast. Sam felt the tea in his stomach turn to acid.

"Did-did you…" He couldn't finish his sentence.

"We found her. She was pretty badly hurt, but she'll live." Missouri said. She didn't meet his eyes.

Dean stood up straight, his shoulders set. "What happened?"

"She crashed her car. The paramedics said they would write it up as accidental." Missouri's lips pursed. "Luckily she only broke a leg. It could have been much worse."

Sam swallowed hard. Against his will his gaze fell on the coffee table, and suddenly he was blinking away tears. He ducked his head so that his hair fell over his forehead, hoping Dean wouldn't catch him. God, this was stupid. It was all stupid. Some woman he barely even met decides that today of all days is the day to attempt suicide, and because of what? Because she got her cards read? Because he was there?

It's not my fault. He told himself angrily. It's not my goddamn fault that she did it.

Easier said than believed. The acid in his stomach didn't fade away, and neither did the guilt.

Dinner was quiet.

Sam and Missouri sat opposite one another at the kitchen table, both snatching quick glances at each other and looking away just as fast. Dean felt like he was refereeing some kind of bizarre anti-staring contest, the winner determined by the number of looks they could sneak past the other person.

After five minutes Dean sighed and concentrated on his food. If there was one situation he knew he could handle effectively, it was the filling of his stomach. And Missouri's version of a 'light' meal was better than any three-course dinner, in his opinion. Fried bread, sausages and sunny-side up eggs were all piled precariously on top of each other on his plate, split yolks threatening to drip onto the table, and Dean wondered between mouthfuls whether the disastrous reading and its consequences was God's way of balancing out the heavenly food.

Beside him Sam prodded at a sausage with his fork, making no attempt to eat.

"Well, isn't this cheery." Dean couldn't help himself; the words travelled from his brain to his lips with no conscious thought. He winced, catching Sam doing the same from the corner of his eye. Missouri chuckled at the other end of the table. It wasn't a happy sound.

"I think I'm just gonna…go to bed." Sam said quietly, pushing his full plate away.

"You've barely touched your food." Dean said, wincing again. God, he really did sound like a nagging wife.

"Not hungry."

"Sam…"

But the kid was already standing, tossing his balled-up napkin to the table and shuffling toward the door with a gait like an old man. Dean half-rose to stop him but Missouri caught his arm, pulling him back into his seat.

"Let him go, Dean. It's been a long day." She smiled softly. Dean was struck with a sudden and unexplained urge to punch her. He pushed it away, hoping she didn't catch the thought floating through his mind. She didn't stop smiling, but her eyes darkened. "Let him go." She repeated, sharper.

He leaned in, his jaw stiff. "Look, I don't know who you think you are, telling me how to look after him when you don't even know us, but if you think I'm just gonna leave him when he's upset-"

"I'm not trying to tell you anything, Dean." She spoke over him, raising her chin. "But you came here looking for my help. Sam came here looking for my help. I understand what he's going through because I've been through the same thing. All I ask is that you accept my advice."

Dean pushed the chair back and stood, using his height to tower over her. "I'll accept your help and advice about the psychic stuff, fine. But I'm not gonna do whatever the fuck you tell me to, just because you say so." He paused for a second, almost expecting the woman to retaliate. Instead she let out a slow breath, carefully placing her knife and fork on her half-eaten plate of food like she wasn't bothered by anything he might have to say.

"Okay, Dean Winchester. Have it your way." She gestured to the door with an open hand.

He looked at her for a long moment before clenching his fists and striding for the door.

Sam's hands shook as he tried to unbutton his shirt, and he ended up digging a nail into his chest. The sudden sharp pain made him gasp, made him look down as his fingers jittered like he was coming off a bender. He remembered how his dad's hands would shake, fine tremors that spilt coffee grounds and fumbled with the triggers of loaded guns. That was about the time Jim Miller relinquished the actual hunting part of the job to Sam and became a full-time drinker. His hands never shook when they were wrapped around a beer bottle.

A knock at the door distracted Sam from his thoughts. He stepped over his discarded jeans and socks, opening the door wide enough to stick his head through. It didn't surprise him to find Dean shifting on his feet outside.

"Hey." Dean said, a faint flush of pink high on his cheeks. He scratched at the back of one hand, glancing away down the stairs quickly. "Just wanted to check you were okay."

Sam nodded quickly. "I'll be alright. Just tired."

"Yeah." It didn't look as if Dean believed him, unsurprisingly. "Can I come in?"

Sam frowned, his hand tightening on the door instinctively, closing it slightly. Dean's face blanched at the action, and Sam looked at his hand like it was a separate creature. Why the hell had he done that? Forcefully he threw the door open wide, stepping back to allow Dean entrance. The older man took a cautious step in, looking at him sidelong like he was afraid Sam might change his mind.

"You sure you're okay, Sam? I mean…not okay okay, obviously, but, y'know…okay?"

"Yeah, it's just…been a long day."

Dean's eyes softened and he took a step into Sam's space, reaching a hand out to stroke his bangs off his face. "Sam, if you want to leave-"

"No." He said it before Dean could finish his sentence, and the older man looked startled at the vehemence behind the word. "No, I need to do this. I don't…" He looked down.

"What? You don't what?" Dean said, tilting his face up with a gentle touch.

"I don't wanna hurt anybody." He said it in a rush.

Dean's eyes widened. "Hurt anybody?"

"With my…my powers. Your dad said the other psychic kids-"

"Dad's wrong. Sam, you're not gonna hurt anyone. You don't have it in you." A bubble of laughter welled up in Sam's throat at that. Didn't have it in him? Then what the hell was that thing, lurking right there behind his eyes? What was it if not the potential to hurt?

But Dean didn't seem to notice anything. The other man moved away, looking around the room. His gaze caught on the vase of pink carnations on the big antique-wood dresser, the daisy-patterned bedspread. "Dude, you got the better room. I didn't get flowers."

"You can have mine if you want." The lighthearted tone was an effort to produce, but the curve of Dean's full lips was worth it. Sam wished he could spend the rest of his life doing nothing but finding ways to bring that smile to Dean's face.

"Aw, really Sammy? You'd give me flowers?"

"Hey, if the pink fits."

"Nah, that's okay. You keep 'em." Dean pulled one out of the vase, breaking the petalled head off carefully. He reached out and stuck it in Sam's hair, behind his ear. "There you go. You're a pretty princess now."

His hand lingered, his thumb brushing the apple of Sam's cheek like a breath of air. Sam let his eyes flutter closed, not surprised when the caress was followed by a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. He moved into it, rewarded by another, longer taste of Dean's mouth, the faint touch of tongue. Dean's hands travelled down his arms, curling around his fingers and squeezing. Sam noted distantly that he'd stopped shaking.

Dean pulled back a little, bumping the tip of his nose against Sam's. "Hey, if you want I could stay here tonight?"

Sam opened his eyes, frowning slightly. "But Missouri said…"

A shadow passed over Dean's face, gone again in an instant. "Never mind what Missouri said, I'm not gonna leave you alone if you need me, kiddo."

"No, it's okay." Sam shook his head, smiling for Dean's benefit. "Seriously, I'm good now. No point in starting trouble on the first night."

Dean bit his lip, looking unsure.

"Really, Dean." Sam said, letting an edge of insistence slip into his voice. "I can last one night by myself." He pressed his lips to Dean's to soften his words, only pulling away when he felt Dean's resistance crumbling. "You'll be right across the hall the whole time. I'll come and get you if I need you. Okay?"

Dean took a visible breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

He stood firm and upright as Dean walked to the door, casting a glance back that said he really wasn't happy about leaving. As soon as the door closed behind him Sam sank to the bed, his head falling forward into the cradle of his hands.

The digital clock glowed red in the darkness, the numbers flicking over soundlessly. Four am. Sam stared at it, feeling the light burn into his retinas.

He wanted to go to Dean. God, he wanted so much to get up and cross the hall, open the door whisper-quiet, slip into the other bed and have Dean's warm arms wrap around him tight. Instead he shivered and rolled over, dragging the comforter with him until he was cocooned inside it.

A car drove past the house, illuminating the windows of Sam's room and casting brilliant yellow across the walls, a living shadow display. He squeezed his eyes closed and listened to the rumble of the engine as it faded.

His mind wouldn't shut up. Whispers he couldn't quite keep a hold on, images flashing fast as fire flickers, the back-beat of his heart pounding against his skull like a jackhammer. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it wasn't really conductive to a restful night.

He grunted, throwing himself onto his other side and yanking at the corner of his pillow until his body was wrapped around it. Maybe if he pretended, he could imagine it was a real living body. He didn't realise how much he'd gotten used to dodging Dean's knees at night, listening to the funny snorting noises he made in his sleep, even waking up sweating and half-choked by Dean's full-body snuggling.

It was impossible. Finally Sam threw the covers away, lying spread-eagled on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Fuck." He spoke to the spider creep-crawling along above his head, dragging the word out until it was more sigh than speech. The spider continued on its way, uncaring.

He looked over at the door. It would be a bad idea to sneak into Dean's room. It would be rude, an abuse of Missouri's hospitality.

Glossed wooden boards lined the floor, polished to a mirror shine. In the dark they looked like spilled oil. Sam was careful to step on the edges of each board, walking on tip-toes and watching his bare feet. A creaking floorboard might wake the entire house.

He opened the door, stepping into the hall. Dean's door was shut. He glanced down the hallway to Missouri's room before moving closer, raising a hand to the brass doorknob.

Hesitated, his fingers outstretched to the air inches from it.

He sighed, turning away and walking to the staircase. He couldn't go against Missouri's wishes, not when she was putting herself out to help him.

The hallway was pitch black and the air seemed to hinder his movements, as if he was walking through tar. Outside the wooden wind chimes clattered together softly like chattering teeth.

He was intending on getting a glass of water, maybe one of those cookies he'd seen Missouri wrap up and put in a cupboard. So he wasn't sure why he was pausing in the living room. Turning toward the black rectangle of the open door.

When he stepped inside, his breath caught.

Missouri kept the cards wrapped in a piece of black satin, folded exactly. He'd watched her from the armchair as she bustled around the room, 'putting things to rights' as she called it. The expected second customer had been called and his reading put off until later in the week, so the cards weren't needed again. Missouri had put them away in the top drawer of the dresser, tucking them in amongst old books and papers scrawled with obscure diagrams, tiny silk bags and bundles of dried herbs. Sam had watched her do it.

So why were the cards now laid out on the coffee table?

The pack sat to one side, while three cards were placed precisely parallel to one another in an echo of the earlier reading.

Sam's hands began to shake.

He moved closer, compelled by something he couldn't name. The darkness in the room and the drawn curtains made it hard to see, and absently he switched on a lamp on the small table beside the couch.

The three cards sat silent on the table like a statement, a full stop. Even from a distance Sam could make out the names printed along the bottom of each.

The Fool. The Hierophant. The Hanged Man.

His heart caught in his throat, beating hard enough to choke. His eyes seemed to be locked on those three cards, their pictures imprinted on his mind like a scald. Inside his head something shifted like a snake uncoiling, a stretch of untried muscles that settled again like it had never been. Not yet, it seemed to be saying. Not yet, but soon.