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 :)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I'm so glad you guys seem to be liking this so far :) The next chapter will be up same time next week, as always…

Chapter 7

Dean drove.

The Impala's engine grumbled and whined under him like an exhausted horse being spurred onward, faster. The sky was still lightening on the horizon and sleep was still sticky in Dean's eyes, but he only lifted the paper cup of cheap coffee to his mouth for another swig.

It was early; he'd checked out of the scummy motel at five, much to the displeasure of the old woman behind the checkout desk who'd stumbled out from the back room in a grey bathrobe and carpet slippers. But he couldn't wait, hadn't been able to sleep without the second body warming his bed. In a sleep-deprived daze he'd redialled Sam's cell phone at three in the morning, getting the same; "This is Sam. Leave a message." as he'd gotten the other three billion times he'd tried to call. First thing he did when he got back to Missouri's? Make Sam change that damn message.

Of course, he'd have to actually get to where he was going before coming back. His foot pressed harder on the gas and the Impala lurched forward, reliable to the end.

He'd tried his dad's cell again earlier; nothing doing there either. It left him with an odd mix of emotions; punch-a-wall frustration and gut-churning fear, all wrapped in a kind of angry lovehateworry that tasted of sour blood. Or that could just be from chewing his lips raw.

This guy better have some damn good information, is all Dean had to say.

The first thing Sam did on waking was check his cell. No missed calls, no new voicemail messages. Not even a goddamned text, not that he really expected Dean to send him a text message. He'd been the unfortunate recipient of Dean's hour-long rant about the impersonality of sending text messages by virtue of being the only person in the room at the time a few weeks after they left Elmstead. It had made him stifle laughter at the time; listening to the older man going on about waste of money and fuckin' need a decoder to figure out what the hell anyone's tryin' to say, might as well speak in Swahili for all the damn sense it makes. Of course, it had been prompted by a mix of painkillers and straight-up gin on Dean's side, and Sam had quickly discovered that the older man could argue passionately about any subject under the sun with that particular combination of drugs in his system.

But the happy memory didn't change the fact that Dean hadn't tried to get in contact with him since leaving. Sam's stomach made a sickening swoop downwards, like he'd lurched over the first loop of a rollercoaster.

He climbed out of bed, his head dull and thick. His eyes felt sore and his nose was blocked, and it would be just his luck to be coming down with a head cold right now. There was a box of Kleenex helpfully placed on the dresser, and he stumbled over to grab one.

And then he frowned.

The vase of carnations was gone, and the floorboards in front of the dresser were shiny with moisture. It'd definitely been in place when he'd gone to bed the night before; he'd run fingers over the petals, feeling foolish but wanting to think about Dean, about how the older man had given him a flower from the vase, in his own manly-macho way.

He pulled a tissue from the box, wiping absently at his nose as he looked from side to side, like the vase might be hiding somewhere in the room. The frown deepened as he looked, noticed.The dresser appeared to have come away from the wall, leaving a five-inch gap around the back. Everything seemed to have moved, shifted slightly in the night. Had Missouri been in here while he was sleeping? But why would she want to move his furniture? And how had he managed to sleep through it?

It was only when he went to throw the used tissue in the trash can that he saw the smashed remains of the vase, the carnations bent and broken. A quiet trickle of fear ran through him, and his nose began to run. He squeezed the tissue tight in one hand, scuffing at his nose with it and holding it up to examine in the light.

The folds were sticky with half-clotted blood.

His breath hitched. The tissue fell from suddenly limp fingers, landing in a puddle of evaporating water.

Floating. Everything had been floating. A soundless scream that stretched his mouth wide in a parody of a grin, and a loud smash…

Sam turned and ran from the room.

It was nine in the morning when Dean finally rolled into town. The other inhabitants of the earth appeared to be awake, and for a second he felt the heavy weight of loneliness recede. But none of these people out walking to school or work, getting the morning paper or taking their dogs for a walk, none of them were Sam or his dad. None of them mattered, and he was reminded for a second of the reason he gave up hunting back when he was eighteen. His dad's mission to save the world wasn't his; vengeance and blood-thirst and eye for an eye didn't hold any attraction for him. He hunted for his family, the family that were still living and breathing and putting themselves in danger at every chance they got. If Sam and his dad wanted to do that, he'd be right behind them, but only to make sure they were safe.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Right now none of them were safe. Not with that demon out there gunning for them.

He pulled out Missouri's note, scanning the neatly printed writing again. This Tony guy lived across town, and if he skipped the breakfast he'd been planning on picking up, he could be there in an hour.

Dean put his foot down.

"Sam? Sam, honey, are you okay?" Missouri's voice permeated the haze of white-noise crackling in his ears. Sam blinked, suddenly aware of the hard press of the wall to his back, his arms squeezing his legs to his chest. Missouri's face came into focus, concern written across her features. She was on her knees in the middle of the hallway outside his room, wearing a billowy red blouse and a matching hair-band. It suits her, Sam thought absently, red is definitely her colour.

She had been speaking for a while before he tuned back into the words. "…know, it's scary at first, but you shouldn't fight it. Otherwise, well, you saw what happened last night. But don't worry, sweetie, your powers are nothing to be scared of. They just…need a firm hand, if you like." She reached out to stroke the hair off his forehead.

"You…you knew? What I…did I…" It felt as if he'd been winded, his breath hard to hold in his chest.

Missouri was regarding him with solemn eyes. "I heard something crash; sounded like someone'd swung a wrecking ball at the side of the house. When I opened your door, you were passed out on your back, and your nose was bleeding. I only noticed the furniture had been moved when I stepped on the broken vase."

"But…but I thought, the visions…"

"The visions are only a part of your power, Sam." She smiled, a tinge of wistfulness around the corners of her mouth. "They're the starting point, true. And usually I would suggest training those first before moving on to anything else. But I see your subconscious is a little impatient to get on to the main show."

Sam blinked, his blood pounding through his body in pulses, so strong that he wouldn't be surprised to see his limb jerking in time. "The main show?"

She nodded. "Sam, what happens when you have a vision? Or after you've used any of your powers, for that matter?"

"I've never…really used any of my powers." He frowned, feeling his heart rate begin to slow. Hearing Missouri talk about his freak-show abilities in a rational manner, like she was discussing how to train a puppy, he felt a little more at ease. Not so batshit terrified of himself, what he might do. He clung to the feeling. "Not intentionally, anyway. They only…came out that one time, with the demon. And last night, I guess?"

"But what happened after?"

"I-I get headaches? After the demon, the doctors said something about my brain bleeding; my eyes were bloodshot."

Missouri nodded, like he'd passed a test. "You're fighting against your powers. And it's understandable – I remember being just as scared of my abilities when I was your age. But what you need to accept is that the powers are a part of you. You're fighting yourself, and your body is caught in the crossfire." She sighed, dropping her head. "I was hoping…well, let's just say I didn't think it would happen this fast."

"What?" Sam pressed, trying to catch her eyes again. "Hoping what?"

She looked up, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "I was hoping we wouldn't have to do it this way."

"Dean, I don't know if you're…not getting these messages, or if you're just too busy to talk, or whatever, but…Dean I really need to ta-" The beep cut Sam off before he could finish. He dropped his cell back onto his mattress with a drawn-out sigh.

He could hear Missouri downstairs, cheerfully talking on the phone like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn't just…

Sam bit his lip, pulling his legs into his body and wrapping his arms tight around them like he could absorb into himself until he disappeared. He wanted Dean,goddamn it, where the hell was he? He promised, he promised he'd only be a phone call away, and although Sam knew what Dean was doing was important, he wished just for a second that he could have been a little more selfish. That he could have demanded that Dean stay with him.

A loud laugh echoed up the stairs, and Sam wanted to clap his hands over his ears to shut it out. His head was throbbing lowly, thick and heavy.

Missouri had said that it would only get worse. That if he didn't allow himself to give in to the power in his mind, eventually his body would break down again, like it had when they faced off with the demon. Was it only a week ago? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then.

He stared at the furniture in his room, still out of place. He'd moved it with his mind. He'd been so desperate to see Dean again, so sick with worry, that the built-up emotion had slipped out while his guard had been down. Or so Missouri said.

"Margaret!" Missouri said somewhere downstairs, the sound carrying.

"Hi, Missouri. I can't stay long, I'm on my way to take the kids to the park, but I just thought I'd stop in and let you know that Dean called me."

Sam was on his feet and running toward the sound of the younger woman's voice before she'd finished speaking. He took the stairs two at a time, skidding on the hardwood floors and bursting into the kitchen on limbs as uncoordinated as a baby giraffe's. "Dean? You heard from Dean?"

Both women looked up in surprise at his noisy entrance. Missouri's face seemed to darken, just a little, but he didn't pay it much attention.

"What did he say? Why hasn't he called me?"

Margaret blinked, probably shocked at the sudden influx of questions. "Uh, he just said he'd been trying to call you, but he kept getting put through to your voicemail. He says he's fine though, and that you should call him."

Sam's mouth fell open, incredulous. Dean said Sam should call him? Like he thought Sam's busy schedule had kept him from trying that already?

"Sam? Are you okay, child?" Missouri asked gently, taking a step toward him. Her face was soft with concern.

"Uh, yeah. I'm-I'm fine." He said reflexively. "Uh, I'm just gonna…I've got…stuff to think about, still."

Missouri's lips pursed like she didn't believe him at all. Well, of course she didn't believe him, she was a psychic. But he was thankful that she didn't press.

He nodded vaguely at Margaret, wandering from the room in a daze. On impulse, he picked up Missouri's house phone, dialling in the numbers he'd had memorized for the past six months. It didn't even ring; the steady beep of the busy signal told him Dean was…busy. Busy doing something Sam knew nothing about. Doing something on his own.

He dropped the phone on the little phone stand in Missouri's entrance hall and turned back toward the stairs, climbing up them with the weary determination of someone trying to scale a mountain.

He had stuff to think about. That was an understatement.

"These are…something like sedatives. Relaxants." Missouri said as she handed him a small pill bottle. There was no name on the label. "Most psychics wouldn't recommend using them. They can make you…unfocused. But," she chuckled, as if this was in any way funny, "your powers are already unfocused. The stress you're feeling is making it much harder than it should be to get in touch with the right parts of your mind." She met his eyes, sombre now. "I was saving this for a last resort."

Sam stared at the innocuous bottle, tiny in his palm. The little white pills inside were no bigger than his pinkie finger nail. "What…what will these do to me?"

"They'll hopefully…calm you down. They should stop any more episodes like last night's from happening." She reached over, clasping his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip. "It's your choice, sweetie. I'm not going to make you take anything you don't want to. But I'm worried about you. Your mind is so guarded already – and I can understand why, what with the strength of your power and what you've been through in your life so far. But I'm not going to lie to you, you're at risk of doing some serious damage to yourself, Sam. Maybe even hurting someone else, if your power lashes out and you aren't prepared for it."

He closed his eyes, wishing Dean was with him.

But Dean wasn't with him, he told himself firmly. This was something he had to deal with on his own.

The pill bottle sat on his bedside table, a full glass of water next to it.

The used bookstore Missouri's friend owned was crammed in between a Starbucks and a drugstore. The windows were dark and the only indication that the place was anything other than a disused office front was a tiny wooden sign above the door, spelling out Used Book in generic letters. Dean only found the damn place after driving up and down the street several times, cursing loudly all the while.

He parked up on the opposite side of the road, flashing a dark look at the mother-and-pushchair convention apparently taking place on the sidewalk beside his car. As he feared, one of the little brats strapped into a chair decided to reach out and wipe chocolately fingers on the Impala's paint job. He patted the hood consolingly, making a note to treat the car to a wash and wax when he got back to Missouri's.

A tiny bell rang when he stepped into the bookstore, announcing his presence. He paused on the threshold to scan the room, a corner of his mouth curling up. Sam would have loved it in here. It was dark and dingy, the air probably filled with mold spores. The books were piled high on wobbly wooden shelves, in no particular order that Dean could see. The shelves themselves reached to the ceiling, and he could just picture the kid sat on the floor in a corner, his nose in a book and another pile beside him.

"C'n I help you?"

The deep voice made him start, not least because he couldn't tell where it came from. He took a hesitant step further, trying to peer around the shelves. "Uh, I'm looking for Tony? Missouri sent me?"

"You're Dean?" The voice sounded closer.

"Yes? Are you Tony?"

"That's me. Just a sec."

Dean stood by the door, shuffling his feet and feeling a little out of his depth. The feeling only intensified when the mysterious Tony finally showed himself, a wide grin on his face and a hand held out for Dean to shake. He hadn't been sure what to expect from a used-bookstore owner, but in his mind he'd seen Tony as a crusty old guy wearing cardigans and glasses, absent-minded and pale from too little sun. So the twenty-something buff guy with a surfer's tan and blond dreadlocks that appeared from between a stack of shelves made him blink, words momentarily deserting him. Tony's grin turned self-deprecating.

"Not who you were expecting, right? I get that a lot." He shrugged, the tight muscles in his arms flexing. He was wearing a white wifebeater and honest-to-god boardshorts, like he was just waiting to catch the next wave. Dean was all for freedom of expression, but the surfer-dude look was a little out of place, considering they were in Kansas.

"Uh, not really." Dean said, realising the guy was waiting for him to talk. "You…own this place?"

"Yep. Well, inherited it from my grandpa. It was his pride and joy, and when he passed away there was no one left to keep it runnin', 'cept me. Don't think I'm complainin' though, man; you can pick up a hell of a lot more to interest you from a used bookstore than you can in your local Borders, 'specially when you're in our 'line of work.'" He winked conspiratorially, like he was sharing a secret.

Dean flashed a perfunctory grin at him. "Yeah, sure. Look, Missouri said you might be able to help me out."

Tony nodded, his dreadlocks falling around his shoulders. "Oh, sure man. She said you had a demon problem?"

"Yep." Dean said, popping the P at the end of the word. When it seemed Tony wasn't going to elaborate, he prodded again. "So, what do you have?"

Tony pursed his lips. "Hmmm, well, I'd need to know what kind of demon you're dealing with here."

"One with yellow eyes. Powerful. Got a lot of demon-followers. After six-month old children." Dean bit out.

"Cool." Tony's head bobbed as Dean spoke, making him look like one of those nodding dogs people stuck in the back windows of their cars. Mentally Dean rolled his eyes, annoyance swelling in his chest. Missouri sent him here, to this guy?

After a few more seconds of watching the guy nodding moronically, Dean snapped. "Do you know anything or not? 'Cause I got a lot of better things to do than-"

Tony held up a hand. "Hey, hey. No need to get pissy. I might have something."

"Might have something?"

"Gimme a sec." Before Dean could say anything else, Tony spun on his heel – his flipflop wearing heel – and disappeared into the stacks again. Dean scowled and strode in after him.

The place was like a goddamn maze; books perched precariously above him, the shelves wobbling ominously with the force of Dean's booted footsteps. There were dusty boxes and piles of unshelved books on the floor and he kept one eye on his feet, watching for anything that might trip him. He had a brief mental image of the place caving in on him, showering him with Dickens and Shakespeare. Buried alive in literature – probably Sam's chosen way to go. The thought made him grin for a second, before his irritation at Tony and the thought of Sam dead wiped the humour from the situation. He hurried his steps; he could make out Tony's dreadlocks in front of him, whipping through the air as the guy rounded corners. The store was a lot bigger than Dean had initially thought – the narrow window space obviously widened behind the other shops on the block. Either that or Dean had just entered another dimension, one created entirely of smelly old hardbacks.

"Hey, dude, you keepin' up here?" Tony's voice called out from somewhere ahead.

"I would be if you were walking like a regular person." Dean yelled back, throwing his hands out to his sides even though there was no one to see him. "Christ, where the fuck are you any-"

A fist flew toward his face, so unexpected he didn't have time to raise his own arm in defence. It caught him on the side of his chin, snapping his head back and making his ears ring. He stumbled, tripping over one of those goddamn boxes littering the aisle behind him, and landed hard on his ass. There was no time to catch his breath though; a weight landed in his lap, hands closing around his throat and squeezing…

"I was told the mighty Dean Winchester was smarter than this." A voice whispered in his ear, mocking, and Dean opened his eyes to meet Tony's slitted blue ones. Tony smiled, a slow spread of lips unveiling teeth that gleamed white in the tan of his face. "It's a disappointment, but oh well. Just means there's one less of you when yellow-eyes makes his move on Sammy Miller."

Dean choked, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Tony's, trying to pry a gap in the other man's fingers so he could breathe. Dots swam in his eyes and he blinked, feeling tears run down his blood-filled cheeks.

Tony turned his head so they were almost cheek-to-cheek, chuckling like the whole situation was a good joke. And then Dean left something warm and wet sliding up his neck, and oh, nasty, the guy was licking his face. "I'll be sure to give Sammy a goodbye kiss from you, Deano." The words caught up with him just as the darkness was beginning to take his vision, sending a surge of adrenaline through his veins like he'd been struck by lightning. He bucked up against Tony's body, trying to throw the man off, but apparently those surfer-boy muscles were good for more than just show. Against that and the strength of the demon that was clearly living inside him, Dean was pretty much helpless. The guy pinned him flat against the floor, knocking the shelf nearest them. Dean could feel a particularly large book digging into his ass, and absently he wondered if he'd have The Encyclopaedia of Veterinary Medicine, Volume 3 or something similar engraved on his left butt cheek for the rest of his life. Assuming he lived past the next few minutes, that was.

He felt his fingers begin to lose what was left of their strength, his frantic clawing becoming more of a feeble slapping at demon-Tony's grinning face. His mouth worked soundlessly at the air like he could force it past Tony's iron grip that way.

His thoughts were slipping away from him when something exploded. The last thing he saw were Tony's eyes, the baby-blue swallowed by black.