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 has reviewed, your comments really do inspire me :) Unfortunately the next chapter might be a little late - I won't give a set update day, but I'll do my best to get it done as soon as possible, so look out for it :)

Chapter 16

Hands, touching. Hands, creeping, crawling, skittering bug-like all over his skin, under his clothes, brushing against him like spider's webs and leaving traces that will never wash away. Only two hands, but it feels like twenty, like thirty, like a hundred. Like they're all over him and he's never going to escape.

"Gonna be screaming while I do you…"

Sam woke up with the scream stuck in his throat, his body slick with sweat and grease under a double layer of clothing. The bed sheets were twisted around his legs and he kicked them away, swallowing the fear and panic. His hands and feet were bare under the bed covers, and as the night air hit them Sam shivered.

A gentle snort from the armchair startled him, and for a second his heart clenched tight. But the person-shaped shadow slouched ungracefully against the cushions didn't make any sudden movements, didn't lunge at him, didn't try to hurt him. Sam reached out with a shaking hand to switch on the lamp beside his bed. The light revealed Dean still in his jeans and shirt, his legs stretched out in front of him and his head propped unsteadily on his hand. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open, a thin line of drool stretching from his lower lip. As Sam watched Dean drew in a long breath, letting it out again with a snort. The drool joined a growing puddle on the arm of Missouri's chair.

Dean had started the night in his own room. Sam knew this because it had been him who insisted, him who fixed Dean with a determined look and told him that he would be okay, he needed to get used to being alone again. And it had been okay; Sam had only got out of bed to check the latch on the window three times. The mild panic attack that had crept up on him after hearing Missouri creeping downstairs for a glass of water could have happened to anyone.

Who the hell was he trying to kid?

Letting out a heavy sigh, Sam hunched forward on the bed, pressing his hands to his face. His hair was matted, painful little tangles that wouldn't unknot even when he tried to run his fingers through them.

Outside the house, the sound of crunching gravel as a car backed out of a driveway made Sam's heart start to race, even though he knew what it was, knew it wasn't a threat to him. He stared hard at the window, a black rectangle of glass that was suddenly and briefly illuminated by headlights before fading back to black.

This was ridiculous. He was Sam Miller, for Christ's sake, he'd found monsters and demons and ghosts, lived through sixteen years of his dad, handled pain and fear and panic and goddamn torture. He was going to get a handle on this too.

Clenching his jaw, he climbed out of bed. He was going to get up, take a shower, clean his teeth and change the bedcovers, and he was not going to let this beat him.

The closed door to the bedroom presented the first hurdle. He reached out, making his fingers take hold of the cool metal handle. Deep breath – he could do this, and he turned it, hearing the quiet click as it unlatched. Another deep breath and he pulled it open, telling himself it was fine, there was no one waiting outside in the dark, waiting for him to step outside.

The hallway, as expected, was empty, a faint light cast from the streetlight outside the window making dark shadows on the walls and floor. He took one step, then another, then another, and he was doing it, he was controlling his fear and doing it. The bathroom door was two steps away. Deliberately turning his back to the staircase, he walked calmly to the door, opened it and jumped inside the room, spinning around to face whoever might have sneaked up behind him.

Dead air. There was no one there, of course. He let out a shaky breath and closed the door, locking it behind him and turning on the light.

He turned on the water and undressed, his movements sharp and economic. His reflection in the mirror made him start for a moment and he paused, meeting his own eyes. His face was pale, dark rings circling his eyes like stains. There was a reddened graze high on his left cheekbone. He stepped closer, frowning and tilting his head to see it better.

Pressed face-first into the wall, the hard brick biting into the side of his face. His cheek burned, like the first time he'd tried shaving…

Sam blinked the memory away. He touched the patch of scabbed skin gently, stroking fingertips over it. It stung a little. He hadn't realised he'd been walking around with scratches, visible proof of what had happened to him.

The shower hissed behind him, and he took a deep breath. It didn't matter. The scars – both physical and mental – were going to heal. It was the memories he needed to deal with.

Staring into his own eyes, Sam's fingers tightened on the basin of the sink and he swallowed convulsively. There was one memory in particular. One he hadn't wanted to deal with, not at all.

The brief snatch that had come back to him as Gareth had been…

The big grey man that had been taking his pyjamas off when he was six years old. His dad's face as he'd stepped in and caught them.

Sam's breath stuttered. Had that actually happened? Or had it been something his mind had made up? It didn't feel as real, felt like something half-remembered, an old movie he'd once seen, or a nightmare he'd had. It wasn't like he could ask anyone, call Gareth up and say 'hey, so did you try to molest me when I was a kid?' If he mentioned it to Dean, the older man would freak out all over again.

The only other person who might be able to give him some answers was Jim Miller himself, but Sam wasn't about to hunt his father down just to provide Jim with even more ammunition to use to hurt him.

He'd just have to go on like he had been, dealing with it the best he could. Forgetting the rest.

It was hard keeping the memories out of the shower though. Even his own hands felt strange and foreign on his skin, but he forced them to touch dispassionately, to wash and clean. He didn't allow himself to hurry, to rush the places he felt most uncomfortable. Exposure was good. Getting used to his own touch again was the first step to getting used to being touched.

After the sweat was washed from his body, he stepped out, wrapping a single towel around his waist. He cleaned his teeth without meeting his own eyes in the mirror, but once he was done it still felt like an accomplishment. Like he was getting somewhere. His reflection smiled at him, a small but genuine curve of lips, and it encouraged him.

He stood there, unwilling to break the moment. He was proud of himself, and so what if it was for such a tiny thing as taking a shower without anyone standing guard outside? Dean would be proud of him too. Sam's smile grew and he watched it in the mirror, one side of his mouth pulled higher than the other in that slightly bashful, but oh-so-familiar grin.

That grin always appeared on his face when Dean pulled off some impossible feat or the other and then looked at Sam with his oh-my-god-I'm-so-fucking-brilliant-they-should-build-temples-in-my-name expression. The last time he'd seen it had been a few months ago; an angry spirit had Sam pinned to the outer wall of a church by the throat, its arm poised to dig into his chest and rip out his lungs. They'd used their last rock-salt round, Sam was hardly in a position to recite an exorcism he knew by heart but Dean could barely remember the first line of, and Sam had closed his eyes, preparing for unbearable pain. He'd opened them a few seconds later when a body hit him from behind, the momentum throwing him straight through the spirit and onto the ground. The spirit had dissolved in a wrenching scream, and Sam had found himself pinned to the ground by Dean's weight, the both of them covered in coloured glass and chunks of soldered metal. Sam had performed the exorcism and they'd escaped back to the motel before the cops could come and question them about vandalism of church property.

When Sam asked about it later, Dean had shrugged and explained that he'd realised the stained-glass window above Sam was held together with iron, so he broke into the rectory, ran around to the window and smashed his way through it, scattering the iron pieces all over to repel the spirit. He said it in such a matter-of-fact, isn't it obvious? way that Sam had blinked, completely thrown. And then that face came out, Dean practically bursting on just how awesome he was. The night had ended with celebratory Chinese take-out and a Die Hard marathon, Dean bouncing with manic energy on one of the beds, reciting the movie line-by-line.

Dean always saved him. Sam's smile wavered. If the older man were there, he would tell Sam that 'no, they saved each other, like partners do'.

But there was only so much Dean could do. Some of it, Sam had to fix by himself. He nodded to himself in the mirror, putting on an expression of resolve, and turned to unlock the bathroom door. He was going to go to his bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He was going to put on clean boxers and a tee shirt, and he was going to do it knowing that nothing and no one would hurt him.

He got two steps down the hall before panicking and running the rest of the way, throwing himself inside the bedroom and closing the door on imaginary pursuing shadows. Pressing his forehead to the cool wood, he let out a long sigh. At least he'd made it halfway there.

The next challenge was sleep. In the dark. Knowing the nightmares were waiting for him.

"Sam."

The voice made him lurch forward in surprise, almost breaking his nose on the door. He turned, assuming Dean had woken up. But the older man was still snoring into his hand in the armchair.

Sam spun wildly, eyes darting to every corner and dark shadow in the room.

No one was there, nothing was moving.

He was sure he'd heard a voice call his name. He frowned, trying to calm his racing heart. He was sure…wasn't he? He whispered an experimental "Christo," but no demons appeared, nothing lunged to attack him. Tiptoeing over to the window, he rechecked the lock and the line of salt. Both were undisturbed.

Slumped in the chair, Dean slept on oblivious. Sam felt pathetic admitting it, even to himself, but he was glad the older man was there. His presence was a stabilizing force, something to be relied upon when everything else was in turmoil. Sam thought maybe it was finally starting to sink in. Dean was here. Dean was here and he wasn't going anywhere, no matter what crazy shit Sam threw at him.

The thought calmed him.

He pulled his clothes on quickly, tossed the bed covers aside and climbed back into bed, switching the bedside lamp off. But something rustled as he pulled the covers up, a thin sound like wind blowing through dead leaves. He blindly felt around until his hand encountered a sheet of paper. He fished it out, frowning to himself. Had he left some of his notes tangled in the covers? He didn't remember doing any reading in bed recently.

With his free hand, he reached out for the lamp again, clicking the switch on.

In his hand was a piece of notepaper, one side torn, like it had been ripped from a book. It was written on, covered in a neat even print that Sam didn't recognise as his or Dean's. Squinting in the poor light, he read the first few lines; first thing that should be taught is how to shield the mind from unwanted psychic attacks, using meditation techniques and visualisation…

Probably it had slipped out of one of the old books they'd been using to research the demon, although neither him nor Dean had done any research since the attack. He put it on the bedside table, dismissing it until morning.

Dean was halfway through an unbelievably good breakfast consisting of sausages, tomatoes and fried bread with fluffy pancakes smothered in maple syrup on the side when his phone rang. Sam looked up from where he sat against the headboard of his bed, his own breakfast half-eaten on a tray in front of him. He seemed distracted, lost in his own thoughts, although it might just be sleep deprivation. Dean had stirred a few times in the night, his back all knotted up from sleeping in the armchair, and seen Sam wandering about the room. He hadn't wanted to let the kid know he was awake though; Sam had been adamant about not being babied, and it was enough for Dean to be with him in the room. If Sam needed him, he was right there.

His phone rang again, insistent.

"Are you gonna answer that?" Sam said, his head cocked to one side.

Dean looked at the screen. Tim Rook's name and number flashed up. "Uh, yeah. I'll just-" He stood, nodding at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Uh, no one important. An old friend of my dad's, thought he and Caleb might have been in contact with him."

"Oh." Sam looked down at his cooling food. "Okay. Take your time."

"Sure." Dean flashed him a quick grin and stepped outside, making sure the door was firmly closed behind him. After a moment of thought he crossed the hall to his own room; Sam wasn't the type to listen jealously at doors, but Dean wanted to be sure he wasn't overheard all the same. He flicked the phone open and held it to his ear. "Tim? Any news for me?"

"Found your guy. He's headed for Chicago, looks like. I'll keep a track on him, let you know the specifics when you get to Pittsburg with my payment."

Dean closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the door. "Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can get away."

"Three days, we said." Tim said, sounding like he could care less either way. But Dean knew this guy, knew he didn't want to be on his bad side. If he'd promised payment for a job, he better damn well hand it over.

Sam would just have to understand. He smirked without humour at the thought. Yeah, Sam would understand Dean suddenly packing up and leaving again, after everything that'd happened. As soon as the words 'I'm taking a little trip, be back soon' left Dean's mouth, Sam would understand all too well what was going down. Where Dean was going and why. But this had to be done, it had to.

"I'll be there. Just have the details ready for me."

"I will." Tim sounded vaguely amused at the thought that he might not be ready. "Safe trip." The line clicked off, and Dean was left listening to dead air.

The door had barely closed behind Dean as he stepped back into the hall, and already the shame of what he was going to do had him sagging back against it, feeling wrecked. He was going to lie to Sam. More than that, he was going to run away to god knows where, leaving Sam behind like he'd sworn he wouldn't do again. He felt stretched tight, pulled between two choices. Either he did this, went after Gareth and killed him like his gut was telling him, or he let the guy go and stayed to protect Sam. It was an insane situation, and he wished he could press the pause button, put everything on hold for a while, just long enough to get his head straightened out.

He wanted to tell Sam everything, tell Sam he was going to break his promise and beg his forgiveness.

No. If this was the only way, then he didn't have a choice. Gareth had to pay for what he'd done, and Sam deserved peace of mind, even if it came at a cost. The kid would be angry at Dean, so angry, but a part of him would be relieved. A part of him would be able to rest, knowing Gareth wasn't a threat anymore, and Dean needed to do that for Sam.

He needed to do something.

But was leaving the kid behind really the right thing to do? The last time he left Sam it hadn't worked out well, not at all. The demon was out there somewhere, and he was after Sam. The kid was vulnerable right now, dangerously so, and Dean disappearing would cut him deep. If the demon wanted to attack, then Dean was giving it the perfect opportunity.

He banged his head against the door, hard.

If he was going, there shouldn't be any secrets between him and Sam. If he was going, Sam deserved to know exactly what he was doing and why.

Dean strode back to Sam's room, banging the door open before he could convince himself not to do it. Sam looked up at the noise, his eyes wide. "Dean? What-"

"Can we take a drive? Just…around the block, or something."

Sam's expression turned considering for a split-second before it was wiped away and replaced with confusion. "What? Why?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I just…felt like taking a drive. And, y'know, talking. To you. About stuff."

"Talking…about what?" Sam's face paled suddenly. "I'm…I'm still not ready. To talk about…that. If that's what you were gonna-"

"No, no. Um, when you are ready, we can talk about…it. If you want. But, I was thinkin' of…something else. Please Sam."

Sam looked at him for a long moment before nodding. "I'll get dressed."

The front door to Missouri's house was painted a cheerful yellow. There were tiny mottled glass windows set at eye-level in the top of the door, and the morning sunlight shining through them cast warm swirling patterns on the floorboards. Beside the door, a small table held a fern in a hand-painted terracotta pot, and Sam fixed his eyes on the green fronds as he made his way down the staircase.

His chest felt tight. He was about to go outside, for the first time since the attack.

Never mind that it was daylight, that Missouri's neighbours were probably out mowing their lawns and watching their kids play ball in the street. Never mind that Sam knew nothing was going to happen to him.

All the progress that he'd made last night seemed insignificant when confronted with this.

Dean stood in the foyer, car keys in hand, watching him expectantly. His face was a stiff blank, but Sam could see nervousness and resolve filtering through the cracks of his mask.

"Are you ready, kiddo?"

He swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. Let's go."

Dean opened the door. A warm breeze drifted in on the fresh air, making the fern fronds ripple.

Sam stood transfixed on the bottom step, his hand gripping the banister like a vice. He could see a stretch of lawn through the doorway, a scrap of sidewalk and street and the white shutters of the house opposite. It all looked normal, safe. Except everything was so bright. The rumble of cars, a low murmur of talk between neighbours over garden fences, the bark of a dog, it was all insanely bright and loud.

His breath hitched in his throat, an exhale that seemed to back up and try to go back down again. He opened his mouth to call to Dean, but no words would come.

The older man was halfway down the wooden porch steps before he turned to check on Sam. "Kid? You okay?"

"Uh…" He tried to say something reassuring, tell Dean he just needed a minute, but all that would follow was a moan.

"Sam? Sammy, what is it? What's wrong?" Dean strode back up the steps, coming to a halt in front of Sam. His body blocked the view of the street, and Sam felt his muscles relax a little.

"I don't think…"

"Sam, you're shaking." Dean's voice was threaded with worry.

"I don't think I can go outside." It came out funny, a high thin tone that sounded like a little kid's voice.

"Sam?" Missouri appeared from the kitchen, her face flushed like she'd been running. "Lord, sweetie, I could feel you from the end of the backyard." Sam glanced over; she was wearing green gardening gloves, dry crumbles of dirt falling unnoticed onto her clean floor.

Dean looked over at her, his eyes wide. "What? What's wrong?"

Missouri ignored him, pulling off one glove to grasp Sam's hand still curled around the banister. "It's okay, honey. It's okay, nothing's going to hurt you." She turned to Dean, her lips a thin line. "You should get him back to his room. The poor child's about ready to have a panic attack."

"Oh, god." Dean looked horrified, like he was personally responsible for Sam's irrational reactions.

"Dean, it's okay…" Sam tried, reaching out to him.

But the older man was shaking his head, backing away. "No, Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? Just…oh god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sam."

"It's really okay, Dean, I'm okay now-" But Missouri was hustling him back up the stairs, her hand on his back. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Dean's stricken face, watching him from the bottom of the stairs. Then Dean turned and walked out of the front door.

Dean sat in the Impala, running an absent hand around the cracked leather of the wheel. The car had always been a constant in his life, there when he had nothing else, quiet and comfortable. Sitting in the driver's seat, sagged and moulded to his body and no one else's, it reminded him of his mom in a strange way. Of the fit of her arms when she hugged him close, the soft brush of her skin on his. Of course, his idealised image of Mary Winchester elevated her to an angel in his eyes, perfect in every way, the mother of his dreams. Some of those illusions had been shattered when his dad had told him the truth of those few years they'd had before she was killed; the rows Dean couldn't remember, the angry silences he'd been happily oblivious of. But when Dean imagined his life, his future, his first thought was always 'would mom have approved?'

He wished he remembered enough about her to miss her. Wished he could come up with a plan and know for sure that his mom would have done the same thing, would be proud of him.

He was pretty sure his mom would not have approved of him running off to kill someone.

Sam's expression, the way his face had turned chalk white as he stared out into the street shone in Dean's mind every time he closed his eyes. He hadn't thought Sam would have a reaction like that, and from the incomprehension in Sam's eyes, the kid hadn't expected it either. But it made sense, in a way. Sam hadn't been outside since the attack, staying in his room with the curtains closed, creating his own sheltered world where he could keep control over who came in and out, predict every eventuality. It made sense that the sudden ripping away of the safety net he'd constructed around himself would be like a bucket of ice water to the face.

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face like the action could wipe the last few days – hell, the last few months – away and start afresh.

His fingers itched to put the key in the ignition, to drive to Pittsburg and sell his soul for Sam's vengeance.

But who was he helping by running away again? Would it really make any difference to Sam's precarious mental state?

Dean unwound the side window, closing his eyes as a gasp of air curled around his face, stroking his hair. The high-pitched laugh of a group of kid playing soccer in the street drew his attention, and he watched their game for a while, the black-and-white ball bouncing off cement and between the two piles of sweaters acting as goalposts.

He wished he could pinpoint that moment just before everything had gotten so screwed up, that moment when he chose to follow the left road instead of the right. He had a feeling that this, right now, was another one of those moments. Left or right, stay or go. Which road would make it better, and which would make it worse?

Sam watched the Impala from the window of his room. He couldn't see Dean inside, but he knew the older man was there, sitting, thinking.

He wished he wasn't such a freak.

"You're not a freak, honey." Missouri's voice was soft behind him, but he jumped like she had yelled in his ear, his heart racing.

He turned to face her. "Well, I'm not normal. And I'm never gonna be, not after this. Dean…"

"Dean just needs some time." Missouri said, smiling hesitantly at him. "He just…needs to get his head around it. Give him some space."

Sam nodded mutely.

"Would you like some company? I can sit with you if you want." She watched him with kind eyes, the picture of compassion.

But Sam found himself shaking his head. "No, that's okay, really. Go back to your gardening. I-I'd like to be alone for a while."

"Okay, honey. But if you need me, I'm always going to be here for you." She patted his arm as she left, and Sam closed his eyes at the touch. "Remember that, Sam Miller."

He couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless, weak and pathetic as a day-old kitten.

Well, that had to stop, right now. Self-pity didn't sit right on him, and neither did lack of control.

The first step to regaining control was understanding the situation properly. Even though he didn't think he would ever understand Gareth's motivations, there was something he could do, something he needed to know.

His cell phone was on the dresser and he picked it up. His hand was shaking, minute shivers running down his nerves. With an effort he stilled it, started flicking through the list of contacts until the number he knew off by heart was displayed on the screen

He stared at it through narrowed eyes like maybe it would speak to him, reassure him this was the right thing to do. Or maybe he was hoping it would dial itself and take the choice out of his hands altogether.

Sam swallowed. Possibly this was the hardest thing he'd had to do since deciding to go back to Dean, back to Elmstead and the werewolf hunt all those months ago. It felt terrifying, but also strangely liberating, like this act would complete a cycle, tie up an end that had been hanging loose since that day, that act of defiance.

He pressed dial and held the flimsy piece of plastic to one ear.

The sharp voicemail message made him inhale sharply; even though he'd known what he was doing and who he was calling, hearing his voice, even in a canned message, was still a throwback to those years of Sam's life before.

"This is Jim Miller. Leave a message."

"D-dad? Dad, it's Sam. Sir. Um, I…I don't really know…why I'm calling. Uh…look, I was just…I remembered something. From when I was younger. Did-did you know a guy called Gareth? It's just…I ran into him. And it didn't…end well. He, uh…well, it's not important. Just, did he do something to me? When I was younger? Did you-"

The phone beeped, cutting him off. Sam cursed, throwing the phone to the ground and pacing the length of the room. It was like his dad was there, cutting him off in person as he had always done and leaving him alone with his fears. He wanted to rip his hair out, bang his head against a wall, kick something until he broke a toe. Make his outsides feel as impotent as his insides felt, as his father made him feel.

No. Not this time. Sam had grown since then, damnit, and he wanted some answers. He walked back and picked up the phone, redialling the number before he could think.

"This is Jim Miller. Leave a message."

"Dad, did Gareth try to…to rape me when I was younger? Did I remember that right? Because if I did, then I also remember you saving me from him. And-look, I'm not expecting anything from you. But I need to know, sir. So if you could call me back, or…send me a text, or an email, whatever, that'd be…I'd appreciate it."

He let out a slow shaky breath as he pressed the end call button. It was done. Everything else was in his dad's hands now.

His eyes fell on the pile of books and papers in the corner of the room, the research he'd been doing on the demon before the attack. It was about time he got back to it. Nothing and no one was going to take him by surprise again.

"Sam?" Dean's knock on the door interrupted Sam's research, and he looked up from his books. The older man stepped into the room, his lips pressed tightly together. "Kid, I've…I've got something I need to tell you."

"What's wrong?" When Dean didn't say anything, Sam cocked his head, glancing around the room quickly. "Look, if this is about my freak-out-"

"It's not, Sam." Dean cut him off. His face was white, two tiny blotches of red high on each cheek.

Sam's heart started pounding. "Dean, what?"

The older man looked down at his booted feet, watching them as they shuffled on the floor like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. He was quiet for so long that Sam's vision started to blur, his eyes fixed on Dean like he might disappear if he didn't keep all his concentration on the lines of his body.

Finally Dean lifted his head, meeting Sam's eyes squarely. "I, uh, just wanted to say that I'm not going anywhere. If, y'know, you were worried that I might, or something. I'm not gonna leave you alone again."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Uh, okay?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded slowly. "Just…thought you should know that."

"Okay." Sam said, feeling completely mystified. "That's…good. Was that…it?"

"Yeah. I'll, uh, leave you to get back to what you're doing." He made a vague gesture towards the door. "I'll be in my room, if you want me."

Sam watched him leave, a frown on his face. Sometimes he really didn't get Dean. But a small place inside him warmed when he thought of the older man's words. Even thought he'd known Dean would never leave him, hearing it out loud was nice, too.

He sighed, picking up one of the books balanced on the bedside table. Stuck to the back was a sheet of paper, and Sam plucked it off, frowning as he read it.

first thing that should be taught is how to shield the mind from unwanted psychic attacks…

It was the paper he'd found on his bed last night. He scanned the page quickly, his frown deepening. It seemed to be from some kind of handwritten instruction manual on psychic training. He glanced around the room, looking for a book that it might have fallen out of. But there were no books the right size for the page, and he couldn't remember coming across anything labelled 'How To Train Your Psychic Powers'. It might have been useful if he had.

His eyes dropped to the paper again. It talked about visualization, about picturing a barrier in his mind, using it to hide all the things he didn't want anyone else to see. He found himself doing it as he read; visualizing a wall and pushing Gareth and his father and the demon behind it. It was surprisingly hard – they kept slipping around the edges, and even as Sam pushed one back, the other two would sneak out while he was busy grappling with the first.

It was only when he noticed the paper was crumpling in his grip that he realised how long he'd been at it, the top line smudging under sweaty fingertips. He looked at his thumb, grinning as he saw the first two words had literally stuck to the skin there, a miniature tattoo that spelled out first thing in mirror.

The grin slowly faded as the words registered. First thing.

If this, shielding his mind, was the first thing that he should have learned, then why hadn't Missouri been teaching it to him?