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 for all your reviews, I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to let me know what they think :) The next chapter will be up on Saturday, so look out for it…

Chapter 17

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

A cold shiver ran through Sam as he stared blankly at the paper he held in his hand. Why had Missouri left him open to the demon's manipulations when there was a simple way to stop them?

Something was very wrong here.

How had the paper got there in the first place? It hadn't fallen out from any of the books; Sam was sure of it. Even if it had, there was no way it could have been left tangled in the bedcovers last night. He would have noticed it when he went to bed, when he woke from his nightmare. It hadn't been there. So someonehad put it there while he'd been showering, with Dean sleeping obliviously two feet away.

It wasn't possible. Sam knew from experience that Dean woke at the slightest sound. Before the older man had gotten used to Sam's breathing, the sound of Sam's footfalls, Dean had been on his feet and pointing a gun at Sam every time he got up to take a piss in the night.

That meant that somehow, something had put the paper there, where Sam would find it and read it. He frowned, his head starting to throb. His first thought was that the yellow-eyed demon had done it, but why would the demon give him something that Sam could use against it?

A knock on the door startled him. Missouri's voice called through the barrier. "Sam, honey?"

Without knowing quite why he did it, Sam squeezed his eyes closed, thinking hard on that mental barrier. He shoved everything behind it, all his suspicions and fears, hiding them from view.

The door opened just as he was lifting his head.

"Sam, I was wondering, are you still taking those pills I gave you?"

*****

Dean halted before he could be seen from the doorway of Sam's room. A shiver ran through him at Missouri's question, her voice carrying easily into the hallway. The cold was immediately followed by anger burning white hot.

The pills? The pills he'd talked himself out of asking anyone about, because Sam would never… Missouri had given them to Sam, and the kid had actually taken them?

Sam's answer brought his train of thought to a juddering stop.

"Uh, yeah… I'm still…" Sam sounded like he was trying to talk through a concussion, his voice stuttering and unsure, fading out before he could finish.

Dean's mind flashed to an image of the pill bottle. The pill bottle that was currently hidden safely in his duffle, buried under dirty boxers and socks. He'd checked it was still there only that morning. Checked and been satisfied that no one had touched it, taken any of its contents.

How could Sam still be taking pills he didn't have?

*****

Sam tried to disguise a shudder, his every muscle locked up tight. Apparently practising unfamiliar psychic skills was the equivalent of one of his dad's early morning suicide runs, an hour to get to the other side of town and back, and god help him if he took a minute longer.

Missouri was saying something. He forced his head up, forced himself to meet her eyes, but she trailed off before he could catch any of her words. Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him through a slight frown. "Is everything okay? You feel…strange."

Sam pasted on a smile that probably looked a little manic. He didn't feel strange, he felt like he was being ripped in two; trying to bundle back all the thoughts that kept slipping free was like trying to hold back a wall of water with his hands. It made his head start to ache, sweat prickling his upper lip. He opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words. All his effort was focused on holding up that barrier, keeping his secrets secret.

"Sam, what is it? What's happened?" Missouri started to walk into the room. Her face was set in firm lines, and her voice was hard.

With a burst of effort, Sam found one trail of thought and shoved, pushing it outside his wavering barrier.

Missouri stopped dead, her head tilting to one side. When she spoke, her voice was low and considering. "Sam, what's going on?"

He managed to stutter something out. "I, uh…"

"I think you have something you need to tell me."

His hand clenched involuntarily, the paper making a loud crunching noise like grinding teeth. The sound drew Missouri's gaze.

"This…sudden burst of research."

Sam held his breath at her words. Her presence seemed to fill all the space in the room suddenly, sucking the air dry.

And then she sat in the armchair, becoming just a woman again. "You've remembered something, haven't you? About Gareth." Her lips pressed tight for a second. "I saw it in your head, as soon as you and Dean returned from the bar that night. That…wasn't the first time he'd tried something like that with you, was it?" She sat back against the cushions, her hands lying together chastely in her lap.

The first thing Sam felt was, ridiculously, relief. Relief that she hadn't…that she wasn't…

Missouri leaned forward, dark eyes set on his. "You called your father. Have you talked to Dean? I think he'd want to know."

"I didn't…want to worry him." Sam said, his head down. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, tracing the lines of his frown.

"A little late for that now." The deep male voice startled Sam into looking up.

Dean stood in the doorway, his hands fisted by his sides. His face was empty, the eyes fixed on Sam's face shuttered. Sam held his gaze, and it was like they'd found each other in the middle of a battlefield, on opposite sides of the fight.

*****

"You called your dad?" Dean asked, keeping his voice tightly reined.

No secrets. That's what they'd said, so many times over. No secrets between them.

Sam tilted his head to one side. The tips of his hair were damp, spiky around his temples. "I had to. Dean, I had to."

"Why?"

Missouri cleared her throat from where she was sitting, but Dean didn't spare her a glance. This had nothing to do with her.

"I…I remembered something. When Gareth attacked me. I…had to know. My dad was the only other person I could ask." Sam was shaking ever so slightly, like he'd been running for days and his muscles were sore with tension.

Dean forced himself to step into the room. Forced his expression to remain calm, not to curl up into the snarl that wanted to come out every time Jim Miller was mentioned. Why the fuck couldn't Sam get past this? Jim Miller was a bad man; a simple enough concept to grasp, Dean thought. And he'd thought – hoped – that after Sam's last meeting with Jim, the message would have finally sunk in. Sam would finally be free of the man and his torture. Dean's fists contracted, hard enough to make one of his knuckles pop.

Sam spoke in a whisper, his entire body held taut as a bow string. "Dean, I'm sorry, but I had to."

Missouri stood, holding a hand out to Dean. "Dean, you shouldn't-"

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do." He spat the words ather, the snarl breaking on his face like a thunderstorm. "This has nothing to do with you." He turned to face Sam again. "Did you talk to him? Are you going to see him?"

"I left a message. I…I asked him to call me back."

"No, he's not. You're not gonna talk to him." Dean saw Sam's phone lying on the end of the bed, snatched it up before anyone could stop him. "I'm not gonna let you do this to yourself again. I'm not gonna let him do this to you." He spun on his heel, heading for the door.

"Dean, I need to-"

Over his shoulder, Dean shot back, "If he's going to be talking to anyone, it's gonna be me. And this time, you're going to let me handle it."

He closed the door behind him, ignoring Sam's broken call.

In the time it took to reach the foot of the staircase, Dean was already beginning to wish he could go back and redo the past five minutes. Sam's phone was still in his hand, the plastic edges digging grooves in the palm and fingers.

God, sometimes Sam could make him so angry. Why the hell wasn't he told about the pills? Why was Sam lying to him, and to Missouri, about taking them, or not taking them, whatever the hell Sam was doing with the damn things?

But the confusion faded in the face of the pure rage he felt at the thought of Sam's father.

He just didn't understand the kid's willingness to forgive and forget when it came to the subject of Jim Miller. If Jim Miller called Sam back, it would be Dean he would be answering to. He wasn't going to let Sam get hurt again, not if he could help it.

Dean paused, looking at the front door longingly. He wanted to get out of this house, to take Sam and pack up the Impala and go. They'd barely been here two weeks, but it felt like a lifetime and more. He missed driving, his music playing loud and Sam in the passenger seat, hiding a grin behind his best bitchy expression. But John had sent them here, and told them to stay, so stay they would.

With a deep sigh, Dean turned from the front door, striding into the kitchen. At least he could stand out on the back porch, breathe in the evening air and watch the sun setting, pretend he was somewhere else.

The back door opened with a creak and Dean stepped out onto the wooden porch. A light breeze brushed his face and he closed his eyes, leaning into it like a cat receiving a scratch behind the ear.

When Sam's phone began to ring in his hand, he was almost expecting it.

The screen said number withheld, but Dean lifted it to his ear anyway, keeping quiet. There was a second of heavy breathing on the end of the line, and then a gruff masculine voice spoke. "Sam."

"This is Dean."

A long pause. Dean watched impassively as a bird landed on the fence surrounding Missouri's back yard, hopping down to peck at a crust of dried bread. He was expecting shouting, ranting, demands to speak to Sam from the guy on the other end of the call.

So when the guy started talking in a low urgent voice Dean blinked, off-balance.

"Listen, I've got a message to pass on to you boys, and I need you to do as I say without questions, okay?"

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Wait a sec, who is this?"

"It's Stephen." Dean's eyes narrowed for a second before his mind called up an image of the old man, his crumbling mansion-like house and his missing leg. Stephen was talking again before he could ask any questions. "Now just listen, okay? I tracked down your dad, like Sam asked me to. He's okay, but him and his buddy were in a bit of a tight spot. Seems they were ambushed on the way to get where you are by a bunch of demons."

"Wait, wait!" Dean's head was reeling. "My-my dad? Sam did…what?"

Stephen growled. "Just listen. Your dad, he seems to think it wasn't no accident, those demons being where they were, comin' after him. And I'm inclined to agree. A lot of strange things goin' on at the moment, and all of 'em seem to be designed to keep you boys where you are, and alone. Your dad's been tryin' to get ahold of the two of you, but he's not havin' much luck, and neither is anyone else. No one can get a call through to either of your cell phones, and the house phone there don't work neither. He told me to see what I can do, but I don't know how long this line's gonna last. Which is why you need to keep quiet a second, boy."

"Okay." Dean breathed the word out, his fingers tight around the cell phone like he could physically hold the connection.

"You and Sam, you gotta get outta Kansas. Your dad, he's on his way, fast as he can, but there's definitely something wrong there, and you need to get the hell away from it."

"Wrong? Like…the yellow-eyed demon, wrong?"

"Can't say for sure, but I don't know any other supernatural creature that's out to get the both of you and smart enough to do it by cuttin' you off from anyone that'd come to your rescue. Just get outta there, boy. Keep Sam with you at all times. Head my way; I'll give your dad a head's up and we'll start thinkin' up a plan of attack when you boys are safe."

Dean swallowed hard, staring across the quiet back yard. The wind picked up, making the big oak tree by the side of the house creak and sway, long limbs casting twilight shadows across the porch. A thought occurred to him suddenly, and despite a certain heaviness in his stomach, he asked, "What about Missouri?"

Stephen was quiet for a moment, long enough for Dean to hear a loud electronic ticking noise over the line. Finally he spoke. "Your dad told me to tell you not to worry about her. It's the both of you that the demon's after. With you gone, she should be perfectly safe behind her wards." There was another pause. "Is…is she there right now?"

The hesitation made Dean's breath catch in his chest. "She's with Sam."

"Okay." Stephen took a long dragging breath. "You need to pack up the car. Don't…don't tell Sam yet. The visions he gets…the demon might be able to see into his thoughts or somethin'. When you're ready, you just grab him and go, y'hear me?"

"Yes sir." The answer was instantaneous.

"Good. I'll give you three hours. If you can't reach me on your cell, stop off somewhere with WiFi – somewhere safe, mind – and when I know you're out and okay, I'll pass on a message to your dad. You head for my place, remember. Your dad'll turn around and meet us there. If you don't contact me, we'll assume you've run into some trouble."

Dean nodded to himself, whispering an "okay" to Stephen's tired voice.

"Remember, now, get the hell out as fast as you can. I'll be waitin' on that call." Stephen sucked in a loud breath. "The both of you be safe, okay?"

"Yeah. See you soon." Hopefully, Dean added silently as he ended the call. He took a shaky breath, his hand against the painted wooden railing running around the porch. Missouri used it to help her climb the steep stairs leading down to the back yard – Dean had seen her grunting as she carried baskets of cooking apples and cut flowers into the kitchen. Around the edge of the porch were brightly painted terracotta pots holding pansies and green bushy herbs. It was a picturesque back yard, Missouri's pride and joy, and the effort she put in keeping everything was obvious.

"Is…is she there right now?" The hesitation in Stephen's voice, the forced easiness of his question. Dean swallowed hard.

Getting the hell out of Kansas. That he could do, and gladly. Turning his back on the garden, he took a step towards the kitchen.

"Dean?" Missouri's voice startled him, her body breaking free of the shadows in the kitchen, a faceless shape. She stopped at the threshold, and Dean could just make out the jade beads of her necklace, looped twice around her neck. "Who was that on the phone?"

He swallowed hard, his heart beating so hard he thought it might break his ribs. Opening his mouth, he paused, staring hard at the shape of the small woman in front of him.

Missouri stepped onto the porch. "Is everything okay?"

"Christo." It sounded more like a hiss, the high whistle of air escaping through a pinhole in a punctured tire, than a word.

But there was no mistaking the flinch.

And Dean almost wanted to laugh when Missouri's eyes met his, a jaundiced yellow cataract covering the pupil and shining in the dim light. She let out a long sigh, shaking her head slowly, like he'd let her down in some way.

There was a flash as the silver bangles around her wrist caught the light of the waning moon, and Dean didn't even stand a chance of dodging the hand that hit him in the side of the neck, the unnatural force behind the blow knocking him backwards. His head collided with the painted porch railing, sending stars dancing across his vision.

"I'm sorry, Dean." It almost sounded as if she meant it, but before Dean had a chance to respond, a tiny feminine foot wearing a navy slipper collided with his temple and everything faded away.

Sam awoke with a groan. It felt like someone had taken a hacksaw to the top of his skull. Apparently psychic mind-blocking took a huge amount of energy; he didn't even remember falling asleep. But the effort had paid off; the barrier was easier to hold now, like his mind was adjusting, stretching to incorporate a strange new thing. He'd been visualizing a solid object, a brick wall in his mind, but the angles were all wrong, sharp edges and rough surfaces that grated painfully. It felt better, more right, to picture a kind of amorphous bubble, a thick fluid ectoplasm that he could mould to fit around his secrets.

Sam glanced up at the window. Someone had pulled the curtains, but a blade of artificial light from the streetlights outside slipped through the crack where they met in the centre. He must have slept through dinner. The thought made his stomach rumble. It bothered him that no one had come to wake him, that Dean hadn't brought something up for him.

He sat up. Whoever had closed the curtains had also moved all his books; they were stacked neatly in the corner.

A creak by the door made his head turn.

Missouri stood silently in the doorway, her face grave. Her hands were knotted at her waist, and as Sam watched she twisted her fingers together nervously.

"What? What's wrong?" He asked, his jaw tightening.

She bit her lower lip, something that Sam had never seen her do before. It made her look strangely young and girlish. "Honey, there's…there's something you need to know."

"What is it?"

Her eyes darted to the window and then back to his face. "It's…it's Dean. He's gone."

It felt like all the blood in his body had frozen at her words. Something in his mind screamed, no, that's not right, no, and forcing a light tone, Sam asked. "Where's he gone?"

"He left. He packed up his things and left." Missouri looked down at her feet. "I'm…not sure, I wasn't paying close attention to his mind, but he was so angry about your father. I-I found this downstairs." She held out a hand, and Sam saw she was holding his cell phone.

As if he was dreaming, Sam reached out and took it, pressing buttons until a list of received calls came up. There was one call – number unknown.

"No." He shook his head. "No, Dean didn't…he wouldn't…" He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain rolling through his mind like thunder. Pushing past Missouri, he stopped in the open doorway to Dean's room.

Everything was gone. The bags, the explosion of clothes, the weapons Dean had laid out across the floor for cleaning, nothing was where it had been only a few hours ago. The bed was neatly made, and a light breeze blew through an open window, making the fine net curtain flutter silently, like moths' wings.

"Sam, honey-" He felt Missouri come up behind him, her hand brushing his shoulder. He shrugged her off roughly before it could connect, spinning on his heel and running back into his own room.

With one violent wrench, he pulled the curtains back, twisting his head to see.

Everything in Sam went deadly still.

The stretch of curb outside Missouri's house was empty. The Impala was gone. Dean really didn't live here anymore.

"Sam, sweetie, I'm so sorry." Missouri's voice was quiet, reverent like she was speaking in a church. She stood in the doorway, preventing him from leaving the room, running away. He turned to look at her, seeing the compassion in her expression.

His heart stuttered, an uncontrollable shiver running up his spine like cold fingers. Like a snap, his mind went blank.

"It's going to be okay, Sam. I promise, it's going to be okay." She whispered, taking small steps toward him. He let her touch him, stroke his arm and pull him into a warm hug. "I'll take care of you, you'll see. It'll be okay."

Sam's head started to ache.