Samhain – Upper-level demon. Has command over ghosts and the dead. Weakness against masks, limited vision?
By the time Seth comes complaining about John's lack of help the next day, John has Sammy's nightmares narrowed down to the work of a Mare or a witch, maybe one who has a familiar or some other pet on a leash. He's already dug a round dreamcatcher out of Bobby's attic and dusted it off, hanging it on a nail above Sam's bed in the room he's sharing with Dean.
He had moved on to the demon books Seth handed over, but he hasn't gotten very far at all. He does know by now that Imps are seriously low on the demon totem pole, below even crossroad demons. But none of the names sound right, or like the right description behind them. Samhain is strongest on Halloween, and while Mary was killed shortly after that, it doesn't really fit the demon's strengths of calling up dead spirits.
Seth is back to glaring at him, and to keep the peace, John returns to the basement and starts nailing slabs of sheetrock to the frame of the room so that it actually starts looking like a room. Bobby's study phone rings, and Seth is the one who answers it, which John gives him. Seth and Bobby seem to get along well. Makes sense, given both of them have an unusual love of books and dust. Seth walks back into the unfinished room and picks up a hammer.
"Case?" John asks shortly. He wants Bobby back so that he can ask if the man knows of any witches in the area — or out of the area — who could have the range to send nightmares to an eleven-year-old boy.
"No, it was just Bobby." Seth shrugs and goes to the opposite end of the sheetrock John's working on. "He's having some trouble tracking down Elkins in Colorado. The guy disappeared a few years ago and hasn't come up for air since, not even in the hunting realm."
John grimaces but keeps working. They need that gun, though.
"He says he doesn't want anyone coming out to help him." Seth drives a long nail through the sheetrock with a little too much force.
John tilts his head and looks at Seth from the corner of his eye.
"Anyone, or just you?"
Seth turns his head just enough to narrow his eyes at John like he's cursing John out in his head. John smothers his grin at that stupid face, but one side of his mouth escapes his control, so he knows he's smirking. John doesn't really care, though. Seth got smacked down by Bobby, and that's kind of funny.
"We need paint," Seth says suddenly.
He drops his hammer before John can say that they're not quite ready for the finishing touches on the room, but John allows the man his retreat out of the house to the garage. It gives him free reign to grin some more. Suddenly, something crashes from upstairs in the house. John just grits his teeth and hopes his boys haven't broken anything that Bobby is going to need replaced.
"Dad!" Dean screams from above him.
John's blood goes cold at hearing Dean sound so panicked and desperate. That crash wasn't just an accident. His boys are hurt. And Dean can still yell, so that means Sammy's hurt.
John drops his hammer and bolts out the open doorway of the room. He uses the railing of the stairway to pull himself up faster, hand over hand propelling himself to the first floor. Hooking a hand in the doorjamb, John swings himself into the hallway and runs into the living room.
Dean's on his knees, leaning close over Sammy, who's on his back in the middle of the floor. Sammy's eyes are only half-open, but they look unfocused. He has a gash in his forehead, almost at his hairline. His nose is streaming blood. It drips down past his mouth onto Bobby's carpet.
"Dad!"
John jolts forward and collapses to his knees on Sammy's other side.
"What happened?" he snaps. He starts pushing back Sam's hair so he can see the wound on his forehead better.
"I don't know." Dean clutches at Sam's hand and arm. Sammy's skin looks pale next to Dean's. "His eyes just rolled back, and he fell." Dean takes a shaky breath. "Dad, he started shaking."
John can't feel his lungs. That sounds like a seizure. John knows exactly what to do to stop a witch or to kill a Mare, but medical problems—? God, seizures mean brain problems. Sammy loves books. He actually likes school. Sammy can't have brain problems.
John cradles Sammy's head in his hands, tries to get Sam to look forward, look at him.
"Sammy?" he calls. "Sammy, look at me."
Sammy doesn't look at him.
John moves his hands down to Sammy's shoulders and grips them tightly. He needs Sam to wake up, break out of this half-dead stare with blank eyes. Dean breaks away to the couch, but John barely notices as he rises up on his knees and puts his face so close to his son's that he can actually feel Sammy breathing. It's not as comforting as it should be.
"Sammy."
Suddenly, Sammy gasps, sucking in a rasping breath and arching his neck so far that his head rolls back on the floor. John tries to support his head without actually holding him down, just in case a seizure is actually a viable option here.
"No!"
Sammy's voice is harsh and wet with the blood around his top lip. His eyes fly open, but they're still unfocused as Sammy stares at the ceiling, past John.
"No, no." Sammy shakes his head from side to side, wide-eyed and desperate.
"Sammy." John brings his other hand up to hold Sam's head still, worried about the blood and the wounds he already has. "Sammy, you're okay. You hear me."
He forces his voice to come out strong, no question in it. If he changes it into a question, Sammy might not believe he is actually alright.
"She's burning," Sammy whispers, his eyes still on the ceiling.
John's heart kicks hard against his chest, like it's just exploded inside him. He can feel heat crawling up his arms like small tongues of fire.
"Sammy!" Dean cries from the couch, suddenly holding a flattened pillow from Seth's bedding.
Dean falls next to Sammy like he's sliding into home. He slips the pillow underneath Sammy's head so quickly that John doesn't even realize that his hands have been knocked out of the way until he looks down at his own fists, resting on top his jeans.
"Dean, there's a lady on the ceiling," Sammy says in a small, scared voice.
"No, there's not." Dean tilts his head sideways and leans back slightly so that he's not blocking Sammy's view straight up. "See?"
John doesn't look up. He is not going to play into whatever dream Sam has had by looking up to check what Bobby's ceiling looks like. Sammy's forehead wrinkles, which sends blood flowing over the top of his eyebrow towards the corner of his eye.
"There was a lady on the ceiling," Sammy says. Dean catches the trickle of blood with his thumb before it reaches Sammy's eye. "She was burning."
"What?" Dean suddenly freezes.
The hairs on the back of John's neck stand up so quickly that it feels like he's in a house with a ghost for a moment. The flash of a room on fire from the ceiling to the floor passes through John's mind, and he forces it down into his stomach, turning the fire to anger.
"What did she look like?" he says.
Sammy blinks very slowly. His head turns on the pillow to look at John. His eyes are clearer now, but they're slow to open again once he closes them.
"I …"
"Sam." John leans forward. "What did she look like?"
Sam has to know this, and he has to tell John. John needs to know this. His hand is tight around Sammy's arm, and when did that happen?
"She …" Sammy breathes in a shaky breath. "She had blonde hair. She was bleeding."
John suddenly jerks back. His hands are cold.
"Dad," Sammy whines, his head almost flat against the pillow.
John can't move.
"Hey, you're okay." Dean gently lays a hand on Sam's face and turns it back towards him. "It was just a dream."
"But I wasn't even sleeping." Sammy's voice rises, like his lungs are getting smaller.
Dean's hand travels down Sammy's cheek to grab onto his shoulder and hang on fiercely as Dean looks up and pins John with a desperate gaze.
"Dad?"
John's hands are cold. If he touches anything, it's going to freeze. His skin feels too tight on his body, and his muscles refuse to move.
"My head hurts." Sam closes his eyes again and lets his head sink back down on the pillow.
"Dean?"
John's body jerks as his head snaps around to look over his shoulder. He's completely forgotten about Seth, but there he stands in the middle of the front door, a paint can in one hand.
Dean immediately slips his arms underneath Sammy's shoulders and knees. John cups the back of Sam's head with one hand as Dean lifts his brother in his arms and gets jerkily to his feet.
"Bring him over here," Seth says, completely without purpose as Dean is already carrying Sammy towards the couch.
Sammy just lays passively in his brother's arms, and John wants to shake the boy awake. But then he's still bleeding, too.
"Here ya go, Sammy."
Dean lays Sammy gently on the couch with his head cradled on the pillows. Then he spins around and snatches the blanket out of Seth's hands. Seth doesn't even glance at Dean as the teenager tucks Sam in.
"I'm not tired," Sammy says with his eyes closed.
"Sure you're not." Dean fiddles with the blanket around Sammy's chin and ruffles the kid's hair gently. "You want some water?"
"Yeah?" Sammy cracks one eye open to look at Dean, although he doesn't really sound awake.
Dean nods anyway and steps into the kitchen for a glass, Seth quick on his heels before turning into the bathroom in the hall. John walks up to the couch and kneels down so that he's eye level with Sammy.
"Sammy," he calls, "what did the woman on the ceiling look like?"
Sam turns his head away from John to the back of the couch.
"I dunno."
"What was she wearing?" John leans closer, but he doesn't pull Sammy's head back to look at him. Not yet.
"I dunno," Sammy says again. "Like a white dress."
Dean comes back with a tall glass of water along with two little pills. Seth must know where Bobby keeps his pain pills
"Hey, Sam." Dean stands close to the couch and leans down, almost edging John out of the way. "You feel good enough to wipe your face?"
Dean sets the water and pills on the floor by the couch and reaches out with a wet cloth draped over his wrist. Instead of answering, Sammy reaches out and grabs the washcloth, swiping it under his nose with one hand. Dean lays one hand over Sammy's and helps him dab away the blood.
John just stands back. There's nothing left for him to do, and what little he already knows is enough to make him sick. He turns away from the couch and sees Seth standing in the middle of the living room, staring up at Bobby's ceiling. Despite himself, John's eyes flick upwards as his heart pounds against his eardrums.
There's nothing there.
o0O0o
"How's Sam?" Seth leans on Bobby's dining table with his elbows hanging off the edges.
"Sleeping. Still." John scrubs his palms over his face hard. "He hasn't woken up since Dean put him to bed."
The sleeping actually worries John since sleep is when the nightmares come. And the nosebleeds, apparently. John glances at the couch just beyond Seth's shoulder and sees the fresh stain of blood drops. He braces his hands against the counter.
"This isn't medical," he says.
Seeing that Seth knows little about Sammy's episodes so far, the man could actually think this was normal for Sam.
"I can fix this." John nods to himself.
Seth just stares at him.
"You can fix this?"
His face is dull and slack, but something about Seth's eyes challenges John. His forehead prickles as he straightens, defensive.
"It's either a hag or a Mare," John says, glaring at Seth. "I just have to find it and kill it."
Seth slumps back in his chair.
"That easy?" he says blandly. "Find the bad thing. Kill it."
"Yes." John frowns at Seth.
"No matter what."
"Yes." What else is he supposed to do?
Seth heaves a great sigh, like the whole house doesn't have enough oxygen to express his frustration with John.
"It's not that simple," he says.
John wants to throw his hands in the air and say To hell with this. Wanting to save a man who has the misfortune to be possessed by an imp is one thing—
"You want to let a hag live?" John demands.
"It's not a hag." Seth's breath is quiet and tired. He drops his eyes down to the table, opening the leather journal in front of him.
"A Mare?" John leans over the table and hopes Seth has found another one of his encyclopedia entries from his ink and leather journal.
Seth slides the journal towards himself, which only makes John lean further forward. The table starts digging into his thighs.
"It's not a Mare," Seth says shortly.
The page Seth is on doesn't even look like one of his encyclopedic entries. There's a sideways drawing of a couple skinny triangles on top of each other with a line through them, but John can't read Seth's handwriting upside down very well. He just knows this has nothing to do with Mares or hags.
"Do you have anything in there about nightmares?" John lays his hands flat on the table and gets in Seth's face.
"No."
"Then stick to your expertise." John shoves back from the table and sends the table legs skidding on the cheap linoleum.
Seth has to slap his palms on the table to keep it from shaking, and he glares at John. John just turns to grab another mug of coffee. They didn't get much work done after sending Sammy to bed — between John trying to research the hell out of Sammy's condition, and Seth running between the basement where he worked on the panic room by himself and upstairs where he checked periodically on Sam and Dean. It already feels like it's been a long day.
"At least wait until we have the Colt," Seth says.
When John turns around, Seth hasn't moved his hands, as if he's holding the table still in an earthquake.
"Then you can go out and hunt whatever you want." Seth drops his eyes back down to his journal, like he just wanted to make sure John was paying attention. "Just make sure what you're hunting is worth it."
John really doesn't have time for cryptic warnings. Even less when he has no idea what Seth is warning him about.
"The Colt is for the Demon." That's the whole point of the panic room and Bobby taking off to get the damn gun.
"It's a gun that can kill anything." Seth lifts his eyes without moving his head, which produces a look that John is coming to recognize as Seth's bitch face. "Just. Save it."
John ignores Seth's urgent tone and starts on his coffee. Why is Seth so sure that this isn't a hag or a Mare? He hunts demons, not—
John's blood turns suddenly cold in his veins.
"Can a demon cause nightmares?"
"I'd say they're enough to give anyone nightmares." There's something both dark and tense in Seth's voice that sets the hairs on John's neck on end.
"Seth, answer me!" John spins around to face Seth. "Can a demon plant nightmares in someone's head?"
Seth rests his elbows on the table, framing his journal, and lets his head sag into his hands.
"I don't know."
He's lying.
"How?"
"I don't know!" Seth straightens and bolts out of his chair.
John grits his teeth and tosses his coffee down the sink. His stomach is already eating itself. Seth paces the kitchen once, more indecisive than agitated.
"Look." Seth points one finger at John. "Even if … you're right—" As if that wasn't an obvious tell— "We can't do anything without the Colt."
"Who says we can't?" It's not that different from what John's done in the past: Find the sucker the demon's possessing, trap it if necessary, and send the bastard back to hell.
Seth's eyes narrow.
"Do you really want to go up against a nightmare-causing demon without a weapon? Without a plan?"
"I have a plan," John says.
"Yeah, find the bad thing, kill it." Seth slices a hand through the air like he's holding his crazy scythe.
"Sammy is having nightmares so bad he's bleeding," John hisses.
"That's not his fault!" Seth gets in close like he wants to be shouting, but he never raises his voice.
And when did John say any of this is Sammy's fault?
Seth draws back abruptly and pushes a hand through his long hair.
"Listen, we can't do anything like this," he says, calmer now. "Let's finish the panic room and see where Bobby's at."
John isn't going to get any help from Seth on this. At the same time, he knows that Seth knows something he's not sharing. Time to switch strategies.
"Fine," he says grudgingly. "Let's get to work."
Seth pumps his head once, like that settles things, and scoops his journal off the table. John shifts like he's going to the counter, but he keeps an eye on where Seth stashes the journal, under a pile of Bobby's texts he's keeping beside the couch.