Summary: 14 years ago, Dean and Dad travel back to Kansas to try to get some help for Sam from an old friend. In the present, Sam gets messages from the past that break the boogeyman case wide open. And this time, the message aren't just from his evolving psychic dreams...
Lots of Kansas in this one, friends.
Author's note: School. Amirite? Sorry for the lateness. Trying to use Thanksgiving break to bring you these next couple of chapters which set up the climax. All important stuff. Thank you to everyone who has been following. As a tribute to your dedication, I provided a recap.
Thanks to everyone who has reviewed or faved this. I appreciate it! And thanks also to Agelade for keeping me caught up in this fandom so I have the drive to finish it. And I WILL finish it.
-Caladrius
The following is provided for those who want a recap but who aren't likely to go back and re-read to get it. Chapter 13 follows directly after the recap.
You're welcome.
The road so far (cue "Carry On, My Wayward Son")
When Sam was 9 and Dean was 14, they encountered the boogeyman in Osseo, Wisconsin. Specifically, Sam encountered the boogeyman as a thing with shiny hematite eyes in his closet that he hoped was his imagination, but didn't believe was his imagination. Staying up all night in vigilance for several days in a row led to unavoidable sleep deprivation.
Sam also met a nice, sick little girl named Amber-a 3rd grader, who made an impression on him. She happened to have the same birthday as Sam, and she gave him her hair tie - a little black and red thing in the shape of a ladybug. In a moment of empathy, Sam promised he'd call her on their birthday.
Worrying about what his brother would think of his fears, and concerned about it all, Sam tried to keep it to himself. Dean, whose entire job was Sam (even if he was going through puberty and having girl issues of his own) became wise to the fact that something was wrong and attempted various strategies to discover the root of the issue.
Brother angst ensued.
The boogeyman made its creepy presence in several understated appearances, not least of which was a nightmare in which Sam sees a Yellow-eyed demon...
Sam takes a chance, tells Dean about his fears, who promptly goes into Big Brother mode.
Nothing in the closet.
But when Dad returned to find them in the middle of the closet investigation, shit got real.
John Winchester put a gun into Sam's hand and told him he had to face the boogeyman. Sam, who didn't want this hunter's life and had never killed anything is unable to get up the nerve to do it...until Dad hits Dean.
But Dean won't let Sam take the burden on himself and is concerned that when the moment counted, Sam's sleep deprivation would cause a misstep and he'd lose his brother forever. He insists on taking Sam's place, and the boogeyman never shows up.
Or did it?
In the morning, Sam's 10th birthday, he received a heartfelt hand-carved gift from Dean less than five minutes before finding out from their father that the nice, lonely little girl who shared their birthday is gone. An apparent victim of the boogeyman.
Disappeared without a trace.
In shock and horror, Sam tried to escape in the only way he could, and that was when he stopped speaking-catatonia.
Dean, overcome with guilt himself, was still saddled with the task of Sam's care, but it became tinged with fear and horror: Sam talked in his sleep. Sam screamed for Dean in his sleep, and at least once before, Dean saw Sam's eyes become silvery and shiny...
Flash forward
Almost fourteen years later, a couple weeks after he reunites with Dean after their father's disappearance, Sam's interest in the unsolved boogeyman case is piqued when he can't find any notes in John's journal about the boogeyman or that case.
Feeling strongly that this case was left open because of his failure to take decisive action when he was 9, Sam begins an investigation to try to end it once and for all. Dean, helpless to stop his younger brother's apparent self-destructive line of inquiry, finds himself caught between the ever-present worry that Sam will disappear as he did fourteen years ago, or worse. Sam's insistence becomes impossible to surmount after the death of John Winchester when Sam learns the terrible truth of his father's last words to Dean:
That if Dean can't save Sam, he will have to kill him.
To make matters more emotionally complicated, Sam begins having mysterious "green-smelling" dreams in which their father appears to be trying to tell him something about a silver box.
Sure that solving this case will somehow fix his destiny, Sam's determination to find out more about the boogeyman and the fate of the little girl he befriended for a couple of days when he was nine leads the brothers to Greensburg, PA. There they find out from Amber's mother that the little girl was, in fact, psychic.
It's not a reassuring coincidence considering Sam's current state of evolving psychic dreams and, like Amber's mother, he has also been having dreams of the missing little girl.
The plot continues to thicken when Sam and Dean ambush a demon sent by Yellow Eyes who reveals that the boogeyman has an interest in psychic children, in particular, and that Sam is risking himself even further by delving into the old case.
None of this sits well with Sam or Dean, and Sam, at least, deals with it by drinking heavily.
When Dean discovers that the "dreams" Sam is having about Amber are actually ghostly visitations, he attempts to put the final kibosh on Sam's investigation. Sam tries to reason with Dean, and when that doesn't work, he just flat out refuses to give up. After hours of fighting, Dean leaves.
When he returns, he finds Sam gone and panics. Even though his brother had simply been out getting ice, the fear has been frankly sewn that Sam will not give up and that, if pushed too far, might take off on his own, leaving himself exposed to Yellow Eyes and demons and boogeymen alike.
Dean reconciles with Sam, but only because he worries that Sam will actually leave if pushed too far.
The next day, Sam reveals what he learned in his investigation: The boogeyman appears in Osseo every seven years. In each incident, a child with a psychic profile disappeared sharing the birthday of May 2. Further investigation led Sam to believe that the boogeyman might somehow be using the ghosts of children to lure potential victims into near-death experiences, triggering a psychic shift, if there were no victims matching its requirements.
Dean points out that Sam's upcoming 24th birthday is a scheduled "feeding" day...
Now...
Chapter 13: "Out on the Tiles"
1993
Sam - 10
Dean - 14
"We're going to Missouri."
"What's in Missouri?" Dean asked, standing Sam up, brushing the hair out of his face with his fingers while Sam stared at nothing. John zipped a bag shut and Dean felt another wave of nausea come over him. He'd thrown up this morning after John had finally gotten in, and he was pretty sure it wasn't because of the Taco Bell he ate the night before.
A catatonic brother screaming his name, that helpless feeling of being able to do nothing. It could make a guy sick.
He had done it as quietly as possible, flushed it, cleaned up before Dad could become wise to it. Gotta keep up the iron front.
"Not the state, son."
What? Oh.
Oh. Missouri Mosely. Yeah, Dean vaguely remembered her. She had become one of Dad's friends somewhere around the time that Mom...died, but Dean didn't recall much of her since.
"Can she help us? With Sam?"
"She's psychic. The real deal. She might." John looked up and Dean schooled his face.
"Son, I don't want you to get your hopes up."
"No, sir."
Once upon a time, Dad had been sure Sam would just wake up on his own. Now his version of being "realistic" had taken a completely different turn.
Dean wanted to puke again.
"Get your brother. We're going back."
"Back, sir?"
"Back to Kansas."
April 11, 2007
Sam - 23
Dean - 28
Dean sipped his beer and turned the channel. It felt weird being stationary. He and Sam had been busy, been traveling, and a few days and nights had gone by without personal ghosts coming from closets. If felt good to be hunting, regular hunts-no demons, and Sam had been researching likely candidates for boogeyman brunch on their off time, which, honestly, was not overflowing.
Yesterday they finished wrapping up a complicated case of ghost-impersonates-angel to motivate ordinary citizens to murder: A prostitute stabbed a guy who had a body buried in his basement, another killed a man with questionable e-mails and plans to meet a 13-year-old girl, and the last guy, the one Sam was convinced he had to stop, was exceedingly impolite to the ladies. And yeah, Sam's "angel-guided" tipoff caused Dean to follow the rat bastard and his date to an abandoned alley where bad bad things might have gone down. And, yeah, in trying to get away a freak accident caused a metal pole to rocket off of a truck and spear the guy through the chest like some kind of heavenly retribution for his sin, but that didn't mean there was a God out there.
And then the angel turned out to be a young murdered priest who thought he was "answering the prayers" of the shepherd of the flock he had left behind. Last Rites was enough to convince the ghost to move on, and it should have been considered a happy ending by their standards, but Dean was pretty sure it had taken a toll on his brother.
Come on, Sam. It's not like things haven't been failing us constantly for years...
Sam had been so sure it was an angel the entire time, and there was no big payoff for a belief he had been quietly fostering for almost his whole life. Still, at least Sam admitted he hadn't been objective for that case. Now if only Dean could find the proper means to dissuade him from the other one.
And speaking of Sam, was he talking in his sleep or-
Dean glanced over at the other full size bed. Sam was on it, and a half an hour ago he had been tapping away silently, stretched out, but now his head was on the headboard and his eyes were closed.
Dean's eyes narrowed.
When Sam talked in his sleep, Dean got afraid.
"Sam?"
There was no response, but a hand twitched on the covers. Dean waited, and when nothing else was forthcoming, he turned his head back to the tube.
"Dad..."
Okay, now, that was pretty clear.
"Sammy?"
Sam woke up with a start. He blinked.
"Hey...hey." Dean put his beer on the bedside stand. "You okay?"
"Dean. Bobby's calling." It was a strange tone of voice. A statement.
His brother looked at him as if he had just grown an arm out of his forehead.
"Dude, if you're dreaming about Bobby..."
And then his phone on the covers next to him began to emit a familiar electric guitar riff. Dean grabbed it and checked the caller ID...
...and then he stared at Sam who looked sorry. Sorry.
Dean dropped his coat onto a chair in Bobby's dining room.
"Thanks for coming, boys." Bobby's face was sober, and that was saying something.
"Bobby, what is it? All you told us on the phone was that we had to get here by today no matter the case." Sam glanced at Dean and back to their mentor. "Are you okay? Something happen?"
Good old Sammy-still always worried about everyone else but himself.
"No, son, I'm fine. But...maybe you boys should sit down. This is gonna sound weird, even for us."
It was Dean's turn to look at Sam.
"Why all the buildup, Bobby? Why don't you just..."
"Why don't you just sit down, Dean."
Dean was surprised. "Or...I could do that."
Sam looked uncomfortable in the chair that was made for human-sized people, and Dean couldn't blame him. The trip and anticipation back to South Dakota had been maddening for them both.
Bobby took his time explaining as he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and three glasses even though it was 10am and the two Winchester brothers had been driving for six hours through the night.
Bobby opened the bottle and poured a shot for Dean. "I keep track of a lot of things for a lot of people, not just for your Dad, but he did have a way of keeping our business always in the front of the ledger, if ya know what I mean. Didn't talk for a number of years, but didn't keep grudges like girls."
Sam and Dean sat up simultaneously.
Dad.
The older man walked over to Sam and poured him a drink too. "Hell, you boys already knew the obvious parts of his personality-larger than life, intense, 'speak softly and carry a bazooka'..."
Finally, Bobby filled his own glass nearly to the top. "So, I want you to remember all of that when I lay this one on you." He downed the drink in one gulp and poured another. "And I don't want any lip, sass, or questions about any of it because everything I know, I'm gonna say straight out. What you do after that is up to you."
"Bobby, what the hell, man, Sam's gonna wet himself if you don't just spill it already," but Dean knew his voice was nervous through the laugh that followed. Still, Sam didn't counter his assertion, and his little brother's brow was practically scaling his forehead.
"I'm about to. It's for Sam, anyway."
Sam started.
Bobby picked up a tiny manila envelope that Dean had noticed when they first walked in. "Over a decade ago, John gave me this. He told me never to open it, never to say anything about it, and to give it to you, Sam, three weeks before your 24th birthday. Made me promise on graves. Made me swear on my soul. Dramatic for him. Not something you forget."
Dean's eyes were wide. Falling out of his head. His heart picked up the tempo.
"Dad did?" Sam whispered.
"Showed up one night, handed it to me, spoke about 20 whole words about it, got his assurances and left. He checked on it once last year, called to make sure I still had it, that I hadn't forgotten it. And today is the day, so, Sam. Here it is." Bobby held the envelope out to Dean's poor stunned brother. There was already a glimmer in Sam's eyes, and terror.
Real terror.
But when he reached for it, his hand was steady.
"Holy shit," Dean breathed. He grabbed the glass of whiskey and slammed it back. Bobby wordlessly refilled it, distracted, as they both watched Sam's fingers examine the envelope where one word was scrawled with a heavy hand:
"Sammy."
Dean felt as if their father was in the room, like he was standing behind him, raising the hackles along his neck.
Sam swallowed. He gathered his nerves-Dean could actually see him do it-and ripped the top off. He blew into it and tilted it out into his palm. A silver key with a green tag and an index card slid into his hand.
Dean took his second shot and grabbed the bottle. His eyes met Sam's.
"What is it, Sam?"
Sam shook his head. He examined the key and then looked at the index card.
"This is Dad's handwriting. It's...it's my full name, date of birth, the letters LB...initials maybe? And my actual Social Security number."
Dean blinked. What the holy hell? Sam stared back at him blankly. "Well? What else?"
Sam went back to examining the card. "It has two other sets of numbers here. An 8 digit one and..." he tilted the card, 'C125.'" He looked at the tag of the key, "C125 on the key too."
There was a pregnant pause as Sam turned his soulful eyes on Bobby and then Dean by turns. "Dean, what is this?"
Dean shook his head, "Don't look at me, man."
"What?" Bobby asked, incredulous, "Even I know what that is."
"Bobby, Dad said not to look at it," Dean was indignant for Sam's sake.
"I didn't, ya idjit, but it doesn't take a worldly genius to figure it out." He rolled his eyes, "Guess there was a reason your daddy made me promise to personally put it into your hands. Come on, boys, let's go take a three-hour tour of how civilized folks in this country go about things. Dean, for God's sake, put the bottle down or you'll drown yourself. Sam, you're driving."
1993
Sam - 10
Dean - 14
Missouri was and soft and round and warm. Not like girls Dean's age. Not like models draped over muscle cars and motorcycles in magazines, but like comfort and security and gentle understanding.
Like mom.
Her hug was unavoidable and completely unexpected and genuine. Dean's stomach unknotted and it was like she had absorbed the tension right into her body when she stepped away, leaving him almost a little stunned with relief.
Missouri pulled him back, looked him in the eyes. Her round, dark face was twenty kinds of welcoming.
"You've been toughing it out like a champ, Dean Winchester. You come right on in and let me take a little of that load off, all right?"
Dumbly he nodded as she patted his cheek and made way for him to go into her home.
Lawrence, Kansas.
Once, this town was home, but the memories were fleeting-they were more feelings now than anything else, and smells. It was nostalgic and bittersweet and like something out of dream.
Dad had Sam in his arms and was holding him like a little kid. Missouri made some you-been-gone-too-long greetings to John and then she murmured to Sam who, of course, said nothing back.
Fifteen minutes later, Dean was sitting on a chair in Missouri's kitchen staring at a plate containing turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy. So much gravy. Homemade gravy that he had just ladled on like there was a faucet in the house that ran with it. Dad said something about it, but Missouri cut him off and encouraged Dean to "help himself," which he did.
Home-cooked food. And it was hot, just came from her oven, and Dean realized that this was one of those smells that he remembered from home: warm food made with caring hands.
Dad said, "Missouri. Really. This is unnecessary."
"Hush your mouth, John Winchester, and eat your beans. Just happens I had a turkey in my freezer and it was doing nothing good. When was the last time you sat at a table and ate a meal with these boys?"
Dean's eyebrow twitched. That someone could talk to his father like that.
John made a noise, but he picked up his fork and it was kind of amazing the things Missouri could do. Dean hadn't said a word since they arrived, and it wasn't like him, but this was all...
"You just gonna stare at it?"
Dean looked up at her and blinked.
Missouri made a face and turned on his father.
"This boy hasn't seen a turkey in 10 years?"
"Been kinda busy, Missouri," John growled, but it was around a nicely browned piece of meat, and Dean wasn't sure he was as pissed as he sounded.
"Yeah, I know. And we'll get to the business at hand, but it can wait long enough for you to eat something real for a change."
Dean picked up his knife and fork and turned to Sam's plate. Sam sat, his eyes fixed on some point across the room, and he didn't stir.
"Ah ah!"
Dean froze as Missouri dove in.
"I got this, young man. Sam's gonna eat too. You just worry about your half of the turkey, okay? And then afterwards you're gonna say 'hey there, Missouri. Long time no see! Thanks for dinner,' and feel a whole lot better about things." Her expression brooked no argument.
Missouri put the fork in Sam's hand and guided it to his mouth. He chewed it slowly. Really slowly. And then he swallowed.
Dean looked at Missouri, wondering if this was okay, making this lady feed his kid brother, but she pointed at Dean's plate with an expression that said, "I've got this end."
It was the first time Dean smiled in a week.
"Hey there, Missouri. Long time no see. Thanks for dinner. Seriously."
Missouri smiled as she took Dean's plate away.
"Now, that's what I'm talking about. How you feelin'?"
"Like I'm gonna explode. It actually hurts." Dean took a breath and rubbed his stomach.
Missouri laughed. "Boys your age are supposed to eat like that. Don't you worry about it."
"But don't get used to it, either," John interjected quietly.
Dean glance from him to their benefactor, deflated. "No, sir."
Missouri made a face at his father, but John didn't see it. He was hunched down next to Sam's chair, still, his gaze on his son, and his face was that kind of unreadable quality that Dean knew meant he was keeping something down pretty tight.
Dean flinched a little as Missouri's hand squeezed his shoulder.
"Let's go stretch out and get comfortable, Dean."
He tore himself from the image in front of him to look into Missouri's dark eyes. She could read every worry there, he knew it.
"I'm gonna help you boys if I can, okay?"
Dean swallowed. Nodded.
"Good. Now let's see if we can get that little brother to unlock and give us some answers."
April 12, 2007
Sam - 23
Dean - 28
Dad's mystery package prompted Bobby to suggest a "three-hour tour," and Dean's half-drunken grumbling about how well that had turned out for the S. S. Minnow garnered nothing more than a sour look from their mentor.
Bobby's idea of a "tour" was a five hour drive from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to the Winchester's hometown of Lawrence, Kansas. Dean was a little concerned that Sam's sober state of mind at the moment behind the wheel probably equaled Dean's with four shots of whiskey in his system, but there was no way to delay the trip, and drinking and driving was a serious no-no (according to Sam). This did not mean that Dean couldn't sulk for the first two hours. And contrary to his previous rule that the driver got to choose the music, Dean kept jamming cassette after cassette of 70's rock into the stereo since Bobby refused to say anything more about the mystery beyond their destination. Sam didn't complain. Sam said nothing, and that was worse than Sam complaining.
"Relaxing" was not how Dean would ever describe that trip. Sam was pointedly not talking about anything, it was clear he was thinking about it. His eyes searched the flat horizon for answers for the duration of trip, and because he wasn't driving, Dean had nothing to do but watch Sam watch the road while they both suffered the anticipation. It frankly sucked.
The sun was fully up in a bright blue day when Bobby directed them into the parking lot of a friendly green building.
"Lawrence Bank?" Dean smacked the dash. "That's the 'LB.' And the numbers must be for an account or something."
"Wow, Dean, can you tie your shoes, too?" Bobby drawled from the backseat.
"Hey, give me a break. After Milwaukee, I'm repressing anything having to do with banks."
Sam put the Impala in park and took a deep breath. "Yeah. And the key is for a safety deposit box. I'm an idiot," he said softly.
"But you're our idiot," Dean patted his shoulder with a condescending smile.
Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. I mean, I should have figured it out weeks ago. The...the dreams. Remember? The dreams about..." he took a deep breath, "Rows of silver boxes...the smell of green."
Dean made a face, "Yeah, I still don't get the green smell unless it's this building..."
"It's money."
"What?"
"Money. Bills. The smell of bills. The ink-on-linen scent is distinctive to-"
"Wait, what? Linen? Are you telling me George Washington is riding a bedsheet?"
Dean leaned forward, grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, and pulled out whatever he had in there (three ones, five tens, two twenties) and put them to his nose.
Sam watched the maneuver with a mixture of disgust and dismay though Dean thought he caught the upturned edge of a smile. "George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, yeah. All of those guys and, Dean...really?"
"I'll be damned. They do smell."
Sam shook his head. "I doubt that's the ink."
"Hey, I don't like what you're implying. I bathe regularly." But he didn't mind the fact that Sam was less on edge-Dean was on edge enough for both of them. "Let's go see what's in the magic box," Dean started for the door handle but Bobby grabbed his shoulder.
"Not so fast. Boys on the FBI's most wanted list for murder can stay in the car."
"What? Hell no."
"Dean, Bobby's right. Just wait here." Sam exited the driver's side.
"What about you? After our last fun time in a bank, you're probably in the top 50 most wanted as a 'person of interest'..."
"Maybe, but my name is on the account and we may possibly need to make a quick getaway. Just think about it. This is your chance to be Robert Redford as the 'Sundance Kid.'"
"Hey, hey, don't jinx me. That movie didn't end well."
Sam threw him the keys through the open window and he and Bobby walked towards the entrance.
Dean sighed and slid into the driver's seat. Really needed to do something about that growing list of warrants. Maybe he could fake his own death...again. Unhappy being the one left, he pushed Led Zeppelin into the tape deck and leaned back.
He was about halfway through the track "In My Time of Dying" when Bobby opened the back door and got in. Dean pushed the eject button and scanned behind him, jumping to conclusions when he saw his little brother nowhere, wondering how long until he heard the sirens.
"Where's Sam?"
"He's fine. Made it through. Everything was in order and they took him to the safety deposit room."
"And?" Dean turned his body towards the back so he could measure the old man's expression.
"And Sam invoked the right to view the contents of his safety deposit box alone."
Dean stared at Bobby as if he was speaking some weird language found only in one of his ancient dusty books.
"What? And you just let him?"
Bobby gave him a withered look. "Just zip the whining and watch the entrance."
"What? Why?" But he turned anyway, concerned that his brother might be running for the car after all.
"So when he comes out I can go help him cross the parking lot too, ya idjit." Dean felt a hand smack him lightly upside the back of his head. "Did it ever cross your mind that your little brother is a grown up?" There was a pause. "And I mean that. He's almost nine feet tall."
But Bobby didn't know. He didn't know that Sam had been dreaming about this, about Dad. He didn't know that two seconds before the phone rang, Sam had seen John Winchester in a dream who basically told him the call was coming. He didn't know because it was a little too freaky even for Dean, and hunters got twitchy when things didn't "add up." Dean wasn't sure enough yet whether he could trust Bobby to tell him the whole story, if Sam could still be safe under that roof afterwards. And while it was true that Sam had grown up, there was one thing Dean knew-age and height had nothing to do with what was at the end of this road and whether Sam was going to survive it. Any of it.
1993
Sam - 10
Dean - 14
John looked uncomfortable on Missouri's couch. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, fingers in a stranglehold on each other between his legs. Every few seconds they tensed, became clasped, almost praying. Dean felt tension roll off the man, passing through Sam who sat complacently and woodenly between them.
Dean swallowed.
Missouri had moved the coffee table and pulled in a kitchen chair so she could sit opposite Sam. Her demeanor was more relaxed, and she smiled at his little brother, watched him for several seconds in silence.
John raised a hand, wiped it through the two-day-old dark stubble on his chin.
"Might be a bad idea."
"Well, you shoulda thought about that before you called and came." But the softness of Missouri's face was louder than the retort of her words.
"Can you bring him back?" Dean asked finally, hopefully.
"Well, that depends on where he's gone," she told him slowly, honestly. "Lotsa places a person can go when they're not here. The mind is complex and tricky thing, and it's connected to everything."
"Everything?"
She turned to Dean and he felt her attention fall on him like a heavy woolen blanket. "That's right, honey. You take a biology class-they can tell you what the brain looks like, what it's made of, but that's just the start." Her voice was hypnotic yet academic at the same time. "Your head is connected to your soul, to other souls, to feelings other souls have left behind. We're made to be connected, Dean. That's how it is. That's why we don't like being left behind."
Dean tensed. In his mind's eye there was a fire, and one by one everyone started to disappear. Mom died, Dad turned into someone else, and Sam...
Missouri's hand on his knee, her liquid gaze, brought him back.
"You just keep hanging onto them, Dean Winchester. Ain't nothing wrong with that feeling."
He swallowed again.
Missouri nodded at him, and then she turned back to Sam and gently took his brother's hands into her own.
"All right, Sam. You tell me what you need to tell me. I'm listening..."
Someone's here warm Warm
Shhh go back to sleep sleepy Sammy
No no something someone warm please please
She'll hear...she'll know how bad you are
...don't care anymore cold here cold cold
Oh? Don't care? Liar liar house on fire...
Can't get out feet sliding-where is out? Is it there?
No no not out just deeper-you want to go deeper? We can go deeper Sleepy Sammy-yes wait wait wait
Stop looking at me-I hate your face! Dean!
You won't leave it's too cold that way-all the dead are there
No
All the dead point at Sam Sammy Sam Sam-all the dead point at Sam all the dead all the dead all the dead
No no
Dad dead Dean dead Amber dead Mommy dead
No not Dean
In the ground in the dirt-you put him there
God
Not here
Please
It's going to happen stay stay
I'm sorry!
Cry here safer here-easier-tell the nice lady to go away Sammy show her my face Sammy
Don't die Dean
Dean knew something was wrong the second Missouri closed her eyes. There was a twitch in her eyebrow. Whatever it was, it wasn't what she expected to find, but she should have at least expected something unexpected-Dean had told her about everything: the eyes, the midnight screaming...
He hazarded a glance at his father, but John was riveted to the silent drama.
Sam didn't move. He stayed exactly the same.
Missouri squeezed Sam's hands and then all at once things changed.
For one, the temperature in the room dropped. A weird vibration pulsed outward from his little brother to the the floorboards. Three feet away, a decorative glass bowl on the coffee table began to clink and shudder musically. Picture frames chittered along the wall like a percussionist's domino effect, spreading out and up the stairs.
Missouri muttered, "Sweet Jesus," and then Sam's limp hands suddenly clamped down on hers.
"Sam!" Dean shouted. It was the first sign of life in a week. It was the first sign of life, but John yelled, "Dean! Don't move!" and Dean realized he was reaching for those hands, wanted to be gripped by them.
John's voice was that voice.
Dean tried to control his breathing. His lungs hurt.
John stood up slowly. He looked around the room, and yeah that made sense because rattling things and pulling all the heat was what ghosts typically did when they were about to start shit. And right now, if something started shit Sam and Missouri were going to need protectors.
"Dad, what do we do?"
Dean's hands were half toward Sam, shackled by John's command, fighting it, looking for something else, anything else he could do to help.
"If Missouri's in trouble, we need to pull them apart. Dean!"
Dean had to tear his eyes away from Sam to look at their father. His eyes were dark.
"You with me?"
Dean nodded, swallowed. Had to not be emotionally compromised-had to be ready...
Missouri's eyes pinched shut. Her chin trembled as if she was exerting every ounce of will, every straining muscle of her body, towards something...
And then Sam's green eyes became hard and shiny and silvery.
Like hematite.
That was the last straw.
"You fucking bastard!" Dean slid off the couch and grabbed both Sam's shoulders with his fists. The muscles in his jaw were working, clenching, his head hurt. He ignored his father's voice. He didn't care that Missouri was still holding his brother's hands.
"You fucking bastard! Let him go, do you hear me? You let him go or I swear to God!"
Sam was frozen. It numbly sank in through his shirt into Dean's fingers, and it was as if he had tried to grab a flagpole in South Dakota in the middle of January. A shot of ice went right to his heart.
"Dean!"
Dean felt his father's arms on him, around him, but Dean didn't want to let go. He couldn't let go!
"Do you fucking hear me, you creepy bastard?"
And then Sam turned and looked straight at him. Looked at him and the eyes were green again and Sam's voice said, so clearly, "Don't die, Dean."
"Sam!"
But then John pulled him off because Dad's arms were stronger, and Dad was saying his name and Dean felt crazy. Wanted to hit something, wanted to punch himself in the chest to get his heart going again. Wanted to shatter or be shattered and Missouri was falling back in the chair and she looked sick. And oh, crap, Missouri...
"Dean! Get ahold of yourself! That's an order!"
Something programmed into his muscles obeyed. His chest heaved, Dad's arms were a vise around him from behind and they were tight and it was hard to breathe.
"Let him go, John."
Missouri's voice was still with them and it still had power. She flexed her fingers, made fists, held them to her bosom because they had to have been cold. Really cold.
Dean felt the shackles release and he fell down to his knees in front of his brother.
Sam had gone away again. His eyes were green but blank. The temperature in the room was returning to normal and the tremors along the floor were gone.
"Sam."
Dammit!
"Missouri..."
Dean turned to the woman slumped in the chair. John was gentle with her, helped her sit up. He squeezed her arm and her eyes blinked, glistened, refocused. She took a deep breath and moved her body slightly, waking up into the world, still rubbing her hands together.
"I'm okay."
John put a little pressure on her shoulder. He looked from her to Dean. His gaze flickered so briefly to Sam that Dean might have imagined it.
"I'll get you some water. Sit tight."
Missouri nodded and John left.
The silence in the room was deafening.
"I was right, wasn't I?" Dean's skin was a mess of hard goosebumps, and they weren't going away.
"Ain't gonna lie to you, Dean. You called it."
"What do we do?"
John came back and Missouri took the glass gratefully. He turned his attentions to the patient and took a knee in front of Sam, finally. Dad put a hand on his son's cheek, and his face was pale.
Missouri drank half the glass before she spoke again.
"That little boy is all confused by something that got no business being here. When he figures out what he wants, he can break free and come back. Whatever that thing is that's tryin' to keep your brother? It isn't as strong here, the way it is, but it tries."
The cold spots. That blistering cold.
"This ain't its time or place and it knows that. This was plan B."
Right. Because somehow Dean foiled plan A.
Dean's heart skipped a beat and then faltered. His brain raced around and around and any hope he had in her words got hung up on one fact.
"Why would he not just...just make up his mind and come back?"
"I suspect that...whatever it is...is telling him things."
"Like what? I mean, what would be so good in there that it would keep him from coming back?"
Missouri took a deep breath.
"I don't think there's anything good in there. But, a few words can make everything out here seem a whole lot worse."
Dean stared at her, and then he remembered Sam's voice.
"Don't die, Dean."
Jesus Christ.
What the holy, hell, Sam. Really?
He turned and shook his little brother. "Sam, dammit, I'm not gonna die, come out here. Now you're just pissing me off."
"Dean."
Missouri closed the distance between them. Her voice leaned into Dean's ear.
"That boy is gonna come back because of you and nothing and nobody else. Choose what you say carefully."
Dean swallowed because her words implied he should back off, but her tone said "you're brother is in so much trouble."
Missouri stood up and Dean realized that she had been whispering to him, was out of eyeshot of their father, for a reason. A secret. Something between the two of them...and Sam.
Sam stuck somewhere with the boogeyman, probably listening to lies. But Missouri had told him two things that Dean would hold onto: The boogeyman wasn't strong here, and Sam was stronger. Sam could do it. He would come back when he figured it out. He would, and Dean was going to believe that. And he was going to make it hard for Sam to stay away because, dammit, he missed this kid and there were a lot of things he had to do yet.
"Dean...don't die, Dean. Don't die, Dean."
"Sammy, I'm tellin' you, I ain't gonna die, okay? Just come back..."
"Dean."
"Dean."
His eyes burned and Sam's voice became an echo. His father was shaking his shoulder.
The hell? Did he nod off?
"Sir." Dean sat up and something moved, slid down his arm.
Sam.
He was asleep. Had been asleep on his shoulder and this stupid big brother had just gone to la la land sitting up, for Christsakes. Who did that?
Missouri laughed a little.
"Child, you ate your weight twice over in turkey and stuffing and gravy, and you've had an exciting day. Sleep is what you wanted. Ain't no harm in taking it when you can."
Sam didn't wake up either, not even when Dean turned to try to sit the kid back up. With his eyes closed, breathing deeply, Dean could pretend the kid was just going to wake up in an hour.
John reached down and picked Sam the way he had been doing a lot lately and pinned his clear, dark gaze on Dean. "We're going, son."
Dad, sober for two days, and maybe this news from Missouri would keep it that way for a little. Maybe. Or maybe it would send him in the opposite direction. It was hard to tell because Dad never talked about things.
"Yes, sir."
"And we're gonna have a talk about your language."
Well, fuck. Some things didn't change.
"Yes, sir." Dean grimaced and stood up from the couch into a hug ambush.
Missouri's embrace was tighter than the first.
"Dean, you keep that chin up and you keep fightin', you hear me?"
Dean pressed his lips together.
"Yes, ma'am."
She put a couple of packed grocery bags into his hands. "First place you stop, you get some ice for the cooler and put these leftovers in there. Don't you let my mama's secret stuffing recipe go to waste, do you hear me?"
The whites of her eyes were so stark in contrast to the smile on her lips.
Dean half-grinned.
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you. And thank you, um. Thank you, seriously. For Sammy."
She said nothing to that but patted his cheek affectionately.
When Missouri turned to John, however, the smile disappeared.
"John Winchester, you remember what I told you."
Their father wasn't getting the warm and fuzzy treatment. How long had Dean been out? Was there something he had missed?
"Missouri, take care of yourself."
He moved to the door, Sam's sleeping cheek on his shoulder.
"I always do. Hey, John,"
He stopped at the threshold.
"It's been too long."
John took a deep breath. He did glance back at her. "You call if you find out anything else. Please."
Missouri nodded.
On the way to the car Dean said, "Sir, did Missouri say anything else about Sam when I was out?"
"No, son. Nothing new."
You're lying...
But that was nothing new.
April 12, 2007
Sam - 23
Dean - 28
"Are you gonna clue us in sometime, Sam?" At the end of his patience, Dean banged on the door his brother had locked earlier at Bobby's place. The level of pokerfacing Sam had achieved when he emerged from the bank earlier that day with a thick opened package under his arm had proved a couple of things. One of those things was that Dean was probably not going to like what was in the safety deposit box, and the other was that his little brother had officially become too good at keeping quiet.
Ignored. The entire way back. Bobby told him to give Sam some space, but that was difficult when they had a five hour (oh, hell no. They'd be back at Bobby's in three hours, tops) drive and his brother was less than two feet away as still as a statue. It was difficult when it felt like fourteen years had led to this moment, and Dean was being sidelined. To make matters worse, Sam was the first out of the car and his only words were "I need at least four hours." And then it was into the house, into the room and, goddammit, a locked door? Really Sam? Because this was definitely the time to Amelia Earhart it around the globe solo...
Four hours was too long. Ten minutes was too long.
The lock clicked and Sam opened the door.
"Well, it's about damn time."
"Get Bobby. He needs to see this, too." Sam had the package and his laptop under his arm. Were his eyes red?
"What's goin' on, Sam?" Dean knew his tone was conveying more annoyance than the concern he felt, but his brother deserved it for the lockout.
"Just get Bobby. I'll meet you in the library." Sam brushed past him before an argument could start. Dean ground his teeth, clenched a fist, but figured the fastest way to get answers right now would be to just follow along...until such time as there was simply going to be no more following along.
That time felt like it was fast approaching.
(to be continued...)