AN: Busy day ahead, so I'm posting early!
Separation Anxiety
Sam came back to himself with a gasp, back arching against the dirt as he struggled to catch his breath. His heart was pounding. Flashes of Charity's thoughts and emotions swirled amongst his own, making him disoriented and nauseous. Scrambling to get his back to the wall, he shoved his thumb deep into his left palm. It was an old habit, one that had turned into an emotional anchor of sorts. But it helped Sam to ground himself, to regain control and remember who he was. Thankfully the blinding pain disappeared with the ghost.
"You alright now?" a rough voice asked. Sam strong-armed his brain into obedience to recognize Bryce speaking to him. He had to clear his throat a few times before he could respond.
"I'm fine," he said, and he was. A quick assessment confirmed he wasn't injured beyond some fading vertigo and a bit of weakness. But mentally…Sam felt violated, panicky. His heart was still beating fast and he gripped the leg of his jeans to stop the trembling in his hands. Once again some supernatural being had forced its way into his body, stealing his autonomy, taking over his mind. Swallowing the nausea, he took a deep breath in and out through his nose. His phone was still glowing softly nearby where it had fallen and he pulled it close, spotting his fellow captive looking at him in concern in the blue-tinged light.
"You sure? 'Cause it's like she drains you," Bryce grunted, obviously not buying Sam's assertion. "So, did you uh…see anything?" he asked tentatively, curiosity and fear intermingled in his tone.
"I saw a lot of things," Sam said, wiping his clammy face on his sleeve, "none of it good."
"But like actual pictures, or just vague images?" Bryce pressed with an urgency that set off alarm bells in Sam's gut.
"Why do you ask?" The guy was a hunter so Sam wasn't about to reveal more than he should. Hunters were not known to be fond of former psychics.
Bryce sighed quietly. "My grandmother was a fortune-teller," he began reluctantly. "She was poor, but she knew how to put on a show with the crystal ball and the tarot cards and tea leaves. Mostly she would tell people what they wanted to hear for a few bucks. My parents didn't approve, but I loved it. I used to watch her give readings all the time when I was a kid. When I got a bit older, she taught me all her tricks. The right way to set a suggestible mood, the props, the Barnum statements and leading questions." He chuckled at his memories before turning more sober.
"After my parents were killed, Grams took care of me. And when she got old and frail, I took care of her." He shrugged, as if his devotion was nothing. "On her deathbed, she told me two things: monsters are real, including the wraith that took my parents, and that she dreamed about their murder before it happened."
"Why are you telling me this?" Sam wasn't sure where the other man was going with his story or what it had to do with their current predicament. He didn't want to be unkind, but he needed to find a way back to Dean, preferably before Charity came back and messed with his head for a second time.
"Because Grams said I had inherited her gift. She wasn't wrong, I'm not psychic, but sometimes I get a hinky feeling I've learned to listen to. Maybe you could chalk that up to hunting experience." Bryce shifted restlessly against the hard wall and gave Sam an assessing glance, his features otherworldly in the blue screen-light.
"Jane and I couldn't figure out the connection between the victims, but now I think I understand. The ghost is targeting people with some level of psychic ability." Now it was Sam's turn to shift uncomfortably.
"That's an interesting theory," Sam hedged, casually moving his hand towards the small of his back where his gun was still stowed. Back in the day he'd been on more than one hunter's hit list for his ability. He had no idea if Bryce was armed or what his intentions were.
"You think I don't know who you are? I've heard about Sam Winchester and his freaky ESP for years. About how you drank demon blood, how you started the apocalypse, how you used to be best friends with the Devil."
Sam kept his face neutral, but readied himself to act if his cellmate made a move. But before either man could do anything, the temperature in the room suddenly dropped and his phone winked out, plunging them into the dark.
xxxxxx
Dean definitely had strong, but mixed feelings about going from unconsciousness to consciousness. One state promised you lovely, pain-free nothingness, but of course you had no idea what was happening when you were lights out. The other state gave you more information but came with a heaping helping of ouch.
He could hear someone calling his name, but it wasn't Sam, so Dean was willing to make them wait. His head hurt like someone had been playing soccer with his skull. Sadly, it was a familiar pain; this certainly wasn't the first time he'd gotten his bell rung by being thrown into a wall. All he had to do was lay still for a minute and breathe. He gave himself to the count of ten before he opened his eyelids. The sunshine stabbed him in the face, but through his watering eyes he saw Jane bending over him, the faint smell of vomit still lingering on her. He shoved her away before he lost his own lunch.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
No, he was far from okay. His head was pounding, and the beginning sprouts of curse-pain in his back and shoulders had blossomed upon impact with the wall into an intense full-body soreness. To make things worse, the itchy-hot burning under his skin was starting again. He wasn't okay, but he would certainly live. He'd landed near the bed, so he used the sturdy wooden footboard to haul himself upright. Swaying a little once he got vertical, Dean waved Jane away. She was hovering and he didn't need a nursemaid.
"I'm fine," he barked. Of course he wasn't fine - some weirdo ghost had snatched his brother from right in front of him. He needed to find Sam or he'd never be fine again, and not just because of this damn curse.
"We've got to find Sam." Dean rifled through the weapons bag Sammy had dropped on the mattress no more than ten minutes ago. The grey spirit-thingy couldn't have taken him far.
"What are you doing?" Jane asked from the other side of the bed.
Dean didn't even look at her. "There's a pry bar in here. I'm going to take this house apart piece by piece until I find my brother."
"And Bryce too, right?" There was a sharpness to her tone. Under better circumstances Dean would have heard it, but right now the part of his brain that wasn't panicking over Sam was busy trying to ignore the throbbing in his head and the streaks of fire under his skin.
"Sure," he agreed offhandedly. Maybe he should get more tools from the car?
"Screw you, Winchester!" she spat with a venom that made him look up in disbelief.
"Excuse me?"
"Screw you and Sam too!" Her cheeks were flushed, her good hand on her hip as she faced off with him across the mattress. "I had to beg you to even bother looking for Bryce, but the second Sam goes missing you're chomping at the bit to turn this place inside out."
"Of course I am - he's my brother!" Irritation of his own made Dean clench his fists in an effort to stay calm. "If you remember lady, I sided with you. That's why we're even here." He fought to keep from shouting and restrained himself from stabbing her when she rolled her eyes sarcastically.
"Sam deserves whatever happens to him."
Dean didn't stop to think. His forearm was pressed against Jane's throat and he had her backed up against the wall before he had a chance.
"You want to try that again?" he growled into her face. She blanched beneath her bruises, but didn't back down, although she wisely kept still. A tiny muscle jumped in her jaw and she swallowed hard enough to hear.
"Jerry is dead because of Sam. He died because we followed Sam's lead. And your precious brother didn't give a monkey's ass." Her voice cracked and her lower lip trembled slightly. Dean could see tears in her eyes as grief flooded in to replace her anger. He'd been thinking of her as a fellow hunter taking a jab at Sammy, but right now she looked more like a battered, frightened woman. Dean lowered his arm and took a step back.
"You're kidding right?" he asked quietly. "You don't know my brother. Sam beats himself up over every single hunter who died in that raid. He feels guilty as hell even though you all knew exactly what you were signing on for."
His words seemed to have some effect on Jane because, after a pause, she stiffly jammed her sunglasses back on and turned away towards the window, shoulders hunched. A ripple of pain shot through Dean and he concluded he didn't have time for any of this drama. He needed to find Sam before the curse made him non-functional and whether he liked it or not, he could use her help. He tried to roll the tension out of his shoulders.
"Look, I'm sorry about Jerry. But take it from me, Sam sees the face of everyone he thinks he's failed in every nightmare." He sighed. The kid had way too many things that terrorized him in his sleep. It was a burden Dean wished he could take from Sammy.
With nothing else to say, he left her staring out into the yard and plucked the pry bar from the bag. He looked around the room unsure where to start.
"Fine," she said, her voice carrying in the quiet room. "But once we find Sam, we keep looking until we find Bryce. I'm not losing anyone else." With that firm promise, she pulled a thermal scanner out of her oversized purse.
xxxxxx
Dean was forced to stop and catch his breath, coughing weakly in the cloud of powdered plaster that hung in the air. Bits of drywall stuck to his sweaty face and the pry bar he'd been using was growing heavier by the minute. His arms and shoulders were burning, both from use and the magical fire under his skin. This damn curse was sucking away his energy; a bit of physical exertion shouldn't have him so tapped out. Frustration and fear churned his gut. What if the curse incapacitated him before he could find Sam?
Behind him, Jane panted, groaning softly. He'd pretty much ignored her since he'd begun to tear apart the walls closest to where Sam had been standing. Jane had been scanning the bedroom, but frankly, he'd been too focused on smashing drywall and trying to keep his panic at bay to pay attention. But now she sank to the end of the bed, her good hand on her head and pain etched into the part of her face he could see below her dark sunglasses.
"You hanging in there?" he asked gruffly. She had that pinched, slightly green look of someone trying not to barf. But maybe it was from the bruising. Regardless, she waved her hand around the room.
"This isn't working," she said. "You can't tear apart the whole house."
He glared at her. Yes, he could, and he would. There was no way he was giving up, he had to find his brother, with or without her. Something in his expression had her rushing to explain.
"Look, I'm not saying to stop looking. I want to find them too. But we need to work smarter. I can't do anything like this." She flapped her broken arm weakly, the other hand returning to gingerly rub her temple.
Dammit, she was right, in fact her advice was exactly the kind of thing Sam would say. Dean closed his eyes for a second and wished for the pounding in his own head to stop. Finally, he shuffled over to sit wearily beside her.
"What do you suggest?" he asked.
"The answer has to be in the research somewhere. Ghosts don't just show up one day, certainly not ones with enough mojo to steal people. There has to be something we're missing." She sighed, a note of regret in her voice. "Maybe we should have made a plan." Sam had wanted to do exactly that, but Dean refrained from reminding her. He had to shoulder some of the blame for this mess.
Leaving here without Sam struck him as deeply wrong, but Dean reluctantly admitted a strategic retreat was probably the best bet. They should head back to the motel, he'd take a handful of painkillers and figure out how to get his brother back. He took a harder look at Jane. She was a hunter, which meant she was tough as nails, but he'd seen roadkill that looked better.
"Okay," he said reluctantly. "We'll make a plan and come back tonight. But you'd better not puke in my car." He said the last with as much good humor as he could muster and she responded with a weak smile. Stuffing the pry bar into their bag, Dean resolutely led the way out of the house. Before he closed the door behind them he made a silent promise to Sam that he'd be back.