Away to Darker Dreams, Part Six
Dean hands him their last water bottle and a pill. Sam disappears down the hall to brush his teeth and take the pill. Dean stays in the room, fixing Sam's desperately packed duffel. He smells his own armpit and recoils. Maybe he should be focusing on himself, too. If he doesn't, Sam's gonna use his own words against him, turn on the sad eyes and the raspy voice.
He passes Sam in the hallway, holding a pile of new clothes. Sam's hair is no longer a rat's nest, and his face isn't a sweaty mess. He gives Dean a thumbs up. Dean feels lighter than he has in days.
When everything is all said and done, they head downstairs, following the smell of cooking bacon to the kitchen, where Missouri's set up shop, sitting in a chair with a big mug of coffee. "Pot's already brewed," she says, "cream and sugar's on the counter."
"Thank you, Ms. Moseley," Sam says, grabbing a cup and filling it with coffee, then dumping packets of cream in it.
"Oh, hush," Missouri says, "Missouri only. You're practically family."
Sam smiles softly and Dean loads up two plates of eggs, toast and bacon, handing one off to Sam. Missouri fills them in on John's whereabouts, and Sam uses Missouri's phone to call up Pastor Jim and tell him as many details about the vision as he can remember, selling it like it’s a lead they had to give up. Pastor Jim promises that he'll get someone out there, and Sam hangs up the phone with a grin.
"He told me to make sure you don't make a fool of yourself," Sam tells Dean, and Dean rolls his eyes. Sam and Jim had always been co-conspirators when Sam was a tiny little tot, putting salt in Dean's ice cream and running away giggling when he spat it out. It’s one of the reasons he has such a big soft spot for the pastor.
"We've all got a good energy going here," Missouri says, bringing Dean out of his memories, "I think we should start now and create a plan for you, Sam. I have some ideas about how I want to start helping you."
Sam sits back down, folding his hands on the table. "What do you have in mind?" he asks, and Dean leans in close to hear.
"After getting to know you, I can tell you're an empath, too," Missouri starts, "very in-tune with emotions around you, just like I am. I think you and I need to spend some time bonding, letting our minds adjust to each other's presence. Then, I want to start with some basic things we've seen in the other psychic children. I'm thinking telekinesis as a start, to help you focus your mental energy. That way, you'll strengthen your mental muscles and all these weird concepts won't seem so foreign and daunting. It’ll come as easy as breathing after a while."
Sam chokes on his coffee. "Telekinesis?!" he gapes. "I can't do that."
Missouri hums. "Oh, honey, you have no idea how much potential is bubbling inside you. Psychic powers aren't scary. In the wrong person, they're weapons, but in you, I think they're a gift, Sam. At the least, I want to help you manage your mind. And if you never want to use your powers again, that's fine. I'll teach you how to keep 'em quiet."
"Okay," Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, I want to try. What do we do?"
"Good, good, good," Missouri smiles, clapping her hands together. "First, we meditate."
"Oh, great," Dean snarks, "should I get the incense out? Watch you guys align your chakras?"
"You'll be meditating with us, Dean," Missouri says, and there's a threat under her gentle tone, a warning. "I think you could use some peace of mind, too."
Dean wants to wipe the shit-eating grin off of Sam's face, but more than that, he wants to help. Even if all this mumbo-jumbo scares the crap out of him.
He doesn't put up a fight when Missouri asks him to help light some candles and move the living room table to the edge of the room.
They settle in a triangle on the rug, shoes and socks off, criss-cross applesauce. Dean’s knee lightly brushes against Sam’s. The low lighting and yellow flicker of the candles gives the room a relaxed ambiance, and Missouri closes her eyes, tilting her chin skyward.
Sam peers at her then raises an eyebrow at Dean. Dean shrugs back. After a moment of deliberation, Sam closes his eyes, too, moving his chin upward. His hands settle loosely on his knees, and Dean's happy to see them still.
Missouri clicks her tongue. "You too, Dean," she says, and oh, right. Dean shoves down all of his snarky comments and closes his eyes, letting out a breath.
"This is good," Missouri murmurs. "You're both already calm and relaxed. It shouldn't be too hard to let go of your thoughts. Meditation isn't bull, no matter what some parties in the room might think."
Sam laughs.
"Just clear your head, any way you can. It's different for everyone. I think about sitting on the porch, watching all the children rush home from school, and the air is dry and warm..."
Missouri's voice is even and low, and it pulls over Dean in a slow wash, until he no longer hears separate words, just a comforting lull of tones and breaths.
He has a feeling it's a good thing. He's not trying to tune her out, not really. It's like she's exerting some emotion over the room, or rather, the lack of one. Dean's heard of crazier. Shit, he has a feeling he's thinking pretty loudly. He could be disturbing Sam and Missouri. But how to clear his head?
It's not that difficult. He thinks of brown bangs and curly hair blowing in the wind of an open window, the sun streaming down through the dashboard window. Led Zeppelin IV is in the cassette player, and he knows every word and chord by heart so the melodies come easily to his mind. The road stretches out for miles, and they're somewhere edging on desert scrub, somewhere mid-America. It's summer but it's not unbearably hot or sweaty, and Sam is happy.
That's what gets his rhythm going. He imagines Sam's carefree laugh, Sam's legs propped up on the dashboard even after Dean threatens him with physical violence. He doesn't really mean it. Maybe when it gets dark and the stars are out and bright, shining fiercely 'cause the light pollution's low and they're out in nowhere, they'll sit out on the Impala's cool hood, just barely touching, just... living. Existing together, free, untethered, surviving by the pulse of the road and a cold, silver knife.
He loses himself in it, finds himself swaying back and forth like he's really in the driver's seat bumping over hills and poorly-filled potholes. The Impala's as big as a boat, so she moves like one, cresting the waves of hot, black pavement.
"Sam," Missouri whispers, and Dean is brought partly back to Earth. "Sam, keep your thoughts right where they are, but listen to my voice. You can be there and right here at the same time. Can you do that?"
"Yes," Sam sighs, and Dean doesn't have to look away from the road and the billboards passing by to hear the looseness of Sam's tone, the strained tension he'd been speaking with ever since Dean stumbled onto him in that parking lot all but obliterated.
"Alright, that's good," Missouri hums. "I want you to think of yourself as a source of light, Sam, a gentle being. Whatever beliefs you have about being grounded to human skin, human bone, just forget them for now. Forget any doubts you have about yourself. Every single one. You are not doubt. You are light."
"...Okay." Sam sounds less certain. Dean doesn’t blame him.
"Don't fall out, keep your thoughts relaxed," Missouri says, and Dean thinks she's talking to both of them. "Not doubt. Light."
"Okay," Sam says again, a little louder, a little clearer.
"Good. That's good, Sam. Now, if I ask you to open your eyes, do you think you can stay in your thoughts and in my living room? Like how you are right now?"
"Yes." Sam clears his throat. "I don't know how you're doing this, but yes."
"I'm not doing anything, honey. It's all you, remember? All your of your light. Now, open your eyes."
Dean opens his eyes with Sam. They blink in sync, chests inhaling and exhaling together. Dean can still feel the sway of his car beneath him, but it isn't the same. He is centered, but he knows he can't stay in his meditation place while looking after Sam. Maybe Sam is different.
He watches Sam. Sam doesn't look at him, his movements slow and lethargic. His face is blank, but it's a good thing--every worry line has disappeared, every tight frown or squinted eye replaced with a trancelike tranquility.
"Sam," Missouri says again, and it sounds a bit like a prayer to Dean, "Sam, you can sense emotions, just like me, you can connect with them, and you can see more than most people, in your dreams and out. But you can do so much more. You can. Now, I'm going to pull out a marble, okay? You're going to move it but you're not going to touch it."
The placid lake of Sam's face ripples a little as his brows twitch toward one another. "Missouri..."
"Shh, no, stay focused, stay calm." Missouri's voice is like an addiction but kinder, like a mother's voice and a lullaby pulled into one. "Don't think about doubt, or hows or whys or any of that. Just try, okay, sweetheart? No harm in trying. Do it like a reflex, like catching a baseball."
"Like catching a baseball," Sam repeats distractedly, his fingers twitching in his lap, and the marble flies out of Missouri's pocket and into the air in the center of all of them before Missouri can even raise a finger, floating around like it’s bobbing on top of a body of water.
"Holy fuck," Dean breathes out, and he's way too fucking zen to even feel freaked out about all of this.
Sam's eyes snap open and the marble falls to the ground, rolling toward him. Sam's mouth falls open and he picks it up, swallowing. "I knew it was blue. How did I know?"
There's a brief silence from Missouri and Dean watches her. She's looking at Sam like he's the second coming of Christ, and maybe she isn't so far off. "You're stronger than I thought," she says, unable to keep the wonder-worship out of her voice. "That was very good, Sam."
Sam's off like a spring trap, out of the room and up the stairs in second. A moment later, Dean hears a door shut softly, and then he's left alone with Missouri. Most of the candles have burned low or gone out altogether, and holy shit, it only felt like they were there for a couple of minutes.
Missouri stares up at the stairs, her lips pursed.
"I'll go talk to him," Dean says, shaking her out of her reverie. "He probably freaked himself out."
Missouri shoots him a grateful smile. "Thank you for sitting with us, Dean. You have potential, too. You act as a great complement to Sam. You help him out just by being here."
Dean doesn't know what to say to her praise. He stands up, knees cracking, holding out a hand so she can follow suit. She takes it.
"That's what I'm here for," he says, "we'll be right back."
Missouri smiles again. "Take your time."
Dean takes off after Sam, like he’s been doing his whole life. When he gets to their bedroom door, he pauses, taking a breath, giving Sam a moment. He can’t even imagine what must be going through Sam’s big head, what kind of emotions and ideas are swirling around in a dark cesspit of dangerous thoughts.
Dean leans his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. He can’t hear any noises from the other side, has no idea what Sam’s up to.
God. If Sam only knew how beautiful he was, how fucking magical. Sure, Dean was scared at first, and a little creeped out, and holy fucking christ did that vision make him want to scream, but aren’t all new, wonderful things terrifying at first?
Sam is not evil. Sam is the perfect opposite of bad, the reverse and inverse of all of monsterdom. His abilities don’t make him a freak, don’t make him one of them, no matter what Sam believes. Sure, it’s hard to understand, and weird as fuck, and the demon is a real piece of fucking work, but Dean’s certainty is an immovable rock in his gut.
Sam is stunning, wonderful, fantastic, all of those feel-good words and so much more. He just needs to get it through his thick fucking skull.
Dean tries the handle and finds the door is unlocked. He knocks twice. “Sam?” he calls through the wood. “You better be decent, ‘cause I’m coming in.”
He takes a breath and lets it out as he strolls through the door, shoving as much false confidence into his steps and his face, slowing down near the center of the room, his motivation steadily dwindling as he takes in the sight before him.
Sam is at the far wall, under the windowsill, tucked into the corner with his knees drawn up and his arms curled around them, his head lowered.
He looks so small.
"Sammy?" Dean tries again, softer this time. "You good?"
Sam doesn't respond, doesn't so much as lift his head or blink, just keeps on staring straight ahead, and Dean's heart is high in his throat, stealing his oxygen.
He walks to Sam like he's stepping around carnage and settles to the ground beside his brother, keeping some distance between them just in case Sam is in one of those moods where he doesn't like to be touched.
He stretches his legs out, settling his hands on his knees. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. Through the window, he hears a car go by, rumbling off into the distance. Otherwise, it's silent.
"Sam, c'mon. Talk to me."
He doesn't expect anything, and his eyes fly open when Sam heaves a small, bitter laugh. "What is there to say?" Sam rasps, in that way-too-familiar edge-of-tears voice of his, wobbly and rough. "You saw what I did down there. You saw what I am."
Sam hiccups, wiping discretely at one of his eyes.
"Sammy, please," Dean says. "What I saw was my little brother, okay? I know it's scary but it's not bad. You're like Missouri. She's not bad, is she?"
Sam shakes his head, sniffling. His eyes are all twisted up and puppy-shiny. "It's not the same," he says. "she doesn't have a demon in her head all the time. What if I got the powers from him? We still don't know what really happened all those years ago, Dean. We don't know what he did. I'm a freak." Sam spits out the last word.
Fuck distance. "Hey, no you're not," Dean growls, scooting across the floor and wrapping an arm around Sam. Sam twitches but settles, leaning against Dean's shoulder. "I don't give a shit what happened, Sam. I don't give a damn. Because I know you. And you're human and scared and so fucking good and you can't see it." His own breaks and he looks away, flushing, feeling Sam's eyes on his face.
"But what if I'm not?" Sam pushes, and Dean is so close to breaking. "What if someday I go darkside?"
"And why the fuck would you ever do that?" Dean turns back to Sam. "You shed tears when the family dog dies during a hunt. You saved up money when you were eleven years old to fucking donate to charity. I mean--I have now idea how you turned out so damn amazing, Sammy. Dad and I did good by you, but we're not fucking role models. Whatever we did, though, we were given an angel."
Oh, god. Right into cheese mode. He knows Sam needs to hear it, and honestly, he means every word. It's just hard for him to get it out straight.
Sam laughs. "You don't mean that."
"Yeah? And why not?"
Sam shrugs, but his face is trembling, and he's shaking under the strain of trying to hold it together. "Because I left," he croaks, "I ignored your calls, I screamed at Dad, I left both of you like garbage. I'm not good."
Dean tries not to flinch away from Sam's words, blinking. "You wanted a normal life. And as much as I wanted to keep you to myself, I get it, okay? You were always different, so smart, so damn stubborn. I don't think Dad and I ever really blamed you for that. So you gotta stop blaming yourself."
Sam doesn't respond. He turns his face away, looking out the window. Dean feels like he's losing him, like Sam's slipping right through his fingers and all of his attempts to gather him up just make him disappear faster. He knows how Sam's head can get, and he saw how Sam was destroying himself so slowly with drugs and pain, letting other people tear him apart from the inside out. He has the brief thought to hide all the guns in the house and hide them now, but no, he won't let it get that far. He just has to say it in a way Sam will understand.
He grabs Sam by the shoulder, turns Sam to face him even as Sam's eyes go wide and his breathing quickens. He gets up close, right up into Sam's space, his eyes flicking between Sam's. "Stop it," he barks, "stop beating yourself up and let me in. Just let me in. You're a good man, okay? The best I know. Better than me, better than Dad. I know how fucking terrifying this is, I get it. But you have to let us help. You're not bad, Sammy, just caught up in a bad situation. But I can help get you out, I--please."
He shakes Sam by the shoulders. Sam gulps in lungfuls of air, his eyes never blinking, linked to Dean's in some connection that is bigger than either of them.
Then Sam's lips are on his.
He has no time to react, only managing a small noise of surprise before Sam is in his lap, forcing him backward until he's almost laying on the floor, propped up on his elbows, and Sam is straddling him, pushing his shoulders down with an energy Dean didn't think he had in him.
For a moment, he gives in, closing his eyes and sighing into Sam's mouth, sneaking his tongue past Sam's parted lips. His heart thunders in his chest, his body heating up, and his hands are desperate to curl around Sam and hold him close, desperate to touch and feel, and he aches with it all.
He gets a grip on himself and spreads his palm wide on Sam's chest, feeling the fluttering heartbeat there. He pushes Sam up and away, and Sam doesn't put up much of a fight, leaning back on his haunches and staring down at Dean with bright pink cheeks and an open, glossy mouth, his hair a mess, their chests heaving in sync.
Dean blinks and finds his way back into his body. "Sam, what?"
"You..." Sam sags, looking younger and full of doubt, like when he used to climb into Dean's bed after having a nightmare, asking if he could stay. Dean could never say no, and he knows he won't ever be able to say no to Sam about this. "You kissed me in the car."
Dean starts. "You remember that?"
Sam's lip tug up, just a little. "Hard to forget," he murmurs.
"Sam, I was just..." Dean wets his lips, fumbling for words. "I thought you were dead, y'know? It was an emotional response."
Any emotion on Sam's face gets shuttered away. "So it was nothing?"
"No!" Dean gasps, and then Sam's face curves back into a satisfied smile, and shit. Cunning Sam, the little shit.
Dean shakes his head, and shit, Sam's smile is contagious. He sits up straighter, cupping Sam's cheek with his palm. "I don't know what you expect me to say," he tells Sam, caught up in his hazel-autumn eyes, "I just need you safe, need you happy. Need you."
Sam's eyes fill up and presses his face into Dean's collarbone, wrapping his arms around Dean. "It's so scary," he whispers hoarsely, "I can't do it without you."
Dean rubs his hands up and down Sam's back. "Shhh, hey. You won't have to, okay? I know it sucks, but I'm here. Not leaving."
Sam pulls back, only enough to meet Dean's eyes. "You sure?"
Dean shoves Sam in the stomach and Sam falls backward, squawking. "Yes, I'm sure, you big idiot," he says, 'cause if they continue down this road any longer he's gonna burst into tears and handcuff himself to his baby brother. "Get offa me, you big oaf."
Sam gets to his feet. "Oh, shut up," he says, and the smile is so big in his voice that Dean can’t resist standing and ruffling Sam's hair.
on to part seven