Finding Home (9/?)

[nightspear]

Title: Finding Home (Main Post and Chapter List)

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen.

Notes: Once again, OCs may play an important plot role, and I even have mini-backstories for some of them in my head—but they are here to move the Sam&Dean plot along. Don’t worry; they won’t be taking over the story.

Chapter 8

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“This is Dad’s single most valuable possession...And he’s passed it on to us.”

(“Wendigo”)

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Sam remembered thinking, when he was younger, that Joshua Smithley spent so much time doing business—whether dealing in guns or in knowledge—that he practically lived in the little store he owned. As it turned out, the man actually did live there. There was no other reason that they would be pulling up to Smithley Arms at one in the morning.

Dean had lasted through his recitation of lore and rituals a lot longer than expected. Then again, he probably hadn’t been listening—he knew it all, and the parts he didn’t know he wasn’t all that interested in. It had taken a whole forty minutes (he’d just barely gotten started on the differences between Catholic sacraments and the ones they more commonly used) for Dean to force a subject change. Sam knew it was the closest Dean would come to saying I’m worried about you, so he appreciated how long it had lasted.

Sam knew his brother was tired, as well—he’d been driving for hours and had just finished a hunt, even if it had turned out to be a bust. So he told himself that his repeated attempts to start a conversation during the last hour were for Dean as much as for himself.

It didn’t help the pounding in the back of his head go away, though he imagined that it helped hold it at bay. The pain wasn’t sharp, anymore—just steady, dull, pulsating. Sometimes he thought he saw a flash of something, and while he knew now it wasn’t a migraine aura, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it really was. He didn’t think Dean had noticed yet.

God, he was tired.

“Sam. We’re here,” Dean said softly as he parked at the side of the road.

It would have taken too much effort to say, Yeah, I can see that, so he just nodded, opened his door, and stepped out.

“Hold up,” Dean warned, his voice still low, looking around the dark street. “You armed?”

Sam almost said ‘yes,’ but his hand hit only skin and fabric when he reached back instinctively under a borrowed sweater. “Uh, no. Everything was in my room back at Stanford.”

“There’s a piece under your seat.”

“Dean, we’re walking into a store filled with guns. And you know Joshua—we both do.”

“Still no reason not to be ready,” Dean told him. “Don’t argue with me on this.”

Shaking his head, Sam ducked back down to pull the pistol out, automatically checking to see that it was loaded.

He’d never thought a time would come when he’d miss his weapons. Steve had never been able to understand that they were more than just objectionable but necessary tools, and Sam sighed. However lucky he’d been for the friends he’d found, he hadn’t really fit in even at Stanford. That duffel bag wasn’t just a bag with guns and blades; they were the Beretta Dad had given him after his first hunt, the sawed-off he’d made when he was sixteen, the hunting knife he’d always carried. The bag had been his whole life, collected into a sack of canvas.

And then there was his lock picking set, he thought ruefully when they stopped in front of the door. Not that it was usually a good idea to sneak into a hunter’s house in the middle of the night, but Sam wasn’t clear on the proper protocol.

Dean didn’t have those qualms. He took another look to make sure no one was behind him, then banged—hard—on the door. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Subtle.”

“Bite me.”

Still, both moved in synchrony when soft footsteps sounded on the other side, each sliding away to flank the door.

They relaxed when the door opened to show Joshua Smithley. “Dean,” he acknowledged, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Sam. “Little Sammy? You’re looking better than I’d expected.”

“You can get a better look inside,” Dean interrupted, tense in the surrounding darkness.

“Of course, you’re right. Come in.”

Dean went in first and gave the room a once-over before stepping fully to allow Sam to pass. “Move it, little Sammy,” he repeated, the delight in his eyes telling Sam he wouldn’t be forgetting that one for a while.

Sam kicked him in the shin as he went in.

The back room was barely more spacious than the dorm room he shared—had shared—with Steve, although it looked like there was another room beyond that still. In the light that illuminated the living area, Sam studied Joshua, who put three beers on a small, round table and waved at them to sit. He didn’t mention that he was technically still too young to drink—the drinking age was a little blurry with Dean as both big brother and primary guardian.

The last time he’d been here, Sam had been twelve. He’d thought at first glance that Joshua was old, owing to his familiarity with John and the business, but had revised the estimate upon seeing Dean’s opinion of the man. Dean could admire and even idolize men in their dad’s generation, but, to an almost-seventeen-year-old Dean, cool was reserved for those closer to his age. And Joshua had had that self-possessed poise that reminded Sam of a teacher without the condescending air that the older hunters adopted around teenagers.

Now, at nineteen, Sam guessed Joshua was in his forties, most likely, which made him definitely younger than their father. Oddly, this was reassuring: Dad didn’t trust just anyone, and for him to think so highly of someone so young, Joshua must be damn good.

Joshua had been watching him, too. “Wow,” he said. “I haven’t seen you since you were—”

“—little Sammy?” Dean suggested. Sam scowled at him.

“Suppose that isn’t such a good nickname anymore,” Joshua said with a small laugh. “How’ve you boys been?”

“Good,” Dean lied easily, uncapping his bottle and leaning back. “Keeping busy. How’s the business going, Josh?” Sam didn’t bother with his beer—he could hold his alcohol fine, whatever his brother claimed, but he wasn’t going to try it after going more than a day without anything to eat.

His brother was good, there was no doubt about that—good enough to fool just about anyone with the ease he exuded. Even Sam usually couldn’t distinguish any tells that gave away Dean’s guardedness in these situations, besides knowing, just from experience, that he acted this way around other hunters. There was a mixture of their dad’s sharpness and his own casual cockiness that made him seem more relaxed and approachable than their dad was. Bobby Singer and Pastor Jim were exceptions to Dean’s deceptive distance, and usually Joshua would be, too, but the situation was screwed up enough to warrant a ‘better safe than sorry.’

What made Dean stick out like a sore thumb in normal society made other hunters willing to see him as the young, overconfident sonuvabitch he was—but that was someone they could share information and stories and camaraderie with. One of them.

Sam could mimic Dean well enough, but too many people saw through it too easily, even when he was fully awake and alert. Here, he was the one who was out of place, so he reverted to his default: silent observation, taking cues from his brother.

Just then, Joshua looked over to him. “Sorry, Sammy, I don’t mean to leave you feeling out of place.”

Sam jumped, but when Dean raised his eyebrows at him in question, he shook his head and said, “It’s Sam,” covering a yawn. Fatigue was making his mind foggier than he would have liked.

To Joshua’s credit, he looked a little embarrassed. “Ah, yeah, sorry about that. I know what it’s like to have nicknames you hate.”

“Really? Like what?” Dean asked, intrigued.

With a stern eye that reminded Sam of Bobby, he said, “None of your business, kid.” Dean looked affronted at that. “That’s not why you’re here.”

Yeah, tell us that, Sam thought. Why exactly are we here, again?

“I know, I didn’t give you much to go on,” Joshua said, as if in response to Sam’s thoughts. “You know, I have to admit, when your dad told me Sam was in the hospital, I was imagining a much worse situation.”

Not knowing how to answer, Sam exchanged a look with Dean, who asked, “How much do you know?”

“You’ve been having visions,” Joshua said bluntly, staring at Sam. “And they’ve been overwhelming you. They’re too much for you to handle at once.”

Sam nodded and rubbed his eyes tiredly, trying to focus his thoughts.

And Dad...why was he here? Where had he gone?

“Your dad came to me to restock.” Sam squinted in surprise at the way Joshua always seemed to guess what he was thinking. “I’ve been helping him find that demon, and when he heard about you, he asked for my help.” Joshua was still watching him but had shifted to include Dean. “I agreed; John Winchester’s gotten me out of a few tight spots over the years. But I can’t tell you where he is now.”

Dean, for some reason, didn’t seem to be as worried about that. “What about Sam? What the hell’s going on with him?”

Dad’s missing! Sam wanted to say. He knows something about the demon. We need to find him.

“No, you don’t,” Joshua told him.

Sam thought for a second that he must have spoken aloud by accident, but then Dean asked, confused, “What?”

Instantly, Sam was on his feet with a gun trained on Joshua. Dean was up, too, a split second later, but he lowered his pistol slightly and asked again, “Sam, what the...”

Ignoring him for now, Sam accused, “You’ve been reading my thoughts.” Dean looked at him, taken aback. Sam was starting to rethink the fog that had been lying over his thoughts.

“I wondered how long it would take to sink in,” Joshua answered mildly, looking far too unruffled. “To be fair, you’re not familiar with all of this, and you’re obviously not at a hundred percent. No offense. I promise I’m only trying to help you two.”

His expression was earnest, and Sam readjusted his grip, unsure.

Dean’s bafflement had worn off, and he growled, “Someone better explain what in hell’s going on. Fast. What the hell, Josh?”

Sam agreed. He had had too much recent experience with things that pulled thoughts out of people’s heads.

“I know you’re probably still shaken from the shapeshifter you met a couple of weeks back,” Joshua started, “But...”

“Stop doing that!” Sam shouted, feeling hysteria beginning to rise now. “Stop—what the hell are you?”

“I thought that would have been obvious. I’m a psychic—I hear people’s thoughts.”

Sam exchanged a look with Dean, who challenged, “Is that supposed be comforting? I mean, are you even human?”

Joshua stood slowly, hands out to the side. “You’re used to thinking of everything unusual as evil, but Dean, with everything going on with your brother, you’re going to have to rethink that.” A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped. “Why do you think your father sent you to me? I can help. And Sam, how’s your headache? It’s been gone since you got here, right?”

Sam avoided Dean’s angry you-couldn’t-have-told-me-this-earlier glare and let his gun drop a few inches. “Yeah,” he admitted after a moment’s consideration. “You’re saying...”

“There are some herbs that can help to relieve the tension in your mind. That’s your problem now, Sam. This ability’s starting to open in you and you’re fighting it so hard it’s ripping your apart. In fact, I can give you some to take with you on the road...”

“Aw, hell no!” Dean exclaimed. “I’m not...burning sage and putting some smelly hippie shit in my baby.”

Joshua lifted an eyebrow at him in amusement. “Take a sniff. You smell anything in my shop?” He paused, eyeing Dean’s gun. “Come on, kid. You’ve known me for years. Have I ever given you any reason not to trust me?”

Dean’s nostrils flared slightly, as if he were testing the air for anything remotely flowery over the stronger smell of metal and gunpowder. “Don’t call me kid,” he said petulantly in answer, but let his gun fall the rest of the way. Sam followed suit.

“Why don’t we sit back down and finish our beer,” Joshua suggested, following his own advice and looking up at them expectantly.

They exchanged a glance. Dean tilted his head at him. Sam shrugged. They both sat and laid their weapons on the table but kept them within arm’s reach.

“So,” Dean said finally, but Sam interrupted with,

“What were you talking about? ‘Relieving tension’?”

“Sounds naughty,” Dean commented.

Sam gave him a disgusted look, but Joshua, as always, seemed to find it funny. “My way of relieving tension won’t give you chlamydia, I can tell you that. It helps just being around other psychics, first. Besides that, it’s just some camphor, buchu leaves, saffron, simple things like that. Prepared right, and packaged right, they can have a real effect. Or you can drink an infusion; that works, too.”

Sam looked over the man’s shoulder and saw what looked like a gris-gris bag nestled in a corner. He narrowed his eyes. Dean was louder in his displeasure. “That’s witchcraft,” he said flatly. “Or Voodoo or something.”

Joshua tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “Well, I guess, if you want to see it that way, it’s a variant on that.”

“I hate witches.”

“Not all witchcraft is about selling your soul. It’s like a spell, yes, but just using the natural properties of natural plants. It’s no more devil-worship than laying salt. And it only affects people with some psychic ability.”

Dean blinked. “Huh.”

Sam wasn’t convinced. “What’s it doing to me?” His thoughts still weren’t totally clear, and he wasn’t sure how to separate sleep deprivation from Joshua’s home remedies.

“It opens up psychic pathways. In your case, it’s lessening the resistance you’ve been putting up against your power.” Sam consciously fought down the childish urge to move his chair closer to Dean’s. “That’s why I’ve been hearing your thoughts so clearly. I try not to invade friends’ privacy, but it’s hard for me not to hear your thoughts when you’re so open like this.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Dean announced, pushing his chair back. “You can go ahead with your new-age psychic pathways, but I don’t think this is a great idea...”

“It’ll rip him apart,” Joshua said again, to Dean this time, his voice firmer now. “This kind of power doesn’t usually awaken in someone as young as your brother. It started with dreams, didn’t it? Ones he couldn’t remember, maybe, because he was trying so hard to shield himself from it that everything was blocked off. A few years from now, his mind might be able to accept it better. But if he doesn’t learn to control it—or, at least, to deal with it—he might not get those few years.”

Dean threw a frustrated glance at Sam and another at the gris-gris bag. “And your catnip for psychics? Sam and me, we don’t do the potpourri thing.”

Sam silently agreed. Their whole lives had been built around secrets. There was little more frightening than having mental resistance, to anything, broken down.

“Just for now,” Joshua assured him. “To keep him—to keep you, Sam—sane until you’ve got a better grip on it. I’ll try to keep away from your thoughts, if that helps.”

Sam nervously clenched his fists under the table. “It’s making me drowsy,” he said, not sure whether he was protesting or just telling.

But Joshua chuckled at him. “That’s not my herbs, Sam. That’s you needing sleep.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, the gesture at once friendly and invading. “I’m not going to force you to stay. But if you can trust me, I swear I’ll help you through this.”

He swallowed and looked toward Dean, not liking the thought of having something he had to be helped through—to ‘keep him sane,’ Joshua said. Sitting here, now, he felt almost normal, but remembering the haze of exhaustion and pain and fear from the past days... What do we do, Dean?

Dean studied him and gave him a slight nod before asking Joshua, “I never knew you were...uh, psychic. My dad knows?” Digging again—wouldn’t their dad have told them?

Then again, Sam thought, who knows? How much did he ever tell us?

“I’m not the only one he knows, either,” Joshua answered. “There’s a woman he used to go to, in Kansas. She’s the one who told him about what’s out there in the dark in the first place.”

Sam wondered if he would have told his dad about his dreams earlier if he’d known psychics were real, and that his dad was friends with some. He wondered if it would have made any difference at all.

“Then why you?” Dean pressed. “Why not her, if he’s so friendly with her?”

Joshua shrugged. “You really wanted to drive all the way out there?” Dean looked more disturbed at the idea than Sam could account for, but nodded once, conceding. “And, besides...Missouri Mosely—the woman in Kansas—is the more powerful psychic, but I deal with demons a lot more than she does. He was in the area when you called him. And...there’s this.” He stood and pulled something out of a drawer.

Sam stopped breathing and felt Dean freeze beside him.

“He left this with me.” He dropped the leather-bound book on the table.

“That’s...” Sam started, “...that’s not his journal?”

Something was wrong. No way Dad would leave his journal here.

Dean reached for it slowly without a word.

“Asked me to give it to you,” Joshua said, unperturbed. “He said you’d know what to do with it.” When Dean’s eyes snapped back to his face, he shrugged. “Maybe he left a message in there for you.”

Dean opened the book and flipped through until a page caught his eye. He looked at Joshua for a long moment, then said, “We need to talk about this,” he said, indicating Sam with his head. “In private.”

“I understand,” Joshua said, spreading his hands in front of him. “Let me know what you decide.”

Dean didn’t speak until they were inside the Impala. “Don’t want him yanking thoughts out of your head,” he explained curtly.

The only thing Sam could think to say was, “Dad never goes anywhere without his journal.”

“I know.” Dean was still staring at that page.

“Well, how do you think Joshua got a hold of it?”

“I think Dad left it with him. For us.”

“What? You think he actually...” Dean tossed the book onto his lap, and Sam trailed off as the writing registered.

DEAN

38-118

Dean. Not Sam.

He realized the thought was unreasonable as soon as it formed and shook it off quickly.

“Could he have faked it?”

“No way—look at the way that corner’s folded down—”

“Yeah, I see it.” Dad’s handwriting, Dad’s codes upon codes upon codes.

“Maps—” Dean said, but Sam had already reached into the glove compartment. As he looked for the right one, he saw Dean holding his cell phone to his ear.

“Who the hell’re you calling now?”

“Bobby,” he said tersely. “Just look up the damn coord— Bobby? It’s Dean Wincheter.”

Sam listened to the one-sided conversation as he opened the map. “I know what time it...yeah, sorry about that, but we really need to ask...no, not Dad, Sammy’s with me...uh huh. Listen, you know a lot of hunters, right? What do you know about Joshua Smithley? I know, Bobby, just humor me, okay...”

It didn’t take him long to find the place on the map, and he’d paged through some of Dad’s journal by the time Dean said, “Alright. Call me if you hear from Dad, will you? Tha—” He pulled the phone a few inches away from his ear and grimaced; Sam could hear Bobby Singer’s voice bellowing through. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, next time I wake you up in the middle of the night I’ll let you shoot me...Thanks, Bobby.”

Dean snapped the phone shut and said, “Bobby says Josh is on the straight and narrow.” He looked like he wanted to believe it.

“Does he know about...?”

“The Zelda Rubenstein thing? Looks like we were the only ones not in on the secret. Yeah, he’s the real deal.” Gesturing at the journal, he asked, “So, where’s Dad want us to go?”

“Here,” Sam said. “The coordinates point Hawthorne, Nevada. Practically right where we’re sitting.”

Dean gave the short laugh that meant he was nervous and didn’t want it to show. “Well, Cassandra, not hard to figure out what that means.”

Sam tightened his grip on the map. “Joshua’s in Dad’s journal, too, as one of the people he contacted about a demon at one point or another.” He hesitated. “We need to find out more about that demon; we need to find Dad,” he said, but heard the uncertainty in his own voice. “But if Joshua knows something about—maybe even this demon in particular—”

“Hey, slow down there, Sammy. One thing at a time. Dad wants us here.”

Sam knew he was right, but part of him couldn’t help resenting this—the orders with no reason, no explanation...it didn’t make sense.

Nothing about this makes sense.

“You can’t tell me you’re not wondering too, Dean. Whatever’s going on—it’s gotten personal.” Jess and Dean’s bodies, pinned against the wall, were still imprinted in his mind, and he winced at the image.

Dean didn’t miss it. “How’s your head?”

They’d only been outside for a matter of minutes, and the throbbing had snuck back, not nearly as bad as before, but building slowly. He didn’t answer, knowing it was answer enough. He sighed. “What do we do, then?”

Like before, when they were little kids. Dean would know what to do.

Dean looked from Sam’s face to the journal, over the Smithley Arms, and back to him. “We’ll see what Josh has in mind,” he decided. “Bobby says he checks out; Dad’s telling us to stay here.” His voice became gruffer. “Better than having you pass out on me, anyway.”

More reassured than he wanted to admit, Sam nodded. “Okay.” He refolded the map and threw it back into the glove compartment.

Dean caught his arm as he made to get out of the car. “Sam. Be careful.”

“I know,” he said, peering at his brother’s darkened face to see what he was really trying to say. “I think he’s alright, but we’ll both be on guard...”

“Maybe.” Dean rubbed at the stubble on his chin, looking torn. “I like Josh; always seemed like a good guy when me and Dad went to him. I just...I don’t like the idea of him being able to see into your damn head. That’s all.”

Sam exhaled. “Yeah, you and me both.” He waited to see if Dean would change his mind. After a minute, Dean shook his head and said, “What the hell. It’s not like we’ve got an urgent hunt lined up or anything. Might as well take a free place to crash for a few nights.”

He got out of the car and grabbed his duffel bag from the backseat. Sam followed, nearly forgetting again that his own bag wasn’t there.

The throbbing lessened and tapered off as soon as they walked through the door. Sam was relieved, and then troubled that he felt so relieved.

Joshua was still sitting at the table when they opened the still unlocked door. “How long will this take?” Dean asked without prelude. The older man didn’t look surprised.

“A few days, at least, to get a feel for it. Much longer if you want to really master it, but once you know what you’re looking for, you can work on it on your own.”

Sam wasn’t sure that he wanted to ‘master’ anything. He’d settle for halting the headaches and learning how to get a few hours of sleep each night. Then they could look for...

Joshua looked significantly out the window. “We should start tomorrow, after you’ve gotten some sleep. Both of you,” he added, looking at Dean. “It would be best at first if Sam stays here; I’ve got a couch in the spare room he can crash on. There’s a motel a couple of blocks...”

“I’m staying with my brother,” Dean said immediately.

Something flickered in Joshua’s expression, but he nodded. “I understand. I’ll bring some extra blankets for you, then.” He began to turn, then stopped. “Dean...I realize this is...unusual for you...for both of you.”

“Understatement of the friggin’ year,” Dean scoffed.

“But believe me, I’m only trying to...” He sighed. “You trusted me before; I’m just asking for the benefit of the doubt here.”

Sam watched his brother, knowing how much Dean thought of the older hunter. He nodded eventually. “Yeah, I know, Josh. Thanks.” His expression had softened fractionally, but he didn’t relax his stance, still standing firmly a few steps in front of Sam. It wasn’t lost on Joshua, who quirked a small, somewhat sad smile.

“You’re really...you’re like me?” Sam asked, wanting confirmation again. “You’ve done this before?”

Joshua paused. “I do know what you’re going through, yes,” he said. “As for the rest...our situations are different. There’s quite a bit to explain—a lot you need to know.”

“And...I won’t have any dreams if I sleep?”

“I can’t guarantee that,” he said, looking sorry. “Visions—if they come, they won’t hit as hard. But dreams are another thing entirely.”

A feeling of alarm rose, and he wasn’t sure whether it was at the idea of dreams or the fact that Joshua’s bag of herbs was leaving his brain open to anything—that Joshua might be able to see every detail of his dreams.

More disconcerted than ever, he imagined forcibly pulling his thoughts as far into his own head as possible, as if it would somehow stop the other man from reading them.

A sudden spike of pain stopped him with a gasp. Joshua frowned and put a hand on his arm. “Stop fighting it, Sam; that’s not how to go about doing this. Just let yourself get some rest first. I know you’re scared—but relax for now. There’ll be plenty of time for this tomorrow. Go on,” he said. “You must be exhausted.”

The other room was a little smaller, behind a door leading away from the small kitchen next to Joshua’s room. Dean wordlessly handed him the salt—just in case, his eyes said—and Sam lay a thick line in front of the door. No windows, so put the jar away and watched his brother check his gun.

“There’s holy water in the flask.”

It really couldn’t get much more secure than a building full of weapons owned by a hunter, which no doubt had countless protections on it already. “Dean...”

“Sam.” His voice brooked no argument, so Sam rummaged through the bag for the iron flask.

His fingers caught on something first. Tugging on it carefully—Dean had never been big on organization—he found himself holding Dean’s rosary in his hand.

And that was another thing lost. Gone in the first or left behind in a room he’d never go back to—it didn’t really matter.

(“...a reminder of your faith in the Lord,” Pastor Jim said.)

Sam choked off a laugh and put the rosary away before Dean’s sharp gaze caught him. He gave the water flask a shake to judge how much was left and, out of habit, unscrewed the top and dipped a finger inside. He frowned.

“Dean, are you sure you did this right?”

“Huh,” Dean said, reaching around to the pocket of his jacket. “That must be the wrong one. Here, this one should work.” He tossed another, smaller flask.

Sam caught it, shook out a drop, and felt the gentle, tingling warmth that told him the water was blessed. “What was that,” he asked as he screwed the cap back on, “a test?”

A few moments passed before Dean answered, but when he did his voice was light and unconcerned. “Just keeping you on your toes, Sammy.”

Sam hesitated in front of the couch, looking at the small pallet of blankets spread nearby. Before he could move, Dean had shrugged off his jacket and claimed the spot on the floor. “You don’t mind...?”

“I don’t need a plushy bed to fall asleep, you pansy,” Dean said and climbed into the blankets.

The part of Sam that longed to be an adult felt guilty, knowing Dean would always put his own comfort last. The selfish part—the part that still felt like a scared little kid running after Dean’s coattails—was too busy feeling protected to argue.

Once Sam had settled, too, as much as the too-short sofa would allow, he listened for the slight rustle that would mean Dean was asleep, unable as always to stay motionless, even in sleep. The unusual stillness he heard in its place told him Dean was still awake.

He waited, staving off beckoning sleep, until his brother’s voice floated up: “You okay?”

He sighed.

“’Cause if you’re gonna cry, I’ll move somewhere quieter to catch some z’s...”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

A silence. Then, “Sammy. I’m sorry about...you know. School and shit.”

Sam was sorry that he couldn’t think of Jess without remembering the terror in her eyes as she watched the flames burning. Sorry that he’d tried normal and failed—hadn’t lasted the academic quarter before he’dfailed. Sorry that he’d run back to Dean but lost Dad, that he was finally falling asleep in his brother’s presence again and feeling more confused than he’d ever been.

He didn’t answer.

“You know we’re gonna find Dad, right?” Dean said. “As soon as we get all this spoon-bending business sorted out.”

“You...you really think he’ll know what to do?”

“Of course. Dad’s been doing this our whole lives. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah,” Sam said after a beat. “Okay.”

“...So you’re...?”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Sam thought briefly about sending a prayer skyward to whoever the hell might be listening. Instead, he curled tighter and positioned his head so that Dean’s unmoving lump under the blankets was clearly visible, and he finally dropped off to sleep to the sound of his brother’s steady breathing.

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Chapter 10