Finding Home (11/?)

[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: Gen.

Notes:

1. Lots of explanation/talking here.  Important to the plot, but a little slow...bear with me please.
2. I hope no one minds that Caleb, who doesn’t have a surname in canon (I think), is named as Caleb Reeve here in tribute to the Brotherhood AU ‘verse.  It’s literally just a name that gets dropped; the character shouldn’t ever even show up in my story.

 

Chapter 10

XXXXX

 

“You know how hunters talk.”

 

“No, actually.  We don’t.”

 

(“Bloodlust”)

 

XXXXX

 

“So tell me again why I can’t watch whatever the hell you two are doing all day?”

 

“Sam needs to be able to do this on his own, with or without you.”

 

“You’re saying I’d distract him or something?”

 

“No, not that—I think he depends on you too much for support.”

 

Dean snorted.  “Sure.”  Sam depended on himself and not much else.

 

Josh slid a sheet of paper across the table toward him.  “Do these ring any bells?”

 

Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, “What’s all this?”

 

“Your brother blocked out most of the visions he’s had, but he’s been able to pull out a few names and images.  Usually people have premonitions about things that have something to do with themselves, so I thought something might be familiar to you.”

 

The hastily scribbled words weren’t Sam’s handwriting—Josh’s, obviously.  Most of the paper was covered in single words or fragments of phrases. 

 

Twins, was the first one, followed by, Blonde woman—jumped off bridge. 

Killed  cat by touch. 

Blonde woman—knife through eye. 

Man—died in car (garage). 

Woman (dark hair)—ceiling, fire. 

Man—killed by fiancé.

 

That would suck.

 

Man—decapitated by window. 

 

Ah, right, that one.  Dean thought it was a little comforting that Sam’s brain wasn’t screwed up enough to make up a dream on its own about a window-turned-guillotine.

 

The rest was in the same vein.  “These are cheery,” he said.  “There’s not enough to go on, here—he didn’t have any more details about the people or anything?”

 

Josh shook his head.  “That’s it, at least for now.  Sam didn’t recognize any of them, either, but I’ll try again with him later.”

 

“Well, it doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“Are you talking about one part in particular or...?”

 

Dean shook his head.  “Yeah, good point.”  He glanced at the adjoining room where Sam was sleeping.  “This demon...it went after Sam and those other kids.”

 

“It seems likely,” Josh said. 

 

“But why?  I mean, why psychics?”  And then, what he’d been wondering since the night before, “Were you—are you one of...?”

 

“Nope.  I’m just your normal, everyday mind reader.”

 

Hah.  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.  So what made Sam and the others different?”  What made them targets?

 

“I don’t—”

 

“Make a guess.”  Guesswork seemed to be Josh’s specialty.  He was good at it, maybe, but still.

 

“The only thing I can think of is...power.  Normally...I’m strong enough to sense emotions and catch a few phrases from people’s thoughts, but what I’ve heard of the demon’s kids—what I’ve seen from Sam—is a lot more than that.  Maybe he’s planning to use them somehow.”

 

The demon’s kids.  Not the phrase Dean would have picked.

 

“What exactly have you seen from Sam?  I’ve been going batshit sitting in that room while you two do your Jedi mind tricks.”

 

It had only been four in the afternoon when Sam collapsed onto the couch.  Josh had followed with a couple of aspirin, and Sam had fallen asleep faster than Dean had ever seen in his life.

 

“Your brother’s a quick study,” Josh said.  As if Dean didn’t know that already.  “You have to understand:  for him, it’s like having another level of access in his brain.  He needs to learn how to tell which thoughts are purely his own and which are related to his visions.  It’s not as obvious or as easy as you’d assume.”

 

“But he can stop them?” Dean asked.

 

Josh frowned.  “This isn’t something that just goes away, kid.  Like it or not, this is part of Sam.”

 

Dean swiped a hand over his face in frustration.  “Well, I don’t like it.  I like things I can shoot.”

 

Josh grinned wryly.  “Oh, come on, kid.  You like your brother, don’t you?”

 

“Well, sometimes I want to shoot him, too.”

 

He laughed outright at that.  “What are brothers for?”  Sobering, he said, “Sam asked me the same thing, actually.  He grasped the concept well enough, but he’s still trying to push away everything that feels foreign.  Premonitions are tricky that way—it starts out as a more passive ability than, say, telekinesis or telepathy.  You have to give up some control while still holding onto what makes you yourself.”

 

“Sam must hate that—such a control freak.”

 

“Not unlike your dad,” Josh commented.

 

Dean shrugged uncomfortably.  “Either way, at least maybe now he’ll stop thinking that he’ll start rampaging and hurting people.  Can’t exactly kill with a vision.”  When Josh didn’t answer, he pushed, “Right?”

 

“Some of the other children I told you about...well, take the girl who killed herself in jail, for instance.  One guard insisted afterwards that they’d tried to get in and stop her, but kept getting blocked by flying objects.”

 

“Sounds like they were covering their asses.”

 

“Maybe,” Josh conceded noncommittally.  “But...”

 

“But you don’t think so,” Dean sighed.  “This girl could do more than one thing, then.  And you think Sam...?”

 

“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.  Perhaps that’s why the demon chose them:  it knew they had more potential than most.”

 

Dean pushed his chair back a few inches.  “Great.”  After thinking this over, he shook his head.  “I still don’t get it.  Why would the demon be flipping on the switch in these kids now?  If they can’t handle it and end up killing themselves...I mean, what’s the point?”

 

Josh chewed thoughtfully on his lip.  “I think...it’s trying to test them.”

 

Dean’s skin prickled.  “A test,” he repeated.

 

“To see who makes it,” Josh clarified.  “To see who’s stronger.  Survival of the fittest.”

 

“Fittest for what?”

 

Josh shook his head.  “I don’t have a clue there.  Wish I did.”

 

Dean took a long sip of his drink.  Squinting at the bottle, he debated silently with himself and then asked, “Hey, Josh.  You know a lot about demons...does holy water work on anything besides them?”

 

He looked surprised at the question.  “It shouldn’t.  Why?”

 

“There was this shapeshifter that went after Sam, and he swears holy water burned it.”

 

Josh frowned in thought.  “Was it possessed?”

 

“Posses—Can they even be possessed?”

 

“Not in the usual sense,” Josh said, “but sometimes, especially when you’re dealing with higher demons, they can piggyback on a creature’s consciousness somewhat.  Especially if the creature’s a willing host.”

 

“Higher demons?  What the fuck; there’s a pecking order?”  And they have these freaks of nature as serving them?

 

“Yes, that much we know.  And it looks like this demon here is definitely somewhere pretty high up.”

 

“That’s...comforting.”  Dean hesitated, then asked carefully, “You ever hear of something that was affected by holy water, but not burnt or even really hurt by it?”

 

With a suspicious gaze, Josh said, slowly, “I’ve heard of a few cases.  Humans, usually, or so they seemed.  Some hunters who specialize in exorcisms get influenced by being around demons so much and claim to be able to tell the difference from tap water.  And then there are legends of part-demons—half-bloods—although no one’s ever verified them.  But...”

 

“But what?”

 

“Well, it’s hard to say, really.  All demons were human once, you know, centuries ago, so—”

 

“Whoa...you’re fucking with me, right?”  Dean said incredulously.  “They’re nothing like humans.”

 

“Don’t be so sure,” Josh said.  “Imagine someone—a human—who died, went to hell, and then crawled back out...with a little less compassion than before.  A little more greed and lust for power.  More hate and anger and love for war.  Is it so hard to believe?”

 

The worst part was that Dean could imagine it all too easily—hell, he didn’t understand half the time how twisted people could be.  Still...  “People can’t do half the shit demons can do.”

 

“No?  A disturbed teenager set his school on fire by thinking it.  Your brother can see the future and who knows what else.  It’s not a huge leap to think these gifts and hidden abilities could be subverted, amplified, perverted after death.”

 

“My brother wouldn’t hunt anyone,” Dean said resolutely.  “Hell, Sammy practically feels guilty killing werewolves.”

 

Josh raised his hand as if in surrender.  “I’m not saying he would.  I’m just saying—the line’s thinner than you think.  For anyone.”

 

Dean shook his head with a low whistle.  “Jesus, Josh.  How the hell do you know all this?”

 

“No one understands demons, kid, not really. What makes a person evil, what happens after languishing so long in hell, what rules govern them. Maybe I'm wrong about demons and their origins, although that is what we believe, those of us who study demons.  This is what I do: I’m not a hunter in the usual sense, but I was raised by one and I do what I can to help. Research, studying the lore. Learning.”

 

“That’s why Dad used to talk to you so much, huh?”  When he only got a shrug in reply, he continued, “And he...he really didn’t tell you anything about where he went?”

 

Josh shook his head.  “No.  I’m sorry, kid; he didn’t say.”

 

He nodded.  Fine.  Dad would contact them when he could.

 

When he drained the last of his drink, he stood and stretched.  Before moving toward the room where Sam was sleeping, though, he asked, “Uh, Josh.  You, uh...You’re not listening to everything I’m thinking, are you?”  Because that would be beyond disturbing. 

 

Although...if Dean could read minds, he’d totally be taking a look into people’s heads.  Sam, for one.  That waitress in the diner down the street, for another.

 

Amused, Josh answered, “I like to respect people’s privacy, and I wasn’t kidding when I said it takes some effort for me.  I was just trying to prove a point last night, with Sam.  Besides, it’s easier with him.  You’ve got a really hard block on your thoughts.”

 

“Meaning...?”

 

“I suppose you haven’t had any training before...”

 

Yeah, right.  Like he was going to sit in place for hours breathing deep or some shit like that.

 

“...so I’ve been assuming it’s a charm or something.  Your father carried one around with him.”

 

Cocking his head, Dean’s thoughts snagged on the amulet he wore around his neck.  He’d thought when he was little that it was charmed somehow, since it came from Bobby, but he’d never been sure.  Without reaching for it, he grunted, “Huh.”

 

He couldn’t deny a bit of relief that, whatever abilities Sam developed, Dean’s mind would stay his own.

 

XXXXX

 

“Do you ever get tired of this, Joshua?” Sam asked on their third day at Smithley Arms as he took another sip of the (truly disgusting) tea that Caleb had been making him drink.  “Spending your life paranoid that some demon’ll get past your salt lines?”

 

Joshua didn’t answer; he looked searchingly at Sam instead.  Sam grimaced, trying to focus enough to find Joshua’s foreign presence in his mind and push it away.  “Stop that.  I’m serious.”

 

“You’re getting better,” the other man said.

 

“Yeah, hopped up on this...buchu leaf cocktail and whatever’s in here.”  Saturated with the stuff (if only he still had his laptop, or library access, he could find out exactly what the hell the stuff even was) it wasn’t hard to sense when something was off in his mind, but trying to fix it still brought an ache behind his eyes.

 

“It’ll be very different when you’re on your own,” Joshua warned.  “But, to be honest, sometimes the most important part is knowing how to keep your mind separate without forcing a block that’ll just crumble and crash eventually.  And know that it’s real and you’re not hallucinating.”

 

“I’m not psychotic, just psychic,” Sam deadpanned, then laughed at how absurd that sounded.

 

“Sam—”

 

“Sorry.  I’ll manage.  Josh, about what I was asking—”

 

“Do you remember any more of your visions from before?”

 

Sam sighed and played along.  “Just those same people I don’t recognize.  One of them was Matt or Max or Mac something.  I don’t even have a name or anything for the others.”

 

“That could easily have been all,” Joshua told him.  “Visions tend to be scrambled and in pieces in the beginning.”

 

“Tell me about it.” 

 

“Sam, I know this is hard.  For you and your brother more than most, maybe.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You two are...unusual for hunters.  Most people only get into this life because of a tragedy—a loved one dying, for instance.  ”

 

He stiffened defensively.  “And our mom’s death isn’t tragic enough for you?”

 

“It is to for dad,” Joshua said, unperturbed.  “For your brother, too, as much as he really remembers of her.  But I don’t think it is for you.”

 

Indignation boiled up hot.  “Excuse me?”

 

Joshua stood and emptied the dregs of his teacup into the sink before reclaiming his chair.  “Sam, I’ve known your dad since I was Dean’s age.  I know how hard your mother’s death hit him.  It’s enough to drive a man to hunting, looking for answers.  But you and your brother?  Yes, that event might have been the catalyst.  But you—and Dean, especially—hunt because of your dad, not because of your mom.”

 

There was nothing to say to that; Sam had spat the same sentiments at both Dean and Dad, if not in so many words.

 

“You and Dean are something of a contradiction in our world.  Not many people can claim to be as well-trained as you, and certainly not so young.  At the same time, you’re...sheltered.”

 

“Sheltered?  I’ve known about the supernatural since I was eight.”

 

“I don’t mean from the things you hunt so much as from other hunters.”

 

Furrowing his brow, Sam said, “I don’t follow.”

 

“How many hunters do you know, Sam?  Besides your family.”

 

“You,” he said, thinking.  “Bobby Singer, Jim Murphy.  Um.  I met Caleb Reeve, once.  Dean’s probably met a couple others.  Why?”

 

“Three, maybe four others.  Sam, our numbers aren’t huge, but we do form a community, of sorts.  Hunters know each other, or at least know of each other.  You and your brother...you’re probably better at what you do than most people twice or three times your age, but you’re really out of the loop.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“If you knew more of us, you’d realize how rare it is to have hunters who were literally raised to hunt instead of stumbling into it.  You and Dean put together know a good bit.  But no one knows enough to go through life hunting without help.  Your dad found himself some mentors and allies—some you’ve probably never even heard of, much less met.  You don’t survive long on your own, not in this job.”

 

Not everyone survives long even with help.  “So, what, we should make friends with more hunters?”

 

“No...I wouldn’t advise that, exactly.”

 

“Then...”

“You need people you can trust; there’s a difference.  Especially...”  Joshua sighed, looking tired.  “Not everyone takes kindly to the idea of a psychic.  Your brother was ready to waste me, and I’ve known him since he was a kid.”

 

Sam had been, too; he’d raised the gun first, in fact.  “Yeah, uh...Josh, I’m sorry for the way we...”

 

“It’s understandable, Sam—you stay alert if you want to stay alive.  And I do think it was more about the possible threat to you than it was about generalized prejudice against psychics.”

 

“So you think I should keep quiet about all this.”

 

“Don’t go announcing it, anyway.  Your dad kept hunters away from his children to protect them.  You’re not children anymore, but you can’t let your guard down; you and your brother are on your own for now, and you’ll need to make absolutely sure you know who to trust.”

 

Sam stared into his teacup as if answers were there.  “So you think my dad knew about me?  These visions?”

 

Joshua paused in thought.  “Not necessarily.  John Winchester played his hand close to his chest—”  Sam huffed a laugh in agreement— “but I don’t think he really knew for certain.”

 

“But you said hunters...”

 

“I said hunters know other hunters.  I didn’t say all of them are people you want to know.  Practically every one of them is in this life for revenge..  We do a lot of good—I do believe that—but most of us are driven by the very things we claim to fight:  rage, obsession, hubris.  The desire to preserve good isn’t as strong as the desire to inflict pain on whatever hurt us to begin with.”

 

“But if that helps to get through it...what does it matter what the motivation is, if the effect is the same?”  Kill the evil—period.

 

“It matters because...  There aren’t any set rules to hunting, Sam; we work based on right and wrong and to hell with the law, because we know better, don’t we.  But sometimes right and wrong aren’t as clear as black and white, and when they disagree, it can get nasty.”

 

“I’m sure there are some hunters who get fanatical and act like lawless vigilantes, but I’ve never actually heard of...”

 

“You won’t hear of many hunters who’ve gone over the edge, because one of us will hear about it fast and put a stop to it.”

 

“...And when you say ‘put a stop to it,’ you mean...”

 

“I mean we do whatever it takes to keep our corner of the world safe; that’s what this whole game’s about.  A rogue hunter’s bad news, and dangerous.”

 

Sam shivered.  “That’s...pretty cold.”

 

“That’s how it works, Sam.  So you’d better know damn well who your allies are.  Even then, there’s a reason why we work alone most of the time.”

 

Is that what  family is to most hunters—a network of people they trust not to kill them?

 

“Hunting’s not exactly a family business,” Joshua said, a glint in his eye.  “You’d have to be crazy or dysfunctional in a big way to think it is.  It’s one of the reasons you Winchesters stand out.” 

 

“Shit,” Sam muttered, closing his eyes and pushing back the mental probe that was Joshua picking his brain.  At least the exercise distracted him from thinking about the words..

 

Looking at him sideways, Joshua nodded in satisfaction, then asked, “And...lawless vigilantes?  Really, Sam...what is it you think we are?”

 

He’d gone to school hoping to study law.  Hah.  How things change.

 

“Let’s get back on track,” Joshua said briskly, breaking him from that line of thought.  “Have you been able to initiate a vision deliberately?”

 

Sam shook his head.  Whatever the man said about ‘use your gift to you advantage, Sam,’ he couldn’t imagine actually wanting to elicit a vision on his own; especially since they didn’t seem to make much sense once he had them.  “I’ve tried—” (halfheartedly) “—but I can’t get anything.  Maybe I’m doing something wrong; I’m still not sure I understand exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”

 

Joshua was frowning, but then said, “That could just be the form your ability takes.  Your visions might simply come on involuntarily, rather than at your command.”

 

On the other hand, involuntarily didn’t sound all that appealing, either.

 

“Take a break.  It’s time we stopped for lunch, anyway.”

 

Sam nodded.  Curious, he asked, “How do you do it?  I mean, other hunters know you’re psychic, and...”  And no one’s wasted you, yet.

 

Joshua looked surprised.  “Why do you think that?” 

 

Sam thought it would be in bad taste to say, We didn’t really trust you, so we called someone to see if there was any dirt on you, so he shrugged. 

 

Luckily, Joshua continued.  “Most hunters think I’m just a guy who sells guns.  There are only a few I trust.  Singer, for one—that man knows about everyone in this business.  Your dad, of course.  Harvelle, before he passed.  Murphy.”

 

“Pa—Jim Murphy?  I thought he’d be more...inflexible about good and evil.”

 

Tilting his head to the side, Joshua asked, “Why?  Because he’s a religious man?”

 

Sam opened his mouth to deny that he’d been thinking that, then closed it, because he kind of had.  “I guess.  That’s not fair, I know.”

 

“Well, God-fearing people have had a hand in their share of mankind’s...less proud moments in history, but then, they’ve done their share of good, too.  Jim Murphy’s in a difficult situation:  as a hunter, he can’t take things just on faith; as a religious leader, sometimes he has to.”

 

Sam walked to the sink to dump the remains of his tea-sludge down the drain, then turned around, leaning back against the stove.  “I...I just don’t get how he does it.”

 

Joshua didn’t stand but continued to study his expression.  “There’s nothing wrong with having faith, as long as you don’t lose objectivity because of it.”

 

“But with what we see every day...  I mean, there’s just...chaos.  Violence, and random, unpredictable evil.  Where’s God in that?”

 

“I don’t have an answer for you, Sam.  I can’t show you hard proof and say for sure whether God exists or not.”

 

Sam looked past Joshua and out the window, where all he could see of his brother was a pair of legs protruding from under the Impala.  “Dean would say that’s proof enough.”

 

“Your brother does have faith, you know.”

 

Sam quirked an eyebrow.  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.”

 

“Not in God, no; you’re right about that.  But there are other things he trusts, always, things he would believe in without a shred of evidence.”

 

He searched Joshua’s face, not understanding until...  “Dad,” he said. 

 

A blind faith, Sam thought, but maybe there was no other kind.

 

Joshua inclined his head.  “Probably.  He believes in other things, as well, I think.”  Sam broke off his gaze first.  “And what about you, Sam?  Do you believe?”

 

Sam thought about the rosary, lost or forgotten four hundred miles away, and the other one he’d stuffed away from sight in his brother’s duffel bag.

 

Then his eyes drifted back to the window, where Dean was now standing to pop the trunk of his car.  A practiced hand reached out to jam a shotgun upright under the top, propping it open.  As he watched, Dean sifted through the mess, extracted something, and tied it deftly so that it dangled.  When he looked more carefully, he could make out the details of the dreamcatcher.

 

Sam let out a breath.  “Huh,” he said softly.  “Yeah.  I guess I do.”

 

XXXXX

 

Chapter 12