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Visions sucked.
Sam never thought he’d have the intimate knowledge to say that. He had always known he wasn’t normal, always had a soft niggling voice at the back of his mind that fed the small sense of wrongness in the pit of his stomach. He thought he would grow out of it. He wished he would grow out of it. Thirty plus years later proved the voice right.
It had been years - centuries - since he had one last, but Sam never forgot the feeling. The way his limbs started feeling weightless, the world just a tad brighter than should be. The Trials set an ache in his bones, weighed him down. He felt the floor beneath his feet more these days, as if it were trying to drag him under. As if to remind him he was a dead man walking. The thought amused him - would that be his third of fourth death?
Sam gripped the butter knife tighter and willed his body to weigh down again. The weightless feeling crawled up his arms in defiance of his control. It mocked his control. The tingling sensation began at the back of his head, marching relentlessly over his forehead. His breath hitched as he put the knife back in the almond butter jar and brought a hand up to rub at his temple. He squeezed his eyes shut, braced himself against the kitchen counter and prayed it would be short.
Visions. Sucked.
Pain blossomed between his eyes. The counter dug into his the small of his back as he stumbled against it. He groaned softly, rearranging his legs on a floor that wouldn’t stop moving. He swore he could feel the air currents on his body shove him off balance only to blow the other direction to keep him steady. The normally soft shuffle of Dean’s slippers across the wood floor reverberated in his skull. He made the mistake of opening his eyes to watch three versions of Dean in the stolen bathrobe lean against the kitchen door.
“What’s up with you?” The casual, grumpy morning question faded and pulsed behind Sam’s eyes.
The ball of pain between his eyes quickly spread, his vision whirled. He swore he heard someone say his brother’s name. He thought it might have been him.
Colors blend and twist. Voices echo around. Screams. Silence. Ragged breath.
“Aww, don’t be mean, that’s no way to treat your friend, is it?”
Blonde hair, shark smile, blinding white teeth, black eyes
A shrill scream brings malicious laughter.
The man cracks his neck. The knife sparkles under the diner lights.
“I guess he’s not anymore.”
Laughter again. Blood drips off a dinner table. Ripped booth bleeds stuffing. A body hangs over the cheerful Biggerson’s sign.
“Just tell us where the boy is.”
A whimper.
“I can just make you tell me, but where’s the fun in that?”
A scream.
A name.
“Sammy?”
“Sam!”
Sam felt the world snap back into place. He groaned at his brother’s voice, feeling it settle against the ache in his temples.
“You with me, Sam?”
Sam scrunched his nose and made a noncommittal noise. The light already too bright on his eyelids.
“C’mon man, that’s it.”
Dean’s voice softened, more a whisper. Sam could hear worry and fear laced in the encouraging words that continued to come as he worked his eyes open. He hissed and curled a hand over his eyes. He could feel Dean’s smile. He groaned again and tried words.
“What happened?” He knew this was what he meant to say, but what he heard was slurred beyond recognition to his own ears.
“You tell me. You’re here making something to eat and then you go down.” Dean paused, loosening his hold on Sam’s arms. “It’s like when you had your Shining.”
Sam huffed a laugh devoid of humour. “It felt like it, too. God.”
Dean was quiet for a long moment. Sam glimpsed at his pensive face between the cracks in his finger. He belatedly realized he was on the ground propped against the cupboards under the sink. The handle dug into his shoulder blades.
“You want to talk about it?”
Sam really didn’t.
-------------------------------------------------
Sam talked about it anyway.
After the headache faded away. After he had lunch and after his head was comfortably settled on his brother’s thigh on the memory foam bed with Dean’s fingers carding through his hair.
“So, you think your Shining’s back?”
“Yes. No. Maybe?” Sam sighed. “I don’t know, Dean. It felt like it.”
“You think these Trail things are kicking things loose?”
Sam tightened his lips. If he agreed, he knew his brother would try to talk him out of completing the Trails. He had to finish them. He was good enough. He was capable enough. He racked his brain to find the right response, quickening his pace at the fine tremors of impatience he could feel under his head. He sighed.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t like it.”
Sam huffed. “Of course you don’t.”
“I’m serious, Sam. It’s been how how many years since this stuff went away? And how many things were connected to the Yellow-Eyed Demon? It just ain’t right.”
Sam frowned and closed his eyes to count the years. “I haven’t had any since after I…” ' I died.’ The unspoken words hung in the air between them.
“Yeah.” Dean agreed gruffly after too many moments.
“Look, Dean, maybe it was just a fluke?”
Dean huffed. “Yeah, sure. When is it ever just a ‘fluke’ with us?”
Sam pulled himself up slowly to sit and look at Dean, a soft plea in his voice. “Dean.”
Dean scowled and threw his hands up. “I’m just sayin’, Sammy. Our track record ain’t too good in this department.”
Sam licked his lower lip, looking intently on the sheets between his fingers as he summoned the proper words. “Let’s just call it a fluke. Sure, maybe the Trails sparked something--” Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sam steamrolled over him. “BUT, we don’t know for sure. We’ll look into it. Scour the news feeds tomorrow, okay? I’m tired.”
Dean smirked and ran his hand up Sam’s denim clad thigh. “Not too tired?”
Sam wasn’t too tired.
---------------------------------------------------
Sam was so tired.
Despite Sam’s desperate wish for the vision to be a fever dream - and how weird was it in his life that would have been better? - they found the massacre in his vision a state over. Dean had griped about missing his bed as soon as they checked into a motel room but quickly calmed down back to business. They found sulfur at the scene, moods sobering at the confirmation of the vision. A very torn photograph was also left at the scene. They wrapped it in a plastic bag and left when their examination was over, unable to make any sense of this particular killing.
They stayed for a few days, following their normal pattern. It was frustrating when no new evidence showed itself. Outside the sulfur at the scene, they found nothing. The photograph piece was useless. Nothing could be gleaned from the wood background and the top of someone’s black hair - it was utterly generic. They argued on whether to stay. Not all hunts were active hunts.
“I don’t get it.” Sam threw his dufflebag in the trunk of the Impala with a frown. “It’s definitely our kind of thing.”
“Gotta strike out sometime, Sammy.” Dean slammed the trunk shut, heading back into the motel to finish packing.
“I know, Dean. It’s just-” Sam winced mid-sentence, raising a hand to stop the ant crawl at his temple with a hiss.
“Just what?”
“It’s just weird, you - you know?” Sam squeezed his eyes shut to alleviate some of the pressure between his eyes.
“Yeah, well, welcome to our lives.” Dean turned with a sarcastic smirk, pausing as he noticed Sam’s expression. “Sam?”
“Yeah, yeah, just gimme a sec.” Sam leaned his hip heavily against the Impala.
“Sammy!”
“I’m com-”
Colors twist. A box of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese crunches under black boots. Ragged breath.
“Where is he?”
Same blonde hair. Furrowed pierced brow. Teeth snap.
The world shifts. Shakes. Tension vibrates in the air.
“I don’t know!”
Scared. Blood. Scream.
“He was just here!”
Clipped tones. Annoyance.
“I-I don’t know! I just-just work nights, man!”
Annoyed huff. Bones snap. Another scream. The Mobile gas station sign outside displays the price of gas in unwavering red letters in the night.
“You saw him.”
“I see a lot of people!”
A sob.
Bones crunch.
A hoarse cry.
Sam cried out as he came back to himself.
“It’s okay, Sammy. That’s it.” Dean whispered in his ear as he shifted Sam to sit against the rear wheel of the Impala.
Sam panted to get his breath. He held Dean’s gaze, chest warm from the concern in them. “Dean?” He rasped.
“Yeah, buddy.” Dean checked him over, hands firm and efficient in their task.
“He moved.”
“What?”
“The person in the vision. They’re not here.”
“I can see that. Here, hold this.” Dean pushed a crumpled Kleenex against Sam’s nose. Sam scoffed and tried to push it away, but Dean was persistent. Sam licked his lips. He tasted blood. “What did you see?”
“I-Dean, they’re in Kansas. I know where they are. Were. Whatever. We have to go.” Sam scrambled to stand, willing his rubbery legs to hold his weight. Dean wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him to the passenger side.
“Where are they?”
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They weren’t there.
Sam was sure they had gotten there in time, but he couldn’t remember the time very well. The Tylenol did little to address the ache in his head, but the light nap while Dean drove through the afternoon into the night helped. The blood from his nose had crusted by the time they finally got to their motel and his shower had never felt more heavenly as it worked loose the tension on his shoulders.
They found sulfur again at the scene, but no body. The victim was alive. Sam and Dean stopped to pick up something to eat before going to the Hospital. Dean watched Sam push around his food with a frown. Sam pretended to eat more than he did. He made sure Dean didn’t follow him to the restroom when the food wanted a second viewing.
Dave, the gas station attendant, happily answered every question they asked. Answered any question, really. Sam was a little jealous of the drugs coursing in the man’s veins, but wouldn’t have accepted them if offered.
“- I mean, I see lots of people. It’s a gas station. I don’t expect to see those people again, you? ‘Sides, the picture wasn’t very good, but I wasn’t gonna tell him that.”
Sam snapped back into the conversation.
“Picture?”
Dave turned to look at him, blinking as if he forgot Sam was in the room. “Yeah. It was pretty torn up, though. Like the corner got chewed off or something. Ripped. Cut. You know, not all there?”
Dean eyed Sam with a tight mouth. Sam continued his questioning. “What was in the photo?”
“Dunno. Some kid.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “What did this kid look like?”
“Oh! That. Scrawny little guy. Asian, I think. Black hair. Some kind of college place.”
“Do you remember which College?” Sam prompted. “Please, it is very important.”
Dave thought about it for a long moment. “Dunno. But I sure how you find him before that guy does - I think he had some kind of disease or something in his eyes.”
They left with more questions than answers.
----------------------------------------------------
“Doesn’t that sound like someone we know, Dean?” Sam asked later that night.
“Yeah, so?”
“So-” Sam drew out the word. “Shouldn’t we move him into the Bunker instead of the boat?”
“He’s fine where he is, Sam. He’d call us if he was worried or found anything, you know that. Right now, we have some other things to worry about.”
“I know. But Dean, he’s just kid.” Sam propped himself on his elbows in the bed. “He didn’t ask for any of this and we have him locked away in a boat house pretty much by himself with the Tablet? Not our best moment here, Dean.”
“So it’s better to have him in the Bunker and scare the crap outta him when we come busting in after a hunt that went sideways?” Dean lifted himself up to stare up at his brother. “Or what about this newest development, huh? He sees you fallin’ on the floor in a vision?” Sam opened his mouth to protest. “No, nu-uh, Sammy. One time, okay, maybe it’s a fluke. But two times? You know us. And ‘sides, we knew there’d be demons sniffing around trying to find him - that’s why he’s out there and away from us, remember?”
Sam scowled. “Just think about it-”
“Nope!” Dean cut him off. “Not right now. You think too much, Sammy. You’re getting in the way of my work. Now knock it off.”
Sam flopped back against the bed. “I wish.”
Dean smirked. “Your wish is my command, Sammy.”
Dean opened his mouth and put it to work.
Sam stopped thinking.
-----------------------------------------------
Sam couldn’t get his brain to shut up.
The visions continued to assault him at the oddest moments. All of the same demon, looking for the same boy. Sam was having trouble sleeping again, despite Dean’s best effort. The Trials dangled over their heads and Sam was tired of the persistent ache that never fully faded. They took an easy hunt in the meantime, after checking in with Garth. Sam didn’t want to dwell on how that one went. They got the job done in the end and Dean collected a new scar. Sam struggled to put the pattern together, his brain a bit foggy with the new state of things in his head. Dean was more distracted, as well - with him. Sam didn’t care for that.
Sam ran his hands through his hair and leaned back in his seat. He was missing something. He knew it. If he could just put his finger on it. He rubbed his temples idly, chair balancing on two legs. He felt weightless. “Goddam--”
Colors shifts. Impeccable black shoes on a dock. Wind whistles. Boats creak. Water.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
British accent crisp and clean. Disgust in his tone.
“What do I do with her?”
Blood covered woman. Half-conscious. Same blonde hair. Demon. Henchman.
Dramatic sigh. Long suffering.
“Whatever you want.”
The demon grins. The woman screams.
Sam came back to cursing and pain. He groaned in pain and tried to twist away from the pain in his head.
“No, no, c’mon, Sammy, just stay still for a moment.”
Sam stilled at the panic in his brother’s voice. He could feel his hair sticking to the back of his head, the awkward pinch of the chair against his back, his feet dangling against the bottom.
“Kevin!” Sam struggled to sit up.
“Yeah, not here. But you know who is? We are, Gotta get you cleaned up.”
“No, no. Dean!” Sam’s words tripped over themselves.
“What?” Dean sighed in annoyance, worry in his eyes.
“He’s found him.”
“Who found what now?”
“Crowley. He’s at the boat. Or was. Or will be. Dean! We gotta go.”
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They were too late.