The Wanderings and Ramblings

Title: Circadia
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,897
Warnings: language, brother angst
Summary: It’s like Sam’s dead all over again.  Only this time there isn’t a deal that can undo what he’s done.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of the Supernatural universe.


Notes: I know it's annoying when fics are posted in parts, but this has been sitting on my hard drive for way too long that it was either post it or delete it out of frustration.  I'm working on part 3 and will be posting it SOON (just as soon as classes are over and I have time to come out of my turtle shell).  Thanks to dianne_37 for looking this over.  Concrit welcome.  Also, Bobby and Missouri rule.  Go surrogate parental figures!  \o/


[+]      [O]      [~]   


“When life hardens into a bead of such cruel perfection you see it with the purest clarity.  Everything suddenly there--life as it truly is, enormous, appalling, devastating.  You see the great sinkholes it makes in people and the harrowing lengths to which love will go to fill them.”
    -Sue Monk Kidd “The Mermaid Chair” 


Heil, North Dakota, March 20, 2008

Dean’s got that wild, desperate look to him.  The same one he wore at Cold Oak and that long night and day afterward.

If there was anything that could split a soul in two it would be what I saw that night.  Dean’s yell stopped me cold, been hunting long enough to know the sound of someone damn well breaking from the inside out.  These legs made it back fast as anything, and I half expected to have a heart attack the way my chest was pounding.  Found Dean in the middle of that road in all that mud kneeling with Sam propped up.  The two of them weren’t right, too still, too close, the angles all wrong.  And I knew right then there was only going to be white breath coming from one of them.  Would’ve traded the pain in my chest right then for a heart attack.

Dean was careful, kept saying to keep Sam out of the mud and dirt.  He was all business until we got Sam inside and laid out, then he went to someplace inside himself.  Kept real quiet.  Wouldn’t budge for hours, just sat there in that half-rotted crap piece of chair staring at nothing.  Wouldn’t touch Sam, wouldn’t let me touch him even after the blood started leaking into the mattress and seeping around toward the edges.  That whole ghost town smelled like death, dark and stale and unnatural, but that room was heavy with it. 

Dean didn’t start talking until the next morning.  First words out of his mouth were “damn whiskey”, then “please” and “Bobby”.  It was like going back twenty-odd years.  Saw pieces of another hunter, young and half mad with grief, standing in front of me, and it hit me that these were John Winchester’s boys.  God help us all, I thought. 

Dean wasn’t right in the head that night.  He wasn’t right until he showed up unapologetic and squared for one of those silent Winchester tests of wills on my doorstep with Sam, the walking undead, the next day. 

I knew I should never have let him alone. 

Now here we are again.  Sam’s gone and done the fool thing this time and Dean’s going out of his head again.

“Bobby, what’d you let him do!” he yells, shouldering his way past the splintered doorframe and carrying in the cold.  Dean zeros in on the beds and either doesn’t notice or give a damn that he’s destroyed the salt lines nearly ground into the carpet in his rush.  His eyes dart to the blonde girl spread out on the corner bed and then go hard.  “Who else?  Ellen?  Jo?”  Dean grabs a hold of me.  “Who else knew?”

I’d be a fool to give Dean real answers right now.  Like a blind bull stuck with a hot poker, he’s on a rampage, tearing up the trail Sam tried to hide and leaving a highway of rubble about a mile wide.  Idiot kid.  It’s enough to lead the rest of them straight to us.  But Dean’s not one to look twice at common sense, least where Sam’s concerned.  He’d face down Hell’s army with a feather duster and a paper clip if they stood between him and that stray brother of his. 

The lights flicker, then go out.  The flowered rag-tag curtains hanging above the plastic heater go still as the fan stutters and dies.  Dean lets go of me and yanks up his sleeve, stares at his watch.  On the wall the hands on the cracked cowboy clock stop at thirteen past eight, the second’s hand frozen near around twelve. 

My gut starts rolling and that spot behind my ears starts tingling, hunter’s intuition.  I tell Dean it’s started.

A growl crawls up from somewhere inside him, and in three steps he’s kneeling on the bed where Sam’s lying with his eyes open.

“Sam.  Sammy.  Wake up.”  Dean’s fingers turn white as he digs them into Sam’s shoulders and shakes.  “Bobby, we gotta stop his walking.”  He rounds to run at the girl lying on the other bed, but I drag Dean away before he does something that’ll screw up Sam’s chances of finding his way back.

“Dean, there’s nothing you can do.  Your brother’s a stupid, stubborn ass just like you.”

The look on Dean’s face jump-starts that deep down gut ache of guilt I’ve tried so damn hard to forget.  I can’t think of anything better to do but yell about Dean and his deal making and how it started this whole mess ‘cause it keeps the wreck of grief, pain, and fear buried deep where it belongs.  And whiskey helps. 

The last time I got real acquainted with a bottle of Jimmy’s stiffest was two years ago when John left those boys lost and floundering like two wounded tigers.  When they finally drove off in that soccer mobile, I was sure they’d tear each other to pieces with their grief or else crash that minivan with all that bundled up anger (there was a reason I made sure they got the slowest car I had).  Never did see that crap bucket of rubber bands on wheels again, and never been gladder to hear Ellen’s voice.  When she called about John Winchester’s boys showing up on her doorstep and taking a case in Medford, I damn well exhaled for so long she thought I went and died on her.  As those boys limped their way back from the edge, I locked up the Jim Beam good and tight along with thoughts of their daddy.

But I could probably do with a couple of mouthfuls of whiskey now ‘cause Dean’s not moving, just stares me down like he wants to burn me with his eyes.  Then something changes, realization maybe, acceptance maybe, understanding, or maybe it’s that damn burden of responsibility I’ve seen that boy carrying since age seven when John rolled into the yard with a trunk full of ammo and knives, a mouth full of demon questions, and a backseat loaded with kids. 

I lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeeze hard.  He’s all knots and quivering panic pent up with nowhere to go. 

“You couldn’t know,” I say.  Sam was bull-headed and sure this was the only way, and for all my years of hunting, I couldn’t argue with him.  If it comes down to it, burying a young hunter is something you never want to do, but burying two young hunters is worse.  

Dean steps away, squares his shoulders. 

“He’s coming back.” He says it like he’s speaking some God-promised truth.  Dean tears off his jacket, then pulls out his Colt and lays it next to Sam’s Taurus, dusty and cold, on the side table.  He’s rolling up his sleeves when I catch sight of the bruises on the inside of his arms.  The ones like Sam’s.

“There’s a med kit in the trunk.”  Dean jerks his head toward the door. 

When I don’t move, he says matter-of-fact-like, “I can lead him back.  I’ve done it before, this time’s no different.”

“Dean—”

“If you try and stop me, Bobby, so help me God.”  His eyes go to the girl staring at the ceiling with black eyes.  “I don’t care what Sam said.  I’ll kill her.”

“You can’t.  She’s in there with him.”

Dean goes stock still like some animal caught in the middle of the road with an eighteen-wheeler screaming around a blind corner.  The bathroom light flickers to life, dumping light and shadow into the room.  From the corner bed come two pale flashes.  I tell myself they’re only the florescent lights reflecting off those demon’s eyes.  The charm around her neck winks silver.

“Ruby, that bitch.”

I don’t tell Dean it wasn’t her idea.  No sense speaking what the heart already knows. 

[+] 

The med kit is full of needles.  Dean lines them up next to the guns in two rows, five syringes each, and touches each of them like they’re something holy.  They shine hard and smooth in the light from the candle stubs ‘cause Sam’s made the lights go out again. 

Judging by the calluses and faded bruises on Dean’s arm, they’ve been doing this for weeks, months maybe.  I knew Sam’s wandering was getting bad.  Knew he had trouble staying in his own head.  Knew after he left Dean after a hunt, stabilized in that Pocatello hospital and the Impala with an empty gas tank and a flat tire in the parking lot two weeks ago, he and Ruby had fallen off the map.  But I didn’t know Sam’s dreamwalking had him tearing himself and his brother up.

It makes a hell of a lot more sense why Sam left Dean, why he was so desperate to not be found.  “Bobby, you can’t tell him.  Not until after it’s over.” Sam’s voice was real hard to make out between the static, so I pressed the phone to my ear like that would make a difference.  “He’s gonna be pissed, but the doctor said he’ll be fine.  I just … can you make sure he’s … you’ll be there when he wakes up, right?”

I should’ve known that damn kid was trying to save his brother.

Dean peels back the corner of the wool blanket he covered Sam with and lays Sam’s right arm flat.  He rolls up his brother’s sleeve like this is nothing more than putting a Band-Aid on a paper cut.

“Alright, Sammy, it’s gonna be fine.” Dean’s voice is low and quiet, even.  Like John’s when he’d be talking comfort into some poor person who just had their whole world upended by the supernatural.  John, for all his rough talk and silent spells, had a way of talking when words weren’t important, just the tone.  Dean ties the rubber tubing around his own arm and starts tapping for veins. 

I run my hands up over my face and back down.  A day of chasing Dean down blacktop and gravel roads and an hour of watching the heater go on and off, the lights flicker, and Sam and that demon lie like the dead have me worn down dull and to the quick.

“There’s only so much blood you can give before you’re dried up.” 

“I’m real juicy, Bobby.  Got more than my share of Winchester blood, enough for me and Sam.  And this?”  Dean holds up a syringe filled with blood.  “This’ll drown out that demon blood.”

And keep Sam on this side of human. 

I don’t say the words, but Dean reads them on my face before I can turn my back and head toward the only place of privacy in this damn motel room.

I knew things were wrong when I got Sam’s note written on paper from the Trident Motel in Heil, North Dakota yesterday.  Notes leave trails.  Too messy a move for someone who’d spent the last couple weeks making them self invisible.  Too sloppy for Sam, who knew Dean would be wrecking half the world looking for him.  Hunters know never to send messages through the mail ‘cause it makes it easy for other eyes to see what they’re not supposed to be reading.  It takes too long, is too unreliable.  More than likely you’d be left sipping beer in some stale-smelling bar, waiting for somebody who didn’t know where they were supposed to be until days later.  Sam never would’ve mailed a letter if he was planning on meeting us.  It was more like he was telling us where to find him after the fact. 

His note was dated two days ago.  It said:

March 20th
Room 3b
Your promise.

I promised not to say anything to Dean.  I’m not so high on myself to think me not promising Sam would’ve stopped him.  He would’ve still run off stubborn as ever but without anyone to turn to in a tight spot, and the last thing I wanted was Sam running alone in the dark. 

But there wasn’t much of a promise to keep ‘cause I didn’t know much more than anyone else.  There’s been talk these last two weeks of dark rituals only a hunter would know, things about pulling powers and dreamwalking.  People are worried, scared, panicked.  A hunter gone off the rails needs to be pulled back in.  The quieter and gentler the better, but not everyone sees it the same as me.  So it took no words out of my mouth for Dean to find Sam’s note and recognize his writing.  My square edges may be going round, but if a soft spot for those boys is gonna land me in Hell, then I’ll be bringing marshmallows and hot dogs to my funeral pyre.   

The water blasts into the sink hard and cold.  And I let it run.  The white noise is good, drowns out the outside world.  I rest my hands on either side of the basin and lean forward until my head’s resting against the mirror.  Close my eyes.

Something’s not right in all of this.  Never heard of such deep, unbreakable wandering before.  Never for more than a night’s sleep, never in pairs.  As far as I can tell, the electrical outages and time freezing are Sam telegraphing something fierce.  There’s something going down, and it ain’t good.

After I’m done soaking my face, I’m searching for a towel to wipe my hands when I knock over the garbage can.  There’s a thud and a clink and a glass rolls across the floor and stops at the doorjamb.  And that’s when I smell it, strong, bitter sharp, unmistakable.

“This ain’t like before, Dean.”  I march out of the bathroom and shove two motel glasses rimmed with dirty green into his face.  “You know what this is?” 

Dean sniffs and bats the cup away, saying, “Knew you were in there way too long,” before giving me his smart-ass face.

“It’s valerian powder.”  I slam one of the glasses down next to alarm clock blinking 8:13.  “It’s a plant sedative, a hypnotic … makes you sleep.”

“I know what a sedative is.”  The irritation in Dean’s voice doesn’t cover his alarm.

“Sam’s gone and done something crazy.”

“Sam’s not crazy.”

I don’t know what Sam’s got planned, but Dean’s soul is on the line, and there ain’t nothing short of bringing down the world that Sam wouldn’t do to keep Dean out of Hell.  Demons don’t make deals that can’t be undone.  They’ll trade up if they can get something better.  And Sam knows better than anyone that demons are greedy bastards.

“No?  I’ve seen all sorts of crazy crawl out of desperate.” 

Dean stands up with his eyes full of fire and jaw twitching. 

“He’s gone walking deep this time and pulled that demon in with him to save you,” I yell louder than I mean to. 

Then Dean shuts down, pulls a mask over his face.  He drops his eyes and reaches down quiet and cold as anything and picks up a syringe.

“If you don’t like it, Bobby, there’s the door.”

What is it with these Winchesters thinking they got to do everything alone?  My sigh makes Dean’s eyes dart up. 

“Your brother is a lot of things, but stupid ain’t one of them.” I walk to where Dean’s standing and press the other glass into his free hand and say quieter, “He’s put himself down so he won’t wake up for a reason.”

“Then that’s all the more reason he needs this.”  He pulls the plastic cap off the needle with his teeth. 

“Sam’s gone walking deep and pulled that demon in with him.  They’re tangled up in his mind someplace.  You can’t just shock him out.  There’s no telling what’ll happen, and you don’t know what you’ll be interfering with.  Sam’s gone to someplace where you can’t go this time—”

Dean’s head snaps up.  I recognize that look. 

“No,” I tell him. 

But it’s a waste of air ‘cause Dean’s up and in the bathroom with the door shut in my face.  I hear him pulling open drawers and sorting through the wrapped soaps in the chipped dish on the counter.  By the time I jimmy open the lock, he’s pulling out his arm from up under the sink, a plastic bag tied with red string in his hand.

“It’ll be a hell of a lot safer if you stick around, Bobby.  But I’m telling you right now, you’re being here or not isn’t gonna change my mind.  I’m doing this.”  Dean’s got a death grip on that bag of powdered valerian and is puffing himself up for a fight.

And suddenly I’m more tired than I’ve ever felt.  Trying to keep that family together all these years after losing mine, I never thought it would turn to me squaring down Dean, telling him to just let Sam go. 

“Sam’s somewhere in there doing something because of me.  And whatever it is, I can’t let him do it alone.  He’s my responsibility, Bobby.  Mine.  There’ll be nobody left after my year is up.  And I can’t just leave him without—” Dean looks away and pulls his hands through his hair. When he turns around, all I see is a young boy who looks so lost and scared I barely hear his words: “Please.  He’s my brother.  I need to do this.”

And there’s nothing I got that can do battle with a look like that.  More than anyone, I know what it feels like to live life regretting what you didn’t do, wondering what you could’ve done, tricking yourself into thinking you could’ve stopped it all.  I glance over my shoulder at the girl lying harmless and quiet and then to Sam.  The bruises stand dark on his arms, and his chest rises slow and steady and in time to the tick of the second’s hand on the clock skipping backwards.  And below the stillness and silence, I think of them trapped in a nightmare.

“You idiot,” is all I manage.  Then I mutter something about getting whiskey from the truck to chase down the bitter of the valerian.

Dean opens his mouth and then closes it.  The hard lines on his face go smooth, and his eyes change like something inside’s just opened up.  He nods. 

“I’ll wait until you come back.”

That’s as much of a reprieve Dean’s capable of.  Real words and straightforward communication don’t mix with the name Winchester just like tears are a waste of salt for a Singer. 

It’s cold outside.  The sky is dark and clear.  There are stars everywhere, staring down like a million eyes.  Though the closed door I hear Dean drag a chair across the floor to Sam’s side.  And it’s almost like Cold Oak all over again with Sam gone and Dean clawing at the edges of the supernatural to change what’s already happened.  Only this time my gut tells me there ain’t no deal that can undo what’s been done.

Dreamswalking is something you don’t just go strolling into on a sunny Sunday afternoon for kicks, and blood sharing isn’t to be messed with.  Those boys got themselves in a shitstorm of trouble this time.  But they’re Winchesters, and their blood runs thick.  They’ll put up a good fight.  They’ve had enough taken away and now they got nothing but each other, and that’s gotta count for something in the grand scheme of things ‘cause having nobody is no way to go through life.

Through a layer of peeling varnish, I get a good, hard look at the knots in the wood door, sliced through their hearts and cracked along their weaknesses by hot and cold.  I run my hand along the frame and catch a splinter.  It’s such a little thing, would barely know it was there except for the blood and the sting.


[+]      [O]      [~]   


“Nothing is sudden.  Not an explosion – planned, timed, wired carefully – not the burst door.  Just as the earth invisibly prepared its cataclysms, so history is the gradual instant.”
     -Anne Michaels, “Fugitive Pieces”


Lawrence, Kansas, March 20th, 2008

It’s no mistake my brown glass bottle of valarian powder is empty.  It’s no mistake its contents marched out my front door tangled in the red threads of a dream catcher two days ago.  And it’s no mistake I instructed it be used today, the equinox, of all days. 

The vernal equinox marks the start of spring.  New beginnings.  Do overs.  It’s when day and night, light and dark are divided equally between the hemispheres.  On this day the sun rises exactly in the east and sets exactly in the west and everywhere on Earth the sun shines for twelve hours. 

That boy needs all the help he can get.  Twelve hours of goodness balancing out the twelve hours of dark isn’t much, but at least the stars and planets aren’t aligned against Sam and that demon of his. 

The chamomile and lemon balm crumble under my fingers and the kettle starts clattering and whistling before I finish stuffing the tea ball.  Drops sizzle and skirt over the chipped enamel and disappear into nothing as steam floats up and rolls across the ceiling, pushing through the sunlight.  Never did miss something more than tea and the sound of quiet in the morning, something that’s been hard to come by lately.     

Chamomile, Matricaria recutita, is good for settling an upset stomach, helps calm nerves.  Sprinkling it corners helps clean away curses and hexes.  Melissa officinalis, plain old lemon balm, is good for putting out anxiety and tastes nice.  Both are real helpful for insomnia.  Near used up all but a handful of both on Sam, slipped them into the teas I kept pressing into his hands.  That boy needed sleep even though he’d convinced himself otherwise.  Probably hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror for days or else he’d know.  I suppose it’s easiest to lie to yourself when you’ve got nobody to tell you to stop talking nonsense.  But it’s no matter, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.  Didn’t tell him I snuck in pinches of dragons blood to increase potency either.
   
It’s been four days since Sam first turned up.  Feels a lot longer and a lot shorter at the same time.  Time bends, speeds up when you don’t want it to and winds down when you’ve got your back turned.  But I suppose that’s what happens when things get knocked wrong.  Everything gets set akimbo in such unnaturalness, even time. 

When I opened my door that night I half jumped out of my slippers and half cracked my face down the middle smiling like a mother hen to do anything much besides drink it all in.  Sam stood there with the silent row of houses and the yellow of the streetlights stretched behind him, taller, bigger, hands tucked under his arms, and snow in his hair.  Could barely see the boy who was here a couple of years ago underneath all that stubble and long hair, but his smile was familiar.  Sure did grow up fine despite everything, that one.  I couldn’t help but feel proud for his mother.

“Well, Sam Winchester…” I wrapped my sweater around me and beckoned him, searching the space behind his shoulders.  “Where’s that brother of yours?”

Sam seemed to pull in on himself.  Then I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the bruise next to his ear, and the mud and dirt, and my smile disappeared. 

“Missouri, we need your help.”

In the backseat of a car parked a block down and across the street was a girl.  Her hair was the color of summer corn and smeared with red, and her arm flung over her eyes stuck up like the wing of a broken bird.

“There’s been some trouble.  We just need a few days.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “Well, come on, then.” 

I stepped aside and Sam ducked into the car.  And when he gathered her up, a low-pitched vibration rattled my teeth and buzzed through my ears.  A dark energy spilled out onto the sidewalk like a whirlpool, swirling thick and heavy around them like something alive.   

Sam must’ve sensed something right then or else I’m not half as good at keeping in my thoughts as I know I am.  He stopped.  Opened his mouth and shut it.  I saw a desperation and shame that wasn’t in his face all those years ago, and I knew he was thinking twice about coming back to Lawrence.  He lowered his head and squared his shoulders.  And when he looked up it was if a curtain had dropped.  Gone were the easy lines and wide-open space in his eyes I remembered, and I knew right then something wasn’t right about Sam without that smart-mouthed brother of his.  As that boy stood there bent low against the night with that girl in his arms and the dark chasing its tail around him, I decided I couldn’t turn him out even though something inside me was saying differently. 

“Well?  I didn’t come out here for a staring contest.”  I turned and started marching home, road salt and sand crunching into the snow and my breath stark against the night.  It’s not until I motioned over my shoulder and said, “It’ll be mighty hard to sleep standing in the gutter all night,” did I hear footsteps. 

By the time Sam got her past my doorstep he looked near ready to collapse, with relief or fatigue or something else, I don’t know.  I shuttled the girl straight to the foldout bed in the sewing room behind the kitchen.  Her shirt was soaked with blood and her eyes floated in her head, unfocused with large black centers. Her chest rose shallow and quick and her arms looked like they’d been used as a punching bag.  There wasn’t enough meat on her to feed a chicken.  Once Sam got his jacket off and was bending over her I could see he wasn’t much better off.  I don’t know what young people eat these days, but it’s sure not got enough of anything good in it.

There was a deep gash along her belly that shallowed past her ribs.  The edges were crusted black but the blood still flowed.  Sam explained the knife had been majicked.  That she wouldn’t heal.  As I pressed around the wound her hands clenched and she ground her teeth but otherwise she lay still and silent.  His eyes never left her face.  And I knew something terrible had happened between those boys for Sam to be running with this girl.    

I got blankets, washcloths, mint and rosemary poultices, warm water.  Not sure if there was anything that would work but I needed to put space between me and what was in that room.  The energy was bitter and stale, and the girl was wrong.  Unnatural.  Took all my will power to keep from saying what was on my mind.  Could barely look at Sam.  Didn’t want him reading me and then running off before I knew what I was dealing with.  But I told myself this was Sam—Mary’s youngest son, John’s little boy, Dean’s brother—a boy I sensed long before he came screaming into this world and the one I promised John wouldn’t get lost to those powers of his if I could help it.  Still baffles me how John laid the groundwork for the well being of his children, his own blood, with his hands and heart while his feet were busy running away from them.  Seems that man trusted everyone else to take care of his sons but himself.

After the girl’s shoulder was set, her wounds were packed, and the blood had slowed, I sat Sam down and opened my ears.  In the light of the kitchen I saw the strain around his eyes, watched him push the sweet bread around on his plate and break it into pieces.  Couldn’t help but think that at least Dean had enough manners to eat what was put in front of him regardless if his belly was full or not.

“You want to tell me the real story now or later.”

“Don’t you know?”

I clicked my tongue and shook my head.  “It’s common courtesy between psychics not to go rooting around in each other’s heads or didn’t you learn any manners.” 

“I … uh—” Sam looked down, pulled his shirtsleeves around his wrists, then stared hard and long at his hand fiddling with the frayed edge of his sleeve.  He swallowed. “Sorry,” he said finally. 

Now I’m not so sure he wasn’t apologizing for everything in advance.

I’ve never been one to beat around the bush, but I know when to dig for answers and when to let them find their way in their own sweet time.  The slope of Sam’s shoulders and the exhaustion in his face told me to keep my tongue.  I covered his hand with mine, said, “I’m not going anywhere.  You’ll tell me later.”  Then I sent him off to catch some sleep. 

The plates were bobbing in the soap and wet spoons were sliding between my fingers when I caught something at the edge of my thoughts.

“Missouri?” 

I turned to find Sam in the door with his back to me, stopped on his way out.  Don’t know how long he’d be standing there, still as anything, but his hands were curled around the doorframe so tight he’d squeeze blood from a stone.  Without turning around, he said so quiet I’m not sure he spoke the words or not:

“I’m here for Dean.”

And that’s all I needed to know just then.

[O]

It took me all of four hours to figure out just what was going on.  The red lines and purple bruises on the inside of Sam’s arms like hers gave it away.  Didn’t tug his sleeves down fast enough that fool boy. 

I saw them through the space of light between the door and the doorframe later that night.  Her arm lay outstretched on the bed, a length of leather tied tight above the elbow.  Sam sat next to her, bent over himself.  I was about to push my way in thinking he was in a bad spot when he leaned back and rested his head against the wall.  His eyes were closed and his breath was shallow.  Then I saw the glint of metal and red shaking in his hand, and I knew this was no ordinary trouble.  But then, when was anything to do with a Winchester ordinary?

I may be schooled differently than those hunters, but I don’t need books of Latin or an oily gun in my pocket to know a thing or two about the power of blood sharing.  It’s old magic, the study of an unnatural nature that few speak about, let alone practice.  Blood carries things.  And just like antibodies and viruses and anything else that’s floating around ready to be spread, it’s said blood can transfer abilities.  Get the right mix with matched bodies and it’ll coax out latent abilities and amplify what’s already there, fortifying the mind and building mental endurance.  Get it wrong and, well, lets just say it’s easy to get lost in the dark. 

In its purest form, blood sharing is an act of intimacy that requires trust between the giver and the receiver.  It’s said to bind souls together, forges a bond even death can’t break.  But blood taken or given with anything short of the purest intentions perverts it into an act of exploitation and selfishness, a violation of trust between the unknowing and the deceiver.  It breeds a darkness that leads to nothing good.  It’s not easy.  It’s not safe.  And it walks the thinnest line between good and evil.

The next morning I cornered Sam with salted soft-boiled eggs, buttered biscuits, and a glare that would turn a Kansas twister into a baby’s fart. 

“I don’t want any of your nonsense.  You come knocking down my door in the middle of the night looking for help.  And help you’ll get because that what your mother and father would’ve wanted, but that doesn’t mean I’m a blind fool.”

To my satisfaction, Sam went all but cross-eyed staring at my finger wagging in his face. 

[O]

Her name was Ruby.  On her left breast, over her heart was a tattoo.
 
“It’s a devil’s trap,” Sam said, buttoning up her shirt. “It keeps demons … in.”

“You’ve trapped a demon inside this poor girl?”

“No.  Yes … wait.  It’s complicated.”  Sam ran his hands through his hair.  “Missouri, you’ve got to help us.  Help Dean.  I can save him.”  Sam’s eyes are bright, and it’s like I can see the future stretched out, all wide-open space and nothing but a sky full of hope.  And that’s when he tells me about his new abilities, about how Dean’s time is short.  Sam explains he can make things happen in his dreams and how Ruby can help him save his brother’s life.  

I motioned toward the devil’s trap.  “And that’s real necessary being she’s so willing to help you.”

“Whatever it takes.”

I’ve seen that stubborn jut of a chin before, heard that same inflection, felt the same unmovable wall of energy close down the room.  Sam, he’s more like his father than he knows.  Like John, he’s built for endurance and smolders deep and quiet, but push him the wrong way and you’ll see the flames burning at the edges.  John tempered his impulsiveness with layers of parental instinct and learned patience, but Sam’s got none of that.  He’s young and impatient, and his determination burns hot and quick.  Believe you me, when push comes to shove, he’ll flare like a match, destroying himself and everything around him as long as it doesn’t include that brother of his.

And that’s the last thing I want to happen for Mary and John’s sake.  Everyone is somebody’s child, even when they’re grown, too smart for their own good, and too stupid to be afraid of the consequences of their bull-headed actions.  Years ago I made a promise to help keep Sam safe, and anyone who has spent half a minute with those boys knows the surest way to do that is by making sure Dean is at his side.  Because as sure as my mama was a Baptist, when the end comes, Dean will be the only one who can save Sam from himself. 

“I see,” I said, patting Sam’s knee and standing up.  “I could do with something to drink.  I think you could, too.”

“Wait, Missouri, you don’t understand.  I need—”

“Oh, I understand more than you know.  Now lets get you some tea.”  I begin running through the catalogue of dusty bottles with mismatched labels in my head and praying that whatever trouble Dean’s got himself into can be undone by Sam and his demon.  “There’s nothing a strong cup of the right tea can’t fix.”

[O]

Sam needed something to keep him and Ruby sleeping for a good long while.

“A day or two.  Long enough to find Ruby and then … finish the job.”

I dunked the tea ball into the mug and gave him a look over my shoulder, but Sam was too busy examining the brown glass bottle of valarian to notice. 

I knew what Sam was talking about, people getting lost in their own dreamscapes, wandering off somewhere and never waking up.  Walking into the dark corners of your own head is dangerous enough let alone leaving your body on the off chance you’ll find another dreamwalker.  But that’s not half of what’s bothering me.  Dreams are mighty powerful, nothing to take lightly.  Spirits commune through dreams because the mind opens when the thinking part goes to sleep.  It’s when the conscious mind isn’t there to keep everything in check when things can go wrong.  The lizard brain is full of all sorts of suppressed things: fears, impulses, compulsions, needs, instinct.  The fact we’re able to keep all that messiness under control is what separates us from the rest of the Lord’s creatures.  But with the impulse center running loose, all of that comes pouring out.  Emotion rules the head.  And when we’re reduced to raw reaction without the benefit of rational thought, the unthinkable can happen.  Because of that, Sam needed plenty of practice in a safe place with someone watching over him so his dreams don’t go breaking him apart.  Can’t say I wasn’t worried about what was coming. 

I stirred the tea and watched the bits of chamomile and lemon balm leaves swirl in the whirlpool. 

“Demons are linked.  We’ll find the one who holds Dean’s contract.”  Sam had that look in his eye.  The one that meant he wouldn’t be listening to any words that don’t go with his way of thinking. 

“And then?”

“Then what?”

“So you’re going to stroll into some demon’s head, flash those dimples, and expect they’ll give you a special deal?”  I tapped the spoon hard against the mug and drops of tea splattered across the counter. 

“More like barge in.” Sam rubbed his forearm and gave me a half grin. “And, yeah, something like that.”

Those Winchesters always were a closed-lipped, stubborn bunch.  Seemed they also like playing fast and furious with stupidity.  They might be half insane.  I wanted to smack that boy upside the head, but settled on shoving the mug into his hands.

“Drink your tea.”  I crossed my arms.  “Then I’m going to tell you what’s what with these dreams and then you’re going to lie down and get some sleep.”

I was none too happy, but there’s nothing much to do when backed into a corner than to take the best of the worst ways out, even if that meant taking the hand of the devil himself. 

[O]

After two days of me shoving food and tea at him and two nights spent habituating to the valarian, I could tell Sam was ready to leave.  His restless energy was stuck in a house that was too small, and there was a strange tightness in the air.  If it weren’t for that injured demon of his, he’d probably have up and disappeared by now.   

Ruby kept her space, looked at me from the corners of her eyes, and didn’t say much.  I reckoned she was spooked by psychics and didn’t trust what she didn’t understand or couldn’t control.  By the way she never touched the teas or food, she probably thought I was apt to slip her something good and strong and holy.  Couldn’t say that thought hadn’t crossed my mind.   

That second night I heard them talking in low tones and angry whispers as long shadows moved past their door. 

“Two months.  Dean’s got less than two months.”

“I’m not gonna half ass this, Sam.  You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“Then just tell me who holds the contract and we can skip this psychic dreamwalking blood-swapping crap game of follow the leader.”

“I told you, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Fine.  Then we do it my way.”

“Fine.  Next month when you’re ready—”

“No.”

“Sam—”

“The equinox.  It’s our best chance and you know it.  We’ve got two days or that’s it, Ruby.  I mean it this time.”

Eight hours later, yesterday morning, Sam left with what remained of my valerian powder tucked in his shirt pocket.  All I wanted to do is give that boy a hug like his mother would’ve done, but he’s grown and he’s not my boy.  I couldn’t help but think he would rather not have some old lady coddle and fuss over him like his own blood.

“You bring Dean and that appetite of his around just as soon as you get this straightened out.”  I looked past Sam at Ruby standing on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips and wearing a look that would sour a pickle.  “But leave the trouble at the door next time.  Don’t want anything messing up my carpet.” 

Sam leaned down and gave me a hug.  “Thanks for everything, Missouri.” 

“You take care of yourself, Sam, you hear.”  I took his hand and gave it a real hard squeeze and whispered, “You remember who you are during all the walking of yours.”

Not too long after they left, the snow started falling again.  Angel’s tears was what Mama used to call it.  I always thought something mighty sad had to happen to make heaven cry, but as I watched the two sets of footprints leading off the porch and down the sidewalk disappear under all that newness like the last days never happened, I realized there are plenty of reasons tears fall, not all of them as simple as just being sad.

I tried calling Dean, but that boy has gone and changed his number.  But sure as the spring after winter, Dean will find Sam with or without my help.  Just in case, though, I’m keeping my ears open for that rumbling black car of his.  In the meantime, there’s nothing left to do but hope and pray that the Lord will take care of what’s his. 

So here I sit in the quiet of the kitchen with my chamomile and honey tea, watching the snow bury the early season daffodils and crocuses, and wondering what evil started out as.  I think it might’ve look a lot like love.


[+]      [O]      [~]


TBC