Psychic Mojo Part Nine
Monday, 11 am
Joe's face loomed over him, the familiar smug grin firmly in place.
"You mouthing off again, Pretty Boy? I've got a good way to shut you up."
Dean jammed his lips together and flinched as Joe grasped his jaw in one meaty hand, large fingers digging in painfully, forcing him to unclench his teeth. With his other hand, Joe thrust the shock end of the prod into his mouth, and Dean gagged on cold metal as the electrodes bit painfully into tender flesh.
He couldn't do this again. He swallowed his pride and tried to cry out, to beg Joe to stop, but the obscene obstruction in his mouth choked back his words.
"I didn't quite catch that," Joe said, his tone mocking. "Was it, 'Turn on the current?' Okay then, whatever you say."
Then Joe's hands were on his shoulders, pinning him in place. He struggled violently as pain lanced through his body. He could hear Joe distantly through the roar in his ears – only it wasn't Joe's voice. It was Sam's.
He forced his eyes open and looked around wildly. It wasn't Joe holding him down, it was Sam and he didn't know why Sam was making him suffer like this, but his brother's voice was calm yet insistent, telling him to stop struggling, everything's okay.
He didn't understand what was happening, but he looked into Sam's eyes and saw nothing but concern and reassurance. This was Sam. Sam would never hurt him. He stopped fighting and screwed his eyes closed and Sam's hands shifted from his shoulders, one curling around his neck and the other on his forehead. Sam was speaking in a slow, soothing tone, and Dean held on grimly to the sound of his voice and the cool comfort of his hands against burning skin.
Long moments later the pain receded to a manageable level, and he risked opening his eyes. The dimly lit barn was gone. Instead, he was lying in a comfortable bed and Sam was perched on the edge, watching him intently with that patented anxious-Sammy expression.
He panted for breath, feeling nauseous. Damp with sweat, his face was throbbing as if he had a monster toothache. His whole body ached, and he wondered idly if this was what it felt like when someone ran over you with a steamroller and then backed up for good measure.
To sum it up, he felt like total crap.
Sam's hand glided across his forehead, stroking through his hair.
"You're okay, Dean. You're okay. It was a dream, man. Just a dream."
Just a dream. It was just a dream. But he knew it was more than that, and for a moment he was confused. Then his memory returned in a rush, and with it full awareness. Part of him didn't want to lose the comfort of Sam's hands, but he lifted an arm to bat them, noticing the thick bandage around his wrist. He shuddered as he thought about the long hours he'd spent hanging from that beam.
Sam scooted back a little, giving him some room. "Dean? You with me?"
"Yeah." His voice sounded hoarse and muffled, and damn, it hurt to talk. He touched his lip tentatively, noting the swelling, and winced.
"Don't, or it'll start bleeding again," Sam said sternly. "It really needs a couple of stitches."
"No hospital."
"Yeah, I know." Sam sounded resigned. "How do you feel?"
How did he feel? Well, all things were relative. There must have been times when he'd been in a lot more pain than this.
"M'okay," he managed finally.
Sam sighed. "Try again. What hurts most?"
Dean considered the question. "Everything."
Sam sighed again, and Dean felt like saying, "Hey, it's the truth," but he didn't have the energy. He was weak and wrung out and hurt too much even to think about a verbal sparring match with his brother.
"You need some more painkillers?"
Heck, yes. Instead, he said, "Not yet. Don't look at me like that, Sam. I'm not dying."
He regretted the flippant comment when a spasm of distress crossed Sam's face. Dean knew he was reliving the night before when he'd patched Dean up. Dean couldn't remember much of that, just some hazy images of Sam's hands moving across his body, so gentle for such a big guy, probing sore muscles, bandaging bloody wrists and dressing painful burns.
Sam frowned. "You're still pretty beat up, Dean. You have five or six cracked ribs, too many bruises to count, an egg on the back of your head and at least six bad burns…" His voice died out and he swallowed hard. Dean guessed that Sam had seen the prod in Joe's hand when he entered the barn and worked out what had caused the burns.
"So, I've been worse, then," he said, hating to see that look of anguish on Sam's face and knowing he was the cause of it.
From nowhere, a spasm of pain shot through the muscles of his right leg and he gasped.
"Dean?" Sam's face creased in worry once more.
Dean bit back a moan. "S'okay. Jus… Cramp. Leg."
Sam reached out a hand and Dean recoiled. "What're you doing?"
"It helps if you massage the muscle."
Dean gave Sam the best withering look he could while grimacing in pain. "Dude, if you lay so much as one ginormous mitt on me, you won't live to see twenty-three."
Sam sighed again. He was doing a lot of that. "Fine, but it might happen again. I read that a shock from a cattle prod can leave you with residual weakness and muscle spasms."
"Residual? Dude, who are you, House?"
Sam colored. "I did some research while you were asleep."
He rolled his eyes. "Sam, you truly are King of the Geeks."
"Shut up."
"Hey, I'm in pain here. A little more sympathy."
"What more do you want? I've offered to rub your leg…"
"And we're so not going there."
"Fine. Take some more pain killers, then."
"In a while." The spasm passed and he blew out a long breath. This sucked so badly.
He had a sudden urge to sit up, coupled by a determination to prove to Sam that he wasn't as much of an invalid as his brother thought. He started to push himself up, and pain lanced through his ribs. He gasped at the intensity of it, bile rose in his throat, blood rushed to his head and his vision swam as felt himself start to black out. Then a strong arm supported his back and he found he was gripping Sam's shirt, leaning in and letting his brother take his weight.
"Okay, take it easy. Slow breaths, Dean."
As soon as the pain subsided a little, he whispered, "Shit, this sucks," and loosened his strangle hold on Sam's shirt.
"Still want to sit up?"
"Hell, yeah."
"Okay." Sam held onto him with one hand and after a moment carefully lowered him back down. Those long arms came in useful sometimes, Dean mused, as he lay against the pillows Sam had plumped up. He felt more human now he could at least look his brother in the eye. He hated this. Hated being weak, hated that he couldn't even sit himself up in goddamn bed without help.
"You gonna puke?" Sam asked.
Dean considered. "Don't think so." He reached for the water bottle on the table beside him, and this time it was his shoulder screaming in protest as he lifted his arm.
"What?" Sam asked at once.
Dean grimaced. "Shoulder. Must have pulled a muscle or something."
"Having your arms tied above your head for fifteen hours will do that," Sam said dryly as he handed Dean the water bottle. "Dean, you know you're in bad shape. I really think we should get you to the hospital, have you checked out properly."
Dean took a long swig of water and kept hold of the bottle. "I'll be fine. I don't need the hospital," he said firmly, ignoring Sam's skeptical look. "So," he went on, to stop Sam from dwelling on his injuries, "Gonna fill me in on the parts I missed?"
Sam made himself more comfortable on the edge of the bed. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Dean cast his mind back. "I remember you bursting into the barn," he said slowly. "After that – just bits and pieces." Disjointed images. Smoke and the heat of fire. Sam, leaning over him, an anxious look on his face, his voice quiet and reassuring. Another man he vaguely recognized wrapping something around him. They were fragments that he couldn't put together to make a coherent whole.
"Okay. Well, you passed out soon after Tom and I got to the barn. Joe got into a fight with Kale and knocked over a lamp. The barn caught fire, and Tom and I got you out."
"Tom?"
"Joe's father. The guy from the bar."
Dean grunted. "Is that how you found me? By tracking him down?"
Sam hesitated. "Pretty much. When I got back to the motel and you weren't there, I called your cell. Joe answered, and I recognized his voice. He told me I had to use my 'psychic mojo' to find you."
"Figured as much," Dean said. "I kept telling him it wouldn't work, but he wasn't in the mood to listen."
"Not really the listening type, is he?" Sam agreed. "Anyway, I found someone at the bar who knew Tom and his boys, told me they're from Beaconville. I drove up there and got lucky in a diner – the waitress pointed me to Tom's house. He didn't know anything about it, Dean. Joe came up with the stupid plan on his own. Tom's a good man. He agreed to help me look for you."
"So, how did you find the barn?"
"We … worked it out. It's on Tom's brother's property, hour's drive from Beaconville. When we got there, we saw Joe's truck outside, knew it was the right place."
"Then you burst in and rescued the damsel in distress," Dean went on.
Sam smiled. "Yeah. Just my luck the damsel has hairy legs and stubble on her chin. When we got outside, Joe tried to drive off, but Tom stopped him -- actually threatened to shoot him if he bailed." His expression sobered. "He meant it, Dean. I think he'd have pulled the trigger if Joe hadn't backed down."
"Tough call, holding a gun on your own son."
"Yeah, well, sounds like Joe's been nothing but trouble and now he's pushed Tom too far. Anyway, we took off before the fire department arrived. Tom said he'd take care of everything and they'd say the fire was an accident."
Dean was silent for a moment, taking in everything Sam had said. He was proud of his brother's resourcefulness, yet… "Sam, you should have stayed away."
"Right," Sam said. "So I should have left you to be tortured by Neanderthal Man while I stayed safe and sound in my motel room?"
"Sam, I'm telling you, Joe's dangerous. If he'd gotten his hands on you…"
"But he didn't, Dean." Sam's voice wavered. "He got his hands on you."
"Look, I'd have gotten away eventually. I was working on Kale – he was scared from the start, he'd have let me go in the end."
"Dean…"
"Sam, I've been hurt worse. It isn't as bad as it looks. I'm okay, really."
Sam looked at him incredulously. "You're not okay. I saw what that bastard did to you, Dean, and you're not okay."
"Look, Sam…"
"You don't understand. You were running out of time. As it was, I was almost too late…" Sam's voice cracked.
What? What did Sam just say? A suspicion began to form. "What d'you mean, you were almost too late? And how did you see what he did to me?"
Sam sat back, worrying his lower lip with his tongue. It was a habit he'd had as a kid, and one he fell back on when upset. "That's how we worked out where Joe was holding you. I had a vision."
"You had a vision," Dean repeated, stunned by the revelation. How could Sam have had a vision about him? He couldn't conjure visions like that. Or could he? "Were you planning on sharing this small fact with me?"
"Of course I was. I just thought we could talk about it later, when you're feeling better."
"Let's talk about it now. Tell me what you saw."
Sam shrugged. "Actually, it was three visions."
Dean raised his eyebrows, but didn't speak.
Sam went on, "I saw… The first time, I saw Joe beating you with ...with a baseball bat. The second time, I saw him … I saw what that bastard did to you with the cattle prod."
Dean was silent while he tried to take in what Sam was saying. It was already unsettling to accept that Sam had found him in that barn, naked and helpless. Now Sam was telling him he'd also seen him at his weakest, screaming in agony. He hated his brother to see him weak, and he hated seeing how it had affected Sam.
Then he realized that Sam had mentioned three visions. "What about the third vision?"
Sam swallowed. "I saw… the fire. I… I guess Tom and I changed the future. In the vision, Kale knocked over the lamp and he and Joe -- they ran out, just left you hanging there. You… I saw you… that's why I knew there was no time, Dean. If we'd taken any longer to find you…"
"God, Sam I'm sorry."
"You're sorry!" Sam sprang up, and Dean bit back a groan as the bed rocked. Sam started pacing. "I'm the one who should be sorry, Dean. Don't you get it? This is all my fault. If I'd listened to you, if I hadn't told everyone about my vision in Fork River, the McGraws would never have found out about me!"
"Sam, it's not your fault. You were right, back in Fork River. If we hadn't told the sheriff, those people in the cave would have died. You saved lives, Sam."
"I don't care about that!" Sam shouted. "I almost lost you, Dean, don't you understand?"
"I understand," Dean said calmly, "but that doesn't make this your fault. Crap happens to us all the time; this is no different."
"It is different. It happened because of me."
"It happened because Joe McGraw's a desperate man who'd do anything to get his sister back."
Sam glared at him, stubbornly refusing to let go of his guilt. Dean decided to change tack. "Sam, it was your psychic mojo that saved my life."
"My psychic mojo is what got you in that mess in the first place."
There were tears glistening in Sam's eyes, and Dean was out of ideas to make him see sense. This wasn't over, but he let it go when Sam abruptly changed the subject.
"Look, I need to check those dressings, make sure none of the wounds are infected."
"Aw, hell, Sam. Can't it wait?"
Sam's lips thinned into a stubborn line. "No, it can't. Dean, if you won't go—"
"Okay, fine." Dean sighed and leaned back without further protest. He knew it was important to Sam to think he was looking after him properly.
Sam perched on the edge of the bed and Dean tried not to flinch as Sam ran his hands gently over his ribs and the deep bruising across his belly. From the tight way he was holding himself and the clench in his jaw, Dean could see this was hurting Sam as much as it was hurting him.
Sam worked silently, checking dressings one by one. Eventually, he removed the gauze from the final burns on Dean's chest, applied more antiseptic cream and taped down a new dressing. Then he rested his hand over Dean's heart, closing his eyes. Dean realized he was counting the beats.
"Dude."
"What? Am I hurting you?"
"Sam, chill out," he said gently. "It's not gonna stop beating."
Sam looked at him intently. "Man, you were electrocuted. Again. And you want me to chill out?"
"Wasn't the same thing. Current through those prods, it's lower voltage than the tazers."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"I'm not saying it's okay, I'm just saying that it won't have done the same damage as the tazer. It hasn't hurt my heart, okay? Just trust me on this." Yeah, he was no doctor, but he remembered what it felt like to wake up in a hospital bed, knowing from the effort it took to draw a simple breath that something was terribly wrong inside. He might feel like shit now, but he can tell the difference.
Sam managed a smile, running his hand quickly across his eyes. "Now who's being the medical geek?"
"Hey, that's different." Dean mustered a grin. "A hunter has to know his weapons."
Sam's hand still lingered on his chest, and Dean could see he wasn't convinced, despite his attempt to cover his concern with banter. They needed to move on from this moment.
"Dude, no offense, but if I wanted someone feeling me up, I'd choose that little red-headed waitress we met at the Denny's in Fork River. You know, the one with the little rose tattoo between…"
"Okay, I get the message." Sam removed his hand. He took a deep breath and then regarded Dean appraisingly. "I hate to break this to you, but the way you look, you couldn't score a blind wendigo, never mind that waitress from Denny's."
Mission accomplished. "Dude!" he said, feigning an indignant tone. "You underestimate my inner charm."
Sam grinned. "Unless, of course, she has a thing for guys who look like a cross between Frankenstein's monster and something out of Shawn of the Dead."
He was glad he'd made Sam laugh, but he couldn't help putting a hand up to feel his face. Shit. Sam was right. When he looked in the mirror, he was going to see something from a late night horror movie staring back at him.
Sam was suddenly serious again. "It's okay," he said softly. "Nothing's broken – you'll be back to your usual ugly self in no time."
Dean couldn't find a witty comeback. He was suddenly exhausted by the effort of simply staying awake.
Sam was giving him that concerned look again. "You need to take some pain killers and get some more sleep. If you won't get checked out properly, at least you're gonna stay put and rest, okay?"
He could have protested, but truthfully, all he wanted was to drift back into sleep. "Whatever you say, Mom."
"Okay."
Sam passed him two tablets. Dean swallowed them with a mouthful of water and then allowed Sam to mess with the pillows. As Sam started to get up, he said, "Sam – that Rambo entrance into the barn? That was awesome, man. Seriously."
"You think?"
"You scared me."
Sam grinned, and then his face dropped. "I shouldn't have left Tom to deal with Joe. I should have done – something. Maybe I should have made an anonymous call to the police. Still could…"
"Nah, you made the right call. We can't get the police involved in this. You trust this Tom guy, right? Let him take care of it."
"I guess. It's just … I want Joe to be punished for what he did to you."
Me too, Dean thought. He glanced at Sam's bruised knuckles. "Looks like he didn't get off that lightly."
Sam shrugged. "He got nothing like he deserved." He paused. "If it were me, would you just leave it?"
Dean was silent for a moment. He knew he wouldn't, and so did Sam. If that psycho had hurt his brother, he'd have gone back and beaten the crap out of him without a moment's hesitation. But he wasn't Sam, and he knew that while Sam was angry enough to do it right now, he'd later regret resorting to mindless violence. And he was glad of that. He hadn't been lying when he told Sam it had scared him to see him charge into that barn. The expression of rage on Sam's face left him in no doubt that he would have pulled the trigger, and he hated that Sam had been put in that position.
"You did the right thing," he repeated.
"Yeah. Maybe."
The painkillers were kicking in. He was beginning to feel comfortably drowsy, and the incessant aches and pains receded to a background blur. Sam fussed with the comforter, pulling it up a little further around his shoulders and tucking the ends in firmly. Dean opened his mouth to protest at being tucked in like a little kid, and then closed it again, grudgingly admitting to himself that on this one occasion, he didn't really mind.
But there was something important they had to talk about before he let sleep claim him, and he forced his drooping eyelids open.
"Sam, these visions, this ability of yours – we'll figure it out."
"How, Dean? You can't tell me this isn't freaking you out. You must have wondered if it's leading to some place really bad. What if there's something in me that somehow connects with people who are doing evil? What if … What if The Demon did something to me when I was a baby?"
Dean paused. Every time they'd discussed Sam's visions they'd skirted the fact that The Demon might be involved. It had tried to take or kill Sam when he was only six months old, and it clearly had an interest in Max, too – another kid with psychic abilities. But they had no proof that it was involved in the visions, and no way was Dean going to start jumping to the conclusion that his brother had a direct line to the heart of evil.
"Sam, you don't know that," he said carefully. "So far, the visions have just warned you that something bad's gonna happen, so you can help."
"What, you think they might be coming from God, or something?"
Dean hesitated. He didn't believe for a moment that God, if he even existed, had a hand in this, but the desperate look in Sam's eyes told him that his brother needed some hope to cling to. "I dunno, Sam. Maybe. But whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. I know you're scared. But I'll always be looking out for you, okay?"
There was silence for a moment and Dean found his eyes drifting shut. Then he felt a hand on his arm.
"We look out for each other, Dean," Sam said softly. "We're in this together, okay?"
There were so many reasons why that statement wasn't right. It was his job to look after Sam, not the other way round. That was what big brothers did. But he was too tired to argue, and he couldn't deny that together the Winchester brothers kicked ass.
"Sure, Sam," he said drowsily. "But this doesn't mean you get to drive the car."
He drifted into sleep on the wave of Sam's laugh.
The End
Swanseajill 02/07