Title: Psychic Mojo
By: Swanseajill
Rating: Gen, R (to be on the safe side – warning for violence and torture in some scenes)
Pairing: No pairing
Characters: Dean, Sam
Spoilers/Timeline: Set somewhere between Nightmare and Dead Man's Blood. Slight spoiler for Nightmare.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters nor am I making any money from them.
Author's notes: This one is for iamstealthlyone, the best beta ever and without whom I'd probably never post anything. Happy birthday! Huge thanks also to Sunrize83 for her hard work on the beta for this fic and to Jennk528 for her helpful comments and for suffering with me through the writing of it!

The story is complete, but I thought I'd post it one part a day. There are nine parts in all.

Summary: When Dean is kidnapped in a plan to force Sam to use his psychic abilities, Sam begins a race against time to find his brother. Meanwhile, Dean finds himself helpless in the hands of a desperate man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

Psychic Mojo

Friday, 11 pm

Sam tensed as Dean sank the final ball and the crowd around the pool table burst into applause and cheers of appreciation.

If he'd seen Sam's unease, Dean would have scoffed and told him to chill; there was no reason to worry. No reason, Sam mused, other than the fact that Dean had just successfully hustled a hustler who had beaten four opponents that evening. And the expression on the man's face was one of undisguised fury. And then there was the fact that he was well over six feet tall and broad shouldered, with a muscled physique marred only by the beer belly hanging over his jeans.

Oh--and he had fists like hams, the air of a man who was no stranger to bar room brawls, and a girl who had been shooting Dean flirtatious looks all evening. All good reasons not to worry.

Right.

The hustler took a few menacing steps toward Dean, curling his hands into fists. Dean stood his ground, looking unconcerned, but his fingers tightened around the pool cue. Sam shot out of his chair, getting ready to back his brother, when one of the hustler's companions put a hand on the disgruntled man's shoulder and murmured quietly in his ear. Shorter and slighter than the hustler, he looked barely out of his teens and therefore younger than the other by a good five or six years. Yet he had the same square features and curly black hair that strongly suggested to Sam that the two were brothers.

To Sam's relief the hustler seemed to heed his brother's words, albeit with bad grace. Shooting one final venomous look at Dean, he pulled his girlfriend to him and elbowed his way past the crowd, heading for the bar.

For a moment the girl resisted, then, after a quick regretful glance in Dean's direction, she slipped an arm around her boyfriend's waist and followed willingly. Dean looked after her thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to accept a few handshakes and claps on the back from members of the crowd.

Sam sank back into his seat and tried to look unconcerned and relaxed when the crowd dispersed and Dean sauntered back to their table, grinning widely and totally unperturbed that he had narrowly escaped what could have been a nasty brawl. He flourished a generous handful of bills in Sam's nose.

"Two hundred dollars, Sammy-boy. Should keep us in bread and water for a week or two."

"That's great, Dean. Now can we get out of here before that sucker changes his mind and heads over here to beat your face in?"

Dean cast a disparaging glance in the direction of the hustler. "Only in his dreams, dude."

"Well, he is built like a brick house, Dean," Sam commented dryly.

"So?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "What, you think he could take me?"

His brother eyed the hustler speculatively, and Sam groaned inwardly; it was quite possible that Dean was considering provoking the guy just to prove he could beat him.

"No, I don't, and I don't need you to prove it, either," he said firmly. "In case you've forgotten, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."

Dean sighed theatrically. "Fine. Be a killjoy. What's the matter, you afraid you're gonna miss your favorite Infomercial?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're so funny."

Dean waggled his eyebrows. "So they tell me."

Sam stood up and pulled on his jacket. As he turned to go, he found a stranger blocking his way. Sam frowned. He had noticed the man earlier, sitting alone at a nearby table, nursing a glass of beer. Occasionally Sam had caught him staring in their direction before he'd looked quickly away, giving Sam the distinct impression that he'd been watching him. Then he'd dismissed the idea. There was nothing to indicate the man was anything other than a stranger enjoying a quiet beer. He looked to be in his early fifties, curly black hair beginning to thin and liberally peppered with gray. Gray beard, small, round glasses. Nothing to suggest he was demon-possessed or a shape-shifter in disguise.

"Sam Barrister?"

Sam stiffened at the stranger's use of the alias he'd used on their last job. "Sorry, you have the wrong person," he replied automatically.

The man held his ground and cleared his throat. "Look, son, I understand if you don't want to be recognized, but I need a moment of your time."

Sam glanced at Dean, who shook his head slightly. But the man didn't look like a threat, and it would make sense to find out how he knew the alias.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I have a cousin up in Fork River," the stranger began, and Sam sensed Dean tensing beside him. They had been in Fork River the previous week and drawn more attention to themselves than was wise. "He's one of the men you saved from the cave-in."

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Dean. A vision of four men killed by a cave-in had taken them to the small town of Fork River. Knowing that time was of the essence, Sam had insisted that they tell the sheriff about the vision. Fortunately for the cavers, the sheriff was an open-minded man who gave Sam the benefit of the doubt and immediately mustered a rescue team. As the men made their way out of the cave, a small tremor brought down the roof of the passage they had been in moments before. Everyone agreed that had they stayed where they were, they would all have been crushed to death.

Dean had persuaded the sheriff to keep Sam's part in the rescue under wraps, but inevitably the truth had leaked out. Later that afternoon the brothers had been confronted by flashing cameras and the local press clamoring for an interview. They had evaded the press and hurriedly left town, driving through the night to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Fork River. They had thought they'd gotten away with it. Until now.

"Then you definitely have the wrong person," Dean said casually. "We've never been to Fork River."

The man frowned and produced a newspaper, poking a finger at a picture. "You trying to tell me that isn't you two?"

Sam reluctantly took the paper. He knew what he would see. An internet search the day after the incident had revealed he was front-page news in the Fork River Gazette. He looked at the photo. It was a slightly grainy but recognizable shot of him and Dean walking out of the sheriff's office. The photographer had captured a look of surprise on Sam's face and a snarl on Dean's. He handed the paper back.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I guess there's a resemblance, and I can see how you'd make a mistake. But as my brother said, we've never been to Fork River."

"Look." There was a note of desperation in the stranger's voice and Sam took a hasty step backward as the man leaned forward into his personal space. "I need your help. My daughter went missing eight months ago. She's only ten years old. We haven't seen or heard from her since, but I know she's still alive--I can feel it. I need you to help me find her."

Sam felt the color drain from his face. This was the moment he had been dreading since the first vision. That someone would ask for his help and he would be unable to give it. He was floundering for a response when Dean stepped in.

"I'm sorry about your daughter." Dean's tone was pleasant but firm. "But you've got it wrong. We can't help you."

"Didn't you hear me?" The man raised his voice, and several men at the bar looked around to see what was happening. "My daughter's only ten years old. She'll be eleven next month." He held Sam's gaze, and Sam was unable to tear his eyes from the pain he saw there. "I know you see things, you're psychic. Here, this teddy bear, it was hers. Maybe if you hold it…"

He thrust out a ragged bear, and Sam reflexively took it. He cleared his throat and found his voice unsteady when he spoke. "Listen, you don't understand. Like my brother said, I really can't help you. It just doesn't work like that…"

"Sam!" Sam shut up at Dean's sharp command. He knew he'd said too much, but something in him wanted this man to know the truth. He didn't want the distraught father to think him unfeeling.

Dean put a hand on Sam's elbow, gripping firmly, and addressed the stranger. "I've told you once. I'll tell you again. You have the wrong person." The words were harsher this time, his expression cold. "Let's go, Sam."

Sam knew Dean was right. There was nothing he could do to help, and trying to explain would just make things worse. Dean squeezed his arm and Sam turned to leave, only to find his path blocked once again. He'd been so caught up in the conversation that he hadn't noticed two men leave the bar to stand between them and the door. It was the hustler and his brother.

"You're not going anywhere. Dad asked for your help, and you're going to help him."

Dad? Sam glanced at the stranger and immediately saw the family resemblance. This was just perfect. Now it was three to one, their chances of walking out quietly non-existent.

"We're leaving," Dean said evenly. "So why don't you just step aside and we'll be on our way."

The hustler folded his arms, his expression belligerent. Sam could smell whiskey on his breath. He was obviously drunk and spoiling for the fight he'd been denied earlier. "I'm not going anywhere," he said loudly, "so you'll just have to go through me--if you can." He re-arranged his features into a smirk as he stared at Dean.

"Joe…" The older man's voice held a note of warning, but his son ignored him.

Dean shrugged. "Fine. We don't want any trouble. We'll just go out the back way." He half turned, and Sam saw the move coming long before Joe, whose senses were obviously dulled by the alcohol. Dean's right hook hit him square on the nose, knocking him back into a table. But for a big man he was fast, bouncing back with a right hook of his own that sent Dean reeling. Sam tensed, one eye on Dean and the other on Joe's brother, but the young man stood his ground, casting an anxious glance at his father. Dean recovered quickly, blocking the next punch and grabbing the hustler's right arm, using his opponent's momentum to slam him into the wall. The hustler grunted and crumpled to his knees.

As Dean closed in to finish the fight, the father stepped forward and held up a hand. "That's enough!"

The bartender pushed his way through the crowd at the same moment. "He's right. I want all of you out of here. I don't care what your beef is, you don't settle it in my bar, you understand?"

The brother was helping Joe up. Dean balanced on the balls of his feet, alert in case his opponent ignored the order. Sam moved to flank his brother, ready to throw himself into the fray. The father stepped in front of his elder son.

"This is over, Joe."

Joe glared at him, wiping blood from his nose with one huge fist. "Dad, you gotta be kiddin' me. He started it…"

"I said, this is over." There was a ring of authority in the stranger's tone, and to Sam's surprise, after a long moment, Joe nodded. But he threw a look of contempt at his father as he irritably shook off his brother's helping hand.

The father looked at Sam and Dean. "I'm sorry. I didn't want this. Joe's got a bad temper, always has." He ignored the black glare his son shot him. "He loves his sister, and he wants Maddy back as much as I do. But if you can't help, then I guess there's no more to be said. We won't bother you again." He held Sam's gaze for a moment, and Sam felt helpless in the face of his raw despair.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't help you," he muttered as Dean grabbed his arm and marched him out of the bar.

Not until they were on the road again did Sam realize he was still clutching the ragged teddy bear in both hands.

Saturday, 7 am

Dean woke instantly, instinctively turning his head from intrusive brightness. He groaned and cracked an eye to observe in disgust the bright shaft of light penetrating the wide gap in the curtains. He glanced at the illuminated display of the clock beside the bed and swore grumpily beneath his breath. 7 am. It was too early to get up. He had barely slept, his mind buzzing with worry for Sam and his visions, trying to make some sense of it all. Sam himself had tossed and turned most of the night. Dean was sure it was due to his brother's regret at being unable to help that desperate father.

Dean knew that he'd been harsh with the man and with Sam, but protecting his brother was more important than disappointing a stranger they were unable to help.

Since Sam had admitted to having psychic visions, Dean had tried to hide the extent to which this "gift" unnerved him. Anything that happened to his brother that he was unable to understand and couldn't control was something to worry about. He wasn't even sure you could call visions of impending death a "gift." As far as Dean was concerned, it had so far proved to be more of a curse – to Sam, at least.

Sam had suffered four more waking visions since the incident with Max. On two occasions, they had arrived in time to save those concerned. But on the other two they had been too late, and on both occasions Dean had stood beside his brother, feeling his anguish and guilt. No amount of telling Sam that it wasn't his fault had convinced his brother otherwise. Why, Sam argued, would he be given a vision unless it had a purpose – to give him a chance to prevent the death? Dean hadn't yet found a convincing enough argument to shoot down this theory.

He heard a sound from the other bed and turned over, propping himself up on one elbow to observe the brother he had thought was asleep.

Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching something so tightly his knuckles gleamed white. Dean watched in growing concern as he hunched over, eyes closed and face screwed up in concentration. After a moment, Sam uttered a cry of frustration and hurled the object across the room in Dean's direction.

Dean reflexively fielded the furry missile, finding his hands full of ... moth-eared teddy bear. He might have known.

"You know, if you'd wanted a bear to cuddle, you only had to ask," he said lightly, sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed. "I could've got you one for your birthday."

Sam didn't respond.

"Sam? You gonna to tell me what you were doing?" The words came out more harshly than he'd intended, but damn it, Sam shouldn't be doing this to himself.

"Nothing."

"Sam," he tried to keep his voice light. "You were sitting there, muttering to a teddy bear. That isn't normal, even for you."

Sam sighed. "I thought… I've never tried it, okay? Holding an object to see if I can make a vision happen."

"I'm guessing it didn't work?"

"What do you think?"

Dean padded across the room and sat down beside his brother.

"Sam, you know you have no control over this thing."

Sam looked at him, eyes filled with anguish. "I know, but I thought maybe if I stopped being afraid of it and… and tried to figure out how it works, what triggers it…."

"You've tried before."

"Yeah, well, maybe I haven't tried hard enough." Sam set his mouth in a stubborn line.

"Sam, I know you feel bad for that guy," Dean said softly. "But you can't help him."

Sam chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "I shouldn't have just walked out like that," he said finally. "I could have talked to him, explained why I can't just conjure visions."

Dean shook his head. "He might have listened, but his son sure as hell wasn't in the mood to. He wouldn't have believed you and things would have gotten out of control. The best thing we can do now is forget about them and put some space between you and this place."

"What about the case?"

"You said it yourself earlier, it's most likely a dead end." They had come to town to investigate the report of a mysterious beast terrorizing a group of teenagers. There were rumors of similar sightings fifty years ago. The sightings had coincided with several deaths, and it was possible the creature was beginning to hunt again – if it even existed. So far, they had found little evidence that the latest incident was anything more than the product of the teenagers' vivid imaginations.

"We haven't finished our research," Sam argued. "There are still five families to interview, and we need to check on the deaths fifty years ago, to see if there's a pattern."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, we'll give it one more day. But I think you should keep a low profile. I'll stay in town, talk to the families. You drive over to Jackville and check the records in the library."

Sam nodded and stood. "I'll take first shower."

"Just don't be a girl and use all the hot water."

Sam gave him the finger as he walked past, but it was a half-hearted gesture and Dean could tell his brother was still upset. He sat for a while, staring in frustration at the bear he was still holding. Then, with a decisive flick of the wrist, he threw it into the trash can.