A/N: AU story in which Sam's psychic powers become more advanced more quickly, and in different ways. Also Sam is OOC, but a believable result of having phenomenal cosmic powers. Demon powers are also very AU. Basically all sad excuses for some cuddly h/c! Late season one, but except for the appearance of Meg, no references to canon that pins down when it has to take place.
Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me. Probably a good thing, too!
It was dark in here. Too dark to read by without squinting. And cold. There was a utilitarian metal desk, like you'd find in a Noir cop's office, and papers. Papers everywhere, some organized, some loose, shifting in the breezeless air like they were alive. There were shelves of books and notebooks stuffed with extra leaves, and file cabinets stuffed to the brim with files and notes and sheets of paper of all sizes. Dean Winchester sat at the desk, leafing through a meager folder labeled Options with the disinterest of one who has already been through it many times and found nothing remotely interesting.
Someone else was in the room. Dean snapped the file shut and stood up. "Who's there?" he demanded of the darkness, and, before it answered, "Get out of here—you can't—"
Even before Dean registered that he had attacked, lashing out on autopilot, he was already down, like a kitten who had made the unwise assumption that it could take down a puma. He was on his face in the desk, his arms pinioned behind him in a vicelike grip.
"Easy, Dean, it's me."
That didn't make it any better. In fact, Dean was pretty sure that that made it worse.
"Wha… That doesn't—what the hell are you doing here?"
Sam had released him, and Dean pushed himself upright and turned around, retaining the fighting stance. He moved so that the desk was between him and Sam. Sam shrugged at him, innocently, as if to ask what was wrong.
Dean stammered with rage and confusion before he could formulate words. "What the hell—get out of my head!" he finally spluttered.
"Relax, Dean, I'm not gonna hurt you," Sam said, matter-of-factly.
"That is not the issue here: get out." Dean had circled the desk and now shoved his brother, hard. This was the caliber of strength that would at any other time have thrown his little brother to the ground, but in here psychic-boy-Sam barely took a step backwards. Confused and angry, Dean shoved him again, with all the strength he could muster. Defending, Sam grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him, shoving him back to the desk.
"Dude, chill. I'm just having a look around."
Dean rolled his eyes, incredulous. "That's just it. This is my head."
"I'm trying to figure out where you are, Dean. I'm trying to help."
"Sam, I don't know where I am. I've been unconscious!"
Sam released him again, with disinterest. Dean trembled—with rage or fear he couldn't tell. Sam was rummaging through the leaves of paper on the desk. Some of them were large 8 ½" by 11", typed, others handwritten, some on sticky-notes, some on envelopes or scrap paper or napkins.
"Sam, stop it!" Dean said, trying to cover up the papers, but Sam ignored him:
"These are just surface thoughts. Where do you keep—" he looked around before his eyes lighted on the file cabinet behind the desk labeled Senses.
"Sam, don't! Damnit, Sam!"