Survival Instinct

Slight AU to episode 6.11, "Appointment in Samarra."

I really wanted to delve into Soulless Sam's thoughts and emotions - yes, emotions - during this episode, as well as explore a different possible sequence of events that popped into my head while re-watching Sam's struggle to survive in his current state. This short story is both a character study and a partial AU of Sam's part in "Appointment in Samarra" and thus relies heavily on the episode itself.

Set in Soulless Sam's POV.

Summary:

"I need to know if there's a spell or a weapon, anything that can keep a soul out – forever."
"I hate to break it to you – ok, well, really I don't – but there is no spell, no magic wand to wave, and no easy solution to this little soul dilemma you've found yourself in."
Too bad it couldn't have come down to some quick and painless spell. Ritual sacrifice would have been a cinch comparatively. Bring on the patricide or virgin offerings.

The first scene contains quotes from the episode, which are in italics.

Thanks again to Joe for the beta!

"Sam...Winchester," Balthazar greets me grimly from the balcony before disappearing from sight. "This had better be good," he says from close behind me, and I spin. He waits a beat before continuing, seeming simultaneously bemused and angry. (I could be wrong about his sentiments, however; I'm only going off somewhat alien concepts gleaned from the memories of my past life and things I've gathered from this last year's brief crash course on secondhand emotions. Whatever the finer points, though, the large picture appears to point to 'displeased' at the very least. Which, to be fair, isn't unexpected.)"Why, here's one for the list of dumbest things ever: summon the angel who wants to kill you."

"Desperate times," I reply shortly by way of explanation, then cut right to the chase, hoping to prevent the aforementioned killing. "I need your help, Balthazar."

The angel's eyebrows shoot Heavenward. "Interesting. Since last time we met you wanted to… what was it?" He pauses facetiously before 'remembering.'"Oh, yes, yes: fry my wings 'extra crispy.'"

"Well, that was a misunderstanding," I say with halting and halfhearted beguilement, along with what could almost be called something akin to nervousness.

While I may be lacking in empathy, compassion, and other emotions prized by Dean and apparently society as a whole, my survival instinct is finely honed. (Hunts? What was to fear from monsters? But pissed-off angels? Yeah, those could warrant an extra dose of caution.) And that survival instinct is why I'm in this dilapidated abandoned warehouse in the first place. It certainly isn't for the ambiance or the company. Summoning Balthazar was a calculated risk, but I judged it to be next to nothing compared to letting Dean shove that mangled soul down my throat.

"Some misunderstanding!" Balthazar scoffs, calling me out on the weak lie.

I decide that steering the conversation away from said 'misunderstanding' would be in my best interests. "I need some advice," I say quickly.

"Advice?" He sounds genuinely curious and slightly less homicidal. This is a step in the right direction.

"Angel advice," I clarify.

"Well, then go ask your boyfriend," he sneers, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as if Castiel can be found somewhere behind him.

"Cas can't help me." I don't feel the need to elaborate on the whys and wherefores and continue before he has a chance to question it. "I need to know if there's a spell or a weapon, anything that can keep a soul out – forever."

That piques his interest. "Ohh," he says with faked concern – that I can certainly recognize – and a tilt of his head."What's going on, Sam?"

"It's for me," I reluctantly admit.

"Well. The plot thickens." Balthazar smiles at the element of mystery laid out before him as if it's an offering and approaches me slowly."Where's your soul, Sam?" His brows furrow when comprehension strikes."Good God, no. It's not still..." He takes my stony silence as assent. "It is." He appears genuinely upset in some way that I can't decipher. Dismayed? Appalled? I should have brought a dictionary, for all the good it would do me.

"My brother found a way to put it back in me," I explain, adding flatly, "I don't want it."

"No, you don't," the angel confirms adamantly, circling idly behind me. "No, no, 'cause Michael and Lucy are hate-banging it as we speak."

And there's one of the many reasons I don't want to have anything to do with that tortured soul. It can stay in the Cage forever for all I care, as long as it stays the hell away from me. Because while the brief memories I have of Hell, the Cage, and the torture courtesy of my furious cellmates don't particularly horrify me, I know beyond a doubt that they will drive little Sammy insane. Not to mention that it would effectively kill the person I am now. I've found myself rather fond of living.

"Can you help me?" It's easy to keep the plea out of my voice without a soul to back it with an overabundance of emotion.

"I hate to break it to you," Balthazar begins, rather unapologetically, "– ok, well, really I don't –" he adds more honestly, with a slight smirk, "but there is no spell, no magic wand to wave about, and no easy solution to this little soul dilemma you've found yourself in."

"But there is a solution?" I press, grasping at the single straw dangled before me.

"Well, yes, in a way," the angel replies ruefully. "Theoretically," he adds as a disclaimer. "You simply must resist the assimilation." He throws his hands wide and I raise my chin to peer down at his face, my eyes squinting in contemplation.

"That's it? That easy?" I ask suspiciously. "Just mark my soul 'return to sender' and I'm free?" A mocking disbelief laces my tone.

"It will be about as easy as pushing water uphill with a sieve," Balthazar corrects me. "I don't know that it's ever been successfully done before." His tone turns musing and he cocks his head to the side. "Granted, the sample size is understandably small. And, well, I'm not sure if the condition of your soul will make the task more or less difficult. It could be weaker and easier to combat, or it could be more powerfully drawn to its vessel." That said, the angel nods to me with a sense of finality before I can get any further questions in. "Either way, I wish you the best of luck."

And with the sound of beating wings he's gone, leaving me puzzled over why he'd just offered me free advice rather than putting my head on a platter to decorate his mansion. I shake my head, bemused. I find humans difficult to understand on a routine basis. Angels? Way out of the ballpark.

I decide immediately to steer clear of Dean until I discover the results of Death's trial. If I still had some sort of faith I would be praying for his failure, but faith feels kind of like compassion: alien and unfathomable. Perhaps it should bother me that my brother would be devastated, but I'm more focused on preventing something that could, at best, mean my death.

The idea of leaving Dean – should he succeed – and, to a lesser extent, Bobby, is strangely disheartening. No, I don't need my brother anymore to get my soul back ('moot point' would be a bit of an understatement), but there is a refreshing sense of familiarity I'd miss if I had to cut and run. And there's some sort of attachment there that I can't quite put my finger on. I'm not sure if it stems from my memories of Sammy or from a lifetime of engrained habit. Either way, after we reconnected I noticed myself steadily gravitating toward Dean, despite my discomfort at depending at least partially on someone else, and despite his misgivings over what I've become. Plus, I guess it's good to have a moral compass, right? A walking, talking, smart-ass conscience? At least, that's what I've been led to believe. Albeit by the same man who tried to convince me that stuffing the equivalent of a werewolf-mauled heart back into my chest is a good thing.

Instead of returning to Bobby's – a trap if I've ever seen one – I clean up the tools used in the summoning spell, stuff them back into the Impala's trunk, and head into town to spend some time at a local bar. It's a nice sports bar, a little more high-end than the dives Dean and I frequent, and I figure I can pick up both food and probably a good time there without making it too incredibly easy for my brother to find me. Alcohol and sex are sounding good right about now.

Unfortunately Dean shows up before I'm even three beers in and not quite done snaring an attractive brunette showing off more skin than clothes. He must have used Death's ring to drop himself in an inconspicuous location nearby. Behind the bar, probably, or in the establishment's men's room. It really screws with people's heads to see a man appear out of thin air, after all.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he says to my would-be hookup, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Sorry, but I need to steal your friend here." I send him a pointed glare and halfheartedly consider educating him on the concept of cockblocking but he shakes his head. "Gotta talk to you."

He has a defeated air about him and I let him lead me back to the Impala. I'm still not getting into the car with him without hearing the story first, and discretely check my pocket for the keys. Yep, present and accounted for. I perch on the hood, watch him mimic my action, and wait for the story.

He fidgets for all of a minute, an expression of some sort of unease growing on his face and in his body language. "I couldn't do it," he finally says bitterly with a shake of his head. "I couldn't even last half a day."

I know based off Sammy's memories that this is where I'm supposed to be comforting and supportive of my brother. Unfortunately for him all I can feel is a muted sense of what I recall to be relief. I scour my brain, trying to come up with something that sounds consoling and that he wouldn't recognize as being a bold-faced lie. 'Fake it 'til you make it' is apparently conditional for reasons I don't understand, and certain lies are not well-received.

"So that's it?" I eventually ask instead, just for verification.

Dean sends me a reproachful look that I know from my past life to be hiding hurt and despair, which, as memory serves, are considered unpleasant. "That's it," he confirms dejectedly, turning his eyes to the ground in front of us. "You'll be happy to hear that we're out of options." With pursed lips his gaze returns to my face. "We're having some drinks at Bobby's. I'd like you to come."

As I debate the wisdom of potentially walking into a trap – chances are minimal, I conclude, at this point – or at least having to endure a, long, exhausting interaction involving two overwrought people – that possibility is looking more likely – Dean picks the keys to the Impala from my pocket and climbs in the driver's side. With a reluctant sigh and a reaction born from a lifetime of habit I follow.

The ride back to Bobby's is silent. Dean's mask is stoic, but angst and some indeterminate emotion is radiating from his side of the car. I'm impassively watching the scenery fly by, disinclined to engage with him and risk releasing the shitstorm of anguish ahead of schedule. When we arrive I approach the house cautiously, prepared for a hasty retreat should the need arise.

There's no trap at the door – unless you count an apparently sympathetic Bobby, who claps me apologetically on the arm and leads me toward the kitchen by the bicep – but as I round the corner I spot Death hovering right at the threshold of the linoleum. I feel my eyes widen and my heart thuds noticeably in my chest, but when his hand snakes toward me I backpedal too slowly, hampered by my surrogate father's tightening grip. I feel Death's long, skeletal fingers dig into my shoulder and darkness falls.

I wake up on the cot in the sealed panic room in the presence of Dean, Bobby, and – I check behind me – yep, Death. Dean seems to be in the process of cuffing my wrist to the bed and I promptly yank my arm out of his reach (losing some skin in the process), then propel myself off the cot with force, hastily backing away from all of them. I spy a worn doctor's bag by Death's feet and throw my hands out as if warding a blow.

"You are not putting that thing inside of me," I tell the room in no uncertain terms as I stagger backwards. "We've got both angels and demons telling us that this is abad idea and you're just going to ignore that for your own selfishness?" I direct this last bit toward my brother.

Dean's eyes narrow in easily-recognizable anger. "Selfishness?! I just played Death for you today," he says accusingly. "And let me tell you, that was –"

"No," I interrupt him vehemently, "you didn't!" He opens his mouth to argue, but I don't give him a chance. "You played Death for you today! I told you I don't want it. The only reason you attempted that trial was for you, so you can force that soul on me and bring back your little Sammy. You don't care about me, or you wouldn't have Death sitting right here waiting with the thing that's going to kill me."

Death, his patience tiring, stands and takes a few steps toward me, bag in hand.

"No," I beg him. Actual, honest-to-God, distraught begging. Pleading for my life, the only life I've known for the past year. The life I'm desperate to keep. "No, no, no." Seeing the guarded, locked door, I back away until I hit a curved wall of the panic room. Eyes wide, heart pounding, and lightly trembling, I feel like a cornered animal. Even weaponless I'm conscious of the desire to lash out at anything that tries to approach me.

Like Death.

"Hold still," he admonishes me, "I'm not getting any younger." And suddenly I find myself pressed firmly to the wall by an unseen force, à la practically every cut-rate demon I've ever fought, though perhaps a bit more gently. I attempt to thrash against his hold but get nowhere. He approaches with that thrice-cursed bag of his and I know that I'm about to have to battle my soul.

Damn Balthazar and this Hail-Mary of a plan. Too bad it couldn't have come down to some quick and painless spell. Ritual sacrifice would have been a cinch comparatively. Bring on the patricide or virgin offerings. Whatever it takes. But no, now I have to accomplish something that an eons-old angel can't recall ever being successfully completed… and my adversary is Death, the most powerful being in the universe. Oh yeah. This is looking promising.

"Stay back!" I cry desperately, as if that will make any sort of difference. It takes a monumental effort, but I'm able to turn my head to Dean. "You'll never get your Sammy back," I tell him frantically, pinning him with my gaze as effectively as Death has me pinned to the wall. "The little brother you knew died in that Cage, a long time ago" – probably – "and you're about to destroy the only piece of him you have left."

I see Dean's face crumple, but he still stands there in silence. Watching. Waiting.

My strongest gambit may have failed, but I still can't give up. "Please Dean, you don't want to do this." There's anguish in my cracking voice and I marvel at the intensity of the emotion. Even sex and alcohol couldn't bring me emotions this strong, no matter how hard I pursued them. Sometimes I'd wanted to feel, chasing every positive sensation I'd come across – the pleasures of the flesh, the thrill of the kill – but not like this. Never this.

And if they stick that ruined soul back inside me this could be all I ever feel again. Or worse. Much worse. The thought chills me. My lungs feel frozen solid and my chest heaves as I struggle to pull in a deep breath.

"Relax," Death says in a calm, collected voice. "I'm going to erect a wall that will protect you from the… troubling experiences you've endured. It should enable you to retain whatever amount of sanity you possessed before your foray into Hell." The dryness he injects into the last sentence speaks clearly of his opinion of said sanity.

I wonder if I will be locked behind this wall that he's planning on building. "Don't," I whisper hoarsely. "Please… don't."

"Don't," Death continues warningly, ignoring me completely, "touch the wall. Just try to ignore it. It may feel a bit uncomfortable. Itchy. Don't scratch at it. The consequences of it coming down would be… unpleasant."

"No. No no no no no." If it were anyone else I'd describe my tone as a whimper, but my pride insists that in this case I'm mistaken.

And then Death produces a brightly glowing blue ball from his bag and I'm struck silent, both entranced and horrified. This is really happening. Really happening. Really… oh God.

And now I'm intimately familiar with the sensation of terror. I blew right past my introduction to true fear. This is real, honest-to-God terror.

I know that I should be preparing myself for the most metaphysical battle of my life – stranger, even, than the concept of exorcising and killing demons with my mind – but all I can do is stare. The breath is frozen in my lungs and if Death's mojo wasn't pressing me to the wall I'd have collapsed to the floor.

And then Death is right in front of me, pressing this battered monstrosity into my torso through my peculiarly undamaged shirt and skin. In the background I hear myself screaming in agony, but after a split second of panic I somehow pull my mind together and feel the barrier that Death is trying to penetrate. It's more like a thick membrane than a solid wall, but I can work with it. The soul is searing its way through and I throw every ounce of my will against it. That will, or whatever force I'm using to combat the intrusion, also hurts my chest, but it's more like the sensation of burning, overtaxed muscles rather than the heat of the sun that this soul is putting off. Despite the pain I can't afford to release it. I can't let the soul through. Can't let it through. Everything is riding on this fight. Can't let it through.

I clench my teeth against the screams and hear myself let out a long, anguished groan instead. Pushing, pushing. The soul is almost back at its starting point and I'm shoving at it with everything I have. Through the contact I can feel the wrongness of it. It's cracked, broken, defiled. And fuck if that thing's going inside me. Nobody who's told me how messed up I am without my soul has felt anything like that.

"Sam, relax. Breathe." I open my eyes for a split second and see Death's expression of surprised puzzlement. "You must stop resisting. I'm trying to be gentle."

I let my eyes slide closed again, focusing on strengthening the internal barrier, but a pained laugh escapes me. That was gentle? If he pushes harder I'll have no chance.

"What's going on?" Dean asks, voice raw.

"He's fighting me," Death replies testily.

"Can you…?" my brother trails off uncertainly.

"Yes, yes, of course," Death reassures him. "It's just a matter of how much damage he sustains before I can get his soul seated in its proper place."

I hear footsteps approach and what I recognize as Dean's light touch on the side of my head, briefly running his fingers through my hair in a manner that calls up memories from my distant childhood. "You gotta let him do his thing, Sam," he says quietly. "This will all be over soon."

Well he's got that right. Eyes still squeezed shut and focused mainly on this ethereal barrier in my body that's all that's protecting me from destruction, I shake my head, feeling the back of my skull grind against the rounded wall of the room. "I don't want to die," I manage to grit out.

"You're not gonna die," Dean says soothingly. "This is going to make you whole. You've just got to let it in."

"No!" I growl, voice straining with effort. "It's killing me!" An almost inhuman bellow escapes my lungs. "G-get it away from me!"

I feel the pressure increase again as Dean simultaneously cups half of my face. "C'mon Sammy," he almost whispers, "just relax." His skin feels wet and oddly warm and I realized that it's because my tears of pain and exertion are pooling against his fingers.

"I can't," I moan, shaking my head again. Dean's hand moves with me. "Please, God, stop."

"I'm sorry, Sam," I hear Death say solemnly. "I'm going to have to apply a bit more pressure."

And then a pain so intense that it eclipses my entire world begins crushing my body. It's far worse than demon blood withdrawal or any other agony I've ever felt. Light threatens to blind me from beyond my closed eyelids and my entire body is burning at approximately the temperature of the sun. The barrier that was there before, between my body and that ravaged soul, has popped like a soap bubble and I have absolutely no hope of reassembling it. Through the ringing in my ears I can hear my own tortured screams. Despite the will to survive I'd clung so strongly to until my previous breath, now I would beg for death if I could – a clean death, free of agony, tormented souls, and unspeakable outcomes – and I actually welcome the darkness when it finally comes. I feel myself slip away into the black with the final knowledge that I'd lost the battle, and probably my life, however brief it may have been. I just have to hope that Sammy comes out of this in one piece – and that I'm part of that piece.

Hope you enjoyed! Reviews mean the world to me. If you would take just a moment to let me know what you think it would make my day!