Disclaimer: I do not nor will I ever own Supernatural or the characters presented by the show. This writing is mean stricly for entertainment purposes.
So this story will be in three parts. I have the second part written, and if people like this part I'll post the next one. Enjoy! =)
Oh Sinner Man, where you gonna run to? ~Sinner Man (Unknown Arranger)
Sam doesn't even know their names. Doesn't know what they look like either, because it's so dark all the time, as if someone had decided to put out the sun.
It's probably just a blindfold, dumbass, Dean's voice says. From where, Sam can't tell. Maybe some place inside the room. More likely some place inside his head.
Sam doesn't know their names, or what they look like, or what day it is, or what state he's in. He doesn't know when the last time he ate was or if the slow, steady drip, drip, drip echoing through the room is water or his blood. Doesn't know where Dean is, what he's doing. All he knows is that he's the one who started the Apocalypse, and that he deserves this.
It's cold. He's not sure where his clothes are. He still has his boxers on, but they're soaking wet from what Sam hopes is blood and not piss. Because he should at least be allowed to hold on to the dignity of being able to control his own bladder, no matter what he's done. Besides, he hasn't had anything to drink recently. At least, not that he can remember.
The chains around his wrists clink softly as he shifts around. He's suspended so that the tips of his toes barely brush the ground, and his arms and hands have long since gone numb. His lungs ache with the effort of trying to breathe through broken ribs. Freshly broken, at that; Sam can still remember so vividly the feel of the knife as it was wedged between the bones at his back and jerked abruptly, the handle pushed down so that the ribs snapped just near his spinal cord.
What's a few broken bones, Sammy? Dean says, and this time Sam is fairly certain that the voice is in his head.
You would know, Sam thinks. He imagines Dean winking.
Sam parts his lips and lets out a long, shuddering breath as a door creaks somewhere above him and footstep echo down the stairs and across the room before stopping. Something rattles, metal clinks against metal and Sam can't help but tense with fear because this is how it started last time, and every time before that; with the rattling and the clinking and Please, god, no more...
"You know you deserve this, Sam," comes the voice of one of the unnamed men. It's soft, almost gentle, and Sam thinks I know, I know, I know.
It doesn't stop him from gasping out in pain as the tender arches of his feet are cut into. He tries to map out the lacerations in his mind, but it's just as dark in his head as it is outside of it, and Sam can't visualise much of anything anymore. But he can still see Dean, can still see his expression twisted with betrayal and hatred, can still hear Dean as he calls him a vampire and a monster and says that he's done trying to save him.
You're not you anymore, and there's no going back.
We're not stronger when we're together, Sam.
I'm sorry, Sam thinks. So sorry.
"I bet," the unnamed voice sneers. Oh. Did he say that out loud?
The pain in his feet stops abruptly, replaced by a dull throb as the unnamed voice gets up and moves away. There're
more noises, a scraping that Sam can't identify and a sound that might be the unscrewing of a soda bottle cap
before the strong scent of bleach fills the air. His head is tipped to the side suddenly and then the unnamed voice is pouring something in his ear, something that burns and sizzles and makes him feel like the left half of his head is being liquefied slowly.
A scream tears itself from his throat before he can stop it. He jerks against the hand holding his head down, wrenches his hands in the chains and in the background someone is laughing, laughing...
When Sam wakes up—or starts thinking again or whatever the hell, because he can't remember going to sleep—everything is quiet. There's no dripping sound anymore, and there's no voices or creaking above him. His breath immediately quickens as his mind screams wrong wrong wrong so he listens harder, and only then does he realise that the sounds aren't gone, only muted. He can hear nothing out of his left ear.
Irreparable, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his dad's says. Careless.
Something comes out of Sam's mouth then, part-moan part-cry part-snarl. The sound shocks him. How far from human? Dean's voice accuses and suddenly Sam is sobbing tearless, broken sobs.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cries, croaks really, because his voice is wrecked. His chest hurts where they burned him that first time.
He scrapes his toes uselessly across the concrete floor as his words dissolve into a litany of his brother's name, said over and over again like a mantra. Something slimy drips from Sam's chin to his collarbone. He feels something damp across his eyes.
He weeps bitterly, because everything the unnamed voices had said is true. He's a monster. A traitor. Worthless. He started the Apocalypse, drank demon blood, let Lucifer out of the cage. He deserves this. He deserves this. Because it's all his fault.
He's still sobbing when heavy steps come into the room.
"Shut up!" the unnamed voice growls. It's not the one from before. The sharp sound of skin against skin echoes out, seemingly muted because Sam can only hear with one ear. Still, he hears it before he feels it.
"Pathetic piece of shit," the voice mutters. "I thought you Winchesters were supposed to be tough."
Me too, Sam thinks. He keeps his mouth shut.
He still doesn't say anything when one of his hands is removed from the chains, or when it stings at a thousand points because his circulation is returning. He doesn't make a sound when all of his fingers are broken starting with his thumb. Stays silent as his other hand is given the same treatment.
"Well, boy, your ribs seem to be healing nicely," the unnamed voice says roughly. "But I'll let them heal up a bit more before I break 'em again. How's that sound?"
He doesn't say anything.
Somewhere along the line Sam develops a nasty cough that makes his lungs burn and rattles his re-broken ribs. His mouth and throat feel like they're filled with sand. For a while he's really hot, and he can hear lots of voices. Dean's, John's, Bobby's, Jess's. Even Mary's. It doesn't matter, though, because they all hate him. All of them.
"I can make it stop, Sam," Lucifer says at one point. "All you have to do is say yes."
Sam tells him to go to hell.
Then he's freezing cold and it's different; he can hear shouting upstairs and running and what sounds like gunshots and then Dean's voice is there, speaking in an anguished, terrified tone that Sam thought he'd never hear again.
Sammy. Oh god, Sammy—what did they do to you? What did I do to you? Sammy? Can you—
"—hear me? Sam? Oh god, please be okay..." There are shaking fingers at his neck, feeling his pulse point, and then they're higher, behind his head, untying the blindfold.
Sam recoils at the light, so bright after his eternity in darkness that it hurts. The hands from before are back immediately, cupping around his eyes and shielding some of the brightness.
And then Sam sees Dean. His eyes are wide and just as terrified as his voice had been, and they're darting around Sam's body with growing horror. He's somehow gotten the chains off of his wrists without Sam's notice, and now he's lowering Sam gently to the dirty ground, kneeling in front of him. He gently wipes Sam's mouth and chin with his sleeve. "God, Sammy," he says. His voice breaks.
"Dean," Sam says. His eyes fill up with tears. "Dean," he repeats.
"I'm here, kiddo, I'm here," Dean replies, bringing his eyes back up to meet Sam's.
Sam reaches out with a shaking hand and grips the front of Dean's shirt. His lips tremble as the tears spill down his cheeks. "I want to be good, Dean," he whimpers. His voice cracks. "I want to be a good person. Please. I just want to be a good person."
Dean's own eyes well up at Sam's words, and he cups Sam's face in his hands, brushing away his little brother's tears. "I know, Sammy," he whispers. "God—I know."
Castiel comes down then with Sam's clothes, but after one look at the younger man he discards them with a shake of his head.
"His injuries are too severe," he says grimly. "They would only cause him pain."
Cas zaps them back because it's faster and easier than trying to explain to people why they have a broken man in just his boxers that are still damp with what Sam is now certain is blood. The angel then convinces Dean to let him go back for the Impala with an, "I am capable of driving a car, Dean," and, when that doesn't work, a, "Your brother needs you now."
"Come on, kiddo," Dean says when Cas is gone, gently propelling Sam towards the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up, huh?"
Sam complies without a word, letting Dean sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and give him a glass of water before examining the bottoms of his feet. Dean's expression darkens.
"Goddamned sons of bitches," he mutters, and then takes a deep breath before looking up at his little brother. "I'm gonna have to disinfect them, Sammy. I'm sorry. It's gonna hurt like hell." His eyes shine with remorse.
"It's okay, Dean," Sam counters quietly, voice clear now because the water did wonders for his throat. I trust you.
Dean swallows hard and gets the first aid kit from off of the sink. Sam doesn't say a word as Dean cleans the cuts and stitches what needs to be stitched, but he can't stop the sudden tears that trickle down his face.
"Hey, hey, don't cry," Dean coaxes when he looks up and sees Sam's distress. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I know it hurts. I'm almost done, okay?"
Sam shakes his head and opens his mouth to tell him what's wrong, but all that comes out is a strangled sob.
Dean stops what he's doing and leans up to pull Sam against him, carding his fingers through his brother's greasy hair. "Shh, shh, Sammy," he soothes, rocking them gently side to side. "It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay."
"I want to be good," Sam sobs. He clenches both hands in the back of Dean's shirt. "I want to be good."
"I know, kiddo," Dean says, and his voice is thick. "I know. I know. You're a good person, Sammy. You are. I know you've made some pretty big mistakes, and I know that I've been a dick lately, and for that I'm so sorry." He pulls back, looks Sam in the eyes. "But I know that your heart's in the right place, Sam." He puts his hand on Sam's chest as though to emphasise his point. "You're a good person, Sammy. I know you are."
Sam nods like he believes it, sniffles and brings a hand up to swipe at his eyes. He lets Dean help him out of his boxers and sits in the bathtub with his back curved over his knees as his big brother turns on the shower so that it's just this side of hot. Only then does Sam realise how cold he is. He shivers violently and begs Dean to turn the heat up, but Dean doesn't want to aggravate his injuries more, doesn't want to make the burns on his back any worse. Sam understands, and bites his lip to keep his teeth from chattering.
Dean gently washes the blood and grime out of his hair, lathering the shampoo in while teasing Sam half-heartedly about his ridiculous locks. Sam bickers back just as half-heartedly and tries to pretend that maybe he deserves this. Maybe he's the good person Dean says he is.
But it's not true and he knows it. He's not a good person. Good people don't drink demon blood or betray their brothers or start apocalypses.
The thought brings tears to his eyes.
He doesn't believe you, some part of Dean's brain accuses. He doesn't believe a word you said.
Dean bites his lip and focuses on wiping at least five days' worth of dried blood from his brother's skin, even as he thinks, I know.
And it's his fault. It's his fault that Sam thinks this way of himself. Sure, those assholes Jerry and Mike might have helped the process along, but with the way Dean's been acting lately it was bound to happen sooner or later. So initially he's the one who broke his brother, and the thought makes something in his chest ache unpleasantly.
He'd been so angry, though! And hurt, and betrayed, and just tired of it all. He'd ignored Sam's attempts at penance because he thought Sam should have to live with what he'd done just a little bit more, a little bit longer. But this... he never wanted this. Ever.
He doesn't know how many times he'd called that first day after his adventure with the Ghost of Christmas Screw-You. Probably more than fifty. After two days of nothing but voicemail, he'd contacted Bobby and gotten Sam's general location, and then he'd found out that Sam had just seemingly up and left the motel he was staying at without taking anything with him. That was when he had known that something was very, very wrong. It took him five days to find his little brother.
Five days too late, Dean thinks. Walking into that basement to see a very broken, bloody Sam had been one of the worst moments of his life.
"Is he alright?" Cas asks from behind him, and Dean swears and tries not to fall over. Sam's cheek is resting on his knees so that his face is turned away from them. He doesn't move.
"Dammit, Cas," Dean grumbles, then takes a steadying breath. "It's not quite as bad with all the blood gone, but he's still in pretty rough shape..."
Cas nods and looks at Sam sadly. "I wish that this had not happened to him."
Dean exhales slowly. "You and me both, Cas."
"Is there anything you require?"
"Um, some food would be good," Dean says. "Something light on the stomach, though, okay? I don't think they fed him the whole time he was there."
"Of course." With that he's gone.
Dean's brow furrows as he realises that Sam still hasn't said a word. Usually the kid hates being talked about as if he isn't there. "You okay, Sammy?"
"I don't feel great," he admits. His voice trembles.
"I bet you don't, kiddo," Dean murmurs, bringing his hand up to run his fingers through Sam's hair. "I just have to patch you up and then I'll get you some of the good stuff, okay?"
Sam nods.
He's not a kid anymore, a part of Dean's brain says.
I know, Dean thinks, but hell if Sam doesn't look like one right now, thin and curled around himself and seeming impossibly small. Tears sting Dean's eyes while he turns the water off and gently pats his brother dry before helping him into a clean pair of underwear.
As he sets Sam's broken ribs and fingers and stitches the cuts that will scar no matter what he does and cleans and bandages the burns, Dean wishes desperately that he could take it all back. The anger, the resentment. The fact that he's been a sucky brother for the past however long and Sam's paid the ultimate price for it. He's never wanted anything so much in his life.
When he gets to Sam's left ear, fury races through his veins and veils his vision with red. He wipes away the blood that he'd missed and examines the raw, pink flesh that smells distinctly of bleach.
Gently, he turns his brother's head and puts his hand over the other ear.
"Can you hear me, Sammy?" he asks. Sam just blinks at him.
"Fucking hell," he growls standing up and running a shaky hand through his hair.
"Is there a problem?" Cas asks from the doorway, and this time Dean is too angry to be startled.
"Can you fix this?" he asks, walking over to Sam and gently displaying his ruined ear to the angel. Cas frowns.
"I can heal most of the physical damage, but I will not be able to restore his hearing."
Dean sighs and runs his hand through his hair again. "That's okay," he says tiredly. "Just do what you can."
Cas nods and walks over to the younger Winchester, who's looking down with something akin to shame. It makes Dean's blood boil.
The older Winchester blinks as Cas touches Sam's temple and suddenly all of his injuries are gone, leaving smooth, unblemished skin where there would have been unavoidable scarring. When the angel said he could 'heal most of the physical damage', he meant it.
"I was unable to relieve him of his fever," Cas tells Dean. "I am sorry."
"No, no, that's—"Dean clears his throat. "That's great, Cas. You did great."
Cas nods. "Do you feel better now, Sam?" he asks.
Sam nods. "Thanks, Cas."
"You are welcome," Cas says. "I am glad that you feel better." The Angel looks at Dean. "I must go now, but I will be back later. The food is on the nightstand."
Dean nods. "Okay, Cas. Thanks." He turns to Sam when the angel has gone again. "Alright, Sasquatch, let's get you drugged up, huh?" he offers. "Sounds like good times."
Sam smiles weakly and accepts Dean's outstretched hand, allowing his brother to pull him up and keep him steady with an arm around his waist.
Dean leads Sam over to the bed and sits him down, gives him two white pills from a prescription bottle. Sam takes the medicine and curls himself under the blankets, and when Dean starts to walk away he says, "Please don't go," so brokenly that Dean has to clench his teeth against the tears that threaten to escape.
"Aw, Sammy," he murmurs, sliding into the space beside his brother. He can't stop the drops that trickle down his face as Sam's words from earlier echo in his mind.
I want to be good, Dean. I want to be a good person.
Please.
I just want to be a good person.
He pulls Sam against him and stokes Sam's hair. "I'm right here," he promises. I'm not going anywhere.
So tell me what you think! Should I continue?