Going Through Hell for One Simple Reason
Created on 8/6/13, 7:09PM
After Henriksen's little speech, silence but for the muffled voices of the cops from the other side of the thick metal walls, and the distant, almost recognizable sound of music fell over the small cell he and Sam had been shoved into.
Dean could have sworn he knew the name of that song. His fingers twitched against his leg, trying to follow the beat of the music, but unable to find it. He could almost hear the words, almost identify the rhythm. But everytime he thought he had it, the name slipped away, eluding capture.
If only they were that good at not getting caught.
He sighed, and pressed his knuckles into his forehead. His hands were still cuffed together, and his wrists were starting to hurt from where the metal bit into his skin. Henriksen definitely wasn't playing around this time.
He really hated the fact that he almost sympathized with the guy. Almost. When they'd first heard of him, Dean had found him an annoyance, but he hadn't really had a negative opinion of him. He was like them, doing his job, protecting people. Even Dean had to admit that all the evidence was pretty damning. It was just his luck that that shapeshifter had decided to take his form before they killed it.
But now? After what he'd said to them, about their father, about them being murderers, about how he'd make sure he never saw Sam again…
He dropped his heads from his head, and let his eyes roam the small cell again, looking for anything, anything at all that would help them escape. But he found nothing.
He really hated that guy. Dropping his head into his hands again, he closed his eyes for a few seconds to keep himself from leaping to his feet and charging at the bars of the cell. When he opened them again, calmer, movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention to Sam, and he let his hands fall into his lap.
At first, Dean just thought the reason his brother's hands were shaking was because he was angry. Heck, Dean was angry. Not only had they been arrested—yet again—for crimes neither of them had committed but, Bela, damn her, had betrayed them yet again and had taken off with the Colt. Now they were probably going to be shoved into some rothole of a prison, and this time, they wouldn't have an escape plan set up ahead of time.
So, yeah, Dean was pissed. Mostly at himself. He'd made a mistake, going to Bela's hotel room. That had been a stupid mistake. He should have known she'd take off and set a trap. Sighing through his nose, he started trying once again to think of a plan to get them out of there, but couldn't stop the small voice in the back of his head that shouted that that it was his fault they were there in the first place, that if he had just been smarter, they wouldn't need to think of a way out.
He wouldn't be surprised if Sam blamed him as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his brother's hands, clutched into the fabric of his jeans, his knuckles tight and his hands trembling, and he knew that Sam had to be really, really angry.
Because most of the time Sam seemed to forget that he was a huge, six-foot-four tall dude that hunted monsters for a living and could probably knock out anyone with one hit. His brother usually, somehow, managed to make you forget how he was practically a giant, too. It was the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, and the way his smile just seemed so kind and trusting. No one would ever be afraid of Sam if he didn't want them to be.
He went from hulking giant to kicked puppy the second you looked at the expression on his face. Dean didn't know how he managed it. He liked to think of himself as a cool guy, but most of the time, people saw him as the threat, not Sam.
The only times he'd ever heard his brother raise his voice or shout was when someone was in danger or hurt, or John had said something stupid that yet again ignited the spark of rage and disappointment that seemed to have always existed between his brother and father. He'd hated those arguments Sam and John had always gotten into, the shouting and screaming and slamming of doors, the words they spoke to eachother, words that should never have been spoken to someone you were supposed to love and protect, he hated them more than he'd ever hated anything in his life. He hated them more than the demon that had killed his mother.
So when he turned to look at his brother, intending to send him a reproving look, because looking all scary and murderous—and Dean knew just how scary his brother could get sometimes—wasn't going to help their case with the police, he wasn't expecting the look he found on Sam's face.
It wasn't anger.
Sam stared straight ahead, his eyes unblinking and locked onto the wall past the bars that separated them from the rest of the room.
Dean's eyes darted to follow his brother's gaze, wondering what he was looking at, only to see a blank wall. Nothing. Sam wasn't looking at anything.
What the…?
He opened his mouth to speak, but then he realized with confusion that his brother's breathing was far from steady.
When the sound of clinking metal finally registered in his mind, Dean realized that it wasn't just Sam's hands that were shaking, either.
His entire body was trembling. His eyes still locked into the distance, as though he could see something Dean couldn't. The clinking of metal came from the handcuffs his brother wore, and the shackles at his feet.
"Sam." He said, trying to grab his brother's attention, trying to shake him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into. His brother didn't react. "Sam, hey, wake up." He said louder, snapping his fingers infront of his brother's face.
To his shock, Sam flinched away as though he'd been struck, his eyes widening and the air from his lungs leaving him in a sudden gasp as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.
Before Dean could even process what had happened, Sam had shoved himself away, and pressed himself into the corner of the bed where the two concrete walls of the prison cell met, his arms flying up to protect his head as he shouted, his voice raw and filled with fear, "No!"
"Sam!" Dean lunged across the small space that now separated him, frantic to shield his brother from whatever was hurting him. "Sam, what is it? What's wrong?" His feet taking a familiar defensive stance on the floor, he threw his arms out and pressed his back against Sam's arms, literally shielding him with his body as his eyes tore through the small cell, looking for any indication that a demon or spirit was attacking his little brother.
But there was nothing. Just like before. No cold chills, no darkness he could sense just at the edges of his awareness, no binding runes carved into the walls, nothing.
Sam shouted wordlessly behind him, and pressed himself further into the wall, as though trying to disappear through it to escape whatever was attacking him.
Dean felt his legs get almost yanked out from beneath him when Sam tried to pull his legs up onto the bed. Quickly dropping from his standing position and onto the bed before Sam knocked him down, he pulled his feet up so that there was enough slack in the chain for Sam to do the same.
Sam did, pulling his feet off of the floor as though something under the bed were going to grab him. The horrible thought crossed Dean's mind that there might actually be something down there, and heart pounding in his chest, hardly believing what he was doing, Dean moved to the edge of the bed—careful not to pull too much on the chain—and leaned over.
There was nothing under the bed.
A shuddering breath from Sam quickly drew his attention back to the real issue, and he pulled himself back into a sitting position, his heart hammering with anxiety and confusion. What the hell was wrong with Sam?
His brother had curled himself into a ball in the corner, his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms shielding his head, his entire body shaking and his breathing nothing more than panicked, fearful gasps.
Dean had killed a lot of monsters. He'd saved a lot of people. But he hadn't been able to save everyone. And the ones he'd been able to weren't always in the best of shape afterwards. He'd seen people freak out. He'd seen them lose themselves to pure, unadulterated panic.
And what was happening to Sam was starting to seem more and more like what happened when the people he saved had gone through too much to handle.
He reached a hand out to try and pull Sam's arm down, but his brother jerked back so quickly, with so much fear suddenly, palpably spiking outward from him that Dean quickly backed off, his heart in his throat.
Pain. Pain so bad his throat wanted to bleed from how loud he screamed.
With a gasp, his hands, still trapped together by the handcuffs he wore, flew to cover his eyes when the room suddenly seemed to flare as bright as the sun.
The light of the fire burning into the back of his head as the man, the monster, lifted the knife above his head, his eyes wild and crazed and filled with sickening glee as he grinned a smile painted with blood.
And suddenly the bars of the cell seemed to close in on him, constricting him, confining him. Crushing the air from his lungs and tearing all sane thought from his mind.
"NO!" His voice tore through the mad laughter that filled the darkness as fire flashed and danced in sickening circles and jumps, illuminating the man—the monster's—face as he brought the knife down.
Time slowed.
His shoulders slammed into the bars of the cage as he desperately clawed a hand through the small gap between the metal rods, desperately reaching, trying to stop what had already happened.
Horror filled Dean.
The blood splashed up, shining and grotesquely bright as the droplets flew through the air, the fire and the darkness reflecting off of them, off of the floor that was soaked in red, off of the pale, lifeless eyes that stared at him, unblinking, unmoving, gone forever.
IT WAS THE HEAT OF THE MO—
The sound of his brother's scream shocked his eyes open, and Dean barely had time enough to gasp in a breath of air before Sam had launched himself from the corner he'd backed himself into.
Arms as strong as steel wrapped around his stomach, crushing the air he'd just sucked down out of his lungs once more, and then they were falling and—
And then the floor dropped out from beneath their feet, and his hand reached out, to grab Dean's, to try to keep him safe, but his eyes were useless, and he couldn't see, and he couldn't find Dean, and they were falling, and their screams echoed and slammed into his ears so he thought they would bleed—
—And then they hit the ground.
Pain.
Wrongness.
Something wrong with his back.
"Dean." His hand reached out across the broken wood and glass.
He couldn't feel his legs.
"Dean, please…" His hand met something warm and sticky.
"S-Sam…" the voice, barely above a whisper, was choked out. A sickening gurgling sound, "Sam, I'm sorry…please, please don't—" Coughing. Choking. His brother, dying.
His fingers twitched. Tried to take Dean's hand, tried to grab onto his hand, tried to touch him, because if he was near him then he wouldn't—
"Dean, pl-please…"
The hand beneath his gripped his fingers weakly. His eyes burned. His lungs burned. His head ached. He couldn't feel his feet. But his fingers held Dean's hand, with all the strength left in his broken body he latched onto his brother's hand. Because if he was near him, then he wouldn't die.
Coughing. Labored breathing that tore his heart to shreds.
"It's…it's n-not your fault, Sammy…"
NO! No, no, no, don't say that, please, no, not again, no, don't leave me, don't leave me—!
The hand beneath his lost its grip…
And fell limp.
His soul shattered.
IT WAS THE HEA—
"What the hell is going on in here?" Henriksen's voice was a shout, shockingly loud, commanding attention, and Dean's ears rang when something was slammed against the bars of the cage—no, the cell—and he struggled to open his eyes against the blinding pain that surrounded his chest.
Something heavy lay across him. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
A vice-grip encircled his ribcage. Stars danced across his vision. The back of his head felt like it had been smashed in with a sledgehammer, and he could feel something sticky in his hair.
Suddenly he realized that it was his brother lying on top of him, it was his brother that clutched him in so tight a grip that his lungs couldn't find air.
"Sam—!" He gasped, struggling to draw in air past the crushing hug his brother held him in, "Sam, let—" he couldn't breathe. Darkness swept across his vision, and his mind flashed back to the memory of being locked in the cage in that room, Dean's pale, lifeless eyes staring back at hi—
—He barely had the chance to recognize that there was something wrong with that thought before the cell door slammed open, the metal on metal crash jarring him down to the bones, his heart skipping a beat even as Sam's weight was suddenly thrown off of him.
He had less than a moment to catch his breath, to realize that one of the cops had tackled Sam, was pinning him to the ground—and the ground rushed up to slam into him and then a knife was pressed to his neck, and he could hear Dean shouting his name, and the pounding of feet on the sidewalk, and the sudden, shocking sound of a single gunshot—
And then another cop was above Dean, and he was grabbing his shoulders, pulling him away from Sam—pulling him from the wreckage of the burning building even as he screamed Dean's name—his face blurred and doubled when he leaned over Dean, mouthing words he knew were shouts, but all he could hear was Sam's voice, Sam's voice screaming, crying, begging Dean not to leave him again. Deafening his ears to anything else.
The only sound in the room was his ragged breathing, the clink of metal as the chain connecting them was removed, and Henriksen's voice as he ordered the cops to do something Dean couldn't quite make out.
His world had been consumed by Sam's voice.
Sam's voice…
Sam's voice was in his head.
Dean, please, please don't go, don't leave me again, don't let them take you, please you have to remember, you can't forget me, please, Dean, please, please don't leave me I don't want you to go!
His brother's voice was filled with agony and fear and desperation.
Dean, please don't leave me!
And he was the only one who could hear it.
"Sam, Sammy, listen to me," He managed to choke out, the world heaving and twisting around him as he was forced none-too gently to his feet by the cop, who was still saying something to him, but he couldn't hear him over Sam's voice echoing in his head, so frightened and full of fear that Dean felt his heart crack right down the middle. "It's al-it's alright, Sammy, it's alright, you're safe now, nothing's gonna touch you, alright?"
The cop—he was shouting something at Dean, and he had a gun out now, had it pointed at Dean, was shouting at him to-to do something, but the world around him was growing fuzzy, wavering at the edges as the room seemed the darken and blur.
Dizziness swam through his head, and the ground rushed up to meet him. It was only the cop—he'd read his nametag before, but couldn't remember it now—grabbing him before he could hit the concrete that kept him from passing out entirely.
Apparently giving up on trying to make him stand, Dean was hauled by the arm the few steps to the other side of the room, and pushed down onto the bed so that he was sitting with his back to the wall.
His head pounding, he struggled to look up, to look over the cop's shoulder, trying to find Sam, his little brother, so that he could protect him, because he was still so afraid, still screaming in his head for Dean to not leave him, but the world was still spinning, and he couldn't focus his eyes enough to separate the blurs of color he saw into concrete images.
His heard was tilted back, fingers to his forehead, and then a blindingly white light sent pain stabbing through his eyes.
Concussion, he suddenly realized, trying to bat the light—flashlight—out of the cop's hand, He's checking for a concussion.
Sam's voice had faded from the screams it had been to a broken, defeated whisper, repeating over and over and over again, Don't forget me, please, don't leave me, don't forget me, don't forget me, please, please, don't leave me, don't leave…
He had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on, why he could suddenly hear Sam's voice in his head, live his memories as though they were his own, or even when the memories were from—because nothing like that had ever happened to them—but he knew that he absolutely had to protect Sam.
He had to tell him that he was safe, that they were safe, nothing was going to hurt him, nothing was going to—
And then his vision returned suddenly, slamming his senses back into the present, and he was met with the horrifying sight of three of the other cops hauling Sam up from the floor and dragging him out of the cell.
He lurched forward, to try and stop them, to stop them from taking Sam, his Sammy, his little brother, who was so afraid, afraid of them, afraid of the jail cell, afraid of losing Dean, and he had to protect him, had to get him out of there, had to save him, but the cop that had been checking him for a concussion pushed back against his shoulders, forcing him back against the wall, unable to move to defend his brother, who didn't even try to fight against their hold.
"No!" He shouted, trying to shove the man away from him, struggling to get to his feet. But it was no use. The world was moving too fast and too slow all at once, and he couldn't keep up. His movements were uncoordinated and confused, and the cop had no trouble keeping him in place. "No, no, Sam! Stop! Stop, you're hurting him!" He roared, "Leave him alone!"
Take a good look at Sam. You two are never going to see eachother again.
Henriksen's words echoed in his head, and Dean felt his heart break in half.
Hands grabbing at him, pulling at him, voices, voices speaking to him, harsh, screaming sirens that destroyed the world with their sound. The lack of sound. Red pooled out beneath his knees, soaking into his legs, his skin, burning into him, tearing him apart from the inside out. His heart wasn't beating. It was still within his chest. Dead. Gone. His brother was gone. Hands, pulling at Dean, trying to pull him away. Voices, speaking to him, telling him that it was okay, that it was alright, that he was safe, telling him to let go, to give Dean to them, that they would help, they would help him, that they would help Dean, too.
Didn't they see the blood? Couldn't they hear? Didn't they know what day it was? He closed his eyes. Clutched Dean closer to him. Buried his face in his hair. He wasn't waking up. He wouldn't wake up. Today was Wednesday. Dean was never going to wake up. His brother was dead. Gone. It was Wednesday. Sam was never going to wake up again.
He shoved the voices away. They didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Dean wouldn't wake up. He wouldn't wake up. It was Wednesday. Tuesday had finally ended. He wished it was Tuesday.
Sharp pain in his arm. Voices, talking to him still, reassuring him.
The world spun. Hands on him to keep him from falling over.
Dean was tugged away. The hands held him in place as he struggled.
Arms pulled him gently to his feet. Whispers. Assurances that everything would be alright.
The world fell out from beneath him.
Dean's eyes snapped open as he was abruptly slammed back into reality. The cop—Grey, the name tag read, he could see it now—was still posed infront of him, one hand warily pointed toward Dean, palm out to hold him in place if he tried to struggle, the other hovering over the gun at his hip. He was young, Dean suddenly realized, probably younger than Sam, and scared.
He thought Dean was some sort of devil-worshiping psycho-nutjob. Of course he was scared.
"Please," he somehow managed to force out when it felt like his entire body was numb, "Please," He said, his voice breaking, "Please, just tell me my brother's alright."
The kid—he couldn't shake the thought that the guy was probably younger than his brother—stared at him, his eyes wary and fearful. "I-uh, I mean, I-I don't know," He said, his eyes darting toward the cell door for an instant before snapping back to Dean's, obviously afraid that he'd let his guard drop and was about to be attacked.
Dean's eyes followed the kid's gaze, and he stared, his eyes widening.
Sam lay in the cell across the aisle.
He wasn't moving.
He lay on his side, his eyes unblinking and glazed.
"Sam." Dean's voice came out as a whisper. He fought the memory of horror that wanted to rise up in him. The memory wasn't even his. "Sammy," His voice rose. His brother didn't even so much as twitch. He turned to the cop, his face twisting into a snarl, "What the hell have you done to him?"
The kid jerked back, his face white with fear and his hand jerking to grab the gun at his side, the sound shockingly loud in the silence that followed as crimson seemed to blossom suddenly across his brother's chest. He didn't even have time to scream before—
IT WAS THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT—
Hardly able to breathe, his heart pounding in his chest, Dean struggled to bring his suddenly blurred vision back into focus. Blinking rapidly, it was the sudden movement and noise from the door of his cage—no, cell, he practically snarled to himself—that finally shocked him entirely back into realty.
"Get the hell out of there!" Henriksen had appeared from wherever the hell he'd disappeared to, and had grabbed the young cop by the arm and was dragging him away from Dean, his face livid with rage, "Are you crazy?" He snarled, shaking and flinging one arm out to point at Sam, "Those psychos are willing to attack each other for a chance to escape!" He snapped, "What the hell makes you think they'll think twice of doing the same to you?"
The door of Dean's cell slammed shut with a ringing crash that made fear that wasn't his own slam into him as Sam visibly flinched.
This time, no foreign memory rose up to steal him from reality, but he could feel his brother's emotions as sharply as they were his own.
Henriksen slammed a palm against the door of his ca—cell, causing him to flinch back as a fresh wave of fear washed over him, and for a moment, darkness and fire flashed before his eyes and he felt himself sinking back into the mire of fear and horror that clouded his brother's mind.
It was Henriksen's voice that brought him back to reality once more. "You know," He said, his voice loud and filled with scorn when Dean looked up to see him leaning against the wall near the door, his sharp gaze locked onto his like a predator examining its prey as the kid stood nervously next to him, "I'm not sure why I thought you guys would at least understand the concept of loyalty." He shrugged, tilting his head to the side a bit, and glancing over to look at the cage Sam was in. "Guess I was wrong."
He pushed himself off the wall, and left the room. The kid playing at being a cop shot Dean one more pale-faced look of fear, then quickly followed the FBI agent out of the room, as though afraid to be in there alone with them.
Dean was only able to keep himself still for the two seconds it took for the door to shut. Then he was on his feet, forcing them to move as he launched himself towards the bars of his cage, his arm reaching through them desperately in an attempt to reach his brother. "Sam!" He shouted, the world spinning as he struggled to focus his vision on his brother's unmoving form, "Sammy!"
"Sam?" His brother's voice echoed strangely, "Sam, I am seriously starting to freak out here, so can you please tell me what the hell is going on?"
His back pressed against the cold metal of the door, barely able to contain the panic that wanted to claw its way up his throat in a scream, he clenched his fingers around fistfuls of hair as he pressed his palms to his ears, trying to block out the sound of his brother's voice.
He was freaking out, Sam could tell. Dean tried to hide it, but he'd learned long ago when his older brother was trying to keep calm for his sake. Most of the time that happened, a monster had them trapped and they couldn't find a way out. Sam had known then that his brother would do anything to protect him.
And so would he.
"Sam?" He pressed his hands harder against his ears and shut his eyes. "Look, just let me out, untie me, and we'll talk about this, okay? I'm-I'm not mad at you, Sammy. Just let me out, okay?"
"I can't," He whispered, blinking rapidly to an attempt to ward off the tears that wanted to gather at the backs of his eyes, hardly able to breathe past the sudden lump in his throat, "Dean, I can't, I just can't. I'm sorry."
With a gasp, Dean found himself once more back in reality, his heart pounding in his chest and his eyes stinging with unshed tears as he fought to remain upright while the world spun and twisted around him, refusing to stay still no matter how much he willed it to.
Sliding to the floor with only the support of the bars of his ca—cell—holding him up, he stared across the short distance that seemed to go on for miles to where his brother still lay on the cold concrete floor, unmoving, unblinking, his body curled in on himself as though to fend off an attacker.
"Sam," He whispered brokenly, his heart heavy with the weight of a thousand horrors that didn't even belong to him, a single tear escaped to trace its way down his cheek, "Sam, what the hell happened to you?"
The floor seemed to tilt up towards him, and he clung on to the bars of cell to stay upright as though his life depended on it, refusing to remove his gaze from his brother's defeated form. The pounding in his head ran in time with his heart, and the sound seemed to scatter his thoughts with each spike of pain it sent crashing through his skull.
He almost missed Sam's answer when he finally spoke, his words were too soft, the pounding in Dean's head too loud.
"Tuesday."
Dean flinched, pain exploding in white lights behind his eyes at the sudden movement, dread that wasn't his filling him at the sound of the first real word that his brother had uttered since they'd been captured.
How could two syllables be so horrifying?
He pressed his cheek against the cold metal of the cell, fighting to keep his eyes open against the sudden weakness that had filled him. His limbs felt heavy as hell, and his eyes drooped every few seconds, only for him to snap his head up again a moment later. "T-Tuesday?" He asked, unable to comprehend how one of the days of the week could have caused everything that was happening with his brother, "Wha—?"
"Tuesday." Sam's voice was harsher, filled with pain. "Tuesday…and what came after. And now it's started again." Dean stared at the blurred form of his brother, trying to make out the expression on his face as the edges of his vision darkened almost to black. Barely able to understand what he was seeing, he watched with lagging consciousness as his little brother slowly got to his feet, hunched over as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders, his voice filled with such despair and rage and power that the very air seemed to tremble, "I won't go through this again, Dean, I won't."
Sagging against the cell door as the last of his strength left him, the last thing Dean remembered was the snapping of bones and the sound of Henriksen's voice, rising in question as the metal-on-stone ring of the door slamming open knocked the final pillar of Dean's awareness out of place, and he faded into the black of unconsciousness.