Warnings: depression, amnesia, implied/referenced torture, mind control, mild self harm, OCD Sam, multiple personalities, rape, aftermath of torture, among others.
A/N: preseries with basic plot points up to "All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2"
Enjoy!
Now
He thinks it's raining because of the steady, monotonous stream of water falling around him, but he isn't wet, the air is not thick with humidity, and it doesn't smell of dampened earth. No, it curiously smells of the stale mold and mildew mix that usually comes with two beds dressed in thin, scratchy sheets, strange stains in generic geometric carpeting, and the very limited hot water of a convenient, two-bit motel. And isn't that a hint of aftershave?
Sam opens his eyes.
The plastic cover of a cheap pillow crinkles as he turns head. He squints through the bright streams of sunlight flooding through the paper-thin off-white curtains, surveying the room through half-closed lids. His eyes settle upon Dean who's seated beside him in one of those oversized motel chairs; this one has a particularly enormous scarlet-red cushion that seems to swallow him whole.
Dean's arms do not rest comfortably on the armrests, but rather are folded tightly against his chest. He's still in the same leather jacket, jeans, and thick rubber-soled shoes he wore to last night's hunt, clothes still caked in a muddy layer of dirt and grime. Or at least Sam thinks so; all of Dean's clothes looked alike.
Sam eyes the half-drunk bottle of Jack lying unceremoniously on its side by the leg of Dean's chair. Drinking was strictly forbidden on the job, but concessions were made whenever they needed some stitching up. Last night, his brother had needed some, even though the hunt wasn't too eventful, by Winchester standards, at least…
Sam had escaped with nothing more than a large lump at the back of his head from a hard toss to a wall, his father with a few superficial scratches here and there, but Dean had gotten sliced in the face with his own machete. Dean hadn't administered enough dead man's blood, and the vampire had quickly overpowered him. The gash wasn't lethal, but it was deep enough to require more than a few stitches and would eventually leave a nasty scar. Sam remembers holding his brother as he applied pressure to the deep gash on Dean's cheek, the streams of blood and ichor mixing with raindrops.
Except that now where there should be a thick gauze pad, there is just a raised, white scar.
Maybe the blow to his head had been more serious that he'd originally thought. Sam doesn't remember returning to the motel, let alone someone tucking him into bed. He huffs at the thought of Dean treating him like a kid.
Maybe he was losing time again.
He watches the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest, listens to the rhythm of his even, but heavy breaths, the sound of one who has finally given into exhaustion. And what is Dean doing in that uncomfortable chair when there's another perfectly comfortable bed just across the room?
Sam starts at the dampened thud of soap dropped to the bottom of a shower, and an annoying lock of hair falls into his face. When he pulls his arm out from under the covers to brush away the strands, an unfamiliar sensation tugs at his forearm. Odd. There's a piece of tape holding the needle of an IV firmly in place. His eyes trace the clear tubing to the corner of the room beside his bed where he finds a half-full bag of fluids.
Smoothing down the tape with his other hand, he notices a thin layer of a strange black, powdery substance dusting his fingertips. What first comes to mind is pencil lead, but the placement and the smell isn't right. It isn't sulfur either. Sam closes his eyes, slowly takes another whiff.
It's gunpowder.
Something at the back of his head tells him that he should know what this means, but he can't remember. It nags at him like an unreachable itch between his shoulders. This doesn't make any sense. He hadn't used a gun on the vampires; no one had.
But he can swear that he himself had recently fired one. Somewhere, somehow.
It's when Sam raises both of his hands to more closely examine the mysterious powder marks that he sees them, the angry, pussy welts circling each wrist. The bruises aren't from the smooth metal of a cuff, but from the uneven links of a heavy chain. The depth of the cuts and various stages of bruising are tell-tale signs that he had struggled against his bonds for days, possibly as long as a week. He couldn't possibly have freed himself from chains so large. Someone must have released him.
Why?
Sam knows that he should understand what this means. He can feel the memory of the event branded into the back of his mind, but he can't remember. His head hurts. It's too bright in here. He can't remember.
Don't make me do this.
Sam feels like being sick but forces the bile back down his throat. Closing his eyes, he tries to focus on his breathing, matching his inhales and exhales with Dean's steady, calming rhythm.
Maybe they had missed one vampire. Yes, that's what must have happened. It must have jumped him when he was bent over his unconscious brother, shielding his body from the rain while pressing a cloth to his brother's injured face. It must have kept him locked up for a few days before Dean and his father found him and killed it. His mind must be repressing these memories to protect himself. They saved him. They—
Sam shuts his eyes and covers his ears against the high-pitched scream of a woman, which echoes throughout his head. The sweet scent of a lady's perfume fills his nose. Tears well behind his eyelids.
He knows that he should recognize her voice. That perfume smells familiar, doesn't it? Sam knows that he should understand, but he can't remember. He doesn't want to remember.
Why are you making me do this?
Sam scratches at the torn skin of his left wrist, dried blood and skin and dirt catching under his short nails, and for just a moment, the screaming stops. Sam continues to peel away at the abused skin.
No. He doesn't want to remember. He mustn't remember.
When another scream tears through his mind, Sam slams his fists into the bed, and the knuckles of his right hand collide with a hard object. He searches the covers and pulls out a gun, still warm, one that was recently fired. Carved into the hilt is the distinctive design of an inverted pentagram, the inscription Non timebo mala etched into its barrel.
The Colt.
Sam picks up the gun and absentmindedly traces the Latin in a circular motion, then closes his eyes and presses the muzzle to his temple.
He doesn't want to remember. He mustn't remember. He can't remember.
Sam cocks the hammer.
Again, the woman's screams rip through his mind. She won't stop screaming.
He won't stop either.
He can't.
Sam pulls the trigger.