This is a semi-AU in which Cas didn't survive Swan Song, Bobby wasn't there for the cemetery showdown, and both he and Ellen are still around. Sam escaped the Cage with his soul intact, but not without a price. Takes place roughly after 8.01, but it's pretty standalone.
Warnings: Language, occasional graphic reference to the torture Sam endured in The Cage; kidnapping (though not central). I may add individual warnings to future chapters.
Triggers: While this fic has no sexual content, and mainly keeps to show-level violence, it deals in part with loss of power and with severe lack of autonomy, which can still be triggering to some. Also, Sam is extremely dissociated for a lot of this. If you are a trauma survivor – especially if you're dissociative – please take this into consideration.
ETA: Occasional self-injury in later chapters. There will be warnings.
The door gives way easily enough, raining splinters on Dean as he hurls himself into the cabin. His shoulder throbs angrily and the blood in his eyes stings, but he holds the gun steady, steady.
It's quiet inside, enough that he can hear his own breath stutter at what he sees.
"Sam?"
His brother is tied to a chair, and Dean doesn't waste time waiting for a response before sliding down to his knees to work on the rope.
He does look up at Sam, though, because he hasn't said anything yet.
Sam's face is blank, his eyes unfocused. His mouth is open and his head has fallen back, like everything about him that was tense and present is gone. He doesn't seem to know that Dean is even there; he hasn't so much as flinched since the door broke, Dean suddenly realizes. Hasn't made a sound or even tried to move.
Something's definitely not right.
He pulls the rope off his brother's wrists, which are remarkably free of wounds or scuff marks. The image of Sam sitting there placidly while being restrained makes Dean so uneasy he needs a moment to fight off a wave of inexplicable rage.
He stands up, ignoring his aching ribs (the witch fought hard, and it didn't help that he was dead tired going in) and stares at his now-free, still motionless brother.
Sam's gaze seems to linger on something across the room, up by the ceiling. Dean can't see anything there but cobwebs. He gently slides a hand under Sam's neck to support his head as he dips his chin, moving his brother's face down a bit to get in in his direct line of vision. Glassy hazel eyes stare right through him, pupils dilated. No no no no no.
"Sam?"
No movement, no response. Not even a blink. It's like there's no one home.
Dean's stomach clenches sickly. "Sammy, hey. SAM! What happened? Why - - why are you so zoned out, man?"
Sam just sits there, slack-jawed, his gaze empty. His arms hang limply at his sides, dead tree branches.
It's a kind of fear that has nothing to do with the feeling Dean sometimes gets when he thinks so this is the hunt that kills me, not even the kind of terror that still has him struggling to sit up in the middle of the night, gasping and sweat-drenched and choking on Alastair's name, his eyes dry. This is worse.
He takes a long, shaky breath before he speaks again, because he cannot lose his shit, refuses to lose his shit.
"Hey, let's - - she's dead, Sammy. The witch is dead. Not like I can grill her for info to find out what the hell she did to you. Please, man, will you just work with me here? C'mon. I know you're in there."
Sam remains unresponsive, his eyes dull, head falling back as soon as Dean lets go.
"Shit, Sammy. I don't - - shit. "
The less-appealing option of tossing the room in hopes of finding clues suddenly feels like the best idea he's come up with all week, and Dean tears into the interior of the cabin with what he tells himself is an appropriate amount of force, not rage, efficiency.
He does find what he's looking for, not five minutes later; apparently stealth wasn't high on the witch's list of priorities, probably because neither he nor Sam was expected to survive more than a few minutes after his arrival.
Dean actually feels the color drain from his face as he reads the words scribbled on the crumpled piece of paper torn from a My Recipes notepad, the barely-legible Latin bleeding black ink over a background of smiling animated pumpkins and cheery corn cobs.
A willpower binding spell. A fucking willpower binding spell.
The witch had, essentially, nullified Sam's ability to resist. To even think, most likely. Although that might have been a mercy.
Dean's fingernails dig into the scarred wooden surface of the table as he tries to digest the thought. He looks around, his heart racing, telling himself it's fine, it's fine. It doesn't look like the woman - he never did get her name, not that he gives a damn now - had much time with Sam, or that this was her ultimate goal; more like she found a way to make his brother, giant that he is, pliant and cooperative in order to transport him here. With the spell she would have been able to just tell him to get in the car, to walk into the cabin. Hell, she could have told Sam to stop breathing and he probably would have.
The thought makes Dean sorely regret having ended her so fast.
But he needs to get his brother somewhere safe. That much he knows. He focuses on that to avoid thinking about what it all means. Safe place first, freakout later.
Carrying Sam to the car isn't a viable option with a shoulder that only seems to be getting worse by the minute; he's going to have to to tell him to move, as much as it turns his stomach to basically use the effects of the spell. They need to get a motel room and just take it from there - maybe Bobby will have a lead on a cure. Something. But for now, they need to put some mileage between them and this place.
Dean takes another deep breath.
"Hey Sam? Hey, I need you to listen to me. Get up."
A few beats, then Sam moves. He stands up slowly, swaying on his feet, empty gaze still fixed on nothing in particular. Dean rests a steadying hand on his back.
"We're going to the car now. You follow me, we get in, and we get the hell out of dodge. Let's go."
He guides his shell-shocked brother through the broken remains of the door and the shattered glass outside, grateful that the witch's body is mostly hidden by the leaves of the wild-growing garden. Sam moves as if in a dream, but does as he is told. When they get to the Impala, Dean opens the car door and carefully presses down on his brother's shoulder.
"There you go. Good, now get in. That's it."
He then spends a frustratingly long time rearranging Sam on the seat, because the guy doesn't seem able to sit comfortably, though he tries to follow Dean's instructions. Christ, it's like he doesn't even feel his own body, Dean thinks. Maybe he doesn't.
He avoids Sam's eyes as he bends his legs to lean his knees against the car door, places his lax arms by his sides, covers him with a jacket just to be sure he's not cold. Sam doesn't seem to notice any of that; he stares blankly past him and into the middle distance the entire time. The spell seems to have taken control of more than just his mind; his body seems to have slowed down its rhythms as well. He takes only shallow breaths, and when Dean feels for his pulse it's alarmingly slow.
Shit.
Sam remains silent for the duration of the drive, leaving Dean to talk his ear off and try to get a read on just how fucked they are. Which, apparently, royally. Seems like Sam can follow simple requests (Dean refuses to think of them as orders), but it doesn't take long for it to become clear that anything requiring independent thought has been temporarily shut down and locked away. When Dean desperately tells him "say something", Sam dully echoes, "something." That is the only word he utters, and Dean is pretty sure he has no idea what it even means, that he is just parroting back what he was told to say.
It's like a bad joke.
Two hours into the drive, it gets so much worse when it occurs to Dean that the witch wouldn't have felt the need to tie Sam up unless she was expecting her spell to wear off, and soon. The realization makes him break out in a cold sweat. He pulls over on the side of the road, takes Sam's face in his hands again and turns it to him. Vacant eyes stare back at his frantic ones, unseeing.
"Sammy, you still in there? Are you - - is this some kind of - ah, shit. I don't know". He has experience dealing with physical shock, sure, but this doesn't seem to be it; and if Sam is stuck in this state because something in that spell irrecoverably bent his mind, he has zero idea what to do.
They sit there for a while. Eventually Dean gently turns his brother's face back toward the windshield, just because that glassy stare is too unnerving, and takes the car back on the road, teeth clenched.
He wonders if he should pull over the first time he sees a hospital sign, then another, but keeps driving. He doesn't know yet. He doesn't KNOW. This could still be the spell. And he's reluctant to deposit Sam in a the hands of strangers - not ready to just trust civilians like that. Not yet.
When they pull up next to a motel that looks just shy of decent, Dean sits in the parked Impala for a while – hand splayed on Sam's chest, because he can't concentrate unless he's sure his brother is still breathing – and considers his next move. He could close Sam's eyes so that it looks like he's napping in the passenger seat, and go in alone. It would be easier than marching him in and having him stand there like the world's largest living mannequin while he pays for the room, that's for sure. But he can't take the thought of leaving Sam alone like that – not when he's so damn vulnerable, not to mention scarily suggestible – and something about the plan feels dangerous in another way, too; like closing Sam's eyes might allow a slide into complete unconsciousness. No. Screw that.
The motel office is painfully bright and overheated as Dean makes his way in, an obedient Sam in tow. The woman at the desk looks up at them, raising an eyebrow almost imperceptibly when her gaze lands on the taller man, who is not so much walking as lethargically placing one foot in front of the other. Dean tries to whip out his best smile.
"Hey there. We're gonna need one room please, two singles will be fine."
The woman looks at Sam, seems distracted; surveying his brother again, Dean realizes that Sam probably looks drugged or seriously unwell. Not enough to get them in real trouble in a place like this, but it does bug him. That glance. That what's wrong with you vibe. Nothing is wrong with Sam. Nothing that can't be fixed, anyway.
He whispers in his brother's ear as the woman tears her eyes away from him long enough to dig for their key. When she turns to them Sam monotonously recites, "thank you."
She looks at him, more curious than suspicious. "No problem," she says. When Sam continues to stare at the wall behind her, she frowns a bit, but says nothing.
Dean takes the key, smiling apologetically.
"My brother's not feeling so good. Still recovering from an accident," he says, unsure as to why he's even making excuses to this stranger. "He has his bad days, you know."
The woman instantly becomes friendly. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I could tell someth- - anyway, sorry. You boys have a nice stay." She directs her last comment at Sam, enunciating it in a way that makes Dean's face prickle with humiliation for his brother.
"Thanks," he says curtly, and takes Sam's elbow to guide him out. "Let's go. Sammy, walk with me, we're going outside now."
In the room, he herds Sam over to the bed farther from the door, sighing when he remains standing next to it like his battery ran out.
"Right."
Frustrated and suddenly so tired he can barely stand, he pulls Sam's jacket off and has him sit down, then lean back. Sam follows his instructions, laying down on the thin mattress and once more staring at nothing in that glassy, unblinking way that makes Dean's skin crawl. It makes him think of vessels and that, in turn, makes him think of Cas, which is never a good thing these days. Cas is blood, sticky and coppery in his mouth, sprayed on his face and his clothes in Stull Cemetery. Cas is wind blowing through the grass, utterly useless but still painful on his broken face as he crouches down where hell gaped open moments ago, staring at the sealed earth in disbelief. SAMMY.
Dean ignores the pain that flares up in still-healing bones at the memory. He talks and talks – about what, he has no idea – as he takes off Sam's boots and covers him with a miraculously clean-looking blanket he finds tucked away in the closet. It actually smells like fabric softener, like something you'd find in someone's home, and he wishes Sammy could feel that. Who's to say that he doesn't?
Although he knows better, he still rests a hand on his brother's forehead; is still irrationally disappointed when he finds no evidence of a fever. Nothing is eating away at Sam, there's no infection to fight, no pathogen. No internal war taking place. There's just Sam, lying under the thin blanket the way he would under a pile of rocks, silent and blank and watching nothing.
He takes his cell to the tiny bathroom to dial Bobby, feeling like an idiot but reluctant to discuss the situation in front of his brother. He isn't sure if Sam truly is as checked out as he appears to be. Hopes he isn't.
Bobby curses on the other side of the line for a full minute. Yes, he's heard of this before, but has no clue how to break the spell when the witch is dead. Dean refuses to panic over that - if there's an answer, it's somewhere in that dustball of a library in the Singer house - but it's Bobby's second call, a few hours later, that pulls the rug out from under his denial. He is already starting to feel frayed after staring at Sam's empty face for so long, and the update does nothing to calm his nerves; Bobby tells him what he already knows, but has been struggling not to think about since that stop on the road.
"Dean, according to everything I'm lookin' at, this is a relatively straightforward spell. Creepy as fuck, sure, but easy to undo. The thing is, you shouldn't have to."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Bobby sighs. "These willpower binding spells come in all forms. The one you found in the cabin is pretty low on the scale - not that powerful a witch, lucky for you boys." He pauses, either hesitating to go on or – part of Dean bitterly suggests – re-assessing the wisdom of defining the Winchesters as lucky.
Bobby goes on, sounding almost apologetic. "The thing is, with the spell being relatively weak, it... has a time limit. Most of them do. And this one is good for an hour or two, maybe three, tops, before it wears off. It's not meant for more; it's usually used to aid in an escape when you're found out, that sort of thing. In this case, the witch was probably using it to – "
"Get Sam to the cabin to use him as bait. Yeah, I figured." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. Tell me something new. Please please.
Bobby sighs again."You say you got to him, what, at around noon?"
Dean is suddenly finding that the cramped space lacks air. He gets up, stumbles out of the bathroom and back into his and Sam's area.
"Yeah."
"Well, that was over eight hours ago. Kid, I hate to tell you this, but I don't think we're dealing with the spell anymore."
There it is. Dean closes his eyes.
"Then what are you telling me, Bobby? That he - that something just happened to snap while he was under?" He sits heavily down on the lumpy mattress and looks at Sam, who is still lying motionless on his own bed, eyes glazed, mouth open.
"Bobby, the guy's completely MIA. No way is this not spell-related. He was fine the day before she grabbed him. Come on!"
Bobby sighs again. "I'm sure he was. Except I've seen this happen. I mean, not exactly this, but hunters being just fine until one day they're not – that ain't exactly a rare thing. Listen, your brother's been through possession, and he's been through a hell of a lot worse in the cage. We don't know what being taken over like that might do. Maybe he had some sort of… reaction, like the mother of all flashbacks or something. Maybe he couldn't come back to himself once the spell wore off. It's all possible."
Dean scrubs a hand through his hair.
"Then what am I supposed to do? Bobby, I can't just - - he might be in pain for all we know. Or getting worse."
Bobby clears his throat, still sounds choked up despite his best efforts. "I know, son. I'm worried about that, too, believe me. No one's givin' up on him, okay? I'll keep looking for answers."
Dean closes his eyes. Says nothing.
"But for now, you need to get him to Ellen's. And for once in your life, don't argue."
Dean doesn't.
Ellen's new place – she moved two weeks after they cremated Jo – is only an hour and a half away; but showing up on her doorstep with Sam in his condition means she won't get any sleep tonight. Dean decides to wait until morning, and tells himself that it has nothing to do with his resentment of the idea that anyone they know see Sammy like this, not to mention take over caring for him. He does feel like shit about the plan, knows Sam would be mortified at the thought of being a burden to Ellen. But he also can't drag his unresponsive brother around like this. He doesn't know if Sam is taking anything in at all, but if he is, he doesn't need to be staring up at a strange motel room ceiling, or be crammed into the passenger seat of the Impala for hours on end, unable to tell anyone if he's hungry, if he needs to stretch his legs, if he's in pain or discomfort.
Dean turns his attention to the issue of keeping his brother fed and hydrated. Nothing much in their bags, and he doubts there's even pizza delivery anywhere near the motel since it's in the middle of freakin' nowhere, but they do have some packed leftovers of the closest thing to pie Dean could track down on their last grocery run – he's pretty sure it's full enough of preservatives to last until they bring on the next apocalypse, so at least it hasn't gone bad – and he figures it will just have to do. If his math is correct, Sam hasn't eaten in over 24 hours, and he's already weak. They can feed him his rabbit food when they get to Ellen's, if there is any to be found there.
Telling Sam what to do and watching him dully obey, rather than bitch and moan and argue, creeps Dean out to no end; so he goes for the alternative. He sits his brother down by the chipped, Formica-covered table in the kitchenette and brings a fork to his mouth. This he has practice with.
Part of him hopes - is illogically convinced – that Sam will pull back from the offering, maybe even reward him with one of his patented "the hell, Dean?" looks. He deflates when all his brother does is stare, just as before, pupils wide and dark, gaze unfocused.
Dean knows he has to tell him to eat, but he can't. He just can't. Faced with Sam's empty stare, he wonders if his brother thinks he's in the cage. Maybe this is all that remained after a while, the only resistance he could offer - to not be. To leave his body behind to do whatever it was told, and... hide. Sleep.
Dean remembers how badly he missed sleep in hell. The things he had to endure fully conscious. There are grey patches in his memory marking the few times when he managed to burrow down deep inside himself and disappear, leave his ruined form behind. Though Alastair always did find him. He suspects – he knows – that Alastair's creativity pales in comparison to Lucifer's, and that is a notion he needs to shove out of his mind, urgently, violently.
He puts the fork down, takes Sam's hand. Presses a thumb against the inside of his brother's palm, where the old scar is.
"Sammy, listen to me. You're okay. You're with me. You got out a long time ago, remember? You're never going back. SAMMY."
He presses the back of his hand to Sam's forehead, to his cheek, the way their mother used to do, though Sam wouldn't remember. "Come back. Talk to me, Sammy, please. You can, you know. Give it a try."
Sam doesn't move, the slow pace of his breathing doesn't change. He doesn't curl his fingers around Dean's or make a sound; his expression remains blank.
But his pupils constrict. There's no missing it.
Dean's heart leaps so hard in his chest he gets lightheaded. He isn't sure what this means, beyond the fact that Sam's eyes might be focusing. But he'll take any sign of awareness right now. If Sam is watching a shelf across the room, that's a fucking WIN.
He squeezes his brother's hand, brings the fork up again, this time carefully touches the piece of pie to Sam's lips for a second.
"Just pie, Sammy. It's safe to eat. You can have some if you want to."
For a long moment, nothing happens. Sam just stares ahead, eyes glazed, seemingly unaware of the fork hovering near his mouth.
Then he takes a hesitant bite. And chews, slow and dreamlike, as if he can't exactly remember what it is he's doing.
"Good, Sammy. See? You can do this. Keep going." Dean doesn't dare let go of Sam's hand, so he can't wipe at his own eyes like he desperately needs to. "You ready for some more?"
Next chapter:
Ellen walks over to the Impala's passenger side, bends down to look at Sam through the open window. Dean sees her shoulders tense up before she speaks, softly.
"Hey there. You planning on getting out and sayin' hi to me like a decent person?"
Sam doesn't seem to hear her.