It's like I can't breathe
It's like I can't see anything
Nothing but you
I'm addicted to you
It's like I can't think
Without you interrupting me
In my thoughts
In my dreams
You've taken over me
It's like I'm not me
It's like I'm not me
- Addicted (Kelly Clarkson)
A/N: Things written in italics are flashbacks, it's Sam's mind.
Those pictures made me do it. (yeah and my angsty mind)
It whispers.
It's like a snake, coiling around himself, trailing, under his skin, inside his head.
It's like fire, he feels it…moments where it burns his skin, scorch it, to the bone.
Hell…
Hell it's something living inside of him. It's moments in time that dilate, become solid, make anything else look unreal, like grotesque card board figures, cut by cruel children.
Hell burns his breath away, replacing it with cold acid. Hell it's shadows that move, speak, grab him. Hell it's his father's face, distorted in cold laughters as he cuts into him, calling him a freak.
"You bring death…you stink of it: Mary, Jessica, me, Dean and everyone you touch. You're tainted, Sammy!"
Hell is Ruby, sliding onto him, a gift from Lucifer, riding him, fast and hard as she laughs at him…as she sweet talks him as he climaxes and tells him the truth, "You belonged here. You always have. It's you. It's always been you"
Hell is Jess burning and he setting her on fire. And sometimes he's the one on fire.
Hell is watching Dean, being happy, being in love, being free. It's his smile, the weight on his shoulders lifted, because he isn't there, to burden him. It's the voice, his own, whispering the things he had always thought, "All the things you did in the dark, all the times he let himself being touched by you…you dragged him down, with you, here."
He fought hell, he kept it to himself, trying to be strong, because Dean needed him. He needed him by his side.
He had everything, you fucktard, he had a woman who could give him children, a kid who would never end up sucking blood to get it up to go out and fight…and you took it away from him.
You need him
You freak, pathetic loser…
He fought, grimacing with every step he took. He fought, ignoring voices, images, smells.
Hell…
Hell was now, all around him.
Hell…was Dean's eyes in the warehouse as he turned toward him. White eyes, no irises.
Hell was Dean, looking at him, right through him, into his dark places, into his fantasies, into the things he had done and the things he had imagined to do to him with a knowing smirk.
I borrowed him for a while, Sam…to talk Dean said…
No, not Dean. It was hell, borrowing Dean to take him back. It was broken glasses, rusted iron and salt poured into the wounds in his flesh and soul.
It was Lucifer and Michael tearing him apart, fighting for who had to strike first, like children…and he was their rag doll.
He left a piece of himself in hell…I just crawled my way back here. Thanks a bunch, Sam…
Hell spoke with Dean's voice. With the voice it used to torture him sometimes.
Those were some of the worst memories: Dean, hating him, striking him, carving and slicing and taking out, from the recesses of his soul something dark, that pulsed, throbbed…scared him.
When it was Dean, in hell, Sam sought places in his mind, he tried to crawl away from him, he tried to resist. When it was Dean, in hell, he always broke: tiny fragments, confetti with which Lucifer and Michael played.
You know you don't belong here, do you, Sam? You never did.
It was an hallucination, it had to be.
Sam kept chanting those words, in his head, a mantra that was getting more desperate by the minute, as he was unaware of reality. As he didn't know what reality was any more.
In a warehouse, Sam Winchester took a gun away from his brother and pointed it at him.
You think you can get rid of me that easy, moron? Hell taunted him, with Dean's voice, white eyes and lips tainted with blood.
Hell took a step toward him, a cocky swagger, a carefree smile.
C'mon, Sam…you should know better!
"Sammy…" It was Dean's voice. It was somewhere, an echo in the warehouse, in the prison in Sam's mind, it was a crack in Hell's cocky smile as it was wearing his brother's face.
In a warehouse, Sam Winchester cocked a gun, and Dean Winchester lunged forward.
It was a jolt of electricity, on his wrists, it didn't burn, though…not the way Lucifer's touch had, not how Hell burned inside of him. It was warm, it smelled of whiskey and soap.
It was like on moonlit nights, between thin sheets, when the only sounds he had heard had been Dean's heartbeat and the soft sound of his breath.
Did you ever tell him the things you imagined when you were a kid? Did you ever tell him why you wanted to be normal, Sam? Did you tell him that you used to spy on him when he fucked his little sluts?
Sam shook his head, trying to ignore Hell. It was taunting him, using Dean's voice. It was always the same, and yet…it always hurt.
He turned, feeling the texture of the world around him too constricting, feeling breathless, his head and gut on fire.
You never told him the whole truth about Ruby, didn't ya, Sam?
In a warehouse, Sam fought for keeping his gun, crying, "Leave my brother alone! Take me back but leave him alone!"
In a warehouse, Dean Winchester dropped his hand, keeping it on Sam's wrist, as he whispered, "It's me, Sammy.You're here, I got you!"
You never told him how she let you fuck her and pretend it was him, didn't you? She didn't mind, you didn't care…
"You don't understand" Sam said. He had no idea to whom he was talking to. What was the hallucination? What was reality?
The warmth he felt…too comforting, that spoke of smiles and tears and something bright like the sun …or the voice, Dean's voice…or hell's, setting his head on fire, settling in his gut…
Which one was real? He spoke to both…cried to both, to leave Dean alone. To go away…to kill him. To end him.
"You're not real" He said in a warehouse - he said it again, to the other Dean, the one with white eyes, because one of them had to be fake. Or maybe he was the fake one. Maybe he was still on a rack made of ice and rusted iron, in the cage.
Maybe he was still in Panic Room.
Maybe Dean was still dead and he was still stuck inside Gabriel's prank.
Maybe he had never born and he was just a fantasy of someone else.
"Then shoot me" Dean said in a warehouse, handing him the gun. "If you don't believe me, shoot me, Sammy"
You're good at hurting people, Sam. You're good at killing and soiling. Shoot me.
"Right between the eyes, Sammy"
Right between the eyes, Sam
In a warehouse, Dean's fingers lingered for a moment on his, as he handed him the gun. A casual touch, familiar…like hundreds, thousand of times before: when he wanted to make sure he was real, when he needed to touch his skin, because - and no one would ever understand that, unless they felt it - one could miss someone's skin so much that it hurt.
Sam knew that touch, it was real…the most real thing he ever remembered feeling.
It was two children huddling under a plaid, in the backseat of the Impala, trying to sleep. It was two children playing, together, inventing worlds, stories and lives…
It was Dean, his only playmate, his best friend. It was Dean looking out for him, rolling his eyes at his questions and answering them. It was Dean teaching him how to lace his shoes, how to throw a kick, how to kiss, how to kill.
It was Dean…pulling him from a fire: when he was four, when he was twenty six and every day in between and later. It was Dean…selling his soul for him, dying and coming back…for him.
It was Dean…keeping his promise, saving him. Loving him.
It was him…loving him back. Every day, with every breath. Even in hell.
Hell smirked, cocked an eyebrow at him. You belong to me, kiddo…you both do.
In a warehouse, Sam's knees gave out, and he dragged Dean down, on the floor, with him, as he hung onto him, breathing him in, eyes stinging with tears, but no fire in his head, for once.
"Help me" Sam whispered against his brother's chest. "Help me, Dean…."
No one can help you, kiddo…you're mine. You both are.
Dean's eyes were green, bright, when he met his gaze, when Dean tilted his head up, his hands on both sides of his face.
"I don't know what's real any more…" Sam said.
I am.
"I am…" Dean said. "We both are, Sammy. You're here. I got you"
You're mine…
Sam blinked. Sam believed.
He nodded at his brother, resting his head against his chest.
He believed, Dean. The one who was holding him, the one who hadn't said, "you're mine" because he didn't really believe it. Because he touched him as if he was a miracle.
He believed Dean and his green eyes, when he whispered against his hair that they would find a way to help him, that he had his back.
He believed Dean, because he was real.
That time.