Genre: Hurt/Semi-Comfort
Pairing: Gen.
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1,000+
Warnings: Violence, torture, depressing shit.
Prompt: Spoilers for 9.16. Prompt: "Magnus does more than simply cut Sam. It takes Crowley longer to get to the boys, which leaves Magnus to torture Sam while a helpless Dean watches."
Once upon a time, Sam could lay through Lucifer's torture sessions panting, not screaming, but giving in and letting Satan's fingernails rip grooves through his skin, like he's sowing his seeds in Sam's belly. Sam used to be a professional at giving up, going slack and dull-eyed and dreary until the hands would wrench something hard enough that bones would give in like toothpicks. After decades of it, what's there to cry and scream about anymore? It was life. Eternally. Better get used to it.
Now, though. Now that he's above ground and the morning star isn't leaving him to dry on jagged meat hooks, he's back to his old intimately human ways; pain to the soul is agony, sure, but now he has to readjust. Now he has the weight of nerve endings and flesh and sinew. He's penetrable. He's a time-bomb of abject human misery. Dean never got that, or maybe he did because he was in Hell, too, only he just pretends living isn't completely oversensitive to the mind. It's only been a few years since he jumped and it'll never be long enough.
The blade seems too dull to carve like this, Sam thinks. The tendons in his neck pull, his hair thrashes in tune with his body, the clash of chains creating a familiar shadow of hell-fire over his teetering vision. For a moment, and with Magnus' figure looming in front of him, he feels it coming back to him, the memories of the Pit — even with Lucifer gone and air in his lungs, Sam currently finds himself having a hard time distinguishing Magnus' mansion from a hole in the ground (a literal hole in the ground, gaping and dragging in oxygen like it's a living, breathing thing; that's what the Pit was, its own monster). Magnus is saying something and he can't make it out, but he knows it's probably the usual villain garble. It's hard to tell anything when he's pretty sure he's hitting a bodily limit. You can only lose so much blood. He clenches and unclenches his fists, and his eyes roll in his head, and — he screams again as the magician sticks the blade into one shoulder and grinds it like an old, used cigarette butt.
And fuck himself, he screams out.
He's better than this, isn't he?
Or maybe he always screams and just doesn't hear it over everything else.
Dean screams, too. He screams, "I'll tear you apart! Magnus —" and Sam's unstuck (like a pig), while warm blood oozes over his shirt (liked this shirt), and Magnus just tells Dean that's it, that's it, feel it, Dean. His head feels too heavy for his shoulders, but he wants to let Dean know that it's okay (I've got 'im) and that he'll get Dean out of there. Though really, Sam's promises of salvation or his overeager faith haven't gotten him very far. He tries not to give up hope. Even before Magnus cut tally lines down his ribs, he's tried not to give up hope. It's really, really hard not to, most days.
Sam's head lolls and he sees the blurry outline of his torturer; his shape is all wrong, all dark tones and lack of bisected tongue, and that makes Magnus far less horrifying. He's more worried about Dean breaking his arms, because he keeps ripping at them like he can tear 'em off, get out of the chains, and put them back on. "Sam, Sam — You got me, Magnus, you can have me, just let him go — !"
Magnus asks something. He's so close, Sam can smell a meager glass of liquor on his breath. Sam spits on him, and then something slams hard into his head and makes everything spiral into a fucked-up carnival of pain; he can't stop the ragged, choked cry from breaching through unclenched teeth. I want off this ride. And then chains clatter; Michael used to curl chains around his throat and pull until his windpipe caved. Magnus's head falls off his shoulders; yeah, his head would fall just like that. Dean is standing in front of him, humming with energy, the blade clenched in his hands; sometimes Sam would see that in Hell, too — sometimes. He blinks and licks his lips. There are weeping wounds all over him. He's nearly floating, he's so light.
"Dean..." he breathes. "Dean, drop the blade."
He can't see clearly, but Dean doesn't drop it. God, what if he uses it? What if he continues carving into him? Tears him apart, washes his hands with Sam's guts? He doesn't want the images from the Cage to be real, Dean, he wants them to be a distant dream. His brother is better than this. He was always better than all of this, Sam included, so he doesn't understand why this is happening. He's supposed to be the righteous man. Sam's supposed to be in the ground. What's dead should stay dead.
"Dean, I — I need a doctor. M'bleeding out," he forms. That seems to do the trick and he can hear the tinny, faraway sound of a blade hitting the floor. Then he loses track of time and space and dimension, but eventually calloused, heavy hands graze over him, sweeping hair aside and pulling open clothing marred by Magnus' handiwork. He peels open his eyes, lifts his head, and sees that his body is a blood-red canvas. He's laying on the floor and his brother is hurting him, putting weight on the gory bits with a jacket.
"Sammy, look at me. I can't — you can't, because I can't fix this if you..."
His brother's dark, guarded expression is alive and easier to read than a 1st Grade book. Sam don't do this, don't die, don't you fucking do this after everything I broke to get you here, come on Sam, you were right, you were right about the loneliness, the isolation, you saw right through me, don't make me stand in an empty bunker, I'll take the cold war and the awkward silence and the lackluster smiles —
He wants to cling to and spite Dean all at once. Fix him? He did a bang-up job of that, didn't he? What constitutes fixing anymore, in this family? He curls his sticky red fingers around Dean's wrist (Dean's still trying to put pressure on the wounds but there's a lot of Sam to go around) and Sam whispers, "don't you fucking do it again, I won't let you do it again," and then he passes out with I forgive you on the roof of his mouth, because he wanted to at least surrender that much before the end. Wave a white flag and walk into eternity with the sun to his back.
Dean hunkers over a bed. He's scratching at the mark on his arm and he's unshaven. He tells a sleeping Sam stories about when they were little, ones that Sam has probably heard far too many times on far too many drives. There aren't any stars to sight-see in a hospital, so he can't promise that sort of thing, but he lies (maybe) and says he'll buy Sam a bird or a lizard or something ("you got to physically ask for a dog, sorry") if he just hurries the hell up and gets better. There's blood serpenting down a line into Sam's vein, and Sam isn't conscious enough to wonder if demon blood attacks it like cancerous cells. Spreads the tar thinner, maybe.
There are no angels this time, in this hospital; no deals to make, because he'll pull through.
Not that Sam can ever really know if he's alone in his body or not.
Dean isn't Stone One anymore. Reality is shambles in his brother's hands, and Sam'll live in a veil of uncertainty for the rest of his natural life.
He opens his eyes slowly, pale and ashy as a marble headstone, and his droopy stare tracks over to where his brother sits. The I forgive you tailspins and slams into the ground and catches fire, because he's alive and there's still the war to tend to, but he loves his brother enough to die for him, so he does smile a little. Dean smiles tiredly back before he scratches his arm again.