Disclaimer:Supernatural, it's characters and concepts belong to their rightful owners. I make no profit from this!
Warnings:Swearing, Angst, Limp!Sam, medical terminology, subjects which could offend more sensitive readers. Slight Wincest if you squint.
Author's Note: I honestly don't know where the inspiration for this story came from, but I've always wanted to explore the subject matter in this story. It's been eating at my soul for the past week or so and I can't get my mind away from it- my other stories have been put on temporary hold until I get this baby out of my system!
So I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think! Your feedback keeps my soul alive!
Part One: Would You Learn the Spells Which Drowse My Soul?
The letter was tucked away at the bottom of his duffle bag, hidden but not forgotten. It was a little tattered and worn from being taken out and re-read every few weeks or so, but still very much intact. Sam knew that he probably shouldn't have kept it, that it was a masochistic form of torture, constantly taunting himself with something that he could never have but he just couldn't bring himself to throw it away. It was the last remnant of a life that could have been, a dream that had slipped through his fingers.
There was an ache that lived deep within his chest. Every moment he was awake he could feel it, tearing away at his dreams, making him just a little bit more jaded and tired with each day that passed.
Sam could still remember the day that he had tucked it away, never to be seen by his father or brother again. He could remember his foolish joy and pride as he had stood in front of them and announced that he had gotten a full ride to Stanford, something that he had dreamed about but never dared to speak of.
He had been stupid to ever think that his father would understand. Dean had, although Sam had seen the quickly masked sorrow and fear that lingered in his eyes.
After that his father had offered the dreaded ultimatum; if he walked then he wouldn't ever be able to return. Dreams or family. It was that simple to his father, that easy, that black and white.
It wasn't that way for Sam, and nor had it ever been. In the end, he had backed down. He hadn't had the courage to walk away from everything he had ever known. His dreams remained just that; dreams.
He hated himself for not having the courage to stand up for what he believed and wanted. He hated his father for tearing down everything he had wanted, and he even hated Dean a little bit for unintentionally making him feel like the worst person alive for wanting to leave their family.
So Sam had stayed. He had stayed with his father after he had finished school, and the letter remained hidden but never forgotten at the bottom of his bag.
"Hey Sam. You with us here?" Dean's sharp voice broke through Sam's thoughts, and he looked away from the bleak landscape the flashed by outside the window.
Dean was looking at him in the rear-view with a frown on his face. Sam glanced at their father's profile, which was straight and tense, giving away his displeasure at Sam's wandering attention.
"Yeah. I'm with you," Sam murmured, straightening from his customary slouch in the back seat. It had become more of a home to him than anywhere else he had traveled. The leather was a little worn in places, slightly dulled with age, but kept in pristine condition, much like everything else associated with John Winchester. Much like Dean and Sam, both weapons to be utilized without a second thought, because John Winchester had trained them to the extreme, and had faith in their skills. Because really, they were his skills, honed to a fine edge and then bestowed on his two sons like some like of trophy.
Sam wasn't bitter anymore. He wasn't even angry at them. All there was left to him was the terrible ache that plagued him, the regret that ate at him, and the nightmares that tormented him.
He was a Hunter, through and through like the rest of them. A hunter who had finally lost something and was fighting because of that. Dean and their dad had lost a mother and a wife who Sam had never known. Sam had lost his dream two years ago. He had given up on normal, on living a life where he didn't have to feel so unsafe all the time, where everything he did was a risk.
Sam was tired. He knew that his lethargy over the last few weeks was too obvious to Dean, and not so obvious to their father, but for once he couldn't seem to dredge up the energy to try and hide anymore.
"Sam!" John's sharp voice made him jump, and he met his father's gaze in the mirror. "I asked you a question and I don't appreciate being ignored!"
Sam looked away and swallowed the permanent lump that lived in his throat.
"Yes sir," he replied quietly. "It won't happen again.
"Good. See that it doesn't," his father seemed to deflate a little, and relaxed back into the driver's seat. "Now, are you both clear on the plan? Do you need to go over it one more time?"
Sam shook his head mutely.
"Nope, it's all up here," Dean replied happily, tapping his temple as he sorted through their battered tape collection.
"Don't even think about touching my stereo Dean," his father warned, with a faint note of humor in his tone.
"But your music is making my ears bleed," Dean protested. "Seriously, do you know any music that was made after the 1930's?"
"I'll have you know..."
Sam tuned out their banter and looked out the window once more, leaning his head against the cold glass. Outside, dark storm clouds rumbled angrily in the sky, and a strong wind whipped through the trees. The rumble of the engine was a familiar lullaby to Sam, but not a welcome one. Every sound seemed to grate on his frayed nerves, and the thrumming of the engine seemed to fall into synch with the pounding in his head.
Sam often wondered just how long he would be trapped within his own world, but then realized that thinking about it only made it seem harder, and longer and more painful than it needed to be. He had only just turned twenty and he didn't know if he would ever be free of a world where weapons and monsters and traveling were the norm. If he really thought about it, he couldn't recall a single place where he had stayed for more than three months. He had no friends, besides Dean, and he wasn't sure if he wanted them any more.
His only friend was the battered journal that he wrote in occasionally when the hunt got too much, or when things went wrong. The blank pages never taunted him, the pen never got angry when he didn't live up to the things that were expected of him, nor was he under any obligation to track or kill or maim anything. Sometimes, writing things down helped. But reading didn't. He avoided reading books as much as he could, because they were just another reminder of things that were too far beyond his reach to be reclaimed.
The only reading he did was that required for research. Whether it be spending an afternoon in the library with Dean, or spending a morning holed up in a motel room while Dean and his dad talked to witnesses and relatives, it didn't really matter any more. Despite each job being different, there was a familiarity and likeness between each one. The amount of research, the victims and the families, it was all the same to him, all blurred into one messy whole. And as that whole got bigger and more complicated, Sam could feel a little more of himself draining away and inside it felt as if someone had hollowed him out with a giant spoon and left only a shell behind, a carcass of something that once was.
Their latest hunt had taken them to the Hells Canyon in Idaho, a scenic yet remote wilderness area. Rather ironically named too, seeing as they were there hunting the spirit of a murdered hiker that had been terrorizing hikers and sight seers alike on and off for the past fifty odd years. A pretty straight forward, clear cut case that Sam could solve and close in his sleep. And yet his father had seen fit to drill him endlessly on the process and the techniques they would be using to get rid of this particular nasty spirit.
Sam had learned to switch off when he needed to, yet still be able to make it seem like he was paying attention. Dean was very familiar with his skill of escaping their dad's endless drilling, and usually quickly intervened before their dad could notice.
There was something that was bothering Sam though, and it was making him edgy. He was beginning to think that he was seeing things, because every now and then something would flicker at the edge of his vision, but whenever he turned to look at it, nothing would be there. It was starting to frustrate him, but short of gouging his own eyes out, there wasn't much he could do with it besides try to ignore it and get on with the job.
With a heavy heart, and a weariness that dragged at his limbs, Sam forced himself to tune back in to his father's and Dean's conversation.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"You'll never be what they are," someone said behind Sam.
He whirled around, his rock salt filled shot gun raised and ready to fire. Dean and his father were somewhere up ahead on the trail. He had been assigned as rear guard, but had fallen behind quickly.
Before him stood a young woman. Her hair was tied back in a messy pony tail, and she wore hiker's shorts, boots and a plain tank top. She was also very see through, but for once, the spark of anticipation and determination that accompanied a spirit wasn't present. The air was cold around him, and she was staring at him with empty eyes and a blank face.
"You're not like them, are you?" she whispered to him.
Sam was frozen to the spot, unable to move and strangely captivated by the words that were flowing out of the spirit before him. He knew she was a violent spirit, who drove people to their deaths, but he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger for once.
It was like he was paralyzed, and he realized, vaguely, somewhere at the back of his mind, that this must be how she snared her victims.
"You're like me. Different from the rest, not the same. A freak like me. You're not like them..."
At this point, Sam was scared. He was trembling, knew he was in trouble, but he still couldn't move. There was sorrow in her voice, a wistful longing that struck at his very core and made him ache anew with the loss of dreams unfulfilled.
"I can help you, you know. I can help you be like them..."
"What do you mean," he croaked out, his throat seizing up. "I don't know what you want from me..."
"Doesn't matter. None of it matters. All that matters is that you'll be like me. Special. Treasured. Protected."
"I don't know what that means," Sam managed, gasping as the wind around them whipped the trees about furiously. Rain was beginning to drive itself down from the skies, quickly soaking him to the skin and plastering his hair to his forehead.
The girl, flicked and vanished before reappearing in front of him. Sam was forced down onto his knees, as if a giant hand was pulling him down and trying to make him one with the earth.
She was looking down at him, her head tilted sideways and her eyes finally alight with something akin to interest.
"I can help you, you know..."
"Help me with what?" he whispered, his words almost drowned out by the raging of the storm around them.
"They don't need you like this. A burden to them, a murderer, a killer a freeloader."
"I'm not..."
"You're special like me. You'll never be what they are. But I can help you..."
Sam's head was spinning now and he felt almost dizzy. He shivered when the ghost reached out a hand and stroked his cheek.
"Special..."
There was a blinding pain, and a pressure building briefly in his mind before it all feel into darkness...
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"...what to do...he can't..."
Someone's voice was buzzing in and out of his mind as Sam slowly woke up. He could hear other voices too, unfamiliar and also drifting in and out of hearing range. He felt strange. Like he was himself but someone else.
Sam blinked gritty eyes open and was faced with a stained and dirty ceiling. With a frown on his face he tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there, all the while trying to shake off the inexplicable panic that he could feel rising within him.
Last thing he remembered was rain on his face, and feeling colder than ever The memories were slowly creeping back to him like a whipped dog crept back to its master for comfort. Seeping, like moisture slowly overwhelming hard denim.
The ghost. Whispering to him, talking to him, telling him things that he had always suspected but couldn't possibly be true. Could they?
All that matters is that you'll be like me...
They don't need you like this
Murderer
Burden
I can help you be like them...
He could still hear her voice, still whispering to him somewhere at the edge of his awareness, talking, whispering, tormenting him with her lies.
They weren't true, couldn't ever be true. He was normal, and he always had been. An ordinary person living an extraordinary life.
Wasn't he?
Sam shot upright in his bed as a flash of pain shot through his mind, making him gasp involuntarily. Her voice was stronger, more audible, but sounded like it was coated in static, fading in and out.
He was barely aware of Dean and his father at his side. The heavy warmth of their hands on his bare flesh made his skin crawl, making him shudder. He jerked away and scrambled backwards until his back hit something solid; the headboard of the bed he was on.
"Sam?" Dean was asking. "What's wrong?"
Sam shook his head, unsure how to answer the question. How do you tell someone that you're hearing voices in your head? You couldn't. Not without sounding crazy, and Sam knew that he wasn't crazy. Or at least, that's what he hoped.
He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and buried his head in his arms.
Make a less of a target of yourself, his fathers long forgotten words sounded in his head. When you're in trouble, and forced to take cover, make as small a target of yourself as possible. Give them less to target and the chances are, you won't get hit.
"Samuel," his father's voice made him jump, but he didn't raise his head, couldn't because his head was pounding, throbbing with emotions that he couldn't recognize, and wasn't even sure if they were his at all. He felt heavy, like a lead ball dropped into a body of water, like he was sinking and could hardly breath.
"I need you to tell me what happened out there."
Sam shook his head, and that seemed to start off something that he couldn't control. He was shivering uncontrollably, like he was cold when he actually wasn't. He felt Dean's arm's wrap around him, but the weight of them set his skin on fire, made his feel like he was falling and being crushed at the same time. He couldn't bring himself to shake them off.
"Sam? Tell us what's wrong so we can fix it," Dean whispered to him.
Sam shook his head again. How could you fix something when you didn't even know what was wrong?
He could feel the heavy presences of his father and his brother pressing in on him, suffocating in their intensity and the anger that they carried around with them like shields.
All the while, those voices in his head refused to be silenced.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
They became like some sort of lullaby to him as time passed, and he found himself listening to them more and more often. They grew louder when they were on a hunt, clamoring in his head for attention, but it was always that girls voice which came through the clearest.
Sam was unsure where the line between reality and illusion was anymore, but something told him that he had passed it miles ago and there was no way of getting back.
He wasn't sure what his father and brother thought of his insanity, but they were always careful of him, always treated him like he was made of glass and that the smallest thing would set him off. As it had been when he was younger, Dean took over the majority of his care, calming him when he was distressed, and making sure he ate well, showered and rested as often as possible. Sometimes Sam felt as if he would never be clean again, like the voices were tainting him physically as well as well as mentally. Sometimes the blaring of other peoples emotions was like someone yelling in his ear through a megaphone, and it was then that he couldn't stand the touch of another person. He couldn't go anywhere where there were crowds because the noise was too much.
Everything was too much for all of them. He could feel Dean's despair in everything he did. He could sense his father's helpless rage and his impatience wherever he went. Even Sam wasn't sure what was wrong with him. They had remained in Idaho for another two weeks, trying to find out what had gone wrong, what had happened to Sam. The ghost had been vanquished that night, John and Dean having put her to rest before returning to find Sam unconscious on the ground. So there was no way he could still be hearing her in his head, was there? If she was dead, then she was gone.
Of course, Sam hadn't managed to tell them what had happened to him, how she had talked to him and delved out his deepest fears. He didn't speak much at all, only a couple of words here and there, and most of them to Dean.
There were times when he wrote feverishly in his journal for hours while Dean and his father slept. Afterwards, he could never remember what he had written about, or why, and none of what he had written ever made any sort of logical sense. Dean and John had both read it, several times over with puzzled frowns on their faces. Sam never missed the strange looks they shot him as they did so.
So they were making their way to Bobby's to see if he could help with Sam's "problem". John had some vague suspicion that it was a demon, playing with Sam's mind. Sam had gone through the motions of having Holy Water thrown at him, rituals and blessing and exorcisms performed on him. Nothing had happened and nothing had worked. Sam remained in the same half awake state, unless he had been worked up into a panicked frenzy by something, whether it be one of the voices in his head or someone touching him.
As they made their way to Bobby's state of residence, they had stopped along the way to deal with a few hunts, and it was then that Sam was the worst. He could feel each spirit scream within his soul as they were sent to wherever it was they were going, could feel the burn throughout his body. John had taken to leaving Dean with Sam whenever a hunt was necessary. Sam would sit on his bed, arms wrapped around himself and rocking back and forth as he shivered uncontrollably. Whenever he felt that moment approaching, when the spirit of whatever it was would be destroyed, he would often start crying because their pain was his pain, and their voices blended with the ones in his head to form one drawn out scream. Dean had bought him a set of head phones and an MP3 player, which helped.
There was still some part of Sam that was intact though, that could think logically when it wasn't forced to slumber. In the back of his head he knew that the way he was acting wasn't normal, that he was insane. There were times when he held almost normal conversations with Dean, and he could see the joy that this caused Dean, and the hope it inspired in him. He thought that it gave Dean something to hold on to, and a reason to keep pushing on.
But Sam was so tired. He didn't sleep well any more, and that small part of him that was normal still felt empty and helpless. There was no way he could fully describe to Dean or their father what it was like being a prisoner within his own mind without scaring them witless. Sam on the other hand, was way past scared witless and had moved onto acceptance. There was probably no cure for whatever was wrong with him and that thought often had him lapsing into periods of despondency that became harder and harder to fight his way out of.
On the last leg of their journey to Bobby's Sam had been quiet. He had managed to quell the mutterings that sometimes burst out without him realizing, and he felt calmer than he had for awhile. Maybe it was because Dean and his father had lapsed into their own world of thought, calm and thoughtful as opposed to their normal charged and tense states of being. That, in effect, made Sam calmer. Their emotions weren't raging in his head for a change and he found that he was thinking almost separately from the voices for once.
Maybe it was the vast openness of the land around them. Nothing but trees and grass and rocks; no people. No complicated emotions, no spirits, or monsters of things that screamed in his head.
"It won't last, you know," she was back again and Sam shook his head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply like Dean had taught him whenever he was feeling overwhelmed.
It wasn't often he had the energy to fight the voices anymore, especially hers. But he listened and rarely acted upon their suggestions. Listening didn't hurt anyone but himself, and it was better that way.
"You know that they want to get rid of you. That you're nothing but a burden to them any more. They don't like carting you around, and you know it.'
Sam smothered helpless laughter. She always knew how to hit the most sensitive spots, and she was always improving. The most bizarre part of it was that he still didn't know who she was, or what her name was.
"They're red. Bright red and you know what that means. It means they're angry. They're angry with you for being different like me. You and me are blue. Deep deep blue like the ocean and it swallows us whole but doesn't spit us out."
Sam shook his head again before leaning against the window and staring out at the orange and purple sky of sunset. She didn't often make sense, but sometimes he could understand her meanings. And this was one of those times.
"We're trapped, you and me, and there's no way out. We're prisoners to them, and their own needs. They won't let us go. Let's just go. You and me, to somewhere we can be different without them and their red."
"Sam. We're here. Are you hearing me?"
Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean, who was watching him from the front seat. He nodded mutely and looked out the window at Bobby's house and the junk yard jungle beyond. There was a time when he and Dean had run wild in that jungle, playing games that no one else knew how to play.
"You and me can play some games, Sammy," she whispered again. "They don't even have to play with us. We can jump from the roof and fly away from them. No nets, no leashes, nothing to hold us down. We can be freed."
Sam shook his head and got out of the car when Dean opened his door.
"C'mon Sammy. We'll go say hi to Bobby and then you can have a shower and a nap. I know you're tired."
Sam nodded his agreement to Dean and followed him up the stairs to where his father and Bobby stood talking in quiet voices. Bobby turned to greet them as they reached the porch, shaking Dean's hand and smiling at him before turning to Sam.
"Hey Sammy, how're you doing?" he asked with a kindly smile on his face and his hand extended
Sam looked at him for a moment, unsure what his intentions were and distracted by the girl's whispering in his head. A persistent flickering caught his attention on the other side of the porch and he turned to look at it, wondering just how well protected Bobby's place was.
"No where is safe for us, Sammy. We must leave..."
Sam started to back away a few steps, aware that Bobby and his father were watching him and feeling that rising tide of panic begin to grip him. He wanted to leave. It wasn't safe and he would have turned and ran had it not been for Dean gently taking his elbow, his grip firm yet gentle.
"He's tired."
Bobby nodded.
"Your usual rooms are just as you left them. You know where everything is, right?"
"Take him upstairs and get him settled while I talk to Bobby, okay Dean?" John's voice was strong and too loud for Sam's ears and he winced, not liking the tension he could feel vibrating in the air.
"Yes sir," Dean murmured, before steering Sam around the two and opening the door for him. Sam stepped into the cool darkness of Bobby's house and paused a moment to look around. The place was cramped with books, every surface covered with paper, manuals and weapons in various stages of dismantlement.
Dean gave him a moment to take in his surroundings before he guided him towards the stairs. Sam followed him obediently, because even within the depths of his insanity he knew that he was safe with Dean.
He stood still as he watched Dean dump their bags on the twin singles in their room. His older brother moved with a quickness and efficiency that Sam knew he himself should possess but didn't. No energy was wasted on unnecessary movement, a sign that Dean was indeed a hunter, and someone who knew how to survive in any situation by conserving what energy he had.
Before he knew what was happening, Dean had run him a hot bath.
"Get undressed Sammy and hop in. The shampoo and the soaps over there. I'll be back in a few," Dean told him.
Sam stood still, absorbing the quiet that surrounded him. It was the first time that he had been truly alone in days. Even the voices in his head were muted for the time being, and the feeling of being so completely alone, something he would have welcomed not too long ago, was starting to scare him.
TBC
