Episode Eight
"Sanguis Sanctus, part II"
Chapter Two
The windows were darkening by the time she came again with Frederick in tow. Constance had stayed by Sam's side, pinching off the line now and then - Sam knew what she was doing. A slow periodic loss of blood ensured that he wouldn't lose too much, and he wouldn't have time to recoup the energy. He wasn't supposed to be strong enough to resist Frederick this time.
Between the lack of water and the blood loss, the Trials breaking off pieces of his lungs and his swollen itchy heart, Lucifer racing along his neural pathways, he could barely even lift his head.
Natalie shooed Constance away and sat in the chair. "Sam?"
"No."
She closed her eyes, little disappointed shake of her head. "Fine. Frederick."
Sam struggled, oh he tried, bit his lips together until they bled, but Frederick dug his fingers into Sam's shoulder and this time his mouth opened. This time his body burned with fatigue, he saw stars and his hands shook and his head, god. Frederick dumped the vial of thick red into his mouth and clasped his hand over, held tight.
Sam held onto it in his mouth, the hot tang, and everything in him strove for it. But he was stronger, he could wait it out-
"Make sure he swallows," came a voice. Sam recognized it from somewhere, craned his neck to see. He didn't need to make the effort; Tim Janklow stepped into his line of sight and gave him a little salute.
Sam's eyes went wide in question, but then Frederick's hand shifted, covered his nose, pinched it closed and he was suffocating.
He held out as long as he could. He twisted and turned to get out of Frederick's grip. He'd have rather drowned on it than drink. But his body betrayed him; he swallowed and gasped for breath around Frederick's hand, panted as he felt the blood work through him. His nerves, his old injuries, something in the back of his mind unknotting like a long-unused muscle. He lay there, hands working into fists and straightening out again, a stuttery fit, his fingers wanted to move, he needed to move. He was fast becoming too big for his skin. He remembered this.
"Give it ten minutes," the woman told Constance. "Then give me a pint." She murmured some other instruction Sam couldn't hear, then bent over him, smoothed away some of the substance from the corner of his mouth, slipped it in past his lips, slicked it off on his bottom teeth. "Let it do its work."
And she was gone.
Ten minutes later, Constance opened the line in his arm. The trail that ran across his forearm burned hot; he burned hot. He didn't remember it feeling so intense. Maybe because he'd come so close to being purified by the Trials? He had questions. But he blinked and the ceiling had vanished. He blinked and Constance was a blurred face. He coughed and for once it didn't bring up blood. He slept.
"Shh," Frederick said.
He thought it was Frederick, he'd only seen a few people in the hours he'd been held captive - Natalie, Constance, Frederick, Tim whose voice he'd now never forget. Must have been Frederick.
"Tim... Tim..." Sam tried, but he felt blurry.
"Sold you out, yeah. Now shush." Frederick clicked on a lamp in the room, sauntered toward Sam with a knife in his hand.
"What are you doing?"
"Calm down, now. I just want a sample." He knelt at Sam's side, looked at him. "Wasn't easy to find you," he said. "We've been lookin' for a couple years. Got kinda eager once we found out about Purgatory, ya know? Then Tim shows up, tells us he's got a line on the boy king."
"Tim wouldn't- He's a hunter, he wouldn't-"
"You think you know for sure, huh." Frederick tilted his head. "Me and Tim were hunting buddies, did you know that? Steve was my cousin, did you know that? And me and Tim... we got turned on the same hunt." Frederick leaned in. "Did you know that?"
Sam held his ground, glared. "What gotcha?"
Frederick watched him. "Nightwalker."
Nightwalker. Even as his backbrain catalogued it - nightwalker: fed on blood, ran in packs, didn't do lineage which set them apart from vamps, killable by drowning in human blood, because hey, irony - his thoughts ran wild. Tim was a monster, Tim was turned, Tim was a nightwalker, Tim had been tracking him for god knew how long, Tim knew what to put in a report to get Winchesters to show up, for that matter, ex-hunter Frederick did too. "Detective Warner," Sam guessed.
"Pleasure to meet ya. Brother of yours is a hardass. Thought he saw right through me, but I been impersonating law enforcement since before you could shoot straight."
"I sincerely doubt that."
"That's right, I heard about you Winchesters. That's a fucked up family, you know that right?"
"Don't talk about my family like you know something."
"Fine. If talking's off the table, I guess it's time to eat." He rucked Sam's shirt up at the side, up to his ribcage, ungentle, swiped the blade down in a fiery slice. Sam hissed. Frederick pressed a fingertip to the wound; Sam stared upward, tried to pull back, but the thing just sank its fingers into Sam's opposite hip and dragged him bodily closer. Frederick showed him his bloodied fingertip, grinned. Popped it into his mouth and his whole body relaxed in something like bliss. "So much better when it's still warm. We aren't allowed to feed. Church rules. You're the exception."
"There's no way your boss is okay with this," Sam tried, breathy, shaky. Frederick was a nightwalker, but he wouldn't turn him, he might kill him accidentally, but he wouldn't turn him-
"Natalie don't have to know." He turned back to the cut in Sam's side and licked his lips, looked positively lustful, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself, saying "Wait wait wait-"
"And yet she does," Natalie said from the doorway. "Know."
Frederick was on his feet and away from Sam like a shot, his finger shoved into his mouth like he was trying to get rid of the evidence. Natalie spared him a look.
"Control yourself. You're to treat our king with the utmost respect."
Frederick nodded, sullen.
"Do it again and I'll have you killed. Out, now." Frederick left, and Natalie came toward him.
"You can't keep me here like this," Sam said. He flinched as she reached for the wound in his side, inspected it.
"I can." She frowned, turned. Rummaged in Constance's satchel for a pad of gauze and as she patched him up, she said, "It's not what I want, Sam. I have to do what's right for my people. You must understand. There. It's shallow, it'll heal." She pulled his shirt back down, covered him with a blanket, smoothed it over his chest. "We will care for you here. You won't be tied to this cot forever. You will be loved. For everything you've done to save people, for everything that you are, brave, noble, selfless, you will be loved and admired, respected."
She's reading you, she's saying what you want to hear-
"Sleep on it, my king. Rest now." She leaned over to press her lips to his forehead and then she was gone again.
"Gentle with him," the woman said. Moments later? Or it was morning? There was another vial at his mouth, dumped in before he realized what was happening. He squeezed his eyes shut against swallowing, struggled against his bonds however weakly, but there was a hand over his mouth again, his throat worked against swallowing, and he had nearly passed out refusing to swallow, black spots in his field of vision, and then his involuntary survival instincts kicked in and he did it anyway.
"Much better," she said in approval.
Sam blinked at her, dazed but with the dose of demon blood rushing through him, he was starting to wake up, gain strength. It was an unwelcome realization; if he decided to go along with it, he might get strong enough to overcome the weakness of the Trials, he might be able to escape. But he remembered Samhain; the cost was the look on Dean's face, the cost was never being able to go home again. What would he have gained?
"Constance?"
Constance came forward, knelt and Sam felt the tube shift on his forearm, felt the needle shift just the slightest. He turned his head toward it, flexed his hand.
Constance placed her hand over his. "Keep still, now." She ghosted her fingers over his arm, didn't press but just rested them there a moment. "If you feel any discomfort, if this spot begins to feel warm or painful, just let me know."
"Constance was a medical student," Natalie said. "Top of her class. And then she was turned."
Constance looked up at him. Her eyes flashed a bright gold-green a moment before going dark again and then she looked away, ashamed, busied herself checking his pulse and reflexes in his fingers.
"Into what?" Sam murmured.
"Does it matter to you?" Constance said.
Sam frowned. "No. It doesn't matter. You can still be good."
Constance didn't look at him. "My reward will still be Purgatory."
Sam looked up at the ceiling. Dammit. "You have to understand why I can't do this."
"You did it to save them," she said, softly, like she half-hoped he didn't hear her, half-thought maybe she shouldn't say it. There was bitterness.
Sam watched her where she was kneeling, bent over the line. A jagged pink shiny scar came down from her hairline at the nape of her neck and curved forward and around, down, stark against her dark skin, and he thought hunters, and he thought she's just a girl, a med student, she seemed sweet, what could she possibly have done-
"We all know the story. What you did to save all of them. You could do it again to save all of us." She turned to him and her eyes were wet and she said, "You wouldn't even have to die for it. You'd be worshiped for it. You'd be our king, we'd protect you-" She cut herself off. Stood. Gathered herself. "He'll be done in about twenty minutes, I think. I need to-"
Natalie smiled at her, kind. "Of course. It's about time for us to travel. Take some time, and then Harold will take you to the church."
Constance left. The line down his arm was warm again with his own blood flowing out of him. The strength he thought he was gaining was being leached away again.
"Thought you didn't want to kill me," he said, trying to slow his heart rate, calming breaths.
"We believe the demon blood will preserve your organs from any damage, will increase your red cell production in reaction to the loss of volume. It will protect you, as it strengthened you when you took on Lucifer."
"And if you're wrong?" He blinked hard. A pint gone from the day before, and now more.
"We're prepared for that. Constance has a contact at the local blood drive. Don't worry. We aren't going to let anything happen to you."
"Why do I have to..." He swallowed. "Drink?"
Natalie Smith's smile turned sad. "Oh Sam. You're a conduit. You have to ... to process it. I'm so sorry it has to be this way. I know how much you hate it." She smiled down at him, hand on his forehead, down his cheek, and then she was gone and Sam was left alone.
Twenty minutes later, he'd already blinked himself awake three or four times, shaking out of some dream to find himself in a nightmare. The demon blood made his heart restless, made him twitchy because he wanted to act, fight, and it just caused him to bleed out faster. Fast enough that when Constance showed back up to pinch off the line again, she took one look at him from the doorway and raced across the room to him with a gasp.
She murmured assurances at him, calm down and stay quiet and oh my god, and then she was detaching something, capping something, and her hand was on his shoulder as he blinked mutely at her, he understood thank you and then she was gone.
He awoke once while being manhandled from the cot, his hands and feet free but no strength to do anything about it. Of course, he thought as the darkness came back. Drain him first, so he couldn't fight.
Mumbling, light and dark, awake and not, careful hands, a dizzy rush, it seemed only seconds, maybe it was, a light smack on his cheek and he opened his eyes.
He was seated in a chair, a padded chair with a high back, a belt buckled across his chest, not that he could move to escape, or maybe it was to keep him sitting upright. Natalie adjusted a blanket around his shoulders. Purple, it was a sort of cloak he guessed, and she tucked another blanket across his lap and around his waist, he realized then that his teeth were chattering. She smoothed his hair across his forehead, tilted his chin to look him in the face, and then she placed a circlet on his head and Sam laughed-
Dean so earnest in his chain mail, the first time they'd had fun together in months after Purgatory, after the horror that was Purgatory for Dean, the twenty-four hour battle these monsters were trying to escape. Dean in a crown laughing, Dean was a king, Dean was the leader, Dean was worthy, no crown for Sam's head, no crown please, never for Sam, never-
He was aware he was dissociated somewhat from the events as they unfolded. They were in a church set up in a muddy field, a revival tent - where reapers restored Dean, where someone else died to keep Dean alive when Sam couldn't manage it - and around him at the front of the space monsters were setting up. An organ in the corner, lights. Constance was emptying the thick dark contents of a tupperware container into an ornamented porcelain bowl and he knew it was his blood but he couldn't react to it, he couldn't feel anything about it even when she placed it at his feet, even when she kissed his hands.
He watched in a daze as worshipers filed in, monsters and their families, baby monsters, creatures, toddlers, old, young, sick. Natalie, in her customary red, spoke; the words washed over him, words of hope and salvation and joy and then she called up the faithful row at a time to receive the very first communion.
A penitent old man with razor teeth and raised veins on either side of his face praised Sam's name as he drank the mouthful offered to him. A weeping mother sat her child on Sam's lap and encouraged the girl to kiss Sam's forehead. Sam leaned his head forward to accommodate and thought she doesn't know she doesn't know. Two hundred people sampled his blood that day. Two hundred people pressed their lips to his hands, his feet, his forehead in thanks, in praise, in hope for something better.
They put him to bed with the cuffs around his wrists and ankles again, but he felt the gentleness with which they buckled them, how they carefully placed the soft cloth between the leather and his skin. His stomach turned.
Constance tucked a blanket over him and tipped blood into his mouth. He twisted away, he bit his lips closed, he squeezed his eyes shut and fought hard, until he felt his shoulder separate and slide back into place and then no matter how he turned, she was able to bring him back to face her and eventually she slipped the sulfur tang between his bleeding lips. She shushed him, she placed an ice pack on his shoulder, identical to the one he'd been given at the police station. He tried to remember whether she had been there when they took his statement, and his body took the drug and put it to work, strengthening him however it could, easing his breath, weeding out his lungs bit by bit, but his heart worked harder, that swollen itchy thing, and his blood rushed in his ears. She slept on a cot near his that night, and every time he woke with a nightmare, there was a cool cloth on his forehead.
The next day, she drained another pint from him and they traveled again, to another tent, to another location, another muddy field and another group of hopeful faces.
Dean should have been looking for him. He'd have been scouring the countryside. But his phone hadn't rung; Natalie had left it tantalizingly close, just across the room on some abandoned cabinet. God he wanted it to ring, some indication Dean was looking, some hint there might have been hope.
You'll be lucky if he pours out a whiskey on your grave once a year.
Sam's teeth chattered. The cold that came in waves between the heat of the demon blood or maybe it was just his muscles protesting being so pumped full of juice and then being restrained - not that he thought he could stand under his own power - or maybe it was the dull fritz of panic catching him now and then, the thing born of the Cage that sometimes shut him down so well he'd had to escape into his room to maintain some dignity about it, he didn't remember but he thought he spoke aloud, Constance looked frightened of him sometimes, frightened and so worried-
She came again. He didn't listen. She stroked his face, she said something about how well he was doing, how loved he was. So pleased that the blood was keeping him healthy and alive, so pleased they could drain him without killing him. He set his jaw and refused to look at her.
Until the fire rushed through him, a warm whoomp of roaring flame he recognized distantly as prayer, as Cas, but his fists clenched at the intrusion, his eyes screwed shut, he gritted his teeth as a flood of terrible darkness swept through him, the intense electric burn of whatever Cas felt as love, a bitter thread through it and he thought Dean Dean Dean this is for Dean, Cas is praying for Dean, and when he was conscious of his surroundings again, he was saying:
"Please please, talk to me talk to me, please please we will find you-"
And then her hand was on his forehead and she was turned away from him, talking to someone else. "I thought he wasn't psychic anymore." More murmurings, and then-
His phone rang.
The room went quiet, except for his uneven breathing.
Another ring, and she left him, and the ringing stopped, and she was gone, and Constance pressed cool cloths to his forehead and shushed him and it was a very long while before he knew anything of substance, before anything felt solid, before he slipped into a dream.
Dean isn't coming.
Sam looked at himself, a cocky sonofabitch Sam had shot dead in a forest mindscape, but he'd never really died, not wholly.
He's not coming. You're screwed now, man.
Not true. Cas said-
Cas didn't say anything. Cas wants you home, Cas wants to find you. But maybe you've noticed him and Dean aren't exactly on great terms? Cas is fucked up in a million ways. You think you can trust that guy?
Cas -
He broke you.
Sam didn't respond. Cas had done what he'd done for the same reasons Sam had, with Ruby. Had a plan to save the world, complete with "at all costs" mindset, fucked it over in the process. And Cas had suffered the fallout, suffered the Leviathan horde burning through his vessel, suffered Lucifer in his head when he'd taken on Sam's stuff. He and Cas were square.
Forgiving him even as we speak, aren'tcha? Sucker.
Forgiveness is a good thing, asshat.
The other Sam laughed, that strange way Sam remembered - without malice, but without regard either. You're never getting out of here. Not if you're banking on that ex-angel and a brother who can't even tell when you're you and when you're not you but still actually... you.
Sam frowned. The other Sam frowned, thought a second. You know what I mean. I'm saying you can't depend on the others. I'm saying you're kinda fucked. Little smile.
No. Sam closed his eyes, tried to slow his heart. He could count on Dean, he could- You're Lucifer. You're just trying to - You're him.
The other Sam pressed his mouth into a line. For a guy without a soul, he looked pretty sincere. A little regretful, even. No. I'm you. You shoulda stayed inside, Sam. I could have protected you in there.
How can you even care? Why did you even keep hunting?
Because I remember you, and I trust those memories. They made you a person who saved the world. They made you a hero. They made you a person who did the most good. And I had a drive inside me to do the most good. The other Sam shrugged. It just made sense to follow your lead, y'know? It was practical.
Sam nodded, loose. You were following my lead? That makes a lot of things make more sense. He thought of the bartender shot dead, he thought of the police officer beaten unconscious, he thought of Bobby -
Plus, killing fuglies, kinda awesome. And the sex you can have when all you care about is making each other feel great without the guilt? But my point is, you're not getting rescued-
I get it, okay?
No you don't. I'm saying you have to rescue yourself, princess.
Sam raised his brows. What?
The other Sam grinned. I got a plan.
He said no. When he didn't have breath to speak, he said no. When he had no strength to protest, he said no. When he saw nothing, when he felt nothing, he said no.
It didn't matter.
They moved him again and again, into that tent, into that ribbon-laced chair where he sat like a king, where creatures came to drink, came to believe, hope for their children, for themselves. Where they tried to trade in one torture for another, that vague and far off chance at coming back to earth, to rejoin their families.
They gifted him with heirlooms. A vampire and her adopted family, a vampire who reminded him uncomfortably of Lenore, left him the treasured cameo of her Maker, a matronly woman in an 1800s brooch who had been killed earlier that year and would never know his grace. The vampire begged him, when he was fully King, would he rescue her Maker from Purgatory? Her Maker had always believed in him, she deserved to be saved-
A shuffling family of ghouls placed silver rings on his fingers. The children had begun making it an element of ceremony to weave fresh flowers into the silver circlet and then vote amongst themselves for who would get to crown him that day. He watched as they silently chose who among them had been worthiest, honor among monsters. Those sensitive to silver were most adamant about doing it, they wanted to burn for their king, they wanted to be brave for him.
They were always different children - somewhere in his mind he was gathering information, he was planning an escape, and this meant he was somewhere new every day, sometimes twice in a day - and he had no idea how the tradition had passed from group to group, except that that was how traditions were formed. Rumors, well-wishes. We're going to revival on Tuesday, he imagined, I heard you have to make him a crown so he'll save you.
He wouldn't save anyone. He couldn't.
He'd lost track of the days, he thought it hadn't been that many, really. But he stared up at the ceiling from his cot. He hadn't spoken in ages. Or hours, maybe.
They came to him and they pressed on his shoulder because they knew he'd say no, and he drank and they left.
If he seemed more focused, no one took notice, except that Constance seemed happier with his outlook, how he seemed more resigned, and Frederick seemed angry that Sam didn't fight him as hard when he came with the blood.
Oh, he still fought. His whole being rebelled against being forcefed the thing he had tried so hard to put behind him, the desire that still stuck at the back of his throat when a demon was nearby, when a demon's blood coated his knife, when he watched the innocent host die and thought, a few years ago, I'd have saved your life. A few years ago I'd have spared you.
So he fought. He said no and he fought. But he didn't have the strength, and he had the consolation that he'd be able to give Dean one more puzzle piece, if he was even looking.
They sat him in the chair, they didn't bother tying him down anymore. He couldn't get away, and some woman had made a silken sash of blue and orange that held him upright like a seat belt, across his good shoulder and down to the opposite hip, and sometimes he sagged against it, and sometimes he was able to sit upright without its help.
He closed his eyes, and the knot in the back of his mind swelled open, reached out. He could feel it like a magnetic pull, he could taste it like sulfur tang. For days he'd been drinking, no matter that they drained it from him. For days he'd been finding them, like drawn to like, the power inside him seeking out the nearest demon, sometimes two, and with a prayer, with an apology, he lowered them to the ground, he stamped them out, he sent them to hell.
And he hoped, he hoped, that Dean would think the worst of him, that Dean would come running to stop him, maybe even to kill him, to keep him human.
Sam was counting on it.
He'd started talking in his sleep.
Constance frowned when he did it, but he rarely truly slept, so she couldn't bear to wake him. He dozed mostly, a light thing he snapped out of at the tiniest sound. She watched, a vigil, her sleeping king. She washed his face and feet and hands. She made sure he got water when he needed it; he never asked for food, and she was certain the blood was keeping him nourished. She had tried once, but he looked so sick, he said such strange things, she never tried to bring him food again.
When he was out cold, Constance made sure he was bathed properly, anointed, sacred. He never noticed or thanked her. He never spoke to her but the once, before the first service.
He spoke in his sleep, of Dean Winchester, of salvation. Dean will come...
And she remembered that the boyking was a seer, he had visions, he had power, and then he had another fit.
"Frederick!" she called, smoothing a cool cloth over Sam's forehead. "Get the Steward!" Under her hand, Sam was in anguish, his brows together, breathing through his teeth gasping, lips parted back in pain, hands clenching and grasping.
"Please please," he murmured.
"What's wrong?" the Steward said, crossing the room.
Constance looked up at her. "Another vision, I think."
Sam stilled, blinked his eyes open, watched nothing. Little smile on his trembling lips. "Gonna find me," he breathed. "My brother's gonna kill you..."
The Steward frowned. "He doesn't know what he's saying. He's delirious."
Sam laughed.
Constance looked from him to the Steward. Bit her lip. He'd been talking in his sleep, but nothing like this.
Sam's phone buzzed on the cabinet. Frederick picked it up, frowned at the screen. "Uh, Mistress?"
He handed the phone to the Steward, who went pale.
"What's it say?" Constance stepped away from Sam. The rumors were that his psychic thing had faded, but maybe the demon blood-
"Nothing." The Steward came forward to Sam and placed her hand on his chest, closed her eyes. Briefly, a glint of red showed under her palm, what Constance knew was the Steward's gift; she was reaching out to sense Dean. And she paled further, nearly dropped the phone when it rang a moment later. She snatched her hand back from Sam's chest and steeled herself. She looked up at Constance. "Everything's going to be fine." She took a deep breath, then picked up the call, on speaker.
"You think you're on my trail, huh?" she said, in Sam's voice.
"I know I am."
"I sincerely doubt it." She smiled at Sam, her hand on his knee as a comfort. "Look I know you're worried, but I'm not having this conversation with you again. I can take care of myself. I'm a better hunter when you're not around - and that's not an insult man, it's just... true. You just keep your distance from me and we'll both be better off."
"That's not true, Sammy. Now I know you can be a stubborn son of a bitch, but you gotta know I can outlast you in that arena when it comes to making sure you're where I can keep an eye on ya-"
"Keep an eye on me? Right. Cuz that's always worked out so well for me. Jesus Dean do you even listen to yourself?"
Sam blinked, his breath quickened. Constance sat and took his wrist to get his pulse, shaking her head a little at the Steward, who smiled and nodded: It's okay. Don't worry.
"Sam-"
"No man. I'm not gonna say it again. I'm done. You stay the fuck away from me. The only thing you've ever done for me is drag me back into a life I never wanted and now can't escape, because you're too weak to be alone. You don't know me anymore, you definitely can't track me--"
"Oh can't I? You think I don't know about your little demon blood problem? You think I can't see a fucking burned patch of ground and recognize that my idiot little brother's gone completely off the rails, again? I'm comin' for your ass, man, and you and me are gonna have a nice long fucking heart to heart--"
"Man you don't know what you're talking about-"
"Yeah I fucking do. You must think I'm real dumb, not even bothering to cover your tracks. Your bullshit demon exorcism trail's leadin' me straight to you, Sammy boy-"
The Steward looked at Sam, stared in betrayal. She put the phone to her chest so she could calm herself. Constance watched between them. Sam stared straight up, brows together, shaking his head, mouthing something.
"Demon exorcisms," the Steward said, laughing a bit but her face was stormy, angry. She directed Frederick to Sam's side, Sam who had started struggling, started making little sounds and squeaked when Frederick slapped his hand over Sam's mouth and held tight. "Yeah, you got me-"
"Dean!" Sam said, but it was muffled behind Frederick's hand, and the Steward snapped his phone off, saying, "What a sneaky little creature you are, Sam Winchester. Drawing your brother to you right under my nose. My fault really. I should have been paying more attention." She crushed his phone under her heel. Her hands worked in and out of fists as she managed her considerable anger. Constance looked from her to Sam.
"Steward-" she said, and it had the desired effect of grounding the Steward, who turned to leave, head high, seething.
"Frederick?"
"Mistress?"
"Don't kill him."
Frederick left him alone after some a while. Sam couldn't tell. He counted time in breaths, in moments, of wakefulness or after dreams. But Frederick had left him after the allure of beating the crap out of someone chained to a cot had lost its sheen.
Sam blinked at the ceiling, dazed with pain, a physical dizziness, blood on his face, cracks in his ribs.
Dammit Dean. Sam had expected him to be angry. He'd counted on it. But he hadn't counted on the fenix knowing how to push his buttons so well. Fenix could skim the minds of the people closest to their victims - it was how they were able to stay under the radar so well. But she shouldn't have been able to pull Dean's strings that precisely.
The only thing you've ever done for me is drag me back into a life I never wanted-
That wasn't Sam. That wasn't her reading Sam. God. That was Dean. That was something she pulled out of Dean's head to get him to back off-
If he thought - If Dean thought that was true -
Fuck.
He needed to get his head out of his own ass. He needed to stop being so wrapped up in his own shit - Lucifer, the Trials, they weren't going away, not really. He needed to get his back under it and stand up, because Dean didn't need Sam's shit on top of his own. Somewhere along the line, he'd gotten so focused on just surviving, he hadn't been paying attention to how it was affecting Dean-
Sam stared at the ceiling overhead. It didn't matter. Dean ... wouldn't come now. He'd never come now. Never never never-
He pulled at the cuffs in frustration. Pulled until he felt the cloth slip, felt the bite of the metal buckle against his skin, felt the ache in his shoulder, the sharp jostle of a fresh-cracked rib, the exhaustion grey out his vision, but he was weak, he was brittle, and he fell relaxed again, limp, breathing heavy and wet.
Dean would never come for him now.
You're probably right.
Lucifer sat on Constance's chair, perched on the back with his feet on the seat, face set in deep concern.
Sam closed his eyes, deep breath. He knew the game, of course, but it rankled, Lucifer agreeing with him. About Dean. He didn't know Dean.
Of course the point was to get Sam to change his mindset, to have hope, because you couldn't crash land if you weren't in the air in the first place, and Lucifer wanted a crash land, he wanted Sam in flames, he wanted the sickening drop in altitude, the shaking under pressure, the loss of control-
Saa-amm-
"Shut up."
Ahhh there it is, the dulcet tones of my one and only-
"Stop!"
Touchy.
The universe spun above him, another galaxy for him to expand into as his molecules scattered, drawing him apart, stars and planets he'd created, he'd watched them collapse, pockets of time he'd expanded into against his will, the surface area of his soul marred and grated against by freezing solar winds and celestial magnetic fields-
Dean.
Dean Dean Dean.
"You're wrong," he mumbled, blinking upward into space. "Dean... won't give up."
From then on, Frederick was his minder, had replaced Constance although she was still in charge of his health. They fought over Sam, over how to best keep him alive. Frederick insisted he was allowed to do whatever he liked in the interest of distracting Sam whenever it looked like he might be leaving another breadcrumb in the form of a demon exorcism, as long as it'd be covered by robes and the adoring worshippers couldn't see the marks. Constance preferred that they just drain more from him, de-power him more quickly after administering the demon blood.
In the end, they did both, and Sam had precious few opportunities to use his psychic exorcism crap to get another data point to Dean. But he tried. And they caught him. And they stopped him. And he was sure he had a cracked rib or two, and they drained the strengthening demon blood out of him right away, and more of it than usual, and he would soon be dead, except that the blood just kept him alive over and over and-
Dean. Dean.
Dean was not coming. Dean won't give up. Dean is not coming.
Dean Dean.
