Warnings: Hell violence/torture, general disturbing stuff, language, angst.
"I hope you're ready,
I hope you're ready for the fall."
- A Skylit Drive, "The Cali Buds"
Dean remembers this kind of pain from when he was in hell. The quick, white hot stings, each deeper and hotter than the previous, accompanied by the loud snap of the whip and the drip, drip, drip of blood; it's something that's near impossible to forget. Lashings are just as painful as vivisection but so much worse, because you get lashed to be sent a message. Vivisection is mostly there for the demon's sport (and your pain), but lashings are meant to tear you down, to remind you that you're in hell and while you're there, you're no more important than an insect. And the thought of his strong, resilient brother being subjected to a lashing makes Dean's stomach twist up.
Dean's cheek is pressed to the marble floor in the massive, hollow room that resides in Sam's head. Every snap and hit of the cat makes Dean jerk and grit his teeth, and all the while he tries not to think of how Sam's going through the exact same thing. Some hits are too much to take and he can't stop the grunt or cry that forces itself out of his throat, making it ache. The sound echoes around the room and the loneliness of it hits him, almost as if he is back in hell with nothing to take him away from the pain or feeling. Lost in the haze of the whip cracking and his back shredding, Dean can hear Alastair's slimy voice curling around him like a snake. How many times do we have to do this, Dean? You have the power to stop it; all you have to do is say yes. Alastair always sing-songed "yes," taunting the word knowing Dean would just grind his teeth and spit out, "No." And Dean did, followed with a rough, but not always strong, "Go screw yourself." Dean lost count of how many lashings he went through in his thirty years.
For a moment, the whistle and crack of the whip silences. Dean doesn't dare move or breathe, knowing that the stillness doesn't mean that it's over, just that something else is coming. His back is screaming. In his mind he can picture the bloody mess; slashes down to the bone, visible layers of muscle and skin, even though he knows that his own back is perfectly smooth and unblemished. It's just the pain that's real, not the end result.
That's why he feels every inch of the scalding oil that gets poured over his supposed mangled flesh. The scream that he lets out doesn't even sound human as the thick liquid slowly fills up every deep gash in his back. He screams until his voice gives and he can't pull in any more air.
As he slowly starts to pull out of Sam's head and the pain starts to fade and dull, he swears he can hear Sam scream too.
Dean wakes the same way he did last time, with a sharp pain in his stomach and the undeniable need to puke. This time he stumbles his way out of bed to make it to the trash can, a decision that he immediately regrets as the whole room tilts to a dangerous angle. When he crashes to his knees in front of the trash can, he nearly misses and tips the trash over when vertigo takes over. This time he's barely able to expel his stomach contents into the wastebasket before he passes out, flopping over and almost dumping the trash for the second time.
The road's lined with thick forest, twisted and mangled like it's been growing for hundreds of years and ran out of room long ago. It's dark save the light glaring down from the oversized moon, but it's not scenery that has Dean's attention; it's the Impala a few yards away. The car is parked off the side of the road. The dark paint blends seamlessly into the woods threatening to engulf the car, but Dean would know the gleaming outline of his baby anywhere. As he gets closer though, he can tell something's off. He can tell from the way that the back of his neck prickles and the muscles of his shoulders tense. It's the same feeling he gets while on a hunt, just before something goes wrong. Now that he's closer, he can see that there's someone or something huddled in the backseat, something that's curled up tight but twitching like it's flinching away from something repeatedly. Frowning and wishing he had a weapon, Dean creeps towards the back door of the car. Now, with his hand on the door handle, the uneasy feeling that had taken over him minutes ago morphs into dread because the thing inside is wearing Sam's clothes.
"Sammy?" Dean pulls the door open and is unprepared for what's inside.
It's Sam but it's not Sam. This person, Dean doesn't recognize. He's skeletal, skin pulled thin over gaunt features and bones. His wide, blue hazel eyes are too big for his face and full of terror. They don't even seem to see Dean as they dart around, looking for something that Dean doesn't want to imagine.
"Sammy? Sam, can you hear me?" Dean's scared to touch, scared to break Sam because he looks so fragile, or scare him even further.
Sam pushes himself further against the opposite door and pulls his painfully legs up with his painfully thin arms, making himself as small as possible. Dean swallows, unsure of what to do.
Dean slowly lowers himself so he's crouching in between the open door and the back seat, trying to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible while staying close to Sam.
"It's me, Sammy, just me. There's no one out here but us, man. S'just us."
Sam's eyes rest on Dean but the fear there isn't erased, and he hasn't calmed. His boney hands clench and unclench in the fabric of his jeans as he stares at Dean.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean says softly as he locks his gaze with Sam's, trying to put as much reassurance into his gaze as he can, despite feeling like he's crawling outta his skin with worry and panic. Sam looks like a traumatized refugee and he doesn't know why or what to think.
"Real?"
At first, Dean doesn't think it's Sam who spoke because the word is so rough and unrecognizable that it sounds more like it came from a dying man who smoked three packs a day. But Dean saw Sam's lips move and the glimmer of hope that flashed through Sam's eyes when he forced the question out. And when Dean realizes what Sam's asking, his heart clenches painfully in his chest.
"Yeah, Sam. I'm real."
It's like a switch. Sam launches himself off the door and scrambles out of the car, latching onto Dean as soon as he's able. Sam's boney joints bump and jab into Dean, but he doesn't care much as he gently hangs onto Sam. He's still scared of squeezing too tightly and snapping Sam like a twig. Sam seems to be hanging on hard enough for the both of them though, fisting Dean's jacket in his hands as he presses his face into Dean's shoulder.
"Can't go back, can't go back, can't go back, can't go back. Please don't make me. Please?"
Over and over again, Sam's unrecognizable voice – which Dean figures is just shredded from screaming- sobs pleas into the junction of his shoulder. It's so childlike, so far from any display of vulnerability that Sam would ever show, that Dean can't help but tighten his hold. But he doesn't say anything because if he promises this Sam that he'll save him and then fails…
Dean can't handle the thought of lying to him right now.
Sam gasps and it's full of fear, and Dean pulls back to see what has his brother spooked. Sam pulls away too but keeps his hands twisted up in the front of Dean's jacket, hanging on as if his life depends on it.
"Sam?"
"No, no, no. Dean, I can't go back, I can't," Sam's rocking back and forth, tears flowing freely down the sharp angles of his face.
Dean keeps one hand on Sam's arm and then runs another down his face, not knowing what to do or how to calm Sam down again.
"Go where, Sammy? C'mon, talk to me. Help me out, here."
But Sam just gets more agitated. Letting go of Dean, he grabs his head instead, buries his hands in his hair tightly and continues to rock.
"Not going back, I'm not going back, I'm not going back."
"Ok, Sam, just – just calm down," Dean says as he starts to reach for Sam again, but retreats as Sam starts to flicker in and out like a spirit.
Sam's hyperventilating and just before he flickers for the final time, he lets out a gut wrenching, chilling shout of, "No!" and then disappears.
Dean wakes up mid yell, screaming his brother's name. The sound of his own voice drills a spike of pain through his brain, which then explodes and consumes his whole skull. With a groan, Dean rolls over and grabs his head, tucking himself up into a ball as he attempts to get a hold of his breathing.
Once the ache dulls from pure agony to just plain ole pain, Dean forces himself to crawl to the bathroom. Unwilling to attempt standing just yet, Dean turns on the faucet to the bathtub and sticks his head under the lukewarm water. He shuts his eyes as the water streams over his head and runs onto his face. He breathes through his mouth to avoid inhaling the water running by his nose, and tries to imply the breathing technique his dad taught him years ago to help control pain. In and out, slow, controlled; if you stop focusing on how much it hurts it'll be easier to handle.
It's not really working. In fact, Dean swears the pain is intensifying.
Blindly, Dean reaches up and turns off the faucet. He takes another deep breath before leaning back from his kneeling position, not bothering to interfere with gravity as he keeps falling backwards and ends up on the floor, looking at the ceiling. Staring at the water stained, yellowish paint is making his stomach lurch, so he shuts his eyes and tries not to think about the energy that's going to be required to peel himself off the floor again.
Sam's his normal, healthy, 26 year old self with eyes that have seen way too much. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder on the hood of the Impala with nothing but black pavement in front of them, and stars above them.
"This is nice," Sam says. The words sound extra loud in the silence of the night. "Just…not being. You know?"
Actually, Dean doesn't really have a clue what Sam's talking about, but he nods anyways. He's pretty sure the question was rhetorical anyways. He doesn't know why but he presses his shoulder closer to Sam's, taking comfort from the solid feel of his brother right next to him. Sam presses back.
"You're not going to forget about this, right?" Sam asks, suddenly sounding worried and choked.
Dean frowns, "No. Why would I?"
Sam shrugs but doesn't answer.
There's a hand in his hair, fingernails scratch their way through his scalp, down his neck. Dean hasn't opened his eyes yet but he can tell from the smell –blood, sulfur, and heat- that he's back in the pit. He knows the hand belongs to Alastair, no one else could make him feel like a dog being led by its master. He tries to jerk away but finds himself immobile, which earns an amused chuckle from somewhere to his right. Dean finally gets the courage to open his eyes and he's greeted with the disturbingly familiar sight of chains securing him to the wooden rack. His breath quickens without his permission. When he was in hell, he worked hard to hide his fear from all the demonic bastards and he feels ashamed that he can't seem to get a hold of himself right now.
"Shhh," Alastair coos, and the hand is back in Dean's hair, "We're just here to watch."
Dean flinches away as much as he can, but then pauses when Alastair's words sink in. Watch.
That's when he notices the rack directly in front of him and on it is Sam. And it's his Sam, the one who just sacrificed himself for the world.
Watch.
"No."
Dean doesn't even realize he says anything until Alastair clucks, "Always with that word, Dean. You know how much that word gets you in trouble."
Dean knows right then and there to keep his mouth shut unless he wants Sam to get hurt worse.
Sam doesn't seem to notice him; he doesn't seem to notice much of anything as he pulls fruitlessly on his metal bindings. Dean wants to call out, to try and calm Sam, or at least give his brother something else to focus on other than what's coming. But he won't dare open his mouth, wouldn't dare make anything worse for Sam.
"What's it going to be today, Sam?"
Sam immediately tenses as the fluid voice fills the room. Suddenly he's there, Lucifer. Dean knows from the way the room cools from blistering hot to Antarctic cold. Lucifer burns cold. In his true form, he's huge, taller than any being Dean's ever seen with big, black wings folded behind him. His face is hidden and for that, Dean's selfishly grateful.
"No suggestions?" Lucifer asks, "Skinning, disemboweling, burning, breaking? Slow? Fast? How would you prefer it, Sam?"
It's sickening because Lucifer actually sounds like he wants Sam's opinion, like this is truly important to the fallen angel.
"Go screw yourself, you bastard."
Dean's heart clenches, recognizing the tone and words from his own vocabulary. Sam always did try to channel his big brother when he was truly terrified.
Lucifer ignores the jibe, "I think skinning. It's been awhile, hasn't it, Sam? And you do have so much skin."
Sam's terror visibly skyrockets even though Dean can tell he's trying to control it, just like he was taught, just like Dean would. Dean's heart cracks just a little bit more.
"Do you remember this, Dean-o?" Alastair asks. His voice is right by Dean's ear as they both watch Lucifer pick up the preferred blade for skinning.
Dean does. He could never forget. Of all the torture forms in hell, skinning was possibly his least favorite because of how slow it is and how agonizing it makes it. Slow, shallow cuts and then peel. Even deeper cuts, peel. Over and over again until there's nothing left but glistening muscle and too much blood. Dean's eyes tear up just thinking about it. There's a plea in his throat that's begging to come out, a plea for someone to stop this from happening because he doesn't want to watch, and he doesn't want Sam to have to go through it. He forces it back down because if he makes a sound, he knows Sam will pay for it.
But for once in his miserable life, someone answers his prayers just as Lucifer makes the first cut in Sam's arm.
"Dean? Dean! Wake up, damnit!"
Someone slaps his face, which only makes his throbbing head ring even harder. He wakes up to Bobby's bearded face hanging over his. The older man looks panicked and downright pissed.
"Bobby…" Dean warns before he lurches up, narrowly avoiding braining himself on Bobby's skull. He nearly slumps right back over but Bobby steadies him, and Dean leans forward to vomit in the bathtub. Only there isn't much left to vomit, and so he spends a few painful minutes dry heaving into the pale yellow tub.
"Easy, kid," Bobby soothes, keeping a firm grip on Dean so he doesn't face plant.
Dean coughs a few times and then slumps forward, "M'ok."
Bobby snorts, "Yeah, you sound it. You ready to move?"
Dean wants to say "no" but he gets the feeling that he's been in the bathroom for too long already. Together, with Bobby supporting most of Dean's weight, they make the short trek from the bathroom to the beds. Once Dean is situated, meaning face down in bed with the covers cocooned around him, he asks, "What's wrong with me?"
Bobby huffs as if he's trying not to sound too pissed off, "Besides the brain cells you're obviously missing? You poisoned yourself, dumbass. Took too much damned dream root. Three days ago you called me from New York sayin' that you'd be on your merry way soon…"
Dean's eyes open. Three days ago?
"Then yesterday I decided I was sick of hearing your voicemail and tracked your cell signal down, only to find that you only made it to Ohio before you decided to do some more dream walkin'. And now here I am, debating on how hard I should beat your ass for being so damn stupid."
"Bobby…"
"Lemme guess: head hurts like a railroad spike's in it? Nauseous? Can't tell what's an actual dream and what's in Sam's head? Feels like you're in a bad trip that had it's own bad trip?"
"Never would've pegged you for a hippie," Dean mumbles in reply.
"Don't' smart ass me, boy. Do you know what kind of heart attack you gave me? Never mind that the last time I talked to you you were barely lucid, and then you don't show up or answer your phone and I have no idea if you wrapped the car around a tree, or if you were dead in a motel room! Turns out, it was almost the later!"
Dean wants to say something like, "Nagging girlfriend, much?" or "Bobby, I didn't know you cared," but he doesn't think that'd be appropriate, especially since Bobby's right. He doesn't remember leaving New York, he doesn't remember taking the dream root again, and right now he can barely tell the difference between the ceiling and the floor. He deserves Bobby's yelling and then some.
"Sorry, Bobby," is what he says instead, and he says it in earnest.
Bobby sighs and adjusts the trucker cap on his head, "Just don't do it again and we'll call it even."
"Deal."
Dean doesn't ever want to feel this shitty again. That, and he still isn't sure if his dreams were "dreams" or if he was experiencing things from Sam's head, or what. All of the above? He knows that he can't just leave Sam there which means taking more dream root until they figure something else out, but he's not exactly ready to poison himself again, either. Then again, he doesn't even remember doing it the first time, so can he even trust himself to not end up here again? Does he really even care if it means getting Sam back in the end?
"Go to sleep, Dean," Bobby says as if he can hear Dean's inner monologue, "We'll head out tomorrow if you're feeling half way human. Then we'll figure this mess out. If there's a way to get Sam out, we'll find it."
Dean falls asleep and this time, it's dreamless.
