A/N: I stole part of this chapter and adapted it from a one shot I wrote a long time ago. Anyway. Sorry in advance, Sam lovers.
I take a deep breath. I'm standing in front of the motel room door that Sam and Dean are staying in for the case they're working on, trying to muster up the courage to knock. They haven't seen me in months. I haven't seen them in decades. Time passes a lot slower in hell.
Hesitantly, I knock on the door. I can just imagine the boys inside, exchanging looks and wondering who's visiting them at this time of night. It takes a few moments before the lock on the door clicks open and the door opens a bit.
It's Dean. I'm glad it's him and not the other brother because I'm not sure if I can handle seeing him yet.
He just stands there, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to come up with something to say, and then he closes the door in my face.
I'm standing there in shock, wondering what to do next, when the door reopens and I'm splashed with water. I splutter and make an annoyed noise but at least now I understand I'm not being turned away. Holy water. He's making sure I'm actually me. He grabs my hand and, pulling out a silver knife, gives me a quick cut on the side of my wrist.
I wince but don't pull my hand away.
"Eva?" he finally says quietly, his voice cracking. He looks at the floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't think… I didn't think it could actually be you. I had to make sure you weren't a shifter or something worse."
"Dean?" a voice calls from somewhere behind him in the room, and I can't help but flinch a little bit. Sam. Dean's ignores him as he pulls me into a hug. I just stand there limply, not hugging back. It's nice, having the presence of another human so close after so much time, but… Hugging's not my thing. Not anymore, anyway.
"Dean, who is it?" Sam says again, and I can hear his footsteps approaching.
"Look who's back from the dead," Dean says, a smile in his voice. He lets go of me and steps back so Sam can see me.
I pale as soon as I see him, and he just stands there in complete shock. I'm starting to think he's turned into a statue when finally he takes a quick step towards me, like he's going to give me a hug like Dean did. I know I should tolerate it like I did Dean's, but I impulsively spin my blade from my pocket into my hand and hold it in front of me defensively.
Sam's open arms drop. He bites his lip and turns away, trying to hide the hurt expression on his face. I slowly lower my knife, embarrassed of my automatic reaction.
"Eva," Dean says cautiously. "What happened down there?"
I clench my jaw. "I think you know," I say in a voice I'm trying my hardest to keep from shaking.
Sam still isn't looking looking at me when he says, "Did I… I mean, did the demons…"
"Yeah. Thirty-five years in hell, tortured by demons with your face."
Sam curses and turns away from me.
I know Sam—this Sam—isn't a demon. But it's instinctive now.
In hell, at first, I had known it wasn't him. It was just a demon trying to get to me, trying to make me as miserable as possible physically and emotionally. I reminded myself over and over and over, This isn't Sam. This isn't Sam. This isn't Sam. But after a while, I'd came to associate that face with the worst pain I had ever known, and it became hard to connect his image with any good memories.
I look up at Dean and address him. "We need to talk about—" I glance at Sam out of the corner of my eye and shift nervously. "He…" I start to say, focusing on Dean's face again. "I can't… Can't…" I search for the right word. Finally I just shake my head. "I just can't."
Sam doesn't need any further explanation. He grabs his jacket from a hook by the door and the keys from the table and marches out. I watch him until he's in the Impala and pulling away before stepping into the room and pushing the door shut behind me.
"You okay?" Dean asks.
I let out a huff and storm over to drop onto the bed. I lay there looking at the ceiling, filled with an overwhelming desire to just close my eyes and sleep.
But I answer Dean's question anyway. "Hell is not a nice place, Dean."
"I know," he says, his voice softening with sympathy. He knows all too well what it's like, living in hell.
There's a moment of silence before he asks, "Why did you come back to us, if you knew how it would feel to be around Sam?"
"The demon who broke me out told me to."
"The demon who broke you out? How did they— Who was it? Why did they help you?"
I sigh in exasperation. "Long story. I'm exhausted. I'll tell you in the morning."
"But—"
"In the morning."
He doesn't respond.
"And I'm taking this bed," I say forcefully, as if daring him to challenge me. I scoot up and then under the covers and curl up, not even bothering to change out of my dirt-crusted jeans and boots.
"That's… mine. Nevermind," he sighs.
The lights stay on but I don't care. It's nice to finally get some sleep after so long without it.
