A/N: Apologies for the delay in review replies and such. I wasn't aware that our temporary lodging for Spring Break didn't have wi-fi. L I have found some, however! Obviously…. : ] So hooray. Once again, I'm trying to get to everybody, but sincere thanks to every single reader, silent or otherwise. Love you all! Now, on we go. I'm afraid it's not going to get much better for our poor heroes. Oh, yes, this chapter is quite short. You know how it goes… Heh. Oh, and just a warning: we're all flexible here, so I don't think it will matter too much, but there's a bit of spirituality at the end of this chapter and during the next. Hopefully it won't offend anyone, but if you're horribly against that, well… here is the disclaimer. And it won't be a recurring, huge plot point or anything. Just a mention. Anyway, that's about it. Don't you hate novel length notes? *shies away*
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Sam refuses to leave Adam's bedside. The teen's been out of it for hours now, and Sam has been sitting in an old ratted chair the entirety of the time. No one, not the profilers, not even Dean, can drive him away. So the older brother instead takes to sitting on the bed across from them both, chatting for all three people. Maybe he hopes to simply annoy Sam enough that he'll walk out of the room. But that isn't the case, and soon enough even Dean falls quiet, watching the shallow rise and fall of his "new" brother's smaller chest.
"This isn't normal." Sam's voice is quiet, underused and raspy.
"Don't know what you mean," Dean comments, too cheerfully.
"He shouldn't be unconscious at all, let alone this long. Something's wrong."
Dean snorts. "What do you mean he shouldn't be unconscious at all? You saw the damage he took, man. Trauma, blood loss, shock… you know better than anyone what that can do to a person."
Sam sits back, silent. He shakes his head, but does not move. Nor does he speak again, and after nearly ten minutes, Dean can't sit still anymore.
"Call me if you need something." And he leaves. Or at least, starts to leave. He barely gets past the doorway when a soft groan stops him, and he swivels back around to see Sam bending over in his chair, hands pressed into his eyes. Dean, of course, immediately starts to him, but once again he is stopped. This time, though, its by an invisible force that shoves him against the hallway wall when Sam, still in his chair, swings his hand. The door slams in front of Dean just as his back hits the faded cement construction, stealing his breath for a moment. He ignores it, throwing himself against the door, but its too late. Its locked, and Dean can only pound against it helplessly as Sam's agonized groans filter through the wood.
Why would he do that? Dean hits the door again in vain, heart stopping as a cry echoes from in the room. Sam. He should be having the vision now… that's what this is, isn't it? Dean growls. He knows that's what this is. What's going on? Sam doesn't just yell, not like that.
Something's not right.
"Sam! Sammy! Come on man, open the door."
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Something's wrong. Sam's not sure what it is, but he's not seeing anything yet, and the pain in his head is still growing. He's in a world of agony and confusion, and what is going on? Dark spots begin stealing his consciousness, ever-efficient little thieves of his life force, and Sam distantly hears a cry. Before he can even realize it came from him, a familiar white haze overtakes everything, and he's gone.
It's dark. The absence of light steals Sam's breath, pressing down on his mostly-bare skin from all around him. The oppressive air is all-encompassing, and he pats himself down, frantically realizing his clothes are half-gone, shredded from some mysterious force. No, no this isn't right. This isn't the scene he's supposed to be seeing.
The pitch-black is really starting to get to him, and Sam feels a vice begin squeezing his lungs. He literally feels every agonizing sensation, and its freaking him out. He's clueless. This is new, and it isn't fun.
A noise from somewhere near sets his senses off on an electrified tangent, and he whips around, eyes straining futilely to scan through the black. There is silence only for a moment more before the sound comes again. Its vaguely familiar… some sort of ripping. Sam frowns, heart exploding and reconstructing itself with every beat. He tries to follow the sounds, though he's not sure why. It's terrifying. But maybe it'll get him out of the dark, in more ways than one.
The smallest of glints, and Sam's running, suddenly filled with nothing but a desperate desire to reach the light, however absurd it seems. The assessing hunter's mind is far gone, and now there is only pure human fear and need left, soul crumbling into bits and falling towards the small light, Sam left with no choice but to chase it. And he does.
There comes a door after infinity, and Sam stops there, suddenly wary. The sounds are louder, and he's sure now that whatever is on the other side is what he's meant to see. Suddenly, an idea. Is this how his visions work, now? Can he choose whether to see them or not? A shake of the head. He'll dwell on it afterwards. His innate curiosity is not allowing him to ignore the door any longer, and so, Sam does not.
Afterwards, he'll always wish he'd listened to that small, seemingly unimportant cautious corner of his mind that had been screaming to him; that had said never to open it. But of course, Sam was a Winchester, and could never deny a mystery. So he opened it.
The sounds stop, and Sam can see now it's a creature… feasting. His gag reflex, usually so very resolved, immediately kicks in, but it isn't until the form turns around that Sam really loses it. The eyes…
Adam. Sam screams.
Sam is slung out of the horrid vision, cry still on his lips. His hands fly to his eyes, covering, trying to wipe away the images. His chest heaves, mouth parted wide, breaths flying in and out. He feels as though his ribs will break with the force of his heart against him, and his vision is blurred with salt. But he hardly notices any of this, nor does he hear the cracking of wood as the door crashes in.
Only when the sweet blackness comes for him does Sam come back to some semblance of reality, and welcomes the merciful gift of unconsciousness.
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Sam screams, and Dean loses any sense he had left in his mind. He rears back, and with a single shout of warning, shoots his foot out and breaks in the door. He barges in to find Sam out of the chair, against the wall, looking as though he's facing off with hell's army alone. And for all Dean knows, maybe he is.
Sam's chest is expanding and lowering much too fast. His skin has virtually no color, and there are miniature waterfalls running down the strained contours of his terror-stricken face. He doesn't glance at Dean, even with the loud sound he just made, only stares forward at nothing and everything before the smallest look of relief crosses his face and he begins to fall. Dean is darting forward before Sam is even swooning, grabbing him and pulling him up into his arms, transferring the long body into the bed not occupied with seeming effortlessness.
Dean then takes up residence between the two beds, a breath escaping his lips as a weight settles heavily over his shoulders once again. The eldest Winchester, left alone, is almost unable to compose himself, sitting hunched between his two brothers, desperately hoping for some glimpse of something better to come. That's when he notices the bed stand behind him. On a sudden impulse, Dean turns and opens the drawer.
Sitting there, unscathed, is the bible usually so prevalent in all places of lodging. Biting his lip and glancing around, Dean picks up the old, dog-eared book and sets it in his lap. He's not unfamiliar with the text, of course, having used it as reference many times before, but he suddenly feels a sense of wariness. He flips the heavy book open to a random page, and his eyes are immediately drawn to a passage in the middle.
Its Psalms 9:18. "But the needy will not always be forgotten, nor will the hope of the afflicted ever perish."
Dean's beliefs have been shaky over the years, and with good reason. Demons, and even some angels, are tricky, and persuasive. Besides, who could believe in a loving God with all they'd been through? But there was always that small voice. And sometimes, when he was alone and desperate, Dean needed that. He needed someone to be there. And seeing this, as if his mind has been read, dissolves Dean's resolve.
His hands begin to shake, and the bible drops from them to land impossibly quietly on the carpeted floor. Without his permission, water suddenly takes up residence in Dean's eyes, and his throat closes up.
"God…" He whispers, and it is the first time in a long time he doesn't use it as a profanity. "We could use some help…"
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