AN: This takes place immediately after season 13, episode 18, Bring 'Em Back Alive. Dean has come back from Apocalypse World and discovered that Gabriel is gone. The Whumptober prompt choices were: Panic Attacks / Phobias / Paranoia. I'm not sure it fits exactly, but it is what it is!
sylvia37: Thank you! It made me think about Sam and Dean getting themselves committed to a mental hospital without lying once.
Stormysea-breaks: Oh my, how nice of you! You are so kind.
K. Hanna Korossy: Thank you so much for your comments! I love your stories, so I get a little excited whenever I see that you made a comment. (I just re-read "Day Job" again. So good!)
You do not spend a thousand years in Hell without learning a few things. Not even if you're a cowardly, low-level demon named Chip with absolutely no ambition to be anything else.
Chip had never been to earth, never made a power play or toadied up to those in charge, never so much as tortured a soul. He simply did his job as a kind of Hell maintenance man, wandering the corridors and alleyways to seek out escape attempts and weak spots. He was good at it. It was this job that made him aware of the things lurking in the corners that even other demons forgot about.
Chip didn't care who was in charge of Hell, as long as it wasn't him. He didn't like a lot of change and upheaval. When angels stormed the gates and dragged a soul out, he hid in a corner and felt a great deal of indignation. That's not how it was supposed to go. He hoped that soul would be sent back some day, but beyond his annoyance, he didn't think about it much more.
Then another soul was pulled out, and it was the first one's brother. And those two just kept killing his bosses, bringing more upheaval in a few earth years than Chip had seen in the previous 900. They killed Lilith, banished Lucifer, did all kinds of things to Crowley that ended with him dead, and now they'd taken out Asmodeus too. One of his guards had escaped and had just fled back to Hell to spread the news.
Chip, who had never taken initiative in his life (or after his death), decided he'd had enough. He went down to a small dungeon that time had forgotten and found one of Lilith's pets. Trapped, starving, not remembered by anyone but insignificant Chip, it had been easy to persuade.
Go, find the Winchesters.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
The Soul Eater had learned things in Hell, too. Under Lilith's tutelage, it had grown stronger, and she'd given it some extra powers it was never intended to have. And while it had enjoyed tormenting and snacking on demon souls, they just didn't have the depth of feeling of living, human souls. They weren't as filling. And while it couldn't starve to death, it had been a long, long time since it had eaten anything. It had sensed the death of its mistress, then it had sat in the dark, alone and hungry.
The little demon had told him there were two humans it wanted him to eat. He could have just eaten the demon and gone to create a nest at some random location on earth, but he chose to find these Winchesters. It was probably a good choice, since the demon showed him a place he could cross the veil fairly easily and told him how to find the humans that it wanted him to feed on.
"You knew Asmodeus, prince of Hell, right? He was killed in their home. That act would leave a big scar. You should be able to track it right to them."
Yes, he could track that. And he knew who Asmodeus was. During Lilith's rule, the prince had sometimes come to watch him slowly devour souls. He wondered briefly how two humans had killed a prince of Hell, even a weak one. But humans were no match for him, and he tracked the stench of the prince's death.
The humans' home was a revelation. He could taste the wards that would have kept him out, but which had been burned out by a power which was…Asmodeus, and not Asmodeus at the same time. The Soul Eater was not an introspective creature, so it gave its mental equivalent of a shrug and dismissed the odd information. Asmodeus was dead, therefore information about him was irrelevant.
But there was the evidence of humans here. This was a home, the best place for a Soul Eater. Employing a gift from Lilith, it slid into a mirror and waited.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam hadn't let Dean go into his room to rest (hide). His brother was deeply wounded, and not by the gunshot that Ketch had apparently treated. Cas had healed that. But then again, that kind of wound was the easy kind. No, Dean was deeply wounded by knowing Mom was trapped and hurting, by knowing that Jack was gone because he'd been trying to help her. And worst, Dean was wounded because he had finally begun to have hope again…and it had been torn from him with Gabriel's departure.
As bitter as despair and depression could be, they were far sweeter than the taste of hope lost. Sam knew that all too well.
So instead of allowing Dean to go lie down or whatever else he wanted to do, Sam had bullied him to the car. To take a drive together, reclaim what they still had. He'd mentioned Dean's favorite steakhouse in the entire world, and after Dean grabbed a quick shower, they headed out for it. A three-hour drive one way might sound like overkill for a steak, but it was nothing for the Winchesters. Cas and Sam cleaned up from their fight while they waited for Dean, and the former declined to come along, saying he would finish the job while the brothers were gone. While Sam wouldn't have minded their friend coming along, he thought going with just the two of them might be the best thing for Dean.
And I won't even try to get him to talk, Sam promised himself. That was not what Dean needed right now. He needed his Baby, some steak…and Sam's presence, uncomplicated and not asking for anything from him. Oh, Sam was dying to talk. He wanted the whole story of Apocalypse World. He wanted to know about the other Charlie, about why Ketch had stayed (was he dead?), about the gunshot, all of it. He wanted to hear and question and write it up in his journal. And he really, really wanted to know when Dean had stop trusting Sam to watch his back. But there would be time for all of that later.
So they headed south with Dean's tapes playing and talked about stupid stuff: Kansas getting all the way to the Final Four only to get blown out by eventual champs Villanova, the teenager in Lebanon who stared like a deer in headlights every time they walked by, Cas' funny reactions to certain new foods (he liked mango chutney salsa so much a drank it out of the jar, he claimed pineapple milkshakes reminded him of ambrosia, and he felt pickled herring was "an afront to the fish that died to make it"). Basically, they avoided anything dark and both felt more relaxed by the time they arrived at Lenny's Steakhouse.
"Get the big porterhouse, Dean," directed Sam as they parked.
Dean cast his brother the side-eye. Sam had been anti-red meat lately, trying to get Dean to eat healthier. "Am I dying or something?"
"Not that I know of, but if we're driving all the way out here, you might as well get what you really want."
Dean grinned, and Sam couldn't help but smile back. And Sam got in on it too. He didn't get his normal beef tip salad, but instead ordered a New York strip. It was about half the size of Dean's, but still. About halfway through their meal, Cas texted, Checking a lead in Tennessee. Back in a few days. Dean read it aloud to Sam without even slowing his eating, grinning at the corresponding eye roll. It felt like…it felt like just them being them again. Like they'd been when they hunted werewolves with Bobby or a Woman in White while looking for Dad. Their burdens weren't gone, but they lightened just a tiny bit.
Dean yawned when they were about to leave. "Wanna drive?" he asked, tossing the keys to Sam without waiting for an answer.
"Am I dying?" asked Sam with a smirk.
"Shut up. I had to put up with Ketch, I got shot, and now I'm going into a food coma."
He fell asleep before they were back on the highway, and Sam was pleased. Nothing was really fixed, of course, but he knew from experience how much better life could look after just a couple hours of relaxing and a good night's sleep.
He was sure they'd both feel better in the morning.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
The Soul Eater had found the two humans at home, but there was the cold bite of angelic power there too. That had him retreating deep inside. He feared angels more than anything. He hissed when the humans left, but then the angel left too. He could wait.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam was glad that Dean headed right to bed. He still had that tightness around his eyes that said there was too much to process. But despite driving for three hours, Sam wasn't ready to sleep yet. He made himself a cup of tea and sat down to read for a while. He firmly believed that there was a substitute for everything. Even archangel grace. And if he couldn't find one, he'd find a way to track it, to track Gabriel. There was always an answer. Maybe information was a strange thing to put your faith in, but it was something that rarely if ever let Sam down. Study enough, think enough, and you could tease out a solution to damn near anything.
Eventually, Sam caught himself beginning to nod over the book and accepted that it was time to call it a night. He decided to grab a quick shower first. He was dressed in his night clothes and toweling his hair again – he hated going to bed with wet hair – when something first prickled his awareness. He didn't change his movements, but subtly glanced around the humid bathroom. The spot between his shoulder blades itched, something he had learned never to ignore.
Sam tried to be subtle, bending toward the clothes he'd taken off, and the weapons in them, but was distracted by a dark shape in the mirror. The mirror that was too high to reflect his image as he bent. Arrested, he stood and wiped his towel over the mirror. His eyes flew wide open. A dark hand reached from the mirror and pulled.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean had slept like a baby in the Impala, for once. For all he complained, he really did trust his brother behind the wheel. And he'd appreciated that Sam didn't ask anything from him. He was worn out, physically and emotionally. Full of steak and sides, and lulled by his favorite, perfectly turned engine, he'd cashed right out, and was surprised to wake up and find they were back.
He'd fallen into bed almost immediately. Better yet, he'd fallen right back to sleep.
But sleep, fickle bitch that she was, didn't stay. Dean woke feeling like someone was just not quite right. It had taken a while for him to feel safe in the bunker and sleep more heavily than he ever did in a motel room, but he did feel safer there, in his room, than anywhere else in the world. So why was he so on edge right now?
He gave up on sleep and pulled on his slippers. He'd rolled his eyes when Sam had handed him the sheepskin lined slippers on his last birthday, but they turned out to be possibly the most comfortable things he'd ever worn. They had joined his dead man's robe among his favorite possessions. He couldn't ever mention it, though, because Sam already looked smug every time he wore them.
In any case, Dean slipped them on and picked up his Colt because he couldn't carry it in the back of his pajama pants. It was probably nothing but…when was it ever nothing?
Dean noticed Sam's door was open, and glanced in, frowning when he saw the bed was empty. It wasn't all that unusual for his brother to stay up and read or fall asleep somewhere other than bed, but Dean couldn't shake his unease. Next, he saw that the bathroom door stood open, with the light on. Sam was a Nazi about turning lights off, so that seemed odd too. Dean walked quietly up to it, and it was a testament to the way their lives went that he wasn't even surprised to see Sam on the floor. He straightened Sam's limbs and began to look for any obvious signs of trauma.
"Sam? Sammy? Wake up, man. What happened?" Dean saw something dark against Sam's skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and slid the top of his Henley to the side. A handprint? Recognition tickled at the same time as he saw motion out of the corner of his eye. He burst to his feet, aimed, and fired at the hooded figure that reached for him, but the hand slapped down on his shoulder a split second before he fired.
Dean fell, boneless, across his brother's legs.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam stumbled through a strangely grayscale landscape. He was barefoot and in his sleep clothes, and he shivered in the cool wind. He remembered the figure in the mirror, remembered the colder than death grip on his shoulder, but he didn't really understand what had happened. His head hurt and he had a suspicion that just being here, wherever here might be, was hurting him. As he had the thought, the ground under his feet shifted and became spiky and sharp. Sam couldn't stop fast enough and cut his feet on the next step he took. He swore aloud and stopped in his tracks.
His bright blood was the only color he could see, though he knew his shirt was blue. Even his skin was gray. But his blood glistened brightly against the ground. Then, abruptly, it sank into the ground like the very rocks were drinking it. Not good.
Sam grit his teeth. As far as he could see, there was nothing but a bleak, colorless expanse, the ground entirely made up of the sharp, unforgiving rock. Except. Far in the distance, something gleamed as if it caught the light. Sam flinched instinctively, because it reminded him of the sun catching on a scope. But there was no sun here, just vague, dim ambient light. Maybe, though, what he saw was the mirror he'd been dragged through.
Sam looked down at his bare feet and sighed. Everything he was wearing was soft and thin; there was nothing that could provide much protection against the rocks. He pondered the distance. Should he just sacrifice his feet, or should he tear his shirt up and wrap his feet? He shivered again at the thought, and it seemed to grow colder in response. He could see his breath now. He decided to just walk for now and see how it went. He could bandage his feet once he got out of there.
Setting his jaw, Sam began to walk. He wished he could jog for warmth, but even walking was tearing his feet to ribbons. It was hard to gauge distance in the unrelieved gray, and he didn't leave footprints, as even the blood disappeared after a few seconds, but he felt like he'd gone about a quarter of a mile when a figure appeared directly in front of him, so close that he fell backwards, cutting the palms of his hands open to match his soles. She didn't blink into existence, she was just suddenly there. As Sam scrambled back to his feet, he sucked in a breath as he saw who it was.
"Jess?"
Like in all good nightmares, she was wearing that Puritan white nightgown, but at least she was whole and calm, not bleeding on the ceiling. He knew it wasn't real, she wasn't real, but he could actually see her breathing and blinking, and smell her shampoo. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and touching her arm. She recoiled from his touch, crying out, and he saw that a weeping cut had appeared right where he'd made contact. It wasn't just blood off of his hand, either, it was a brand new, bleeding wound.
Tears welled in Jessica's eyes. "Please don't hurt me any more," she pleaded.
"I didn't – I don't – I wasn't trying to hurt you," he stammered.
"Please," she begged. "Get away!"
Heart breaking, Sam stepped to the side, only to find Mom in front of him. Not now Mom, but Mom with long hair and in her white night gown. She popped into view so suddenly he bumped into her. And everywhere they touched, blood blossomed. She didn't cry out, but she gasped and tried to staunch the bleeding as Sam's hands ghosted over the wounds, wanting to help, not daring to touch.
"Ah, shit, Mom I'm – "
"Don't you dare say you're sorry to me. Don't you dare. You already killed me once, and now I have to die for you again! You sent a child to rescue me instead of coming yourself, and now he and I are both dead. No. We just wish we were dead." She took Jess' hand comfortingly. "It's not your fault, Jessica. You couldn't know what he is, what he does."
Sam staggered back, too stunned to refute the cruel words. He bumped into someone else, and spun around. It was Charlie, seemingly every inch of her covered in cuts. "Didn't think I'd miss this party, did you?" she asked. Sam lifted a hand again, at a loss, but someone pulled Charlie back protectively.
"Don't touch her, Sam."
"Dad?"
"Don't you dare call me that. Never again. You know why I really told you to kill me? Because I hoped it would show Dean who you really are. He's the only one who's blind to it. But he won't be forever. He's here too, and he'll see the truth soon. You don't deserve a family; you never have. You don't deserve Dean."
Not real. Not real. Not real.
"We're real, Sam." Oh, god, not Bobby too. "Or did I imagine the bullet I took for you?"
Sam closed his eyes, but somehow he could still see them all, all of them bleeding, all of them suffering, all of them looking at him with so much hate. And then…Jack was there too.
He didn't have hatred on his face, just sadness. "I believed what you said to me, Sam. I thought you really cared about me. But now I'm dead because you only wanted to use me. You wanted to ease your own guilt."
Sam pulled himself in, made himself as small as he could, trying not to touch them even as they crowded closer. He knew it wasn't real. Or he thought he knew. It was getting harder to believe that. His head pounded as all of the people around him raised their voices higher and higher in denunciation, condemnation.
Killer. Demon. You hurt and maim and the people around you bleed for you. To love Sam Winchester is to be doomed.
Their voices weren't just coming from their mouths now, they were in his head. And their blood flowed and flowed and flowed. But unlike his, it wasn't absorbed by the cursed land. Instead, it pooled, a stream, then a river, then a lake. Before it could become an ocean and drown him, he fled. He didn't know who he knocked down to do it, but he couldn't stand it another second. He fell and felt his knees tearing open. Dammit. Running was a horrible idea. But if he didn't get out of this hellscape soon, he wasn't sure his mind would survive.
What did this remind him of? He scrambled to his feet again and a heavy hand shoved at him and sent him sprawling. This time, his forehead struck the ground and sparks exploded behind his eyes. At least they were prettier than all the gray. A kick caught him in the ribs and that woke him right back up, especially since he rolled across the ground. Did he have any skin left?
Sam jumped up and faced his opponent. Himself? "I've already played this level," he groused out loud. "I get it, Yoda. I'm my own worst enemy."
His doppelganger simply snarled and tackled him. Aw, shit. That hurt. And worse? The glimmer in the distance was gone. Didn't matter. He might be bleeding to death, but he wasn't going to stop fighting.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean went from the bathroom to…the bathroom. It was an exact copy of the room he'd been standing in, with a few important changes. First, everything was perfectly backwards. "Cliché," he muttered. It was also a disaster. Water covered the floor, a good three inches deep where he stood, and dripped steadily from the U-bend in the sink's pipe. The shower head was gone entirely, the tile of the floor cracked and filthy, and the toilet looked like someone had taken a sledge hammer to it. In fact, the mirror seemed to be the only thing that wasn't broken. And naturally, Sam wasn't there.
Dean reached for the mirror, to see if he could pass through again, but felt only the cold, smooth surface. He was suddenly furious. I just wanted some fucking sleep. With a scowl, he punched the mirror, breaking it and splitting his knuckles. He shook his hand out and by the time he looked up again, the mirror was perfectly restored. He grabbed it off the wall and looked at the back of it, wondering if it could actually the key to getting back to reality. And bed.
Dean ran his hand over the back of the mirror and found nothing obviously out of place. He turned it back over and startled to see words had appeared, just as crooked as they should be for creepily appearing on an unbreakable mirror. The only thing that wasn't straight out of a horror movie (or Dean's damn life) was the fact that the words were written in black paint instead of blood.
Actually, Dean realized, nothing really had color. Everything looked like it had simply faded, like a thousand years had passed. Suddenly, Dean knew.
"A Soul Eater? In the bunker? In my home? Really? This sucks ass so hard!" Dean threw the mirror against the wall, relishing the crash as it shattered. He stormed out of the bathroom, ignoring the fact that before he was even out the door, it was back on the wall, completely restored, the words No Exit still marring its face.
The rest of the bunker was completely trashed too. There was junk in the corners, and the few lights that actually worked flickered fitfully. The floor was an uneven, broken mess, and there were holes in the walls like someone had taken a hammer to them. A hammer. Like he needed that reminder. "Son of a bitch," Dean growled.
The sight of the kitchen was almost painful. The fridge doors had been torn off completely, the shelves were broken on the floor, and it seemed like every dish had been smashed. The smell of rotten food pervaded the air.
This wasn't right. It had too much detail. The nest he'd been in for the Soul Eater in Michigan didn't feel like this at all. It was like the house it was attached to, but it was empty. Empty except for the souls, of course. There weren't creepy messages or things that changed; it was just a dim, sad version of the real house. As Dean had that thought, the walls constricted. The ceiling came down lower, too, sending a cascade of dust down onto everything. The whole room shrank about six inches. Dean ran out into the hallway. Through the haze, he could see that it had shrunk too.
Wiping his face, he went into the hub, trying to find answers. Or, barring that, he'd settle for the exit.
There were a bunch of small papers scattered across the map table. Each one had a handwritten note on it. Dean grabbed one.
Dean – As an angel, I just cannot stay in your cursed company any longer. – Cas
Dean tore it in half, but it had struck home. As if unable to help himself, he picked up the next.
Please stop trying to find me. I'm better off here than with you. – Mom
I was never proud of you. You failed me and Sam every time. – Dad
You only fear me because I am everything you are not: strong and good. – Jack
I know the other Bobby died before he could admit it, but you're just a tool to me, a gun to point when I need something dead. Don't call. – Bobby
With a roar, Dean swept them all off the table. He expected them to pop back up, but instead only one remained. Dean stared at it. He didn't want to touch it. He couldn't. He knew who it would be from. The room contracted around him again. "Fine. Fine!" He picked up that innocent looking little post-it note. He would have given his favorite shotgun to not have to open it. He recognized the handwriting before he deciphered the words.
It's my turn to leave. You know it's what I always wanted. Dean, let me go.
"It's not real," ground out Dean through gritted teeth. "You just want me vulnerable!"
A sibilant voice seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. "You are already vulnerable. This is just for fun."
Dean dropped the note and stomped on it, not caring if he was being childish. The walls contracted around him again, and he ran up the stairs. Better to get out before he was out of space. "I need R2D2 to shut this trash compactor down," he said aloud, wishing Sam were there to roll his eyes. "And that's another thing," yelled Dean, much louder. "You better not be hurting Sam!"
He rushed through the door to the outside…and found himself back in the bathroom. The mirror still proclaimed No Exit. Dean began to swear. First in English, then in Latin. (He'd heard Sam do it enough.) Plan B, then. Dean ran to his room and found the knife under his pillow. Taking a breath, he cut his arm and hastily penned the symbol for killing Soul Eaters on the wall. He did it over and over again on every wall he could, ignoring the fact that it disappeared every time as soon as he finished.
Dean knew nobody else was painting the associated symbol in the real world, but that didn't mean he was going to stop. He wished that he could ignore the shrinking of his prison. And wasn't that the cruelest thing of all? His home, his damn home was his prison, his tomb, and he'd die there alone.
He was on his knees in his room trying to paint the sigil one last time as the whole place crumpled around him (and wasn't he glad that he hadn't looked into the garage, since he wasn't sure he could handle seeing Baby destroyed) when part of the wall collapsed onto the backs of his legs. This was it, then. "I'm not really alone, though," he said to his invisible captor. "You make it seem like that, but I know better." He coughed as the ceiling pushed down, forcing his head down by his knees. "You might kill me, but you still lose, asshole."
In answer, the ceiling began to crack.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
"Am I dead?"
"No, Dean. You are still alive. Are you in pain?"
"Cas? What, uh, is there a Soul Eater?"
There was grim satisfaction in the angel's voice. "Not any longer. I returned to the bunker to find you and Sam under its attack. Those perversions were Lilith's pets. It was my pleasure to expulse and destroy it."
"And Sam is – "
"Sleeping. But he will be fine. You need to rest. It had you for over two days before I returned."
Dean trusted Cas, he really did. But this was about Sam, so he pushed himself up on his elbows. And found himself blinking up into Cas' half resigned, half annoyed face. "Hey, Cas, you look rennoyed," said Dean, as soon as enough of the black spots were gone.
"You are delirious, Dean. Go back to sleep."
"I'm not delirious, I'm funny. And I want to see Sam. Hey, don't you dare make me slee –"
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean shuffled into the kitchen, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He took an extra minute to make sure that it was his kitchen again, full size, and everything in its place. He couldn't double check his super-secret MM stash with Sam and Cas in there, but everything else seemed to be in place. "Cas, man, you didn't have to put me to sleep," he groused, though in truth he felt a million times better than when he'd woken before.
Pouring coffee into the biggest mug he could find, he squinted at his brother, who was sitting at the table. "Why didn't you make Sam sleep? He looks like shit." Sam's eyes were bloodshot and his skin was pale, but he smiled at Dean's description of him.
"He did sleep," Cas frowned. "If he had continued to get up, I would have insisted for him too."
Dean studied Sam's far too innocent expression. "He snuck past you, Cas. He pretended to sleep and got up when you weren't looking."
Cas looked stricken by the very idea, then affronted. "Sam?" he asked like a disappointed father.
"I think what Dean is trying to say is thanks for saving us, Cas."
"He's deflecting," tattled Dean. He was tired and crabby, and yes, totally throwing Sam under the bus.
"Hey, Cas, you like Dean's slippers, right?" said Sam quickly. "I got you a pair. Want me to try 'em on?"
The angel brightened, and there might have been the slightest mischievous gleam in his eye.
"Bribery!" shouted Dean. He couldn't believe Sam was going to get away with it. "Cas, don't forget, you were just about to yell at Sam."
The other two ignored him. Sam walked from the room, with Cas close on his heels. "Thank you, Sam. You know, when humans first invented shoes, I was fascinated by the concept…"
Dean considered throwing one of his slippers at his brother, but decided they were too comfortable to take off. He'd just have to let this one go. Maybe.