TW: For implied rape/sexual assault, and somewhat graphic descriptions

He's in the bunker's dungeon, or what appears to be the dungeon. Because he can't be sure.

Could never be sure. Could simply be a mirage, an illusion. The past few years of his life could've just been another way for L- him to torture him, break him.

Just like when he would wear Dean's face, wear Dean's skin, and tear him apart. Skin the flesh from his bones, cook them, and feed it to him. Similar to bacon in the morning when they were kids. Then hold him, soothe him while repeating his childish nickname offering false comfort. It didn't work at first, but after what felt like eons trapped in nothingness he would cave. Cave along with horrible sobs and apologies of, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry over and over.

Then he would use tweezers to pick at his nerves, to experiment, to show his dominance. Show that he owns him, completely and fully. Inside and out. Forever and always.

But now… at this very moment, there's just darkness in the corner of what he hopes is the bunker's dungeon and not just the cage.

And it's still and immobile, aside from the small rise and fall of its uh… of its breathing? And it's just watching him without any physical eyes, accessing him like he's simply prey. Something to be conquered and devoured.

He keeps his eyes on it, can't stop. If he blinks it moves. He blinks and it gets him, he doesn't know how he knows it but he does. It'll infest him, tear his insides. Boil his organs. Crawl through every passage and opening. And he doesn't know what's happening, why he's here, and where's Dean but he just knows he can't- shouldn't blink.

'Can't blink. Can't blink. Can't blink. Can't blink.'

His eyes are stinging, beginning to dry. But he can't bring himself to let them fall. Can't blink. Can't blink. Can't blink.

His eyes are in agony. But he can't let them fall.

They feel heavy, heavy with his burdens and failures. They beg to be let down. They beg and plead for rest. And the whispers won't shut up. Why won't they shut up! He wants to cover his ears, but he can't move his hands. And he has to focus, has to focus on not blinking. Has to keep watch.

A cool liquid falls down his face. He can't tell if their tears or blood. Can't tell if it's his taintedness or his human weakness. He can't tell. But, he doesn't care because the darkness is creeping closer, closer, closer. Why is it creeping closer?

He can't scream, if he screams his eyes will fall. Fall all the way down. Fall-like they did at Stull. Into a place of everything and nothing. Of unfathomable size and possibilities. A place not designed for him, designed only for the brightest. And he was only made to hold the one who shines bright, but yet burns so cold. Because he's nothing if not a weapon, a tool. An extension. He was designed for him. He is owned by him. His body, his mind, his soul. Made for each other.

'I'm the only one who will always love you, Sammy… you were made for me after all. I practically own you. Every square inch of you...'

He realizes his eyes have fallen shut. And he's panicking because it's too late. He's practically shaking, shivering because it's too late. If he opens his eyes it'll be there. It'll be closer. He can't bring himself to do it. Can't bring himself to face it, this darkness.

A flare of pain in his body causes him to open his eyes with a small gasp. And it's there. It's everywhere. It surrounds him. It's covering him, consuming him. It's slick and thick like tar and oil. It's dirty, filthy, impure, unclean. And it's trying to work its way inside through the crevices, the places kept together with duct tape and safety pins. Trying to find something as disgusting as itself.

Then he remembers he can't move, can't move his hands and arms. His limbs are useless, bones are broken, crumbled to dust and ash. Muscles and skin are torn and bleeding empty holes. The filth, dirt, impurity, it's going inside him. Devouring him. He can't outrun it. Can't. Can't Can't. He could never. How did he ever think he could?

It's inside him. It's becoming him. It is him.

Yet it isn't.

Then it's burning like an inferno, enough to leave pieces of his flash sizzling and turning to ash. But, it's also freezing. Freezing cold, enough to harden other parts and eventually turning them black. It licks and tastes his body, and it continues to spread like an infection. Acting like its own entity, its own being. And he could tell it's hungry. Starving.

He doesn't understand. Can't remember the before. What happened before? Nothing makes sense.

It's similar to cockroaches crawling over and going under his flesh, under his skin. Into his veins, heart, mind, cells, his very soul. Feel like it's leaving eggs, places where more and more are sprouting and devouring.

Then it's like tendrils acting as if it knows his body's layout, knows it better than he does, where every vein and neuron leads to. Knows which places to poke and prod. It feels like it's attempting to make him a puppet. Trying to put him on strings and make him dance.

'NotRealNotRealNotRealNotRealNotRealNotRealNotReal.'

Someones screaming. An animalistic cry, a cry that should never be heard. A cry that sounds as if they need to be put down. And again he wishes he could just cover his ears because it might be even worse than the voices. 'Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!'

It's evaded every possible entry except for one and when it enters his mouth the screaming stops, and he realizes that was him. He was the broken animal screaming and begging for anything. For someone. For salvation. And that's all he could do.

It makes its way down his throat, slimy, and cool, but burning at the same time. Burning like a star. A star filled with corruption, power, and torture. A star that is so bright yet holds the key to his destruction. His mind becomes fuzzy, breathing almost non-existent.

He can't help but be reminded of demon blood. The metallic, sulfuric taste. Along with a sense of power and control. A sense of confidence and strength. Something he could never muster…

It spreads like vines, but he could feel it devouring his insides like acid. The inferno and bitter cold battling for dominance both inside and out. His body sizzling and numbing, sweating and shivering He wants- needs to call out to someone, anyone.

He closes his eyes because that's the one thing he could control. And he prays. Prays to an absent father. A God he once had so much faith in. A God who he hoped would cleanse him, purify him. Because he's so filthy. Has so much blood on his hands. Has so many sins.

A God he hoped would attempt to save him. Save him from his once-favorite son. The morningstar. His tormentor. His owner. The very reason for his existence. The one who may know him the most. Who may know him the most because… because this could all be fake. It could be all fake like he said before.

But… but he's out. He's not there, something else is happening but he can't quite pinpoint it. His thoughts and mind are racing and fuzzy, and he's trying to stay focused-'I'm out. I'm out. I'm out. I'm out. I'm out. I'm out.'-

A God who has abandoned his children, his creations whenever they need him. Abandoned them to this shitshow of existence, a place filled with evil and corruption and temptation. Left them to their own devices. Left them in a position where both Angels and Demons were ready to start armageddon. Where both he and his brother were manipulated. Where Sam had been watched at all time, under surveillance. Under surveillance, because he's a bomb waiting to explode and he's been left with only Demons on his shoulders

'Azazel. Lilith. Ruby. Brady…'

A position where even he can't tell the difference between himself and a foreign entity. What's him, and what isn't. Where they end and he begins.

'Meg. Lucifer. Gadreel.'

He still prays.

Prays with whatever hope and pureness he has left. He wishes it's enough. Hopefully, he isn't too polluted.

'God, please somebody. God please!'

He's unable to say his prayer out loud. Not with the tendril, tar, oil continuing to writhe around inside his gullet and continuing to destroy and dilute him from the inside out.

He always knew he was self-destructive. However, this takes it to a whole new level.

Nothing happens for a few minutes. He still feels the movement inside his body. He would curl up if only he was able to move his limbs. His eyes remain close because that's the only way to know he's in control of something, anything.

It's faint at first. But it rises in a crescendo. What starts as a dark chuckle, ends in a cold and cruel laugh.

"Aw Sammy…" the familiar voice soothes. "The old man ain't listening. He never was". Then there's a cold hand on his cheek, a thumb tracing his jawline. Motioning up and down, up and down. It's so familiar, so… so welcoming.

He won't fall for it. He can't, he won't

'Nononononononononononononono'

He opens his eyes and he isn't being devoured and consumed. Not being corrupted further. His insides aren't burning up and disintegrating into ashes. His flesh isn't being charred and falling off in chunks. His skin isn't hard and numb from frostbite. It's only him. Him and… and...

It's Him.

Red glowing, piercing eyes. A dangerous and deadly smile, with sharp teeth and a forked tongue. And a face he's seen for most of his existence.

"But don't worry, I always listen to my favorite pet… Now, let's get started shall we?"

Sam's screaming had woken him up in no time. This is a result of years being on alert and ready to coax his baby brother out of night terrors as a small child. And now, as a full-grown adult, nightmares, and memories of the Cage. Some things never truly changed, just… intensified.

Although this time, any comfort he provided wasn't likely to draw his brother out from his detoxing state. Just like it hadn't the last two times in Bobby's panic room. 'Not like I tried that hardback then' he chastises himself.

Unlike those last two detoxes, his screams now were something animalistic, something not human. This was something Sam never displayed before the Cage. This was another reason why he vowed to tear Lucifer apart, despite the obvious strength difference. But it is pretty fucked up that he could recall the difference between his baby brother's screams he realizes.

He quickly gets out of his chair while recognizing the freezing temperature in the room. And what the hell? It shouldn't be this cold, it's the middle of Spring for goodness sake. Sure, he could handle the cold. He's used to it, maybe not as much as his brother, but he could deal with it on the quick and easy hunts during the winter. But this temperature is just ridiculous.

It's cold enough that he could see the condensation of his breath way clearer than he should be. Especially if they're underground and generally just inside a structure. And if he stops to think about it, this definitely has something to do with Sam.

Before walking over to Sam -who has quickly and abruptly stopped screaming himself hoarse and is currently mumbling- he proceeds to one of the metal shelves. There he grabs one thin blanket for Sam, and one for himself because he is pretty sure at one point Sam will be freezing if he isn't already. He is so glad he stocked up a bit before he dozed off. Though who knew Sam would develop a new freaky ability, not that he would tell Sam it's freaky. After everything that's happened as far as he's concerned the word "freak" is no longer a part of their vocabulary.

This mostly resulted after an episode following Sam's wall collapsing and Dean attempting to lighten the mood and tease him with that word. How was he supposed to know it would end up being one of the chick-flick moments to end all chick-flick moments?

He wags his head shortly from side to side in order to ground himself to the present. Because the disturbing wake-up call has definitely done wonders for him, where his now abandoned cup of coffee didn't of course, and he has a bigger priority right now. He makes a quick silent prayer to Cas while rushing over to Sam's side to get his feathery-ass over here because this is way more than demon blood withdrawal. He does this silently for the reason that he could possibly startle Sam and cause another outburst and God knows they don't need that at the moment.

Walking to Sam's bedside he takes in his sickly appearance. Pale skin covered with a collection of sweat at his forehead, though despite that he seems to be shivering. His eyes are half-closed but you could tell his pupils are dilated, looking as if they may cover his entire eye. That makes Dean suck in a breath. Looking closer you could tell how far away his mind is, even when his eyes roll to look at Dean all he does is look through him. His cracked and dry lips now muttering a language Dean could never quite learn nor understand.

He could tell this detox will be the worst one yet, what with Sam's symptoms already being this bad in less than a full day. He places a hand on his brother's forehead to check for a fever. And sure enough, he does have one, though it seems to be low at the moment. He could only hope that the sudden freezing temperature in the room will contribute to the youngest Winchester's fever remaining low. But, to help the shivers he drapes one of the thin blankets he grabbed onto Sam's battered, shaking frame.

"It's gonna be alright Sam, it's like I said before… Cas and I will figure it out and help you through it." Dean assures his brother, patting his arm carefully.

Afterward, he too wraps a blanket around himself because it's freaking cold! As soon as he does he hears Cas's footsteps coming towards the room. 'Took him long enough' he grumbles internally.

Cas is then seen at the doorway, though he stops there. "What is with the blanket Dean?" he asks wholeheartedly like it is the most important thing at the moment. "Uh… Can't you feel how cold it is in here?" Dean replies because he thought Angels could feel temperature… Wait, is that not the case?

It's quiet for a few minutes while Dean waits for Cas's response. However, it seems their favorite Angel is thinking of something different as his forehead seems pinched in either concentration or consideration. Yeah, Sam was also better at reading their friends' facial expressions. No matter how limited they were.

Finally, Cas replies with something. "I do feel something… though it isn't the cold like you're feeling right now. Instead I feel some type of… energy". Well, at least that answered his question, though it left room for more. So Dean decides to do just that. "An energy? I'm not quite a master in all this psychic crap, but wouldn't it be because of the demon blood?". But if it isn't, then that means that his big brother instincts were right again. Then again they would possibly be in a great deal of trouble. There are pros and cons he supposed.

"Not quite. I am already aware of how the energy from the demon blood feels from when he detoxed in the past. Yet, this one is new. I can't really pinpoint it but it feels ancient and is way stronger than the demon blood one, that I am certain. It's hard to believe I missed it previously...".

Well, it may have to do with the fact you're living off borrowed, more like stolen, grace. And are practically at the point where you can't even heal me, so lower than half-power. But it's not like he'll say it out loud. Especially since his last sentence was kind of redundant. Though there it is the confirmation. It seems that once again his instincts weren't wrong, he knew they wouldn't lead him astray. Well… this time that is. This isn't really good news if he's being honest because along with the confirmation is the fact that they have no idea what this other energy is and where it came from. Still, he has his ideas.

"So what? You think you could maybe try to check him out again? Try to see if you could recognize it or find out any information about it?" He questions while keeping his eyes focused on Sam's pallid skin, because now that they know most of the problem they have to find a way to fix it. He sees Cas think it over before speaking. "Yes, I'm sure I can. Though it isn't a guarantee, especially since my power is extremely limited". Dean nods absentmindedly.

Taking this as an invitation to go ahead with his angelic examination Cas walks closer to Sam's laid-out form across from where Dean's been this entire time. He watches as Cas raises a hand to lay it on Sam's forehead, it then begins to glow with heavenly energy. But before he could continue Dean grabs his wrist to stop him. "Wait, before you um do this… could you translate what Sammy's saying?". Cas nods quietly in agreement seeming to not mind the interruption and attempts to take in the ramblings of one of his greatest friends.

"He's praying."

Okay, Dean didn't expect that. "Praying?" he asks with a raise of an eyebrow along with a tone of disbelief. He expected something very disturbing, like when the wall had fallen those few years ago where Sam would press himself into a corner describing whatever torture he recalled that day or night.

"Yes, praying. He's praying to God… for salvation… and mercy."

That makes Dean's heart tighten in his chest because how bad is it in his head that he's praying for redemption? He wishes he never asked Cas to translate because he doesn't know how to respond to that. So he simply counters with "Anything else?".

"Just more ramblings about God, and Lucifer… And that's only the parts I could recognize. He is speaking too fast for me to properly translate it all. Then there's the fact that his dialect of Enochian hadn't been used for centuries."

Well fuck. First God and the need for redemption, and now Lucifer? Yeah, he should have never asked. "That's alright Cas, you could uh carry on with your er- examination". No more is said as Cas lays his hand upon Sam's forehead as it emits a faint heavenly glow. All Dean could do is just observe. Wait and see if anything changes.

It's been about- he checks his watch from under his blanket - 6 minutes and 15 seconds, 16 seconds, 17, 18…. Since Cas started to examine his little brother's head to see if he could recognize this new power. But who's counting?

The whole time he's practically been holding his breath waiting for Cas to come back and tell him what he's figured out. 'Cause once that happens they could figure out a way to help Sam. And that's all that matters. He's learned his lesson though, so definitely no more angel possession.

He taps his foot in a methodical rhythm in an attempt to take his mind off his impatience. Then he hears a sharp hiss of pain and quickly rises out of his seat getting closer to both brother and angel. He does so in time to see Cas's hand stop emitting power and then he's losing his balance and shit, shit, shit. He swiftly goes around the cot barely managing to catch him before he hits the ground. Since Cas is lighter than his brother he carefully helps him into his previously occupied chair, without injuring his wrapped ribs too much.

Making sure he's comfortable he taps on his cheek in an attempt to wake him. "Cas? Hey, Cas you alright? Can you hear me?" he asks urgently.

After a minute of no response, he sees Cas's eyelids flutter, and soon he opens his eyes and is looking at Dean, his face filled with fear and worry. "It's the trials… I'm sure of it." He says, sounding weak. "The power or energy has attached itself to him…"

"And, what does that mean?" Dean asks incredulously.

"It means that there's no telling of what he's capable of now..." And then Cas's eyes roll to the back of his head, and he's out for the count.

Son of a bitch.

TBC