A/N:
Here we go with part 2 ?
WARNINGS:
FROM NOW ON, THIS STORY IS CONSIDERED TO BE RATED AS "Mature", ON THE BRINK TO "Explicit"
There will be triggering topics ahead (may graphic/may not) containing rape/abuse and non-consensual stuff.
Chapter 25 ~ Still Losing Samuel
"Sammy?", Dean's voice echoed through the room, as he let go of the shelf; brushed past Bobby, dodging his shoulder, and stopped only a few feet away.
"Cas?", Dean asked.
Bobby's face went pale the very second he laid eyes on the both men furthest from the shelves, as he stood frozen in place, like a statue.
Dean's breath caught in his lungs, until he met Castiel's eyes over the distance. His friend's soft blue eyes, telling him that it was not what it may looked like, tore him from his trance-like state.
A pair of hazel-green eyes were staring into their direction – through them – aimed at something far far away.
Dean and Bobby took off towards them at the same moment.
"Samuel is alive.", Castiel stated.
Dean fell to his knees. He reached for Sam's face, and cupped his cheeks.
"Sammy?", he asked softly, thumb rubbing along his cheekbone, searching the kid's face for any signs of recognition. Of Sam hearing him.
"Look at me, Sam.", he said more demanding.
Bobby rounded the curled-up form, and kneeled down behind him, his hand coming down tentatively at his son's bicep.
"What happened? What's wrong?", Bobby asked, searching Castiel's face for answers.
"He is not responsive.", Castiel's frown deepened. "He was like this when I got here. I couldn't find any wounds."
"He's cold.", Dean murmured to himself. "So damn cold." A shiver ran down his spine.
Dean looked up, catching Bobby's devasted gaze. "Was he ever like this? – Is this some sort of … self-protection mechanism? Maybe … he decided to … zoom out?"
Bobby shook his head, then nodded. Then shook his head again. His eyes were tearing up. "What'd he do to my son?"
"We'll figure it out." Castiel laid his hand on Bobby's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"First we'll get him out of here. – Second thing we do is getting' him warmed up.", Dean decided and slipped with one arm under Sam's shoulders, and with the other one under his knees.
"Don't. – Let me help. – You'll tear your stitches.", Castiel protested and was standing up.
Dean looked up at his friends, eyes gleaming up at them in an unfamiliar color, as if his angelic grace mingled with the green of his irises, melting into each other.
"I'm good.", Dean answered, when he lifted Sam from the ground. He adjusted his grip on him and shifted, until the kid's head was resting in the crook of Dean's neck. When he had a good hold on the man – dangling in his grasp like a damn rag-doll, he set into motion.
Maybe it was a stupid thing to use the given life-force for a simple thing like carrying someone, but Dean didn't care. Not at all.
Castiel offered a helping hand to Bobby. Bobby took it, sniffing, swallowing sobs. Not allowing himself to show what he felt – as it meant showing weakness. And hunters didn't show weakness. Ever. Specially not Robert Singer.
Dean carried his partner into Room 11. – Well aware that it was his own and not Sam's at which he was aiming for in the first place.
Bobby followed slowly, wiping his eyes.
Castiel came up last behind the grizzled hunter.
Bobby hurried in front of Dean, and opened the door for them, then went in and stepped aside to get out of Dean's way, when he brushed past him.
Dean laid Sam onto the bed, his partner's limps sliding into place beside him on the covers. The actual position he came to lie down, didn't look comfortable, and though Sam seemed to be awake – somehow – he didn't bother to move. Not an inch.
Bobby came up on the other side of the bed and helped Dean to pull the covers out under Sam's lax body. Both men manhandled him fast, but gentle, into a position which seemed comfortable, and pulled the covers over him.
Bobby exhaled deeply, then he swayed, and his hand reached out towards the nightstand for leverage.
"Bobby?", Dean asked, tearing his gaze away from Sam, and towards the grizzled hunter.
"I –", Bobby swallowed. He paled some more – if that was even possible. "I think –"
Dean saw it, before Bobby even knew what was about to happen.
In the blink of an eye, Dean scrambled over the bed and was at Bobby's side, one arm under his shoulders, the other one on his chest, holding him upright.
"Hey, you alright?" What Dean was really asking was: What's happening? What's wrong? Do you have a heart-attack? A stroke? Tell me, Bobby.
"Need to sit down?" He may had phrased it as a question, but it was obviously a statement.
"Cas. –", Dean spoke up, fastening his grip on Bobby, as his knees dared to give out under him again.
Castiel was already at their side, easing the old man out of Dean's hold and taking his place.
"Got him." He guided the old man away from the bed and towards the door, instead of the chair nearby. "I will take care of Bobby."
Dean copied that with a nod. "I'll check Sam over. See what I can do." …
He knew, that – whatever had been done to him – John could give him a heads up. He could go and check on him, ask him to tell what the demon had done, so he would be able to help.
But that he would do later on. For now, he'd get Sam as comfortable as possible and maybe he'd snap out of wherever he was right now.
Dean went to get one of his spare blankets from the drawer and one of his boxers from another one and placed them on the nightstand.
He knew, since Sam's skin was cold to the touch, that he must be freezing, so he decided to warm him up before anything else was going to happen.
Said and done. Dean threw the blanket over the covers and then went to the infirmary, where he knew he would find hot-water bags. Once they were filled, and tugged under the covers close to Sam's feet, hands and one on his belly in between his shirt and covers, Dean pulled a chair up beside the bed and waited.
~*Apple Pie & Bacon*~
An hour later, Sam was still staring into nothingness, his eyes dull, unmoved.
It didn't seem like no-one was home. Sam was in there – somewhere, but just not HERE.
That, and Sam's appearance – all filthy and a bad odor sticking to him – caused a bitter taste in Dean's mouth and made him more and more nervous by the passing minute.
"Sammy." Dean leaned forward in the chair, and felt the man's forehead, then his cheeks. He was warm, like he was supposed to be. "C'mon. – The bastard's gone. You got out."
No reaction. Nothing at all. Not even a blink.
Dean sighed, studying Sam's face for a long time, feeling his soft skin against his palm, the lack of muscle tone.
"C'mon, man. – You gotta show me you're with me." He paused, waiting. "I gotta check on you for injuries. – I've to undress you, 'kay?" He paused again, and waited.
No response. Not in the slightest.
Dean got to his feet and pulled the blanket and covers off of him, pooling them at the end of the bed. He watched Sam for any reaction to the cool air touching his skin.
No shiver. To tremble. Nothing.
"I'll be as quick as I can." Dean murmured to himself, though he was addressing Sam's face with a brief look.
He unbuttoned Sam's shirt. When he was half-way down, he spotted dried blood peak out under the shirt. He sped up his movements, until the source was clearly visible.
There were shallow cuts in form of letters carved into the delicate skin on his lower belly, right above the waistband of his jeans, reading Asmodeus.
Dean forced rapidly rising bile back down.
The bastard had made sure that the cuts would leave scars. Stay as a reminder of what's been done to Sam. His look lingered at the name, memorizing it – Every. Single. Cut. – Already planning at the back of his mind, how he would make the demon pay. What he was going to do to him.
Eventually, Dean tore his gaze away from the cuts, and moved his attention back at the task at hand.
He reminded himself, that he had to check Sam over. To get him cleaned up. To … hell, at this point he didn't know what he was trying to accomplish, since it seemed way worse than what he had thought at first.
"'m sorry, Sammy.", he murmured, when he moved to sit Sam up and pull the shirt off of him.
Dean noticed the puncture marks on Sam's inner lower arm. He noticed the bruises there. He poked and propped at Sam's ribs, the back of his skull.
At least he didn't seem to have broken bones there – or that he's been beaten.
Dean then stripped Sam down to his boxers, felt along his legs, feet and toes, if something was out of place.
It wasn't.
He then covered Sam from the waist up with the blanket and decided to cut the filthy underwear off of him, since Dean himself wasn't too eager to touch the grime-soaked fabric.
Sam didn't move, when the knife's cold steel came in between his skin and boxers, and when it cut through it, Dean nicking Sam's skin with its tip.
"Sorry.", Dean murmured, stole a glance at Sam's face.
No reaction.
Maybe it was a good thing, Sam wasn't around for this. – It'd spare him a buttload of embarrassment when he'd come back from where he had withdrawn to.
The boxers came away easily, when they were cut open, and Dean pulled them out under Sam's butt.
There was more blood … a whole lot more blood …
Dean gagged and let go of the offensive piece as if it had burned him. He cursed, staggering away from the bed, shaking his hand as if it needed cooling.
After regaining his composure, Dean threw the covers over Sam's lower body and rushed straight for the bathroom, where he splashed cool water into his face.
Giving his mind and body time to cool down, he only stood there and watched the water run down the drain in a soft swirl.
He drew in a deep breath through his nose, steeling himself for what he might was about to discover. Once again, swallowing down rising bile, burning his throat with liquid acid.
It took him some more moments to make himself move.
Gathering a basin, washcloths, towels, soap.
Filling the basin with warm water, dumping the washcloths into the water.
Dean started off with Sam's face, and made his way down slowly. Taking exquisite care to get all the filth and blood off of Sam.
Once he was done with the front – specially with the cuts drawn into his skin – he maneuvered Sam onto his side. Draped his arms and legs so he wouldn't roll over onto his stomach.
His look caught on a set of other letters, carved into Sam's lower back.
MINE – red and angry.
Dean hurried up then, when he started to feel like he wasn't able to bear the sight before him anymore – the evidence. Plain and clear.
No explanations needed. No one having to tell him what had been done to Sam.
When he was done, he went to dump everything in the bathroom, dressed Sam in boxers and sweatpants.
Again, his look got caught on the Letters on Sam's front. He tore it away and he looked at Sam's face, letting his look linger there for a long time.
"I think this needs to be gone, Sammy." Dean's face was blank. "Guess you won't be mad if I take them away." … and all the unobvious injuries …
He knew he was talking to himself, rather than to Sam. Knowing, that the reassurance and confirmation he was looking for, wouldn't be given.
~*Apple Pie & Bacon*~
Dean stayed with Sam some time longer. Sat at the bed's end, watching him stare. Watching him breathe.
At some point, Sam's eyes closed, his lids seemingly becoming too heavy, and his breaths evened out.
~*Apple Pie & Bacon*~
Dean got the room cleaned up. Disposed Sam's clothes in the garbage, stuffed the towels and clothes in the washing-machine down the corridor.
Once the machine started washing, Dean headed for the kitchen, and helped himself to a bottle of booze, then sat down at the table and chucked down two huge swallows from it.
Charlie came in, informed him, that they had found out how it had been possible for the demon to walk into the bunker unharmed.
He's burnt warding on the outside, which Dean – or anyone else in the bunker – weren't even aware of existing.
Jesse was about to fix them.
Then, he went to see his father, who was – according to Charlie – in his room and probably out for the count.
Dean knew his father better than anyone else. So, after being possessed, cut and shot, he might as well wouldn't sleep for another couple of hours.
"Dad?", Dean knocked at his door, bottle of booze in one hand, other one on the handle.
A muffled "Yeah", was heard.
Dean entered.
"Dean." John said, not meeting his boy's eyes.
"How're you?" Dean walked over, took a sip from the bottle and handed it to his father..
"Miserable.", John answered, because truth be told – aside from getting shot, being possessed was even worse. "Worse than miserable.", he admitted, his eyes cast downwards, his voice shaken by emotions.
John gulped down a swallow. "Thanks.", John breathed and took another one. "How's Cas?"
Dean chuckled darkly. "Good. The demon didn't get him that bad."
"And your partner?" Now he looked up under dark lashes, eyes glistening with regret. And sorrow. And hurt.
Dean hesitated. It took him a moment too long to answer.
"I'm sorry son.", John said then. "I … It got me at the roadhouse. And … I can't remember everything I did, but –"
"It wasn't you.", Dean offered. A small loophole to escape the need of his father to blame himself for what had happened. He knew it would do nothing to make his father feel better, but he told him anyway.
"You remember what you did to Sam." Dean noticed. Seeing the proof of remembrance written all over his dad's face.
"Yeah", John answered, despite that it wasn't a question. "Partly." He sounded bitter, paling at a rabid pace, with a touch of green. He looked down on himself, shaken.
Dean took the bottle back and drank.
"Is he … how … I mean …" John sighed heavily, the weight resting upon him, visible in the way he held his shoulders. "Did he … say something? … Anything? … I … I'm sorry, Dean. – I'm so so sorry." John propped himself up against the headboard, shaking his head. "He needs to know, that this wasn't me, that I would never … I wouldn't … Never …"
Dean rose his hand to shut him up. "None of it was you, dad. – And he'll know. I'll make sure he'll know." … when he wakes up. When he's on the mend.
"You'll make sure? Isn't he … I mean … Didn't you talk to him?" There seemed to be building a bitter realization in the back of his mind. "I'd … I need to talk to him. I –"
"Sam's alive. – About the rest … I'll guess we'll see … It'll probably take time." Dean shrugged in an attempt to shake off what negative thoughts latched onto him – the consideration, that it might not would only take time for him to heal.
There was Bobby. Him. The pack.
And as far as he was concerned, his father would do anything to make him feel welcomed at that point. Because of regret. Maybe because he would blame himself – for being too carless, reckless even – to avoid being possessed.
"Sam hasn't said anything … so far … he's … Sam's pretty out of it.", Dean answered John's latest question – sensing his father's agitation and need to know how the demon's victim was holding up. "We'll make sure he's going to be fine."
~*Apple Pie & Bacon*~