AN: Well, mis amigos, internet gremlins prevented me from posting this yesterday, so there's a decent chance that you'll get two chapter today. No promises.
Warnings for language and ick factor.
If anyone cares, I have turtle news. We released Wilhelmina, only to have her climb all the way back up to our yard. She's spent her last few days lounging in the shade and being fed all the lettuce she wants, and her nights in the pond. She's gaming the system!
We also found a smaller painter that was so still I thought it was dead. Then when I turned away, it ran for the pond faster than I thought a turtle could go. Since it's so sneaky, I call it Arthur Ketch. We haven't seen it again, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn it's stealing some of Wilhelmina's food or somehow consorting with the enemy (whoever that may be).
* * *
Within your darkest memories
Lies the answer if you dare find it
Don't let hope become a memory
The Light by Disturbed
* * *
It was only a few minutes before the herd? nest? stampede? of frightened mice fled, but it felt like a hell of a lot longer. Sam had to pull off his jacket and both shirts to get the last of them out from inside his clothing. Fortunately, the persistent one that had made it all the way up to his knee inside his jeans was gone by then.
Sam shivered in cold and reaction as he pulled his clothes back on. And his hip reminded him that he really needed to stop moving.
So, what was that? There was no way it was a natural phenomenon. Mice avoided larger animals -- i.e. a human being -- at all costs. Waking nightmare? Because the scratches on his hands and arms and dead mice around him gave lie to the theory that he'd simply fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing.
He didn't know much about oneiroi, but he knew they had to be related to Nyx, personification of the night. And he did remember her. In the ancient Greeks' stories, even Zeus was afraid of her, which was not encouraging. She was related to, possibly even the mother of, chaos, pain, lies, sleep, death, and...prophesy maybe.
Oneiroi weren't among Nyx's children, but were accidental side effects of sorts. So they were akin. And while Sam didn't remember any of her weaknesses, oneiroi should be susceptible to the opposites of her affiliations. Hopefully. Sam knew it was a bit of a stretch, but it was all he had. And too often, Hunting involved going in with too little information. With a pained exhale, Sam remembered Dean arguing that they should wait and get more information before Hunting.
Would that they had. Of course, would they have found out any more if they'd researched longer? Debatable.
So, back to Nyx and her preferences. Which could he combat? He couldn't do anything about the pain he was in except to avoid focusing on it. He could do something about the darkness, though. Knowing he and Dean obsessively changed the batteries out, Sam flipped on both his flashlights and angled them to form the biggest possible lit area around him.
As for nightmares and bad dreams and sleep, he obviously had to stay awake. He wished whimsically for coffee to throw at the oneiroi. Or, you know, just to drink. Of course, pure caffeine is one of the most toxic substances on Earth. Maybe...yeah, no. Focus.
In reality, the only other thing Sam could do is focus on the positive. He wrinkled his nose. It sounded weak, and embarrassingly New Age-y. But it was all he had.
After a pissed off pukwudgie had made all three Winchesters hallucinate, Dad had told them, "your brain is your strongest weapon. But just like any other weapon, it can be turned against you." Of course, Dad had killed the offending cryptid by stabbing it through its solitary eye, so maybe he wasn't all that impressed by the power of the mind after all.
Still, Sam would use what he had. Because if he thought about some of what he'd seen and the oneiroi recreated it, that would truly be a living nightmare. Like the wendigo that liked to skin people, or the no named thing that spit acid, or the quetzalcoatl that...oh shit. Lalala, think of other things!
Um...random, benign facts. Kainotophobia is the fear of change. A group of jellyfish is called a smack. Carbon has the highest melting point of any element at more than 6,400 degrees Fahrenheit. The real reason Ernest Hemingway surrounded himself with cats was because he was terrified of spirits, and felines can see and even repel many ghosts.
Crisis temporarily averted, Sam reminded himself that the oneiroi wasn't particularly powerful. Well, not separated from its magnetite. Even there, he doubted it could create things, being only a manifestation itself. But at its base of power, it could obviously influence and shape whatever was there already, like trees, mice, snak --
Random facts! Random facts! Um...sharks almost went extinct 19 million years ago and nobody knows why. Grute Pier, brother to and enforcer for a Dutch warlord in the late 15th century, supposedly wielded a sword even longer than his own nearly seven feet of height and could chop off multiple people's heads in one blow. A human femur is ounce for ounce stronger than concrete. Bats can...detect magnetic fields...ah, fuck. Why did he have to think about bats?
Sam heard the flap of multiple leathery wings with more resignation than surprise.
"Mosquitoes kill the most humans of any animals, even other humans," yelled Sam, more irritated than scared, at least for the moment. "You gonna send a flock of bloodsuckers next?" Heh. I sound like Dean, Sam thought, even as he curled forward again, pulling the thermal blanket over his head.
The sensation of wings and little claws was unpleasant to the point of eerie, but Sam thought he had the oneiroi's number now. It seemed to be able to influence animals, even drive them into a frenzy, but it couldn't or wouldn't make them truly hurt him.
Hopefully.
Sam actually laughed as he was pelted by the little bodies, some clinging to the blanket for a few minutes. They weren't even gone yet when the snakes came. Sam gritted his teeth and reminded himself that they'd be harmless garters and hog noses and red bellies. The sensation was unsettling, to say the least, especially when they crawled over and up his trapped legs. He tossed aside the few that came toward his chest and face. Again, the blanket protected his head, neck, and back for the most part.
"Nice try," Sam called. "There's not much you can do while I'm awake, is there?" In the back of his mind, he knew antagonizing the monster might not be the best choice. He rationalized that if it got mad, it might do something foolish. He raised his voice again. "If Dean were here, he'd call you names and call you out for what a coward you are -- hell, I'm trapped and you still don't dare show yourself!"
Sam laughed again as big black beetles stormed over the tree trunk toward him. It was that or cry, and there was no way that he'd give the oneiroi that.
He remembered The Mummy and was grateful that there weren't Egyptian scarabs in the area. It won't kill me. It won't kill me. It won't kill me, Sam chanted in the privacy of his own mind, squeezing his eyes closed and hunching further under the blanket. It at least kept the bugs out of his ears, nose, and hair. But there was no keeping them out of his clothes. Temporary. Disgusting, unpleasant, but not dangerous. He'd once laid unmoving half submerged in a swamp for five hours to get a shot at a billabong. He could do this.
"Dean will be back long before you can scare me to death," grit out Sam, barely moving his lips just in case there was a beetle close to his mouth. "So screw you!"
Reckless to heckle the oneiroi while he was trapped? Probably. But Sam was hurting and exhausted and really damn sick of ambush by animal.
Abruptly, there was a change in the air, almost like when your ears pop. The beetles stopped their frenzy and scattered and Sam thought he felt what was hopefully the last snake slither along his right leg. Slowly, cautiously, Sam pulled the blanket down a little and lifted his head.
The oneiroi perched atop the tree trunk, directly above him. Sam dropped his right hand to the ground, hiding his wince at the feeling of beetles, some still wiggling, falling out of his sleeve. His hand rested on the barrel of his shotgun.
A slice of the oneiroi's side lifted like an arm and pointed at Sam. The creature's entire surface still rippled nauseatingly. Though it had no discernable features, Sam could all but feel it sneer.
"Trapped," it gurgled, and something about the sound made Sam's stomach roil. "Mine." It didn't move, yet seemed to loom. Menace poured invisibly from it, physically pricking against his skin. It was oily, evil. Sam's mouth went dry at the feeling of malicious power focused on him.
Bad, bad choice. Note to self: next time I feel like channeling Dean, don't.
The darkness around Sam grew long, questing fingers reaching for him, and jagged teeth with impossibly wide open mouths. All stretched toward him, and pulled at his memories until they threatened to bury him.
Fourteen years old. Hastily bandaging a ragged tear on Dean's back while using his knee to keep pressure on a leaking cut on Dad's head. Wondering how he'd get them to the car if they didn't wake up soon. Wishing he'd been the one to kill the monster that had hurt them. Supporting them one at a time to stagger to the Impala, then driving back to the motel with his hands shaking and covered in the blood of his family. Spending the night cleaning and stitching and monitoring and trying not to puke.
Closing the eyes of a high school kid who'd had the misfortune of jogging through the park where a mapinguari had established its hunting grounds. Trying to let the knowledge that the brutal killer would never take another life overshadow the pain of this one that they hadn't been able to save.
Reading Dad's journal and having dates and injuries match up with pictures and descriptions of things Sam had believed were pretend. Feeling a hole in his stomach, knowing he'd never again be fooled into thinking the world was a relatively safe place.
Contracting food poisoning over his first spring break at Stanford. The dorms all but empty, no one to see or hear him. Collapsing in the bathroom after hours of vomiting and lying all night on the dirty floor, alone through illness for the first time in his life.
Looking up and realizing the wendigo that had already killed Roy had taken Haley...and Dean. Fury and rage filling Sam until things were crystal clear and simple: find Dean and kill what took him.
Jessica bleeding and burning above him, still alive but beyond saving. Somehow, some way he still doesn't understand, he survives the pain and learns what it means to hate.
Blood and death and fear and pain and dreams and loss and guilt and violence and
No.
Sam blinked and blinked again, forcing his staring eyes to actually see. He was flat on his back again, gasping for air. Deliberately, he didn't look at his tormentor. He just needed something...there. Peeking out from the shadow of the trunk, less than an inch from having been crushed, was a perfect little yellow tumbleweed flower.
Though her mother carefully cultivated prize roses, Jess had far preferred wildflowers, pointing them out wherever they went, on an otherwise barren hillside or peeking out of an otherwise perfectly groomed lawn or pushing through a crack in the sidewalk. Morning glories, black eyed Susans, Queen Anne's lace, monkey flowers, sweet clovers, and so many more.
Sam could feel the slimy malignity recede. Staring at the tiny bloom, he deliberately pulled up the memories the oneiroi had dragged through his mind.
The real hug Dean had given him, and praise from him and Dad for Sam keeping his cool after they went down. Holing up at Bobby's while the other two healed and using the time to start teaching himself French, aided by his knowledge of Latin. Learning Cindy Teller was very impressed at said French and happily enduring Dean's teasing about it.
Dean sitting with him all night, giving him a beer and throwing an arm around his shoulders when Sam began to shiver in delayed reaction. Never making light of the fact that a young kid was dead, but not letting Sam take the blame, either. And taking Sam out for target practice or goading him into sparring a lot over the next week whenever he got too stuck in his own head.
Waking up to gifts that weren't brought by Santa and knowing Dean was willing to do anything to give him a Christmas. His joy at the reverence with which Dean had put on the amulet, a joy Sam had felt again the night Dean came to Stanford and he saw his brother still wearing it. Knowing that while the world wasn't safe, he didn't face its dangers alone, either.
The knowledge way down deep that if he really needed Dean, if he called him, Dean would be there. Come hell or high water or Sam leaving to go off on his own, Dean would come.
Dean pulling him from the fire. Literally. Keeping him moving and not letting Sam drink himself to death. Holding him through so many tears, Sam thought he must run out of them forever. Slowly, reminding him of laughter and simple pleasures like good food and an open road and singing along badly to classic rock.
The good in the bad. The love that was never completely drowned by the raw sewage that life could be. The wildflowers in the cracks.
A smile slipped onto Sam's face. "You lose," he said, pointed the shotgun at the oneiroi's face, or upper body, anyway, and fired.
The monster fell back with another sickly gurgle but it surged back up. The pressure against Sam's lower body abruptly increased and he made an incoherent sound of surprise dismay, and pain. Fire shot down his left leg and he pushed instinctively, uselessly against the tree trunk that was somehow growing heavier by the second.
The pain ratcheted up to impossible levels and Sam writhed in a mindless effort to escape. He'd underestimated the oneiroi again, and was about to die for his mistake.
Blackness licked at the edges of Sam's vision, soon joined by big black spots. He wanted to fight it, but they kept growing until they covered everything.
Right before Sam completely passed out, the pressure abruptly eased.
Relief flooded him. Until he realized that the reason the pressure was fading was because the dirt beneath him was sliding away, making him sink.
The process had started slowly, but rapidly picked up speed. Ignoring his pain, Sam torqued his body to the side and grabbed at the edge of what was quickly becoming a hole with him at the center.
He was too late. The earth that had rushed out rushed back in even faster, this time on top of him. Within seconds, the ground had swallowed Sam, and he was chased down by a sibilant voice: "You lose."
* * *
AN: Guess what I learned yesterday...I share a birthday with DJ Qualls, who played Garth! Hey, it's the little things that make me happy.
All my weirdo facts are true, as far as we know, except for the one about Hemingway. Odd fact, Grute Pier's brother was, according to ancient records, an ancestor of my ex-husband's family, so if that's true, my children are descended from a brutal warlord, FWIW.
All the animals that attack and all the wildflowers Sam and Jess saw are endemic to South Dakota and California, respectively, according Wikipedia.
The Mummy is a 1999 film that includes a scene in which scarab beetles swarm and eat people.
Timelady66: I've never seen it, but it sounds like an apt comparison. I may whump (and love) Sam the most, but I do like to spread the misery around...
Jericho422: No way! I loved that book so much. It and Ferdinand the Bull were ones I had to find right away when I had kids. And thank you for your kind words.
Jenjoremy: I started freaking out reading your comment and was immensely relieved to discover you're still happy with the story. The bar flashback is my favorite too. No update on who's calling Dean because I had to go back and torture Sam some more. Heh.
sfaulkenberry: Thanks! I went back and fixed my oops. I sometimes edit on my phone and that doesn't always go well. I'm so happy you liked the flashbacks! I thought of at least half a dozen more possibilities, so now there are a zillion plot bunnies rampaging through my brain. *sigh* The bar one is my favorite too. I'm sure it's going to show up again in more detail down the road. And I wrote about the aftermath of Home once and wanted to give Skin the same treatment.
Long Live BRUCAS: Thanks! I'm addicted to flashbacks, but I'm not trying to recover. lol
JaniceC678: Does it help that the chapter after this one, from Dean's perspective again, is mostly written? I loved throwing in the terrible jokes, though my daughter says it's not fair that I didn't give all the punchline.
Kathy: I know, right? It's the trapped part that would really get me personally. And I didn't do Sam any favors here with the other animals...poor guy.
muffinroo: I figured it would be good for Dean to have something (someone) to focus on other than his own worry. Although ouch. I've never sprained an ankle, but I broke one once and I sure as heck didn't walk on it, much less carrying somebody.
MewWinx96: Thank you very much!
stedan: Yay! I'm glad you're on the runaway flashback train with me! I'll remember that you like Stanford flashbacks. Cuz you know I include flashbacks in every story. No word about who's on the phone yet, sorry. Next chapter!
supernaturalsammy67: I'm always sad when the show had to skip h/c opportunities, and love filling in the gaps to the best of my ability. Thank you for being so darn nice!
Lena! I go and post this and come back to see a long and fabulous comment from you, so of course I have to update this with a response. My story about freaking out over a creepy crawly is once when I was out jogging and a stick that was practically under my feet started crawling away -- it was a snake! I'm not especially afraid of snakes; none of them around here are venomous. But you better believe I shrieked! I thought you'd laugh at me saying you'd want more Dean. I'm so happy you like the flashbacks too. Those were fun.