Berserker: One of a band of ancient Norse warriors legendary for their savagery and reckless frenzy in battle.
Author's notes: My new mantra is "There will never be enough Hurt!Dean in this world." This story imagines a world where Dean did NOT have an unloaded gun to give to Sammy in Asylum.
This fic uses lines directly from the episode.
Berserker (Part 1)
Sam's mind is a whirlwind of feelings and emotions, all flying dangerously wild, all of them pulsating red. They threaten to close in, to suffocate the very life that they are feeding on.
Until the moment that he pulls the trigger and Dean goes flying through the wall like some psychotic circus performer.
It is at this moment when the red retreats and Sam feels the hum of pure pleasure.
It feels good - wickedly, sinfully good to finally shut his brother up.
And it does not matter at all to him that he had to shoot him full of rock salt to do it.
He wipes his nose with his hand, carelessly smearing more crimson across his face. Then he walks through the hole in the wall his brother has just made and stands over his unconscious body.
He forces himself to wait patiently. He figures if Dean doesn't wake within the next minute or so, then he will have the pleasure of waking Dean. He feels the heft of the shotgun in his hand and hopes that Dean does not wake on his own.
Yet, even before the imaginary time limit is up, Dean is coming to, waking with a groan before gathering his faculties quickly and looking around - scanning, analyzing.
By this time, the pleasure that Sam was able to steal earlier is gone. The red is now back. With a vengeance. It is more than anger. More than rage. It is a fury that obliterates everything, making it hard to formulate thoughts. It renders logic and reason obsolete in its wake.
"Sam, we gotta burn Ellicott's bones and all this will be over. And you'll be back to normal."
God, how the voice grates. The condescension in that know-it-all voice could make ears bleed.
Time to start disavowing Dean of his little illusion that everything will be just fine. "I am normal," Sam begins. "I'm just telling the truth for the first time."
He barely pauses, barely takes a breath, before continuing. "I mean why are we even here?" he asks, and the red flows through him, giving him strength, energy. The words spill out of his mouth, words that until just recently were nothing more than malformed whispers of thoughts, barely even given the time of day. "Cause you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? Cause you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?"
Dean shakes his head, trapped in denial. "This isn't you talking, Sam."
"See, that's the difference between you and me," Sam continues, becoming deaf to his brother's voice. To his logic. "I have . . . a mind . . . of my own." He points the shotgun at his own head, the place where the red is slowly swelling, threatening once again to consume him. "I'm not pathetic like you."
"What are you gonna do, Sam? Are you going to kill me?" Dean asks calmly.
This time Dean's voice penetrates and Sam hears. And although he ignores the question, it has already implanted itself in his brain. It shines brightly there for a moment, before being pushed to the side. Sam still has things that he wants to say and he knows that he needs to say them before the red wins out.
"You know, I am sick of you telling me what to do. We're no closer to finding dad today than we were six months ago."
"Sam . . . "
And suddenly Dean is moving, pushing his body up and kicking out with his legs faster than any injured man should be able to. Sam does not expect this, and he almost loses his balance. Almost falls. Almost loses.
Almost.
He rights himself just in time, and swings the shotgun like a bat, right down into Dean's mid-section, causing his brother to fall back on the ground like a discarded doll.
"What the hell was that, huh?" Sam shouts. "We were having a nice discussion!" And with that his hands change position on the shotgun yet again, so that he is holding only one end of it. The other end he rams into his brother's face. Not hard really. Not hard enough to break bone. Just hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make his brother's head whip to the side. Hard enough to make him grunt in pain. Hard enough to bleed.
The feeling of pleasure is back and now Sam understands. Dr. Ellicott has bestowed a gift upon him. Here, in these grimy, unused halls, he can say what he wants to say, be who he wants to be and do what he wants to do. All those malformed thoughts no longer have to eat away at his sanity. Here they are given birth to.
And here they are beautiful.
"Sam . . . " A mere whisper from his brother's lips; incomplete and broken.
Sam looks down, sees that Dean is turning on his side. Trying to curl up, to ease the pain.
Or trying for another assault. Sam knows all too well that Dean can be a crafty little fucker.
He uses the gun as leverage to flip his brother onto his back. He finds himself staring at the blood on his face, finds himself thinking that it looks good there. That it looks right.
"Sam, I get that you're pissed," Dean says quickly, his voice fluttery and breathy. "I get that you hate me right now. But you need to stop this. Ok?"
But all Sam hears is 'you need to stop'. The order. Always the fucking order.
He moves so that he is no longer above Dean but beside him and kicks out with his foot. Dean tries to grab at it, almost gets it. Almost throws him off balance. Almost wins.
Almost.
But Dean is slow tonight. It might be because of the rock salt sizzling in his flesh. Or maybe it's the bruising on his ribs. More than likely, it's a winning combination of the two. Whatever it is, Dean misses and Sam's foot connects with Dean's side, not once but twice.
Dean rolls over again, coughing and gasping, body automatically trying to go fetal.
Sam looks down at him, waits to see if he will feel pity. He knows that he should feel that emotion. He knows that he should feel something for this man lying in pain on the floor. The same man who has watched over him and taken care of him since before he can remember. Yet all he feels is that strange pleasure. From here he can see the plaster dust that has settled in his brother's hair from falling through the wall. He focuses in on that for a moment.
He thinks that his brother looks very pretty in red and white.
Underneath him, Dean shifts a little and manages to groan out, "Sammy."
It is a plea. For mercy, maybe? Whatever it is, Sam doesn't care. His only thought is that Dean calling him by that name is just about the biggest mistake he can make right now.
He smiles and leans down. One hand grabs hold of Dean's hair and pulls back harshly. Against the curve of his brother's neck he whispers. "That's not my name."
Sam watches as Dean swallows convulsively. "I didn't mean . . . "
"Say my name. Say it right, Dean or I'll rip out your fucking tongue and stuff it down your throat."
Sam waits, listens for it, but Dean stays stubbornly silent beneath him.
So he tightens his grip on his brother's fine, white hair and yells, "Say it!" with as much force as his lungs will allow.
And Dean, whose body has been as rigid as a board until now, suddenly goes limp.
Defeat. Sam can almost smell it in the air. His brother is beaten. Just a little. But it is more than enough.
"Sam."
The word is offered up quietly. Sam knows it is meant as a peace offering.
He lets go and stands back up, watches his brother drop to the ground.
He feels strong. He feels in control.
Invincible.
Justified.
The peace offering is discarded.
"That's right. It's Sam, you fucking idiot. Sam."
Then he swings his arms and watches as the shotgun crashes against Dean's thigh.
The grunt from his brother brings ecstacy. It is motivation. It is fuel.
So he does it again. And again. Over and over. Not bothering to aim the blows. There is no point. The pleasure is in the madness of it. In the absolute chaos of beating his brother until his brother breaks.
"Things are gonna change around here, starting now. Do you hear me?" Another swing, another brutal connect.
"We're going to start doing what I say." Once again, metal meets flesh. Once again, flesh yields.
He finally stops and drops the shotgun, for no other reason than he's tired and his hands ache. He stands there panting, trying to catch his breath. And exulting. The red and the pleasure have now melded into one. And the feeling that it brings is near orgasmic.
Eventually he looks down at his brother. He can't help but like what he sees. Dean is completely fetal now. His face is pressed against the dirty floor and his left arm lays at an unnatural angle. Tremors run through his body, causing it to shiver as his breath comes in shaky, shuddering gasps.
Sam flips him over so that he is once again on his back. Dean's body tries to resist, but it has no strength to do so. He flops back, his eyes shut, face tight with pain.
Sam drops down to his knees and straddles him. He flexes his hands, then with a gentleness that belies his intentions, he places them around his brother's throat.
Dean finally opens his eyes and stares blearily up at Sam.
"Sam. Do you hate me this much?"
Sam tilts his head to the side, and actually pauses to think about this question. He feels that this is important, that he is at a crossroads here. To go the wrong way would be disastrous. Then he smiles, feels just a little more blood slide out of his nose and says, "Do you even have to ask?"
He begins to squeeze.
He expects Dean to fight. He is ready for it, keeping his own throat just out of Dean's reach. But Dean isn't fighting. He's just staring up at him with wide, wounded eyes. And now, wonder of all wonders, Sam sees tears. Not many tears, that's not his brother's style. Just two, one from each eye. Long, beautiful crystal tears that run down the side of his face and pool at his neck. On Sam's own hands.
And just when he thought this was going to be relatively easy, Dean begins to fight. He brings his one good hand up to Sam's two and tries desperately to pry them off.
Apparently his brother has decided that he is not going to go gently into that good night after all.
But Dean's pathetic efforts change nothing. If anything, they encourage Sam to squeeze harder.
He is on his way to committing an unforgivable sin and yet he doesn't care.
No, that's not quite true. He does care. He cares that he is feeling the most incredible high that he has ever known.
He allows himself a smile as he watches Dean's pitiful struggle to keep his life. His brother's mouth is open, gasping desperately for precious air. His eyes, now open very wide, are staring at the ceiling. In them he reads his fear and sadness. It is the only time in his life that he has truly known what his brother was thinking.
Eventually, the struggles begin to cease and Dean's eyes begin to close. His face and body relax and his hand falls casually down to the floor.
They almost there. Sam is almost free. Just a little longer . . . just a little more pressure . . .
Then he hears a sound from behind him - a shocked and terrified intake of breath.
Reluctantly, he releases his hold on Dean and turns his head.
The kids. They stand at the room's entrance, staring at him as if seeing the devil himself.
Fuck. He'd forgotten all about them.
He makes a move toward the shotgun, intending to blast the annoying little bitch and her idiot boyfriend right in the head.
But somehow, she moves first. She lifts her own gun and pulls the trigger.
Sam is thrown back from the force of it and feels the same white, blinding pain his brother must have felt. Mercifully, it lasts only an instant before his entire world melts into black.