A/N: So, this chapter is short and dark-dark-dark. Just in case any of you weren't hating me for last chapter, I decided to up the ante a little. We're going to start seeing some very OC behavior from Sam as Sam 2.0 really comes forward, so this chapter is the springboard.

Don't hate me! Or, if you have to hate me, do so in a review, because I am seriously close to three hundred reviews for this story and I am absolutely fan-girling over it, you have no idea.

Reviews are love-love-love.

And, ps...

Samulet-Samulet-Samulet...Marie made Dean take the Samulet and he hung it up, and for one, shining moment it hurt just a little less.

And what Dean said about not needing the real one? Totally canon to my own Samulet Story, the Samulet Confessions.

Am. Dying.

But, this is the Supernatural fandom, therefore, I must express my extreme joy by writing angst.

As Always,

EverReader

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox. Mine has the real damn Samulet hanging over it like a freaking dream catcher (hmmm, a Dean-catcher? A Winchester-catcher?)

Prisoner Of War – Chapter Thirty Five

"The Haunting Of Sam Winchester"

The nightmares crept up insidiously.

That first night, Sam was so damn numb after the events of the hunt that even though he wasn't sure that he actually slept, he didn't remember any nightmares, either.

But the second night wasn't as lucky. Sam only awoken once, covered in cold sweat, twisted in the sheets, heart pounding, gasping for air.

By the next morning, he was running a mild fever, and Dean had used his executive power to keep Sam home for a second day in a row.

To be honest, Sam wasn't sure he even cared. He waffled between an undefinable pain, and a grateful, blank numbness.

The night after that, however, the dreams were worse, and he woke three times in a row, hardly getting any sleep in between.

His fever lingered, an old friend that Sam could almost feel settle in, making itself at home in his bones, the familiar weariness, the almost comforting shortness of breath, because this, at least, was understandable.

This wasn't a ghost or a curse or a bite.

This wasn't possession.

This was just what happened when you pushed someone's body too far, and it was probably the most normal thing about him now, so in a way, Sam almost cherished his illness.

There was nothing supernatural about it. His health had gone to hell in a hand basket, he wasn't getting enough sleep, and he relapsed.

This was basic science, and bizarrely comforting.

By the fourth night, Dean had dragged his bed into Sam's room, because now, when Sam woke up in terror at night, he did it screaming, thrashing about in Dean's frantic arms as he tried to escape nightmares he didn't need to remember to understand.

His fever would spike and then drop again, seemingly of it's own accord. Dean was pushing fluids and medicines and anything else he could think of on him, but Sam knew.

This was supposed to happen. He was an abomination, and of course, nature would try to counteract his existence. His illness was fate or nature or god trying to right the wrong that was inside of him,

He would get better or he wouldn't, and he couldn't bring himself to care too much. He tried to act like he did, for Dean's sake, when he was aware enough to remember to do so, anyway.

But he honestly just...didn't care. Death by illness wasn't the same thing as suicide, and Sam was starting to wonder if any of it really mattered.

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Dean Winchester was scared.

Though he'd never admitted it before, he had, of course, been scared.

When the Shtriga had attacked Sammy, back when they were just kids. A few years later, doing a werewolf hunt that had almost gone south.

When he'd been arrested for theft, and he'd been afraid John wouldn't show up on time, and Sam would be taken away by protective services until his sentencing was complete.

When Sam had run away to Flagstaff, and returned, outwardly silent but inwardly raging.

When that damn ghost had tried drowning his kid, not once, but twice.

When Sam had lead the harvest god away, and Dean hadn't been sure he would get to him in time.

So, yeah. Dean had felt fear, terror, even.

But this was something else.

This fear was insidious, creeping and crawling along his skin, dancing in the corners of his eyes, laughing twisted whispers in his ears.

This fear hovered in the shadows, nameless, shapeless, but far from powerless.

Because Sam was sick.

Dean thought maybe, just maybe, Sam was dying.

John said it was just a cold exacerbating Sam's usual tendency towards nightmares, but every one of Dean's instincts disagreed.

Hell, they practically screamed danger, no differently then they had when Constance had tossed Sam off the bridge, or when Sam had stood on the dock, that first morning when Peter had tried to contact him.

He'd never seen Sam so listless, so lifeless.

Even his previous illness paled in comparison in Dean's mind, though he knew that if they were to be measured side by side, symptom by symptom, any doctor would say that Sam had been in more danger before.

Now, the symptoms were nothing more than an irrepressible fever, and dreams so bad Dean feared sleeping, because the terror in Sam's voice when they tormented him into wakefulness made Dean want to tear his own heart out just to stop the pain.

But it was Sam's eyes that haunted Dean, that had him hovering, ignoring John's command to research a new hunt, or to leave and back up another hunter a town over.

Dean knew John was furious, but he simply couldn't leave Sam, because whatever was hunting Sam in his sleep, whatever was haunting him, Dean needed to be there to fight back, because he wasn't sure if Sam could right then.

The second Sam's writhing would awaken Dean, he'd lunge for his brother, fighting past the swinging, panicked arms and legs, wrapping himself around the panicked boy.

He'd find himself rocking Sam, a feet that should have been impossible, considering Sam's height, but Dean had never let the impossible stop him before, and this time, it was his brother on the line.

So he'd rock his kid until the panic receded, slowly, so god-awful slowly.

He'd murmur to him, whisper soothing words, mindlessly, perhaps comforting himself more than Sam because he honestly wasn't sure how much was even getting through to Sam when he was like that.

He watched as Sam lost weight frighteningly quickly, losing so much of the ground he'd regained since they'd come to Caroline.

But the worst thing was, Sam didn't seem to care.

Oh, he tried.

Or tried to pretend for Dean's sake.

He'd force down the food, swallow whatever pills Dean had come up with to try, but Dean knew, without a doubt, that he was doing it for Dean, not because he truly wanted it, or even thought it would help.

Sam was just marking time, and Dean found himself holding his breath, because he didn't know what else to do.

He was sick with fear, because he couldn't shake the thought that no matter how hard he tried, he wasn't going to get to keep Sam.

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Sam struggled against his bonds, desperate to run, trying to flee the darkness, the evil he knew instinctively was approaching.

The chains bound him tightly, however, and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't free himself.

He could feel the blood dripping from where he'd wounded his wrists in his struggle, but he paid them no heed, because he was coming.

The evil was coming, the monster in the dark, the one that waited and watched as Sam spent his days throwing himself against the constraints of his life like a bird against the bars of it's cage.

Sam could feel him closing in, slinking closer, and in terror, he screwed his eyes closed, the last defiance left to him in his vulnerable position.

"Oh, come now, Sammy. It doesn't have to be like this. Open your eyes..." The voice was soft, suggestive and cajoling, and it sent waves of terror crashing through Sam's very being.

"Why must we do this, every night? You know how it plays out. No matter what you do, it always ends the same."

Sam shook his head, breath shuddering out of him in great, broken gasps, and tears of sorrow and horror leaked from his closed lids.

"Sam." The voice was sterner now, chiding almost, and Sam couldn't help but choke down a hysterical laugh as strong fingers gripped his chin.

"Don't you want to know, Sam? Know what you are, know what Dirk was going to say? Open your eyes, Sam, and face me head on, little boy. You already know the truth."

Sam didn't want to open his eyes, he never did, never wanted the act of sight to validate the horrible truth, but like always, this is where the dream segued into true nightmare, and despite his internal struggle, his eyes opened, and he stared at his captor.

Hazel eyes met his own, the storm in his soul reflected in the other's orbs as he looked upon...

Himself.

He was the monster in the dark.

"When are you going to stop running, Sam?" The monster with his face asked, and Sam screamed...

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Dean rocked his frantic brother, wondering if Sam even knew he was sobbing into his chest in his sleep.

"Shh, shh. Wake up, Sammy, please god, just wake up. It's okay, I'm here. Whatever the hell is haunting you, kid, just tell me, and we'll freaking kill it together, okay? Oh, god, Sammy..."