A/N: Just wanted to say a quick thanks to Faithfulcynic, Katerina17, Marvin is my Muse, Sera and Tails, Lilly B., Onari, Poaetpainter, Tempestt, JazzyIrish, Ster1, Julie, and heather03nmg for all the great reviews. This story is kind of a mammoth so I really appreciate the encouragement. This particular chapter is entirely from Sam's POV . . . but do not fear, all Deangirls. Dean will be back. Oh, and I'm hoping to get this posted a little more regularly, but, well . . . there's that whole life thing and yeah.
Summary: Desperately trying to save Sam, Dean finds a spell to steal his powers. He makes a deal with the Demon, sacrificing his soul for Sam's safety.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine, and this is the last time I'm doing this for this story. If you suddenly become concerned about who owns what, refer to Chapter 1. This is just a hobby. Or, you know, an obsession. Whatever.
"The Descent to Normal"
I.
It wasn't sunlight that woke Sam, or some voice from deep inside him, or even some guardian angel whispering of danger and demons and Dean. Instead, one of the motel patrons, undoubtedly on some week-long bender, screeched his car into the parking lot and ran into the side of the building. The motel had shook with the impact, but that hadn't been enough to wake up Sam. It was enough, however, to jostle the crappy flower painting off the wall, the one that Dean had seen and declared a "pretty piece of pink puke." The painting had landed on the pillow, about an inch or so from Sam's head.
No angels or brotherly instinct. Just some drunk guy and a painting and Sam woke up, startled, grasping the sides of his head in anticipation of pain. When it didn't come, he lowered his hands, trying to work through his confusion.
Uh, Sam? Dean-In-His-Head said. The pink puke painting didn't actually hit you. Picture hit head equals ow. Picture don't hit head . . . equals no ow. Think you can keep up there, College Boy?
"Smart ass," Sam muttered out loud. Anyway, that's not what I meant. He had woken up expecting his head to hurt, the way it always did after a vision. He'd had a vision last night, hadn't he? He thought . . . he thought . . . but he couldn't quite remember . . .
Sam slowly sat up in bed, still half-expecting the pain to emerge (like ha-ha, buddy, we FOOLED you) but it never came. He definitely felt groggy, more muddled than usual by early morning standards, but there wasn't pain. He was just a little . . . something. Woozy. Different.
But hey, no pain, so, you know. No complaints.
Dean-In-His-Head made sense. But something still felt . . . off.
Sam glanced over to look at Real Dean, but his brother's bed was empty, didn't even look like it had been slept in . . . and Dean wasn't really one for making beds. "Dean?" Sam called as he slowly stood. The bathroom looked empty. "De—"
He stopped.
Dean in the cabin. Dean with the DEMON in the cabin. Dean saying . . . Dean saying . . . Dean offering his . . .
"God."
Sam sunk back down to the bed, trying to remember what he had seen. Usually, he remembered his visions so clearly, but this was different; this was like trying to remember a dream, and the pieces of it kept shifting around. Quickly, he ran over to his duffel bag and grabbed one of his notebooks, writing down everything he could remember.
He'd been dreaming. . . no, he'd been having a vision . . . of Dean in the cabin with the Demon, offering his soul. I won't put up a fight. But you have to let Sammy go. You have to stop turning him into whatever you're turning him into, and never go after him
God, Dean, you—but he stopped himself before he could complete the thought. He needed to focus, dammit. He needed to remember everything he'd seen before he could help his brother. He'd been standing there watching, horrified, and then . . . then . . .
Then everything had stopped. Dean had stopped talking, the Demon stopped moving. Everything had been frozen in time. And another Dean, not the vision Dean, but the real-present time Dean had appeared behind him. He'd had a stone in his hand; it was obsidian, Sam remembered. He had noticed that right before he had his brain ripped from his skull.
Gee, Dean-In-His-Head said. Good to see that your penchant for exaggeration hasn't entirely gone to waste there, Sammy. And that was fair because obviously Sam's brain hadn't been ripped from his forehead, but damn it had felt like that, like fingers ripping through his skin and pulling away a piece of him.
Sam couldn't remember what piece that was, but that didn't seem so important right now. I have to find Dean, he thought to himself. I have to find Dean before he does something stupid.
Too late, Dean-In-His-Head said, but Sam ignored him because Dean-In-His-Head could be a real ass sometimes.
Shut up, Sam thought and went to look out the window. The drunk guy who had crashed his car was now stumbling around waving his arms around. People were surrounding him, but none of them looked particularly concerned. Most of them were just pissed that the drunk guy had woken them up.
The cops weren't there yet, but they would be soon. Sam had to get out of there. Which was going to be difficult without . . .
The Impala. It was sitting right there.
Dean left it behind.
Well, of course he left it behindyou dumbass, Dean-In-His-Head said. What? You thought he was going to take it with him? Put a whole new meaning to Highway to Hell?
Of course not. But still, the fact that Dean had just left behind his baby . . . it was Dean giving up his soul. In a less literal but just as haunting way.
"God," Sam said again. "God."
God don't got shit to do with it. Look, Sam, you've got to get out of here. How are you going to save me if you're sitting in some cell? Come on, Sam, you know the drill. Get a fucking move on.
Sam unconsciously started to follow his brother's orders, as if they were real and spoken out loud. He packed up their stuff quickly, their stuff because Dean had left all his behind. I'm not leaving you behind, Dean. He was heading for the bathroom to snag their toothbrushes when he saw the note sitting on the edge of the table.
Maybe it's all mistake. Maybe he's just getting some . . . cheeseburgers . . . or something.
Denial was a strong force, easily shattering both reason and logic. Twenty minutes after their dad had died, Sam had been struck by the desperate feeling that it had all been some kind of error, some kind of twisted blunder. Never mind the fact that Sam had seen the body on the floor; Sam knew there had to be some royal screw-up, because his dad couldn't be dead. It was just . . . it was unthinkable. He had just passed out and was breathing shallowly or something, or he was pretending to be dead to fool the Demon somehow, or maybe he had even come down with a very sudden, spontaneous case of intense narcolepsy, but his Dad wasn't dead. That just wasn't possible.
Except it was, and Sam knew it, just like he knew that Dean hadn't gone for cheeseburgers and a fucking milkshake. You don't got time for this denial BS right now. Get your stuff and get the hell out of here.
But Sam couldn't do that, not without reading the note. He crossed the room and picked it up, not surprised to see one of his hands trembling minutely. "Sam," he read quietly to himself.
Sam,
So you're probably pretty pissed at me. Yeah, I get that, I do. I'd probably be pissed at me too, taking off like this and doing what I'm doing, but the thing is, I'm playing the older brother card, and that means two things. One, I'm always right—older brothers always are—and two, I got to look out for you. So that's what I'm doing, Sammy. I'm looking out for you.
This ain't how I wanted things to turn out, man, but it's the way they did so—I'm okay with it, Sam, really. I'm okay with it as long as you're all right, as long as you're safe. And you'll be safe, man, I've taken care of it. You don't got to worry anymore, not about the Demon or about your visions or even the occasional bending of spoons. It's all gone, Sam, all of it. You're normal as normal can be.
So you enjoy it, man. You've been bitching about normal for years, and now you've finally got it so I want you to enjoy it. Don't know if Stanford is still an option—you're gonna have to play it safe for at least a little while, but I figure you can fake some transcripts or whatever and you could still go to school somewhere. You got to change your name, of course, but I wouldn't worry too much about that. Nothing good's ever happened to a Winchester, anyway. May I suggest . . . Francis?
So, you know, go do your normal thing. Find a place to live, be a lawyer or something pansy like that. Find some girl that's way out of your league, get her drunk, and marry her—I mean it, Sam, don't be tied to Jessica forever. You told me once she wouldn't want that. And hey, on the off chance you actually have some good looking boys, you can name 'em after me. Watch out, though. They'll be handsome little devils, and they're going to get into all KINDS of trouble.
You just be happy, Sam. Wherever you are, just be happy.
And if you ever see me again, you shoot me in the heart. I won't be your brother, not anymore.
I love you, Sammy.
Sam read the letter, then read it again, and by the time he had put it down, both of his hands were shaking. He could hear sirens wailing closer, but he just couldn't move, not then, not for the longest time. He did it for you, Dean-In-His-Head said. He did it so you could have your precious normal life.
This is your fault. He did it for you. He did it for you. He—
No.
Sam picked the note back up and crammed it into his pocket. "Fuck that, Dean," he said. "Fuck it. I'm not letting this happen." He finished packing his bags and headed out to the Impala, stepping over the drunk guy who had passed out on the curb.
Once in the car, he sat in the driver's seat, and held his hands on the wheel. "I'm going to save you, Dean. I'm going to save you."
Then he turned on the ignition, and let AC/DC blast out the Dean-In-His-Head whispering liar, liar.
You're too late.
II.
He wanted to go straight to the cabin. He wanted to drive 100 miles an hour, crash straight through the cabin wall, and pull Dean out before he could do anything stupid. He could run over the Demon a couple of times, just for good measure, just to be on the safe side. Sam just needed to get there, and get there now
Problem was they were on E. And unless Sam wanted to walk, he had to stop at the gas station first.
Eliciting a string of curses long and varied enough to make his brother proud, Sam drove the car over to the local Chevron station and stormed inside. He barely glanced at the kid behind the counter before throwing a twenty down and turning around.
He was in the middle of stalking out when he heard, "Dude," from behind him. Sam turned to look at the gas station attendant. He couldn't have been more that twenty, sweaty, shaky, and obviously hopped up on something. "You okay, man?"
Jeez, Sam. When the TWEAKERS notice that you look like shit . . .
Shut up. "I'm fine," Sam said shortly.
"You sure, man? Cause, dude, you look strung out. I could hook you up with something, you know. Help you chill out, help you relax."
"Yeah." Sam raised an eyebrow at the kid's hands, fingers twitching violently against the glass counter. "Cause you look so relaxed right now. Thanks, man, but I think I'll pass."
He rolled his eyes and was starting to turn when the kid cursed and scrambled over the counter. "Hey," the kid said. "Hey, fuck you, man. You don't know nuthin bout me. You don't know nuthin."
Sam just ignored him. His moved back towards the door and the kid's hand grabbed him from behind, shaking fingers clenching into his right shoulder. "Hey," the kid said again. "Don't you fuckin walk away from me. I'm talking to you, dammit. You don't just walk away."
Sam turned slowly and glared at him. "Kid," he said, as clearly and slowly as he could. "I do not have time for this. So take your hand off of my shoulder and back off. Right now."
Despite Dean's claims that Sam had the most innocent "pinchable-aw-shucks-aren't-I-so-sweet-little-lost-puppy-dog" face ever, Sam knew that he could look dangerous when he wanted to. He didn't let most people see it, had to hide it for the four years that he was away (and Jessica had only seen it once, and she had been scared; Sam hated that she had been scared) but he knew that if he wanted to, he could let it all come out. The darkness he had known, he could share it with just a look.
A look that said, I've seen things that you didn't even know you had to fear
A look that said, quite clearly, Don't fuck with me. I've got better things to do
Sam usually let Dean give that look. But Dean wasn't here right now, and Sam didn't have time for this. So he glared at the kid for all his worth, a silent warning to let him be.
The kid was stupider than he was high. His grip only tightened into Sam's shoulder.
"Don't call me kid," the kid said obnoxiously, his voice wavering in and out as though he were 12 years old. "You think you're so old, man? You think you're so tough?"
Oh, for Chrissake, Dean-In-His-Head said loudly. Just knock him unconscious and be DONE with this.
God, it was a tempting thought, but Sam really didn't want to get into a fight if he didn't have to. Not that he couldn't take the kid, hell, it'd probably only take one off-hand punch, but Sam didn't trust himself right now. He felt like he was shaking from the inside out. It might start with one punch, but Sam didn't think it would end there, not with this ominous buzzing in his head and this tightness in his gut.
And you know why, yeah, you know why. Because look outside, at the sun. It's too late, Dean's---
No.
Sam shoved the guy off a fraction harder than he needed to and headed for the front door again, determined to get out of here. This kid was wasting his timeDean's time, godammit, and nothing sounded sweeter than just kicking the crap out of him.
Watch it there, tiger, you're starting to sound like me, Dean-In-His-Head thought, and Sam thought back to him, Well, there are worse things to sound like.
Sam had his hand on the door when he felt the kid launch into him, slamming his head into the side of the wall. "Fuck you," the kid shrieked, trying to pull Sam up so he could knock him down again. "Fuck you, fuck you! Like you've even got problems—"
And that whole seeing red thing? It wasn't exactly red. It wasn't exactly seeing. It was just fury and a jump in time.
When Sam came back to himself, the kid was on the floor, writhing in a fetal position, his bruised, bleeding cheek pinned under Sam's boot.
Sam couldn't breathe, not for a good minute. You're changing, he tried to tell himself. You're changing, remember? It's not you. It's not you. But that wasn't what this was. He wasn't changing, not anymore.
He could blame the Demon for a lot in his life, but this (broken nose, broken bones, tears like blood running down his cheeks), this?
This was all on Sam. Kicking the shit out of this kid was all his doing.
Because there hadn't been anything controlling Sam, just rage fueled by grief. Human grief, a brother's grief, because he knew he was already too late.
He'd known, known before he'd walked in here, known before he even left the motel. He'd known, but he hadn't wanted to know, so he refused it, pushed it back.
Look outside, at the sun. Look at the position of the sun.
It was late in the morning, pushing noon, and the deal had been made just after sunup.
Dean had traded his life, his freedom, his soul away . . . and Sam had just slept, slept right on through it.
There's nothing you can do. You're too late. You never had a chance.
He'd find nothing at that cabin, except maybe blood.
Sam pulled away from the kid, who was still whimpering on the ground, saying things like "don't" and "please" and other whispered prayers of mercy. Sam walked backwards out of the gas station, staring as the kid just laid there twitching, and then finally remembered to look around (check your surroundings, Sammy, you have to check your surroundings). Someone could have seen him. Someone could have seen what he had done.
Christ. Christ, Dean, Christ. Look what happened, look what I—
There was no one there. Sam turned and ran towards the Impala, wanting to slide in and just drive the hell away.
Never look back. Just drive like a bat out of hell and pretend that he hadn't almost killed some 20 year old kid.
Of course, there's just one little, teensie-weensie problem with that, Dean-In-His-Head reminded him.
Sam looked at the reading on his gas gauge. It was still on E. Next time, you might want to try beating up the kid AFTER you've already pumped the gas into the car, Dean-In-His-Head said. Now you know what you gotta do. Unless you plan on hanging here for the cops, of course.
No. No, he couldn't do that. He had to get to Dean. He'd have to get out of the car, pump the gas . . . just pumping some gas after beating the shit out of some kid.
It's all gone, Sam, all of it. You're normal as normal can be.
Sam stared numbly at his bloody knuckles and then, slowly, started to laugh.
III.
It had taken a few minutes for Sam to pump gas into the Impala, and by the time he was done, the kid was still lying in a heap inside the station. Sam almost went to go check on him, but then thought better of it. He had to get to the cabin, even though he knew what he would find.
He still had to go. He didn't have any other choice.
So he went. Drove like the devil to get there, drove in a way that would have made Dean protest ("Be careful, Sammy, Jesus. You got to take care of your girl, or she won't take care of you.") and what did he find? Nothing. The cabin was empty.
Dean wasn't there.
The Demon wasn't either, but he had been there; that was clear enough. Remnants of Dean's summoning spell were still cast upon the floor. That was the thing, about summoning demons; after you did it, you had bigger things on your mind than cleaning up candle wax. The air was thick too; Sam felt like he was choking down the sulfur, and he might have escaped for a gulp of fresh air if he hadn't seen Dean's necklace lying in the middle of the floor.
Sam knelt down and picked up the necklace, holding it in one palm to stare at it. "He's had this for years," Sam said softly to himself, almost unaware that he had even spoken at all. "He's had this forever, ever since we were kids."
Sam had no idea where Dean had gotten the necklace, or why it was so important to him, what it was for, what it did. He had come up with a number of theories, of course, but he had never asked the question, because somehow he knew Dean wouldn't give him an answer. Not a straight one, anyway, not something without a joke, and Sam got tired of Dean's jokes sometimes, when he just wanted Dean to be honest and open for once. No, Sam didn't know what the necklace meant to Dean. He only knew what the necklace meant to Sam.
Dean, he thought as he threaded the chain between his fingers. It's just supposed to mean Dean
But Dean wasn't here. Dean had given up his soul . . . and he was gone.
Gone for good.
No, Sam thought, no. I'm not letting that happen. He could find Dean, he would. He just needed some help. This was—God, this was too much. Dean had . . . Dean had turned for him, for Chrissake (And if you ever see me again, you shoot me in the heart. I won't be your brother, not anymore) and, "Fuck that, Dean. I just have to think. There's a way, I can do this, I just have to think—"
Okay, Sammy, Dean-In-His-Head said blithely. You want me to lay out the situation for you? Okay, here we go: I'm EVIL now, you dumbass. I found some spell, some voodoo-hoodoo mumbo, and I took your powers and sold my soul. Or something, fuck, man, I don't know the technicalities, but it's not like they matter. Point is, I'm EVIL, okay, and there ain't no reversing that. Whatever this is, it's not a possession. You can't exorcise what's been done. You can't CHANGE what's been done.
"I can," Sam said desperately. "I have to. I just . . . I just don't know how. I just need some help . . ."
And exactly who were you thinking to ask? God? Yeah, he's always been on our side. Maybe he'll send down an angel or two to come smite my ass; good thinking, bro; that'll help me out a lot. There's NOBODY to help you, Sammy, not with something like this. Dad's dead, Jim's dead . . . do I really need to go down the list? It goes a lot like this: dead, dead, dead, and more dead. I told you before, man, hunting's a dangerous gig, and those who are lucky enough to still be alive sure as hell aren't going to help you save me.
"Ellen . . ."
Man, we don't even know Ellen, and from what I've been able to tell? Not exactly a fuzzy wuzzy, soft-spot-for-sob-stories kind of woman. She'd probably pat you on the shoulder, get you a beer, and tell you I'm gone. And Jo? Probably not looking to help you after you nearly killed her that one time. For that matter, Ellen might not be happy to see you either, after that. So, who does that leave us? Bobby?
"Bobby," Sam said suddenly. "Bobby will help us. He's . . . he's always been a good friend . . ."
A good friend, Sammy, not a suicidal one. Bobby isn't gonna have any answers, man, except the obvious one. Look, I get you don't want to face this, Sam, but you've got to understand, it's done, Sam. It's over. There's nothing you can do for me now.
"That's not true," Sam snapped, unconsciously squeezing Dean's necklace tighter. "That's not true, godammit. I'm not going to lose you, Dean."
But Dean-In-His-Head was right . . . about Bobby at least, and about the others. Nobody else would understand this. They'd say that Dean was the hunt now.
Dean would never be the hunt. Sam was just going to have to do this on his own.
I just have to find a trail, Sam thought. Dean, please still be in there enough to give me something to go on
Sam stood up and slipped the necklace over his head. He'd find something. He'd find a way.
He had to.
IV.
There was no way.
Sam stared dully at the countertop, fingers tightening around the empty shot glass in his hand. He was in a bar somewhere, though he couldn't say which one; he had no real memory of driving here, just walking in the front door with a thirst for unconsciousness that he couldn't describe, not with words anyway. There were no words, not for this.
There hadn't been a trail. There hadn't been anything
Sam had spent hours at the cabin, looking for some sign, some something, but all he had was Dean's necklace—no footprints, no tire tracks, as if Dean had just snapped his fingers and disappeared. And hey, maybe he could do that now—Sam had never fully given in to the "darkside", so how the hell would he know?
Either way, it didn't matter. Dean was gone, and Sam had no way of tracking him.
He'd called his brother's phone and left messages till he was blue in the face. He'd torn through his dad's journal, looking for some kind of spell to pinpoint Dean's location. He'd even prayed, for what good that did him, not just to God but any god he could think of. Hell, why not? They'd faced demons of every religion—was it so impossible to think that they could find some merciful spirit for a change?
But in the end, there was nothing. No miracles, no trails, no clue.
"Can I refill that shot, darlin'?"
Sam glanced up from the counter. A woman in her early fifties was standing before him, dark hair, no-nonsense attitude. Looked kind of like Ellen, to tell the truth. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Make it a double." He hoped she wasn't the kind to ask questions.
The Ellen-Look-A-Like wasn't. She poured his shot and moved away, leaving him to stare at it for a long minute before throwing the whiskey back. It burned going down, making him grimace, almost gag, because he had never cared for whiskey, never cared for any kind of hard alcohol, really. Whiskey had been his father's drink. That, of course, had made it Dean's drink.
Now it was his drink. Because, like it or not, he was the only Winchester left.
The only one with a soul, anyway.
Sam ordered another shot and wondered if Dean actually liked the taste of whiskey. It'd be just like him, really, to drink something he hated just so Dad would approve of him. God, his fucking Dad with all his fucking marine bullshit, Dean and his fucking need to impress him, to be the good son. Goddamn Dean and his need to protect everyone—godamn his father for encouraging it.
Sam didn't know who he was more pissed at, just that he was pissed. He was so pissed he couldn't see straight, so pissed he wanted to find something and kick it, till it felt just as shitty as he did. He wanted to find something and kill it, just as an outlet for all this rage and guilt and self-loathing.
He wanted to kill something, anything . . . but he wouldn't, because he wasn't changing anymore. Not into anything demonic, at any rate, not until a cold-blooded killer murdering at will. Maybe he had changed over the last couple of years, but that was only to be expected when your girlfriend and father and mother were all murdered by the same thing. The changes he had felt over the last few months, the descent that he'd been making into something sub-human, that had all ended now. He was normal as normal could be.
Except, of course, he really wasn't, and he was still falling, just to somewhere else. Just to a different depth of darkness.
One that he'd have to face alone.
Dean's gone, Dean-In-His-Head said, and Sam nodded because it was true.
Dean's gone.
Dean's gone.
Sam ordered another shot.
TBC
A/N: Reviews are merciful, helpful, and appreciated ; )