A/N: Sorry for not updating sooner! Thanks for all the support, and please R&R!
Disclaimer: I can't even count how many times I've played in Kripke's sandbox.
Ghosts and Idjits
He smiles at the reflection in the cracked mirror. Of course, the face isn't his, but it may as well be.
Because he controls it. Owns it.
Just you wait, Sammy, he thinks. The real fun's about to begin.
Dean's little brother is as quiescent as ever.
The devil chuckles softly; because he couldn't have asked for a better vessel.
He spends most of the night reading by moonlight streaming in through the barred window.
Everything John told him has been written down in a journal of sorts—past encounters with monsters, their weaknesses, abilities, sketches. General but useful information.
The type that could mean the difference between life and death.
A few quiet clips against concrete and he's hurriedly shoving the journal under his cot, scrambling to appear fast asleep. He shifts onto his side and faces away from the cell door, breathing as soundlessly as possible as his heart hammers painfully beneath his chest, mouth and throat drier than the Sahara.
Keys jangle, the door opens with a loud creak, and he's shivering so damn bad he thinks they'll notice. But the guards pay him no mind. Something hits the ground hard with an odd wheezing sound, the door clangs shut, and two pairs of footsteps fade away into the night.
He lies without moving for the longest time, silently warring with himself. Should he move and risk the chance of being seen? By the sound of those sharp intakes of breath, he's not alone. Someone's in the cell with him. Only . . . how can he know if they're a friend or foe?
The wheezing continues for a moment. And then all sound dissipates like a bad dream, like cotton somehow wedged its way inside each ear. It's so still and quiet he thinks it's a possibility that his visitor has decided to take a snooze.
Or that he imagined the whole thing.
So, very carefully, he sits up on the cot. To his right on the hard floor lies an older man with a scruffy beard, left cheek pressed to the cool ground. Lids shield eyes from the confines of the cell, mouth open slightly; a blue hat sits just out of the stranger's reach. Even from this angle, he can tell the man is balding.
He stands and steps forward. The slumbering guy remains still, dead to the world. He kneels and holds a out a hand—warm air meets the open palm.
That's when he notices the eyes have opened.
The man is suddenly awake and scrambling away from him, muttering incoherent words that sound suspiciously like curses. He backs into the stone wall where shadows successfully conceal all features. When he steps toward the stranger, moonlight illuminates a pale hand that prevents advancement.
"Who are you?" the man asks, fear evident in a deep tone. "What do you want?"
He tries to respond, but his voice is hoarse from lack of use. Clearing his throat and swallowing once, he shifts forward, offering a hand to assure his visitor that he is not a threat.
But just as he parts his cracked lips, the man beats him to it.
"Dean?"
It's a while before the man speaks again. The newcomer can only stare at the prisoner, mouth parted in silent surprise, face blanched.
Like he's seen a ghost.
But this just confuses the hell out of him. Dean? The name sounds strangely familiar, as if he's heard it before, like he should know the guy. Maybe Robert is mistaking him for someone else in the prison.
Because that can't be his name.
"Are you looking for someone?"
The stranger sighs. "I was. Load of good it did me, too, winding up here. But there's no use in bellyachin' about it now. Found you, didn't I?" His mouth pulls up slightly at one corner.
He frowns. This man obviously thinks he's this guy named Dean. His eyebrows stitch together. "You were looking for me?"
The man looks stung. " 'Course I was," he says, then scoffs as if the surprise in the prisoner's tone is familiar, as if he's experienced it countless times before. "Really keep you in lockdown mode here, don't they?" When he receives no response, he adds, "Jesus, kid. You look like hell."
Before he can ask who the man is, a sharp pain shoots through his skull. He grunts and slaps a hand to his forehead.
...Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles; impenetrable darkness surrounds him on all sides. Voices taunt him just outside the range of his vision.
Chains are everywhere. Black, always black. Hung in random arrangements, draped above and below, pulled taut.
No matter the direction, they all lead back to him.
Cuffed to his wrists and ankles. Fastened to a meat hook jabbed into his shoulder. He screams for help, for someone, anyone. . . . For—
"Dean? Hey, you with me?"
The face of the stranger swims above him as his eyesight returns. He accepts a blurry hand that brings him vertical, though he feels as if he's sprinted through a marathon. Hunched over, he gulps in air and tries to understand what the hell just happened.
When he finally does regain his breath, the next question is pointed at the man: "How do you know me?"
The guy frowns, then looks the prisoner up and down once, realization slowly dawning on his face. "Oh, no... No! What did they do to you, Dean? They wipe your mind with demon disinfectant?"
"What are you talking about?"
The man loses control for a split second and kicks the cell door, which rattles loudly. "Dammit!"
"Hey, watch it! They'll have both our asses for that!" he whispers heatedly.
The newcomer snatches the hat from the floor, shoves it on his head, then stands right in front the man he believes to be Dean. "Go on, look me in the eye and tell me you have no idea who I am."
Somewhat hesitantly, he obeys. But there's no recognition whatsoever displayed in the confused features of his face.
The man sighs. "It's me, ya idjit. It's Bobby."