The Illusionist II

Chapter 7 : My Immortal

Warning : Torture, violence, and abuse. Don't say I didn't tell ya so.

His legs were sore, but it was that good kind of sore—the kind that reminded you that you were doing something—that reminded you were that you were still alive.

His calves burned all the way back to the motel and he was covered in sweat (even in the frigid thirty-five degree weather) by the time he fished the key from his hoodie pocket. He quickly hurried in and shut the door behind him, rushing over to the standard motel heater/air conditioning unit, placing his frozen hands where hot air should be coming out, only to find nothing blowing out of the machine. He shivered involuntarily, his body recognizing that it was just about as cold in the motel room as it had been outside. His brow lowered as he messed with the unit, only to find that no matter how much banging on it or flipping switches and turning dials on the blasted thing, it still refused to work.

"Sammy!" he called out, glancing behind him and nearly jumping out of his skin when he saw his brother sitting at the table, laptop planted in its usual spot in front of him. Sam's eyes were focused on the screen, and only moved when Dean called his name a second time.

"What?" Sam asked, brow lowered, eyes narrowed.

Dean blinked at him, a questioning look set upon his visage. "Did you know the heater was broken?" he asked, pointing to the machine.

Sam stared at him, stony look turning his lips downward into a frown. "Yeah. And?"

"Aren't you cold? It's freezing in here," Dean stated, coming to stand next to his oblivious brother.

"It's only freezing in here because you're pathetic and can't handle the cold," Sam spat, scooting the chair out and away from the table and standing up, gaze hardening as he glared down at his older brother.

Dean stared at his brother, a twinge of pain hitting him square in his chest. "What?" he asked, taken aback by Sam's words.

"You heard me," Sam said, stepping forward, quickly closing the gap in between them. Dean couldn't help but back away, trying to make it as unnoticeable as possible. "Oh wait, that's right, you can't. I forgot."

Even though Dean couldn't hear the words his brother was speaking, he could surely understand them and the venom that was laced within them. "Sammy, I-"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, one of Sam's large hands coming to shove him into the nearest wall. Dean felt all the air escape his lungs and the way his body was having a hard time taking anymore in to replace what he had lost. He gasped and gasped, but could barely breathe in anything.

"You've always been weak, Dean. Ever since we were kids. And I can't do it anymore! I'm sick and tired of taking care of your ass!" Sam shouted, slamming Dean into the wall again, this time harder than before.

"Sammy-"

"Don't 'Sammy' me! I'm sick of it! Oh, poor Dean can't hear anymore! Oh, poor Dean, too damned stupid to understand sign language! You're a pathetic excuse for a hunter, Dean! And an even more pathetic excuse for a brother!" The cords in Sam's neck were bulging now, his face reddening in anger.

He slammed Dean up against the wall again, this time the older hunter's head connecting with the wood. "Aw, did that hurt?" Sam taunted, fury in his eyes. He shoved Dean again, this time as hard as he could, and Dean couldn't help but see white afterward, stars dancing in his eyes.

"Sam," he whispered, voice strained and hoarse. "Sammy, please-"

His pleas were cut off as he felt a fist connect with his right cheek, Sam's strong-knuckled punch knocking him to the threadbare carpet. The next thing he knew, Sam's boots were connecting with his ribs, and even though he tried to hold it back, a cry escaped his lips. It wasn't long before he felt it again, another hard kick to his stomach.

He felt something warm coating his lips, but before he had enough time to register that it was blood, Sam kicked him again and that time, Dean was positive he felt something break inside of him. After a few moments of the same treatment, it stopped, just as abruptly as it started. He felt one of Sam's hands fist a patch of his short hair and pull his head upwards, neck straining at the force. Reluctantly, he cracked one eye open.

And what he saw froze him to the bone.

Sam's eyes were black.

Demon-possessed black.

"Miss me?" Not-Sam asked, devious grin turning up the corners of his lips. "I thought I told you before, try as you might, you'd never get rid of me. You should've listened."

The panic that seared into Dean's chest was instant—his heart beat becoming erratic and fast—too fast.

"Wait, I'm going to make this easy on myself," Not-Sam stated before laying a single finger on Dean's forehead. The effect was instantaneous—he could hear again.

And the noises—the sound of the faucet in the bathroom dripping, a train barreling over tracks somewhere in the distance, a car horn blaring outside their room—he could hear them all, and his ears ached at the sounds.

He clenched his jaw and swallowed thickly, trying desperately to disguise the pain, but when he saw the grin widen on not-Sam, he knew there was no hiding anything from that monster.

In the back of his mind, he wondered, was he truly so terrible that he deserved this?

"Of course, you do, Dean," and when the demon spoke, its voice thundered in Dean's ears and he tried in vain to cover them only to have his hands slammed back down to the floor. "You deserve all of the pain that you've suffered through all these years. And you deserve all the pain I'm going to give you in the coming as well." Not-Sam giggled at his own words, tightening the grip he had on Dean's hair. "Get up," it ordered, strong fingers threatening to pull the light brown locks out right from his scalp.

Dean let out a breath and closed his eyes tight, not wanting to believe that this was happening.

First Dad and now Sammy?

No...

"I said get up, Dean. Now," it commanded, making its grip even tighter.

Dean's jaw clenched visibly underneath his skin and he placed both hands on the carpet, arms shaking weakly as he tried to push himself up. He felt his ribs screaming, the pain almost becoming unbearable as he brought his knees up so that he was on all fours. A whimper escaped his lips and he immediately bit his bottom lip, ashamed at the showcase of weakness on his part.

Without warning, Not-Sam hauled him up, handling him as though he were a mere duffel bag full of clothes rather than a human being. Dean's head swam at the dizziness that had snaked its way into his brain. He stumbled, hand catching onto Not-Sam's arm so that he wouldn't fall.

"So, Deano, when's the last time you actually ate something, huh?" the brunette asked, the grin back on its freshly licked lips.

Dean kept silent, unfocused gaze falling to the floor where he silently decided he'd rather be instead of upright as he now was, and about to fall over. Nausea flared in his gut, the taste of bile stretching across his tongue.

"That long, huh?" the demon inquired with a dry laugh, holding him up effortlessly with one arm. "How's that working for you? Depriving yourself of food and just living off of beer and whatever other alcohol you can conjure up? Apparently not too well," Not-Sam muttered with a chuckle, throwing Dean down onto the motel chair he'd previously been sitting on.

"What do you want with me?" Dean asked breathlessly, head hanging in shame and pain. He swallowed back the sick that was starting to move up his throat and wondered how much longer he could keep it down. Probably not much longer. God, his head was pounding...

"Well," Not-Sam started, pulling up the other chair and sitting on it with the back-end facing forwards, "Since I was in the neighborhood, I figured I'd stop by and have a little fun," the demon said, lips quirking upwards devilishly.

"That right?" Dean asked, voice barely above a whisper as he tried to stifle a cough, only to have it hit him full force, barreling out of his chest and throat and past his lips.

"You don't sound too good there, Deano? Everything alright?" Not-Sam asked, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he reached over, large hand pounding on his back.

Dean lurched forward at the touch, another cough—this one deeper than before—emanating from his lungs. It didn't help that he heard something else crack when the demon touched him.

"Oops, didn't mean to break that one too. God, how weak are you now, Dean?" Not-Sam paused, bringing a finger to his own chin and tapping it lightly. "Hmm, you know what? I think I need to see how weak you are. How 'bout we just take this off?" he said and immediately began to pull Dean's hoodie and shirts off.

White and black and blue spots danced before Dean's eyes as pain erupted throughout his ribs, the jarring from the demon nearly ripping his clothes off making his ability to not wretch basically nil. It wasn't long before he was vomiting up on the floor, one pale arm holding his side as started to dry-heave once all the water was out of his system.

"Well, looky what we have here," the demon said, tossing Dean's clothes casually to the floor. "Looks like somebody's been working overtime on their figure."

Dean shivered, the cold air in the room hitting his rail-thin frame abruptly. He forced his eyes not to glance down at his stomach. He hated his damned stomach.

"My, my, my, it's only been three months, and damned if you haven't done a number on yourself. So many new scars," Not-Sam said, long fingers tracing the various markings on Dean's flesh. "This one's still my favorite though," he grinned, running his fingertips down the jagged cross in the middle of Dean's chest. "Ironic, isn't it? A demon carving a cross onto a human's body. One that doesn't even believe in God. Ha, that's hilarious!" Not-Sam laughed and Dean's eyes went from half-lidded to wide, the scar beginning to burn.

"Finally got you're attention! Thought I was beginning to lose you there." The demon paused and stared at him, and Dean hated it—hated the way it was using his brother's body, hated the way it was looking through his eyes and staring at him.

He moved without thinking, lunging for his father's journal. His fingertips brushed against the leather only to be stopped almost instantly, a strong hand clamping down on his wrist. A cry escaped his lips as he felt the bones grind together, and almost started to wretch again when he heard them crack and break.

"You just don't listen, do you, Dean?" Not-Sam asked, voice low and eyes full of fury and hate. "You might have banished me once," he said, pausing only to squeeze harder, "but it will not—not happen again. Do you understand me?" the demon ground out, voice impossibly deeper.

A whimper shot out passed Dean's lips, and though he hated showing any sign of weakness, the pain that was flaring through his wrist made the small sound seem justifiable.

To himself anyway.

"Aw, this is all I have to do to get that pretty little sound out of you?" It laughed, making Sam's eyes gleam. "Well, I think we're onto something here." It stood up, Dean's wrist still in its hand as it slammed him back down onto the chair and Dean was pretty positive his tailbone was now broken. He bit his lip at the pain, hard enough to draw blood, but the demon didn't stop. It jerked his injured arm back behind him and grabbed his other as well, even as he struggled—albeit fruitlessly—and tied them behind his back, using one of his t-shirts as a restraint.

"I bet this is a familiar position for you, isn't it?" and it laughed, and Dean hated it more because it was using Sammy's voice and Sammy's vocal chords, and Sam would never laugh at him—

"My God, are you serious?" It stopped laughing, though there was still a surefire grin plastered across not-Sam's lips.

It's not Sammy. He wouldn't do this. It's not Sammy.

The demon knelt down in front of him, brown bangs hanging in its face. "No, you're absolutely right, Dean. Sammy would never do this," and it back-handed Dean, leaving his sunken cheek red and flaring and already blossoming a bruise. "Or this." Another white-knuckled punch that easily separated the flesh of his lips, tearing the pink-colored skin in two. "No, your sweet-cheeked little brother would never, ever do anything to hurt you, Deano," it said, the sarcasm once again present in its tone.

Dean saw white again as it grabbed a hold of his right index finger and twisted it, snapping the digit at the knuckle and tearing apart the bones and muscle underneath his skin. He couldn't stop the scream that parted his blood-caked lips, the noise falling listlessly on the demon's ears.

Not-Sam clapped at the sound, toothy grin lighting up his face. "Familial pain is the worst kind of pain, isn't it, Dean?" and the grin was gone, replaced with a dangerous expression in its wake. "It hurts-" the demon paused while it grabbed another fist-full of Dean's closely cropped hair in its hand, "when someone you love and you think loves you back hurts you and doesn't give a damn about you, doesn't it?" It didn't wait for an answer, just titled its head to the side and leaned in closer towards the injured hunter. "Your daddy don't love you, as you can tell. Hell, the minute he had the chance, he hurried up and jumped town. Left your sorry ass in a hotel because he just couldn't stand to look at you another second. The thought of you repulsed him-"

"Shut up," Dean murmured in a whisper-thin voice.

"-And every time he saw your face, he wanted to puke. You disgusted him. Knew you were nothing but damaged goods, and there was no way in hell he could drag your sorry ass along with him anymore-"

"Shut up," Dean repeated, voice even smaller than before.

"-And that car that you love with all your pathetic heart? He didn't leave it for you because he felt guilty and wanted you to have it because it just meant so damned much to you...No, he left it because he couldn't stand the stench of your sorry ass in there anymore. Couldn't stand knowing that your lazy ass had basically put an indent in the passenger seat of his prized possession. He couldn't drive it anymore because it just made him think of you and believe me, you're something he wants to forget. You think he's going around telling people about his two wonderful sons? Nope, as far as he's concerned, he's only got one, and it ain't you, sweetheart."

"Fuck. Off." He had put all his hate into those two words, and if his voice wouldn't have broke on the last one, he was sure it would have made a difference. But it hadn't. Instead, the demon kept on going, not even giving his voice a second thought.

"Then there's Sammy. Good ol' apple pie, Sammy. The little brother that had to learn sign language first because God knows-" he said, knocking on Dean's skull with a fisted hand, making the poor hunter's headache pulse even more, "you were too damned stupid to be able to do it yourself. Little Sammy who you were supposed to look after because daddy was too busy going after the thing that killed your mama-" The word made Dean wince, and that gesture alone only made things worse. "-You would think that if good ol' Sammy really cared about you, he would've stuck around instead of running straight off to college the moment he had the chance. You know, he carried around that acceptance letter for six whole months. That's right, the little brother who you thought told you everything, didn't tell you that, huh? That's because he wanted to get as far away as possible from you too, Deano. He was sick and tired of caring for his poor deaf brother. All those times he stood up for you when someone called you names or made fun of you-" The demon raised its hand to the side of its mouth as though it were telling a secret, and even whispered its next words. "He hated you for it."

Dean shook his head, closing his eyes so tight that red enveloped his vision. He was trying so hard, so damned hard not to cry, but the tears were there, hidden just under his eyelids. He was starting to shake too, cold, harsh air continuously ghosting over his pale skin.

"So predictable, aren't you?" the demon spat, this time sounding annoyed. "What is it with you and that macho act? You try to pretend you're such a badass and so tough, but we both know the truth. You're nothing but a pathetic little pussy who can't do shit right. And the worst part is you try so hard, but you still fail, over and over again. Doesn't that get a little old? Continuously setting yourself up for failure? Because that's basically all that you are. I mean, honestly, you knew you couldn't successfully find your dear ol' dad all on your own, so you had to go lug this guy," he said, pointing to his chest, "to come and help you find him. You took him away from everything that he wanted, not even giving a damn that you were being so selfish. Your brother lost everything because of you, Dean. Lost that chance to become a lawyer and make something of himself. Lost that beautiful girl. All because you were too damned afraid to make a go at on your own. But you did do the right thing, because if you would've tried it on your own, you would've wound up getting your useless self killed anyway. Let's face it, you can't do anything right."

Dean couldn't stop the tears from falling, or the sudden pain that seared up his left arm. He forced his eyes open, his stomach roiling at the sight of the demon running one of his knives down his bicep all the way to the crook of his arm. Blood rose to the surface instantly, gushing past his broken skin and riveting down his limb, the crimson color contrasting greatly with his snow-white colored flesh.

"Would you look at that? You are still alive!" Not-Sam said in a mock tone, fake shock raising his brow, knife gleaming dangerously in his hand as blood dripped off of it.

"Leave me alone." The words were so light, so quiet that the demon actually gave pause to the next patch of skin he was about to mutilate on Dean's uncovered body. It bent down, coming to rest on its haunches with Sam's hands upon its cheeks as it stared up at the battered hunter. Slowly, it reached out, running a thumb down Dean's cheek, wiping away at a fresh tear. Dean kept ever still. "My, my, how the times have changed," it murmured softly, off-handedly. "Is poor Dean broken?"

Dean took in a deep breath. His whole body hurt. His ribs ached—hell, burned from being cracked and broken. The headache that started as a steady, pulsing thrum was now a full twelve-piece drum kit pounding away at his brain. He was pretty positive his back was bruised from his ass on up due to repeatedly being slammed into the walls and floor. And he was past the point of freezing now. He was starting to get hot, sweat beginning to bead upon his skin.

Even through all of the pain, he shook his head, not willing to admit defeat.

"Well, let's see if I can help with that," Not-Sam claimed, laying a hand on Dean's forehead. Suddenly, his vision went dark, and panic settled into his chest.

"What did you do to me?" Dean ground out, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I'm breaking you, Dean," the demon stated matter-of-factly. "Everyone has a point, and I thought I'd reached yours, but apparently I was wrong. So, I decided to try something new. How's it feel?" And of course it's voice was coming from every direction so Dean didn't have a damned clue as to where it was going to strike next. With new found strength, he tugged at his restraints, teeth grinding against one another as he struggled.

"Just think, if I decide to keep you alive, you'll have to relearn how to do everything all over again. Except now, you won't be able to drive, won't be able to do much but sit your ass in that passenger seat and cry about not being able to see anymore. Or maybe..."

"Don't touch me!" Dean shouted, his voice cracking on the last word. Before he could say anymore, the world went silent, and he couldn't hear again. He immediately went stock still, any strength he had lost just like two of his senses. He tried desperately to steady his breathing, his heart—he could still feel it dammit—beating away in his chest like there was no tomorrow, and he wondered, as the knife slashed across his chest and then across his stomach, if there actually might not be.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Sam sat bolt upright, a gasp escaping his lips as remnants of the dream faded from his eyes.

Jess...

He ran a hand through his hair and stilled. The cold temperature of the room hit him suddenly, and he couldn't help but shiver. He scrubbed his hands down his arms in an attempt to warm himself, but it had no real effect. Before he could get out of the bed to check the heater, the sound of wheezing mixed with coughing met his ears.

His gaze immediately shot to Dean whose eyes were clenched tight in pain, sweat covering every inch of visible skin.

"Shit," the word escaped Sam's lips abruptly as he hurriedly shoved the covers off of himself and got up, rushing over to Dean's bed. "Dean, Dean, wake up," he said, laying a hand on his brother's drenched forehead and another on his cheek. He was burning up, the skin much too warm for anything less than a high-grade fever.

"S'mmy, please, no. Please. Please, S'mmy," Dean murmured, voice so hoarse Sam could barely understand him.

"It's alright, Dean. Everything's going to be okay," Sam said, more to himself than anything. "I'm gonna get something to cool you down."

Shit!

The brunette grabbed the standard motel ice bucket and went out of the room, not even bothering to put his shoes on. The air was cold and frigid, stinging his face and toes as he made his way to the ice machine. After retrieving the ice, he jogged back to the room, careful not to drop any of the bucket's contents. Grabbing a towel from the bathroom, he went back to Dean's side, wrapping numerous cubes of ice up and laying it on his brother's forehead.

Sam was no doctor, but he was pretty positive that if he didn't get the damned fever down, and soon, Dean was going to be in worse shape than he already was—and that was clearly saying something.

Recalling the faint memory of a thermometer located at the bottom of their secondary first aid kit, Sam dug through the bottom of Dean's duffel, thankful when he finally found it. He uncapped the device and prayed he could get Dean to shut up long enough to put the tool under his tongue. Using the best soothing voice he had (and trying his hardest not to sound like the panic-stricken little brother that he was), he inserted the thermometer into his brother's mouth, inwardly thankful that it was staying under his tongue. He watched as the digital numbers climbed fast, quickly surpassing 100ºF easily. Finally, it beeped.

104.5ºF.

Sam could feel his hands start to shake as he took in the height of the numbers. His brother's brain was going to fry if he didn't think of something fast, and the only thing he could think about was the last time Dean's temperature had been that high, and how horrible it was.

"Dean! Dean! Wake up! Please wake up! Dean!" Five-year old Sammy wailed, shaking his older brother's limp shoulder. "Dean! Please, Dean! Please!" he cried, over and over again, but his brother still wasn't moving. The nine year old was just laying there, covered in sweat and skin burning so hot that Sam thought maybe there was some invisible fire burning his brother, and he just couldn't see it. But he knew that kind of thing wasn't possible, was it?

The small brunette shoved his older brother's body again, fat tears starting to roll down his cheeks at Dean's unresponsiveness. "Dean, this isn't fun anymore! Stop! Please?" Sammy begged, cheeks red from crying. "Dean?" he shoved him again, though not as hard as he usually did when they wrestled.

When he saw that his brother still wasn't moving, the tears started to fall again, faster than before. He didn't want to lose Dean. It was bad enough they didn't have a mommy like all the other kids, but if he were to lose Dean? Sammy didn't want to imagine his brother not being there. He shook his head at the thought, brown bangs shuffling against his forehead as he tried to figure out what to do.

"Whenever something's bad, Dean calls Daddy. So that's what I should do. Dean," Sammy said, hurriedly wiping his tear streaks away with the back of his sleeve, "I'm gonna call Daddy, and he'll know what to do. So I'll be right back, okay?" The little boy nodded to himself and quickly got up from the floor and ran to the phone. He hit the redial button, because he knew that their dad was the last (and only) person Dean had called.

He waited and waited, the phone continuing to ring, but no answer ever coming. After he let it ring over twenty times, he hung up and tried again. After trying two more times without avail, Sammy hung up the phone and ran back over to his brother. "Dean, Daddy's not picking up! Don't die on me, Dean, please? Please don't! Okay?" The tears were back and quickly trailing down the five-year old's cheeks, promptly blurring his vision. He started to hiccup, and he could feel a sob ready to burst from his lips when Dean mumbled, "'S okay, Sammy. 'S okay."

Sam shook his head, his brother's words echoing in his head.

'S okay, Sammy. 'S okay.

Feeling water creep upon his eyes, Sam dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, blocking the tears before they could fall.

He really hated their father.

He couldn't help but wonder if the word hate was too generous of a term.

"Okay, you can do this. Fever reducer first. And water. And more ice. More ice," he muttered to himself, grabbing the extra strength Tylenol from the first aid kit and a glass of water from the bathroom. He then reset the cloth on Dean's forehead, the ice already having melted into the white cotton material. "Dean, you gotta swallow these pills for me, okay?" he said softly, gently lifting his brother's head from the pillow and holding it up as he lifted the glass to his lips.

Dean moaned beneath him, sweat and what looked like tears streaming down his face.

"Just two little pills and some water," Sam tried again, carefully opening his brother's mouth and slipping the pills inside and on his tongue. He titled the glass up once more, and slowly, Dean took a drink and swallowed. He began to cough immediately after, but luckily, the water and pills didn't fly back out.

Sam sighed and stood up, thankful that at least that part was out of the way. The more he actually looked at his brother, the more worried he got.

Dean was pale, looking more like one of the supernatural creatures they hunted than a human. His skin was wet and clammy, and his eyes were shut tight, as though he were in pain. Every time he breathed, he wheezed, the sound scaring Sam more than he'd like to believe. And if he wasn't wheezing, he was coughing, a deep, chest-wracking cough that made his whole body jerk violently. As the covers slid further down his torso, Sam couldn't help but see the bones that stretched over his skin. Rib after rib, Sam's eyes traveled downward, tears forming in them once more. With each intake of breath, Sam could see Dean's sternum and breastbone—could hear the phlegm rattling around in his chest.

He looked worse than Sam could ever remember, and that thought frightened him more than anything.

Sam clenched his jaw, remembering all the times Dean had taken care of him before—hell, he was still taking care of him, and probably would until they were old and gray.

If they both made it that long.

Sam shook the thought away. All he knew it that Dean was going to be okay, because dammit, he said he was, and that was enough for Sam.

It had to be.

Once his brother was better, they were going to find their father, and Sam knew that he probably was going to kill the man.

Glancing at the map of scars that covered Dean's body, Sam couldn't help but feel the anger surge forth in his blood stream again, and even though Dean hadn't given him specific details of their time apart (because God knew Dean was the king of being vague), Sam could imagine.

And from the looks of things, it must have been hell.

He couldn't wait to return the favor.

No matter the cost.

A/N : My apologies for taking so long to post this. MASSIVE THANKS to those of you who have stuck with me : HPSmallCharm29, BethanJonesSPN1996, babyreaper, d, dandy44, Glades of Grey, kissacazador, CrazyDreamin, renniespice, Elledille, and the rest of you who've faved or left reviews before. THANK YOU all so, so much, and I hope this chapter sufficed.