The Illusionist II

Chapter 8 : Varúð

Warning : Torture, abuse

He had never been tortured before. Sure, he'd had his fair share of being ruffed up and beaten; that went with the territory. Hell, if there were an application for hunters, getting your ass kicked would be under the list of every day job functions, but this wasn't just getting his ass kicked. No, this went far beyond that.

Slice after slice, nick after nick—he could feel the knife slicing through his skin as though it were mere paper instead of flesh. And he knew—he knew by now that he had to have been screaming. His throat felt raw, sore; and he could only guess that it was gone now, just another thing lost to him.

He'd thought that being deaf was hell, but he'd coped. He'd done the best he could, made do with the other senses that he'd had. But this—to not be able to see or hear—it was unbearable. To live and breath total and inescapable darkness—if he was left like this...

Dean was covered in sweat. He could feel it, cool against his too-hot skin, sliding down off his body and splattering to the floor. And he knew that his blood was doing the same thing too. He'd lost count of how many open wounds there were now littering his skin. The frigid air in the room chilled them, making the pain worse than it already was.

His jaw hurt from clenching down on it too much and too hard, and the skin was rubbed raw on his wrists from where he had struggled against his binds. It was getting harder and harder for him to catch his breath as well, air not wanting to go in, only come out. He was beyond exhausted, and wondered how long he was going to last when a voice cut through his head.

"Dean! Dean! Please wake up! Dean! Please!"

He knew that voice.

It was the last one he actually had heard.

Ever.

Before the demon anyway.

"S'mmy," the name escaped through his bleeding and broken lips, and the moment he could feel it clamber out of his throat, the cuts began to get deeper and longer and more erratic. He grimaced, eyes clenched so tight that it actually hurt.

One against the back of his neck, plunging more than just a millimeter under his skin. Another, right on the inside of his left arm where his bicep met his forearm and the veins bulged—and it didn't take long for the crimson warmth to spread against his flesh, trickling down his wrist to his fingers, then finally dropping to the floor.

He bit down on his bottom lip and tried—tried his damnedest not to scream, but his lips parted anyway, giving way to something he was thankful he couldn't hear.

"Dean, I'm gonna go call Daddy! I'll be right back, okay?"

"Please," Dean mouthed, fully knowing that if he attempted to speak, nothing would probably come out. But it honestly didn't matter if he said something or not, somehow the damned demon knew exactly what he was thinking, so talking was a fruitless effort anyway. "S'mmy, please." More silent words, more pain.

The knife ran over each knuckle of his hands and fingers, tearing new and reopening old wounds. He gasped as the blade dug in on his pinky finger of his left hand, plunging so deep it hit bone. His whole body jerked at the pain, blood beginning to seep from the cut.

He started to cough—painful, chest-wracking coughs—and that's when he felt something wet come up his throat and purge itself from his body. Panic hit him at that moment, the unknown substance making him wonder if it was blood or something of a less frightening origin.

The pain stopped for a moment, and everything was still. He breathed in and felt something rattle in his chest cavity and immediately began to cough again, more of the unknown body fluid expelling itself from his person.

"Don't die on me, Dean, please? Please don't! Okay?"

"S'okay, S'mmy. S'okay," he muttered, an image vaguely flashing through his mind. It appeared to be in black and white, and he thought the sudden recollection to be strange, but was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

He could see his nine-year old self laying on the floor, sweating profusely and looking deathly pale. And there hovering above him with tears in his eyes was Sammy—little IloveyouDeanalways Sammy—holding his hand and looking so scared and on the verge of hyperventilating.

The picture was extricated from his mind as he felt the skin on his stomach begin to burn. He could feel the heat growing warmer and warmer and it wasn't long before the distinct stench of flesh burning reached his nose. He bucked and jerked his body, but the heat stayed, singeing the fine hairs of his abdomen and peeling away his skin.

He longed to see the image again, gasping for air as he closed his eyes tight, trying to ignore the pain that was now becoming apart of him. He felt tears pushing past his clenched eyelids, and leaking down his drawn face. They became a steady stream, sliding along his too-prominent cheek bones and dwindling to the tiled-floor below.

"Dean, why don't we have a normal mommy like all the other kids?"

A different picture this time.

Dean could see himself—his nine-year old self—sitting on one of the twin beds in the motel room, dog-eared comic book in hand as Sammy jumped onto the mattress beside him.

"What? What are you talking about, squirt?" he asked nonchalantly, the familiar feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. He had known for awhile that the question was bound to pop up, especially since Sam had started kindergarten. Dean had seen the look of sadness on his little brother's face every time he came to pick him up—while all the other kids mothers were there instead. He hated the fact that Sam knew they were different, that his little brother had to feel that way.

"De-e-an," Sam purposely stretched out his name, obviously annoyed. "Don't avoid the subject. I don't like it when you do that."

Dean let the book slide from his fingers onto his lap and rolled his eyes, though he could feel the pain and the sinking feeling in his chest. "What are you, five or fifty?" he joked, still unable to look in his baby brother's eyes.

"You're still doing it," Sam replied, staring at him expectantly.

Dean sighed and finally set the comic book aside on the nightstand. Steeling himself, he turned to face Sammy, nothing but a mask of seriousness now on his visage. "Sammy, you know that something bad happened when we were little. And it took Mom away from us. And just because we don't have a mom like all your little friends, doesn't mean we're any different from them. I mean, we are, but in a good way." He paused and glanced down at the younger brunette, a questioning look still in his eyes. He sighed again and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Look, Sammy, and this is the only time I'll say it, so listen carefully. Mom loved you—she loved you very much." At these words, he could see his little brother's eyes start to glimmer and grow watery. That alone made it hard as hell to control his voice from shaking, because as much as he kidded and joked, he hated to see Sammy cry. "I still remember right after you were born, and Dad took me into the room to let me see you. And Mom was lying there, holding you, and she looked up at Dad and me, and she said—she said, 'He's perfect. Meet your new little brother, Dean.' And there you were, big blue eyes taking in all that you could, and she just smiled. I don't think I'd ever seen her so happy.'

Dean had hardly finished his last sentence when Sam jumped onto his lap and threw his skinny little arms around his neck. Dean slowly hugged him back, choking down the lump in his throat when he felt the back of his shirt growing wet. "I love you, Dean."

"Love you too, kiddo."

The memory dissolved, leaving him with nothing but an ache in his chest, and his blood on the floor.

"Isn't that sweet?"

Dean barely moved when he heard the voice. He knew whose it was, but didn't have the energy to open his eyes.

He wondered for a moment, if he could actually hear, or if the demon had just managed to speak to him in his mind. He took a deep breath and tried to listen for other telling noises such as the sound of air rushing out of his lungs, or the faucet endlessly dripping in the bathroom sink—but he heard nothing else.

Just that voice.

The voice of his little brother who was still possessed by a demon.

"You can dredge those things up all you want, Deano, but we both know that little Sammy doesn't exist anymore. He's long gone. Has been for quite awhile. And don't pretend like you didn't notice either. You remember when it all started. When he stopped being the cute little tyke that looked up to you and wanted to be like you and do everything you did. When he decided to keep secrets from you, and avoid you like the trash that you are. You remember, don't you, Deano? How he started to shy away from you, because we both know how much he hated it. Hated having to deal with having such an idiot for a brother. He resented you—resented the fact that you were handicapped and unable to hear a damned thing he said. Do you know how much that frustrated him?" The demon laughed, something dark and undeniably cold. "You remember the time he told you he hated you, don't you, Dean? Of course you do..."

Another vision unwound before him. He was twenty and Sam was sixteen. And he wasn't Sammy anymore—he was Sam, thank you very much. Dean and their father had gotten back from a hunt a few days before, and needless to say, he was exhausted and roughed up at that. Bruises covered the expanse of his throat and face, the restless spirit they had hunted taking an exceptional liking to Dean and his pale, freckled skin. He'd also managed to twist his ankle—no big deal, except for having to walk and all. The hunt had pretty much drained him of any energy he had, making the chores John expected him to do all the more trying.

Of course, his father had already found somewhere else to go, having gotten a lead on another hunt the very next day they had returned so it was just Sam and him. And Sam had decided, apparently, that arguing was the best way to pass the time.

"I need you to help me for a second, Sammy," Dean muttered, limping into the living room area of the apartment they were currently renting. It was a tiny thing, only two bedrooms which meant they had to share a room, something that was becoming increasingly harder now that Sam wanted and expected to have his privacy. Half the time, Dean found himself lying on the threadbare couch just to appease the kid. He rolled his eyes when his little brother didn't look up from the textbook he had his head buried in. "Sammy?" he tried again, but Sam still refused to even so much as throw a glance his way. He forced himself to walk in front of the couch and shake his brother's shoulder. He knew he should've known better, as touchy as the brat was being nowadays, but he had ignored the voice in his head that told him it wouldn't be wise to ask the kid anything let alone touch him. The sixteen-year old instantly jerked away from his touch, a frown pulling down the corners of his lips. He muttered something, but as to what that was, Dean had no clue.

"Sammy, I said I need your help so c'mon."

The reaction to his words was immediate that time. "My name isn't Sammy, it's Sam, and I'm busy."

Dean could see the anger—hell he could feel it radiating off of the teen—but he persisted, though retreated to sign language instead of his voice. It was a habit he couldn't break.

Sam didn't even look up, but Dean knew that he could see him out the corner of his eye, see the shadow of Dean's fingers fall across the pages of his book. His brother continued to feign ignorance though, choosing to continue to do his homework instead of even sparing Dean a glance. After realizing that he still wasn't getting through to the teen, he decided that being forceful might be the only way to go.

"Up!" Dean ordered, hand now gripping the hood of Sam's shirt.

The teen immediately slapped his hand away, blue eyes tearing themselves away from the textbook and boring into his. "Don't touch me!" Sam shouted, face reddening immediately.

Dean backed away a half step, brow frowning in concern. "What's wrong with you?" he asked with his hands, green eyes gleaming sadly.

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me?" Sam repeated furiously, standing up and now they were eye to eye. "Why do you always do this? Why do you always let him let you get hurt?" Sam exclaimed, waving his hands angrily. "He always comes back fine, and you always come back like this!" he shouted, gesturing towards Dean's bruises. "Does he just throw you in front of him to protect himself? Or does he just use you as bait?"

All Dean could do was stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, disbelief clearly written all over his face. It didn't take long for him to become defensive. "He doesn't do that," the twenty-year old said, fingers moving as he shook his head. "He gets injured too. He's just better at hiding it!" and now his movements were sharp and fast, and drawing nothing but Sam's ire.

"That's bullshit and you know it!" Sam yelled, folding his arms in front of him, one on top of the other and raising his right index and pinkie fingers to form the shape of a bull's horns, all the while having his left hand push out with his fingers waggling. He then rocked his arms for emphasis.

Dean's brow furrowed. "Shut up, Sammy!" he shouted with his hands, bringing one hand up (palm facing himself) in front of his chest, fingers straight with his thumb tucked in, then bringing his other hand up in a sweeping motion, fingertips of both hands connecting. Then, instead of raising his index finger in an upwards motion, he poked his little brother in the chest with it.

"Why are you defending him? Huh? Tell me!" and the teen's face was blazing red now, and right in his older brother's, fists clenched at his sides.

"You're going to shut up. Then, you're going to go outside and do laps. End of discussion," Dean signed, mouth drawn and eyes looking far too old and weary for someone his age.

Sam immediately shook his head, jaw clenched tight. There were tears in his eyes now, fat and attempting to run down his cheeks if he blinked. Sam held up his right pinkie finger, then brought both hands up and tucked his middle finger beneath his thumb to form and 'O' shape. He then made a flicking motion with them and pointed at Dean.

I hate you.

Dean saw one tear fall before the sixteen-year old turned around and stomped off to their bedroom. He could practically feel the vibration of the door slamming through the floorboards.

The image evaporated, all Dean could feel was pain. Excruciating, heart-piercing pain. It ran up and down his spine, traveling through his limbs, making every part of him ache.

That was a memory he had pushed to the very depths of his mind. After it had happened, he'd tried his damnedest to forget about it, and act as though it had never happened. Sam had apologized afterward, but things weren't the same. And they hadn't been.

The demon was right.

"Aren't I always? You see, here's the thing. You hunters and those that belittle us—you call us liars, deceivers, but in all reality, we're truth tellers. We show you the things that you can't stand to believe because you're too afraid to see what's really right there in front of you. I don't lie, Deano. Don't you realize that?" It's voice was soft now. Gentle.

Dean could feel the warm tears streaming down his cheeks again, faster than before. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard he drew blood, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Hell, what part of him wasn't bleeding out right now?

"Haven't you ever considered the thought that maybe—just maybe—Sammy-boy would be better off without you? I mean, after all, you know what you put your father through..."

Dean opened his eyes at those words, and instead of seeing darkness like he had been for however long the demon had decided to take away his sight, he was now staring at his father's angry face in the driver's seat of the Impala. The breath that had been in his lungs slowly drained out through his lips, and he watched as his father's hands tightly gripped the steering wheel, his grasp white-knuckled and firm.

Furious.

He then saw himself, wounded and bleeding in the passenger's seat, though his injuries hadn't been from anything they'd hunted. No, they were from his father.

His right eye was surrounded by a ring of purples and yellows, his cheekbone showcasing the same colorful pattern as well. Two of his ribs were broken or fractured—he couldn't quite remember, and his wrist sprained from being twisted and squeezed until it too was covered in a circlet of bruises.

His breathing was off—short, little quick gasps—and of course, the sound was apparently annoying John to no end. He could see the way his father's jaw was clenched, his brow drawn into an angered frown. And the way the pallor of his face was slowly darkening into that deep, beet red as it did every time he was angry or upset.

The man's lips were moving too, but Dean didn't have quite the energy to pay attention to what was being said. He was exhausted—that bone-deep exhaustion that no matter how tired you are, you still can't sleep. And he was trying to too, because he knew that if he could at least sleep, his breathing would be slower and not as aggravating.

But dreams just wouldn't come to claim his consciousness. Instead, he was feeling every single bump and rock that they ran over, the vibrations running up through the car and right through his worn body.

The last bump had been a helluva jarring one too, and the impact had made him suck in too much air too fast, the action nearly causing him to choke. And the sound of him coughing—he knew—hadn't made matters better at all.

It had only made them worse.

As it was with just about everything that he did.

It didn't help that the coughing made his ribs feel like they were on fire and splitting apart. Bone splinter by bone splinter, pulling away from each other and shattering as though they were pieces of fiberglass.

The coughing had finally subsided, but John's anger hadn't.

It wasn't long before Dean could feel the car shifting and pulling over to the side of the road, and all he could think of was please, no, not again, I'm sorry.

His closed eyes jolted open when he felt his father's hand encircle his good wrist (the one he'd been keeping over the bad one, nursing it in his own stealthy way), and he knew that there was fear in his eyes as he turned to look at his father, but he couldn't help it.

The possibility that the man could kill him someday wasn't a stretch, no matter how many times he told himself it wouldn't happen.

Accidents happened all the time.

Especially in his case; practically every day.

"Shut up. Do you understand me?" John asked, gripping his jaw painfully and leaving more bruises behind. Dean nodded and did all he could to calm his pounding heart. "One more sound..." Dean nodded again in understanding, and was thankful when he felt his father's grasp lessen before disappearing all together.

Dean quickly turned his head away to hide the shame that was now plastered across his visage, and then a voice cut through his mind. It was his father's, and his eyes widened at the words.

"Why couldn't it have been you instead of your mother?"

The motel room came crashing back around him, and this time, Dean's vision was restored. He could see the demon, standing there with a neutral expression on its face, droplets of his blood littering its clothing—Sammy's clothing.

All Dean could do was stare, dazed look imprinted into his eyes.

"So, Deano, do you really want Sammy to feel that way about you too?" It knelt down before him on its haunches, the bloodied knife dangling from its left hand as it gently patted Dean's knee.

Dean shook his head slowly, feeling irreparably numb.

The pain that he had felt—the excruciatingly, soul-piercingly, mind-bending pain—was gone.

And all that was left over was numbness. It wasn't calming, it wasn't comforting—it just was.

"I'll make a deal with you, Deano. I'm gonna hand over this knife to you once I undo your binds, and when I do, you're gonna carve four neat little marks right there," Not-Sam said, smiling as he pointed to Dean's wrists. "And then, you and me are gonna sit here and watch as you bleed out all over this floor, and put yourself out of this miserable act that you call life. Deal?"

Dean let his gaze fall on the still-gleaming weapon, sharp and stained red. He let it linger there for a few minutes before he finally nodded, swallowing thickly as he did so. A single tear slithered down his cheek as the demon grinned and stood up.

"You know, Deano, I am so glad we had this little talk, and that you're seeing things my way," it stated as it started to undo his restrictions. "It feels good, doesn't it, to finally learn the truth?"

The hunter didn't answer. He just let his arms fall to his sides as they were released, weak and heavy, feeling as though they were made of lead. The chilly air didn't even bother him anymore. In fact, he felt downright hot, like someone had lit a fire in the room, and he wondered, faintly, why that was.

"Oh, come on, Deano, cheer up! Before you know it, this will all be a thing of the past. No more hurting, no more pain, and the best thing about dying is you'll finally be able to actually hear again. Because after all, you'll be residing with me. In hell." The demon was absolutely beaming now, Sam's white teeth baring through his lips.

Dean slowly reached out for the knife and grasped it carefully when the demon placed it in his hand. He looked at it, felt the weight of it, and glanced down at his wrist.

Now or never.

He took a deep breath, and held the blade to his skin, amazed at how much the color of the metal contrasted with his pale flesh.

"...Don't die on me, Dean, please? Please don't, okay?..."

"...S'okay, Sammy..."

"...I love you, Dean..."

Sammy?

"...Love you too, kiddo..."

"...Forever and always?..."

"...Forever and always..."

Wait...

"You're not Sammy," he murmured, and this time, he could hear his own voice. And, naturally, that could mean only one thing.

All at once, the pain came rushing back to him, but he ignored it, sidestepping it and lunging straight for the demon. Mustering all the strength he had, he stabbed Not-Sam right in the heart and watched as the demon muttered something indiscernible and then disappeared.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Sam had managed to bite off all his fingernails, working his way all the way down to the quick on every single finger. He was about three minutes away from calling an ambulance when Dean's eyes opened wide, moving back and forth so fast his green orbs appeared to be robotic. Sam immediately leapt to his feet, his body moving before he even realized it.

"Dean?" the name tumbled from his lips as he ran a hand through his brother's sweat-soaked hair. "Dean?" he tried again, moving his face within inches of his brother's when Dean didn't respond.

Finally, their eyes met. "S'mmy?" he managed to croak out, voice sounding hoarse and paper-thin. "R'lly you?"

Sam just stared at him for a moment, taking in his gaunt appearance and green eyes that were still bright with fever (just a lower grade one, thank God). He shook his head and blinked when he realized what his brother had just asked him. He nodded in response, and tried to look more cheerful, but even sick, Dean could still see right through him.

"S'mmy? 'S wrong?" and Sam immediately felt guilty for the concern that was on his older brother's face. After all he'd been through, he shouldn't have been the one asking that question.

"Nothing's wrong, Dean," he said shaking his head. "You just had me scared there for awhile." He was signing before he even realized what he was doing.

"'M okay. Jus' need some water," Dean mumbled, and tried to sit up, only to have Sam's hand fall onto his bony chest. His eyes widened at the touch and his heartbeat began to quicken, but after a moment, he calmed himself. This was the real Sammy—his Sammy. Not some bastard demon who thought it would be fun to wear his face for a little while.

It was just a dream.

That's all.

Sam hurriedly grabbed a bottle of cold water from the mini-fridge and twisted off the cap, holding the cool liquid up to his brother's parched lips. After Dean received his fill, he put the lid back on and set it down on the nightstand. An eyebrow quirked up as he looked down at his brother. He gently placed a hand on Dean's arm, just to grab his attention. It jerked underneath his touch, the muscles tensing before slowly relaxing.

Dean glanced up, confusion and exhaustion written across his features.

"Why did you ask if it's really me?" Sam inquired, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

Dean shrugged and closed his eyes, lips moving but no sound coming out. Sam wondered for a moment if he was only doing it to shut him out, but his brother's breathing soon evened out, giving him his answer.

"Okay, then," Sam mumbled and sat down on top of his covers. Dean was out of the woods for now; more rest would probably do him good anyway. Sam yawned, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. He hadn't slept in more than thirty-six hours; perhaps now was a good time to sneak a nap in. Just a quick nap and then...

S*P*N*S*P*N

"Sammy!"

He heard his name, but his body felt too heavy to move. He hadn't realized just how exhausted he was.

"Sam!"

His eyes fluttered open, but it still felt hard to move. His arms and legs felt like lead weights, keeping him anchored to the bed.

"Sam, please!"

"What?" he muttered, mouth thick with sleep.

"Look, Sammy-"

"It's not Sammy, it's Sam," he murmured, eyes almost falling closed again until he realized just whose voice he was hearing. He sat bolt upright, and that's when he realized he wasn't in the same room. This—this was somewhere completely different. It was dark and cold—downright frigid.

"Sam, look, I know you're upset with me right now, but please son—"

The brunette quickly jumped up off the bed, blue eyes searching the expanse of the room. It wasn't really any different than any of the other motels they'd been in. Maybe more dirtier and danker than the rest, but other than the peeling wallpaper and missing light bulbs, the room looked like almost every other one they'd had the pleasure of staying in. It didn't take long for him to see his father.

The man was sitting ramrod straight in one of the motel's hardback chairs, face covered in sweat, brown eyes pleading. There was blood smeared across his forehead, and some trickling down the side of his face. He looked...rough.

"Sam please-"

The younger hunter could feel the anger welling up inside himself, feel the hate beginning to stream icy cold and piercing through his veins. He shook his head, chocolate-colored locks bristling as his mouth turned downwards into a frown.

"Whatever it is, I don't-"

"Sammy—Sam. Please, help me, Sam. Please."

"Help you? After all the shit you've done? After all the pain that you've inflicted on Dean? Fuck you!"

The man grimaced at the words, trying unsuccessfully to undo his binds. He struggled, but still couldn't get out of them. "Sam, look—if there has ever been one thing I've ever asked you for, it's this. You have to help me. Now."

Sam immediately shook his head again, jaw locking tightly underneath his skin. "Help yourself."

"It's your broth-"

"I don't care. Don't you get that?" the younger hunter spat, shoulders tense, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Wait, what were you just going to say?"

"Sammy, please-" And his father really did look fearful this time. All Sam could do was stare, disbelief creeping across his features.

"Oh, don't worry about him, Sammy. He'll be just fine."

Sam's head jerked in the direction of the newest voice—and this was one he knew all too well.

It was Dean's.

His older brother was leaning in the doorway of the main room, arms folded across his chest, a twisted grin upon his face. Sam woke up the moment he saw his eyes—they were black.

Completely and utterly black.

A/N- I am so, so sorry for taking so long to post this. Between the heat knocking out my power five times in the past month and some crazy RL shit, I haven't had much time for this. Anyway, I want to thank EACH and EVERY one of you who reviews or favorites or follows this story. THANK YOU ALL so much, including : dandy44, sjoeks, Bethan1996SPN, HPSmallCharm29, Glades of Grey, babyreaper, Wonderful ANON ;D, LoriLovesDestiel, kissacazador, CrazyDreamin, crystallynnerusso, lovesreidforever, Twillightfairy, and every one else. Thank you all again, and I hope this chapter sufficed. :)