Whatnosheep's prompt:
Set early S7
Sam is struggling with the post hell issues, and the boys are on a case but something happens where Sam has to come through and save the day. But the side effects on Sam means that dean has to take care of him, maybe psychotic break or catatonic.
I really think they missed a lot of potential with Sam's story line in season seven; his mental health issues disappeared mostly until just before Cas returned to take Sam's hell trauma (Which I think was a way too easy way out) but never mind…
So, I'm going to set this after 'the mentalists'.
Warning: this is pretty dark. The case they work on is a little disturbing and Sam's hallucinations are very gruesome.
Sam's scar was itching. He could barely remember when he sliced the skin open, nor could he remember his brother stitching it back together, but the ragged tissue across his palm had become one of the few things tying him down to the real world.
Dean was speeding down the highway, knuckles white as he curled his hands around the wheel, eyes set on the road in a frown. He was clearly missing the Impala, flat-out refusing to even touch the CD player in whichever vehicle they had for the next few weeks. It was quiet, no classic rock, no rumbling engine, nothing. Sam missed the car too, the noise of her was enough to keep him distracted, the way she purred and rocked him to sleep, like she always did.
This car was too quiet
"Do you really think I'm just going to go away?" Lucifer leaned over between Sam and Dean, whispering right in Sam's ear. He had that usual look on his face; like a petulant child demanding attention, but the kind of entertainment he wanted was frying ants with a spyglass. Sam twisted away, pressing himself against the window, trying to ignore the expectant raise of Lucifer's eyebrow.
"You okay?" Dean asked. He didn't sound too worried, more casual, it's how Dean is, trying not to make a huge deal out of things. That's how Sam knew he's real. He's sure. He is. His fingers ghost over the scar on his palm anyway.
"I'm fine," he answered, though he wished he hadn't sounded so false. The look on his brother's face told him that he'd picked up on it too. "I'm fine," Sam said again, a little more clearly, trying to convince himself.
"You suck at lying," Lucifer sighed, bored. He began tugging on Sam's hair so hard that he had to stifle a wince. It felt real, he could feel the roots of his hairs being slowly plucked from his scalp. But he knew it wasn't real, he has to, but why did it feel so real? And if it's all in his head, then what does Dean see?
He pressed down so hard onto the scar that he actually groaned a little. But the devil went away and that was what mattered.
Sam closed his eyes, trying so hard to enjoy the peace he had for the moment. "You sure you don't wanna pull over for a bit?" Dean said, it wasn't really a suggestion, he sounded a little stiff, definitely worried. Sam didn't open his eyes, just relaxed back into the car seat for a moment.
"It's fine," he mumbled, he meant it.
Dean swerved the car onto the side of the road so quick that Sam had to grab the dashboard to stop himself from flinging forward. Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition and sat back, staring at Sam like he was waiting for him to say something.
"What the hell?" Sam blurted. Dean's nose twitched a little uncomfortably before he looked up into Sam's eyes, glaring at him hard.
"What the hell is right," he said, "You were just yanking on your hair like your damn hand had a mind of its own."
Sam frowned, reaching up to where the devil had been tugging. The scalp felt a little raw and a couple of tiny strands came out in his fingers when he pulled away. He swallowed hard, feeling extremely sick.
"Is this," Dean sighed, voice softening a bit, "Is this like with the hand scar? Is it a way of… coping?"
Sam shook his head a little dumbly.
"Because if you need help figuring out what's real, Sammy, you just have to ask," Dean said.
"It wasn't me," Sam managed to say after a moment of fumbling at the patch of scalp again.
"Huh?" Dean was squinting at him a little, eyes flicking over him a little, silently searching.
"It was Lucifer," Sam breathed, "He was pulling my hair… it wasn't me."
"Sammy," Dean said, gently but strong enough to get his attention, "I saw you pulling at your own hair."
"But it wasn't…" Sam trailed off, realising by the freaked out look on Dean's face that his brother isn't going to understand that even though Sam knew that what he saw wasn't real, it was still real enough to him.
"We can give this hunt to someone else," Dean suggested, shrugging a little too casually, "And head back to Rufus' cabin, for a little R&R."
"Who's gonna take the case, Dean?" Sam snapped, he was getting really sick of people stepping on eggshells around him, "We can't just slack off. I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
"So? You think hanging out at Rufus' is going to make our problems go away? The devil is there; it doesn't matter where I am. I'm fine," he said stiffly, turning to face the road before adding, "I'm managing."
He could feel Dean staring at him for a moment before he turned the key in the ignition again and pulled onto the highway. No one said another word for the rest of the drive.
When they arrived in town it was nearly deserted, save for the occasional face peering at them through the curtains of dimly lit windows
"Well…" Dean blew out a whistle, "Ain't this a charming place?"
"It's a small town, Dean," Sam pointed out, "I bet everyone knows each other around here, so I bet everyone knew those kids. They're bound to be a little wary of strangers."
"I hear ya, man," Dean agreed, peering around for the nearest bar no doubt, "Still, it's creepy as hell."
Sam snorted. "Dean, we hunt monsters for a living but it's town's people that freak you out?"
Dean grinned at the sight of a run-down bar, filled with solemn old drunks Sam would guess, and he turned into the parking lot. "Yeah, well, I don't get people," Dean finally answered, "I don't get 'em. Especially when they're glaring at me like they want to sharpen their pitchforks."
Sam was about right about the only bar in town; a handful of silent regulars looked up at them when they entered before quickly looking back down to take a drink. Not even the bar tender paid them any attention.
"Homey," Dean said over-cheerily, "Really feeling the warm and fuzzies right now."
The bar tender glared at him then, stopping short from polishing the wooden bench. "Can I help you boys?" he asked a little bitterly, making it obvious he'd like the two of them to get the hell out.
"Just admiring the décor," Dean said. Sam glanced around at the stuffed animal heads and deer antlers hanging from the wood-panel walls. Hunting town, he realised.
The bar tender's glare hardened and Sam stepped in front of his brother, sensing the man's growing distaste for the two of them. The last thing either of them needed was for this town to hate them.
"Sorry about him, we've been on the road a while. We'd just like two beers, please," Sam said, "And directions to the nearest motel."
The man scoffed and went about getting their drinks. "You tourists?" he asked, face softening when he spoke to Sam, "This place ain't much for folk like you I'm afraid."
Sam smiled when the bar man gave him a friendly, and ever so slight, curl of his mouth. "Not tourists," Sam said, dragging Dean to sit next to him at the bar. The man gave them their drinks.
"Hunters?" he guessed. Dean nearly sputtered on his beer.
"Yeah," he grinned, "That's us."
"You know," Sam interrupted, "I would've thought there'd be a lot more hunters around these parts during the season."
The man sighed, slinging his clothe over onto his shoulder, he leaned on the bar and spoke quietly. "You fella's have come to town at a bad time."
"Why?" Sam asked, feigning ignorance.
"Normally we have a bunch of hunters showing up from nearby towns to hunt this time o' year," he said quietly, "We throw a festival too. But there was a… an incident."
"Incident?" Dean prompted. The two of them had already read up on the recent grisly case, but it was always better to find out what the local's said.
"We're a small town," he told them, smiling sadly, "The high school only has fifty kids. Some o' them like to go up to the woods, it's always been that way, an' they stay clear of huntin' areas. But a group of five kids didn't come back home."
He paused, watching Sam and Dean's reactions. He cleared his throat and went on with the story.
"Their folks began to worry, of course, and a search party went out. They found where the kids had been; bonfire, beer cans, the usual, but no kids. They found 'em a day later a way away in an old hunting cabin, strung up and gutted like game."
"Oh, my God," Sam muttered, dropping his head respectfully.
"Hey, sounds like a game we used to play," Lucifer said over his shoulder, "Remember that? See how far your intestines go…"
"Shut up," Sam hissed under his breath.
"Sorry?" the bartender asked. Sam jumped a little, looking between the man and Dean's puzzled looks.
"I'll be right back," he said hastily, stumbling away from the bar and towards where the sign pointed towards the restroom, ignoring the eyes on his back.
There was only one toilet in a small room with a lock on it. Sam slid the bolt and dropped onto the closed seat, burying his face in his hands.
"Keep it together," he muttered to himself, "Don't freak out."
"Come on, Sam," Lucifer moaned, leaning against the closed door. Sam jolted back. "Of course you'll freak out. Hey, remember the time you screamed so hard you throat bled?"
"You're not real," Sam accused, "I'm in here by myself and you're in the cage."
"Maybe," the devil shrugged, "But does that erase one hundred and eighty years of bonding time? I don't think so."
Sam just glared at him.
"Have you ever realised that you've spent more of your existence with me than you have with Dean?" Lucifer asked, "Hell, I'm more your family than he is."
"That's not true!" Sam yelled, he clamped his mouth shut and looked away, pressing his thumb into the scar on his hand, holding it hard until even after Lucifer had flickered away. He sighed tiredly and leaned against the wall. He really wanted to sleep, a lot. But sleeping usually meant nightmares, which meant not much sleeping.
"Sam?" Dean's voice came from the other side of the door, followed by an impatient knocking, "Sammy?"
"Yeah," he called back, "I'm right here."
"You alright?"
"I'm good," Sam answered, he got to his feet and washed his hands, splashing his face a little to wake himself up, before he unlocked the door. Dean was staring up at him with that look in his eye, the one he used when Sam was having visions, the one he used when Sam was sneaking off with Ruby, the one he had just after he got his soul back. Sam hated that look.
"I'm good," he said again. He was walking and talking, wasn't that enough. If people kept staring at him like he was a bomb about to go off them maybe he should do just that.
"We're going to check into a motel," Dean said, clearly a decision which wouldn't be protested, "Come on."
The bar man gave them a small wave on their way out, a worried look on his face, no doubt he'd made his own assumptions as to why Sam had acted the way he did. Sam nodded back, not really looking him in the eye. He didn't feel much like talking, or being fussed over.
The motel was decorated very similarly to the bar. The giant moose head hanging up between the two beds was a little unnerving.
"I'll grab us some food," Dean said, he'd been lingering by the door since they got there.
"Okay," Sam said, rummaging through his duffle for his wash bag.
"Burgers all around?" Dean asked. Sam grimaced a little, his visits with not-Lucifer that day still had his stomach churning and he wasn't interested in greasy minced meat.
"Salad's fine," he said. Dean let out a sigh, like he wanted a different reaction from Sam. Sam felt guilty for not being able to give it to him, but he really didn't feel like it. Dean left with a promise to be back quick. Sam hurried into the shower once he was gone.
He stepped into the warm stream of water and pressed down hard on his scar, he really didn't want a visit from the devil when he was butt-naked. He'd made that mistake a couple of times before. He washed his hair, using that apple shampoo he liked, the one Dean said made him smell like a chick, Samantha.
Sam didn't really care. He wasn't going to pass up the small luxuries, after nearly two centuries of enduring things he couldn't even say out loud to himself he thought he deserved to have hair that smelled like apples.
He wrapped a towel decorated with stitch-work deer around his waist, padding over to the sink. He scraped his hair back into a hair tie, the one he kept buried at the bottom of the wash bag and as far from Dean's sight as possible, and pulled out his razor and shaving cream.
He worked his way around his jaw with the razor before dabbing it clean and dry. Looking back up to the mirror he noticed a dot of blood beading on his cheek. He ripped a small square of tissue paper to the cut. When he pulled it away a strip of skin came with it, long and fleshy and red. He stifled a cry, fingers fumbling to press the flayed skin back on but it only pulled more away, leaving him no cheek at all, just a gaping wound of bloody muscle.
He closed his eyes, then reopened them, hoping desperately that it wasn't real. The wound was still there, strips of thick flesh hung from his jaw. Dean. He needed to call Dean. He needed Dean, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from his horrific reflection. He reached up tentative fingers and poked at the bare flesh. He prayed to feel regular smooth skin, not the hot, wet thing he felt.
More came away at the touch, showing his teeth. He stumbled away from the mirror, grabbing the door, leaving red hand prints on its white surface. He managed to get himself to his bed, where his bag was, to find his cell phone. He fumbled with the buttons, hands shaking.
The door clicked open behind him.
"Hey, are you trying to call me?" Dean was kicking the door closed behind him, setting the takeout bag on the table. He looked down at Sam; only wearing a towel and leaning heavily against the end of the bed. "What're you doing down there? Are you wearing a hair tie?"
Sam turned his mangled half of his face away from Dean. "I don't know what happened," he said desperately, "It just fell off."
Dean was stepping over to him, kneeling down at his side. He was serious now, whatever pathetic tone Sam was sure was in his voice must have caught his attention. "What fell off?"
"My skin," Sam moaned, "It was a shaving cut but it just kept coming away."
Dean sucked in a sharp breath and reached to turn Sam's face. Sam twisted further away.
"You have to let me look, man," Dean said, "I need to see how bad it is."
Sam let out a small sob, not letting himself cry much more as he turned to look straight at Dean.
His brother's eyes widened. "Jesus… Sam…"
"I don't know why it happened," Sam said helplessly. Dean grabbed his hand, looking at each of his fingers.
"I think I know," he said, sounding tired, "You've scratched yourself to hell."
"I barely touched it," Sam insisted, "It all just came off, the skin, the muscle. God, you can see my teeth."
Dean's eyes widened further. "Sam, I think you should look in the mirror."
"I can't," Sam said, eyes blurring with the tears he was trying to hold back.
"Yes. You can," Dean was already hauling him to his feet, steering him to the bathroom, and stopping him in front of the mirror.
Sam's cheek was a little bloody, but very much intact. It looked like a cat had been at his face, a small cat. He looked down at his finger nails, finding a little blood there. He looked back up, touching his skin gently, relieved to find it didn't come away. He caught a glimpse of Dean behind him, looking very worried and lost.
"I didn't realise," Sam promised, "I thought…"
"I know," Dean said quietly, rubbing his brother's shoulder, "The cuts aren't deep, just keep them clean."
Sam nodded, not really sure what else to do but stare at his face in the mirror. Dean quietly slinked out of the room, Sam noticed he left the door wide open.
He changed into a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt that boasted the rides of Coney Island, a stupid shirt Dean had won and gifted to him a long time ago. Sam just about still fit into it.
"We need to figure out how to stop this, Sammy," Dean said seriously when Sam took a seat at the table.
"You don't need to tell me," Sam mumbled, feeling his cheek sting. It was mostly red and irritated, only a little bit cut up.
"Maybe Bobby_"
"Bobby can't fix this," Sam snapped, "Even Cas couldn't fix it."
Dean's eyes flicked away, as they usual did when their late friend cropped up in conversation.
"That bastard made this mess," he growled, "He did this to you."
"I know," Sam said, more softly, "But he wasn't himself. He would never have done it, not the real him."
"Well, he did," Dean said sharply. He dropped into the chair opposite, "You're hurting yourself, Sammy."
"I don't do it on purpose," he argued, "I don't even know I'm doing it."
"There has to be something," Dean said, "A faith healer, another angel, a witch."
"Dean…"
"There has to be something," he went on.
"Dean," Sam said a little more loudly, his brother looked up, "Do you still dream about your time in hell? Do you get flashes of it?"
Dean swallowed self-consciously. "Yeah."
"This isn't something that's going to go away," Sam said, "I just need to learn to deal with it. There's no cure for Hell."
Dean didn't bring it up again, but he watched Sam like a hawk, mentioning here and there that it was about time they took a break. Sam kindly reminded him about the Leviathan, which Dean ignored. He heard him talking on the phone the next morning, Sam had gone out to get coffee for them both, he'd had to state his case to Dean to do so. Somehow, he managed to get back to the room in one piece, a bag of doughnuts and two coffees in hand.
Dean didn't notice the door open, he was facing the other direction, pacing. Sam may or may not have opened the door so quietly on purpose.
"He was scratching his own face…" Dean was saying, "… no, I didn't see. I came back and he was babbling that his face had come off… yeah, tell me about it… and earlier that day he'd been pulling on his own hair…"
Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand through his spiky hair.
"I don't know what to do, Bobby. He's getting worse… what if he's just about cracked, I mean a guy can only take so much before he's rocking white scrubs."
Sam loudly dropped the bag onto the table, probably squashy a couple of doughnuts in the process. Dean whirled around, a slightly guilty look flashed across his face.
"I'll call you back," he said into the phone before hanging up.
"How's Bobby?" Sam asked, not bothering to hide the edge to his voice. He took a sip from the coffee cup, scalding the tip of his tongue. The burn sent away the Devil's singing in his head, Stairway to Heaven had woken him up that morning and came and went as he warded it off with his scar.
"He's working a case in Michigan, he's nearly done," Dean answered, calmly, "I reckon we regroup when we're done here."
"Why?" Sam asked bitterly, "Are we gonna check if the white scrubs fit?"
"Sammy…"
"No," Sam cut him off, "I'm managing. I told you."
"You're not managing, Sam. God. You're a mess."
"I'm always a mess," it came out breathlessly, "I was born a mess, Dean. You realise that the hallucinations have always been like this? They're not getting worse, they're the same as always."
Dean's lips parted but whatever he was about to say died on his tongue.
"I've been dealing with my broken head for months now," Sam said, calming down, "Every day is the same. It only seems worse to you because you're paying attention."
Dean opened his mouth to protest but Sam held up a hand to stop him.
"I know you watch out for me," Sam insisted, "You do. But with Cas and the Leviathan and all the crap that's been coming our way… I don't blame you for being distracted. There's nothing you can do anyway."
"I'm gonna find you help, Sam," Dean promised. Sam smiled and nodded.
"I know you will."
Sam had done most of the research before they had arrived in town. There had been a few disappearances in the area for a few decades, there hadn't been one in nearly twenty years. Sam looked up any locals who'd died in that time period. One name stuck out; Jerry Garret Jr. Garret had been a hunter, the normal kind, like a lot of people in the local parts, but he'd also been a reclusive type. He'd died under suspicious circumstances, ruled out by police as a hunting accident.
Sam did a little digging and decided murder had been more likely.
The two of them were heading out to the woods, to check out the hunting cabin where the kids had been found. If they could find anything that connected Garret to the cabin, then they could go salt and burn his bones.
"Our lifestyle sure puts you off hiking in the forest," Dean remarked, kicking a leaf off of his boot.
Sam smirked. Most of their family camping trips had ended in a burning carcass, getting drunk off whiskey at 14 while your dad stitched you up, and a crap load of painkillers. Sam wondered what their dad would say if he were still around.
No doubt he'd be pissed at Sam for starting the apocalypse, screwing a demon, drinking blood… the list could go on. In a way it was a good thing that John Winchester wasn't around to see what his youngest son had turned into. Hell, he'd probably be on a locked ward soon enough, he didn't doubt it.
"So, this cabin doesn't belong to anyone?" Dean asked. Sam blinked out of his thoughts and nodded.
"It's just always been around, so the locals say," Sam said, "I think most people take their hunting trophies back home, the town isn't too far away."
"Well, whoever's slicing and dicing teenagers must own the cabin," Dean said.
The cabin in question was one of those places that really fitted its job description. It wasn't particularly run down or rusty. It looked in good condition, considering. But there was something about the place, the little wooden structure at the top of the hill, shadowed by looming trees. It was cold and dark, that's the feeling the place gave off.
Dean fired up the EMF, which went a little haywire.
"Ghost it is," Dean said as they trudged up the hill, shotguns in hand.
The door creaked open, a smell of damp and dust filled the place. The shoe prints on the floor showed signs of police long gone, the scrape of gurney wheels cut through the cobwebbed floorboards.
They flicked on their flashlights, swinging them around to reveal an old table at the far end, stained brownish-red. It was the hooks that caught Sam's breath. Six hooks dangled from the ceiling, rusting and sharp.
Is that comfortable, Sam? I think two hooks through your ribs is enough but… you're a big guy. Better make it four. Try not to scream too much now or it'll be messy…
Sam was frozen in the doorway. He had one hundred and eighty years' worth of memories he'd give anything to forget. Memories filled with hooks and chains and claws and a white light so strong it burned his eyes out of his skull. Every day.
Lucifer used to like freezing his fingers until they were black, then he'd snap them off one by one.
"Sammy?"
Sam looked up. Dean was at the other end of the cabin, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?" Sam replied.
"Are you gonna help look or are you gonna dawdle over there?"
Sam didn't answer, just got moving. He shuffled around, looking under furniture, in drawers. He stepped on a creaky floorboard. He dropped down and pulled out his knife, working the board out. There was a book inside.
"Dean, look."
Sam stood up, opening the book. Dean came over, standing at his shoulder to look at their find.
"It's a journal," Sam noticed, he squinted to read, Dean held the light for him.
The boy was a squawker. Like a pig. Bled like one too. His hair is nice and soft. Pillow stuffing.
Sam grimaced and looked away, the journal suddenly felt a lot heavier and colder. He handed it to Dean who scanned the page, frown deepening as he went. Sam fumbled through his pocket for the notes stashed in there.
"I'll say it again," Dean was saying, "People are crazy."
Sam huffed his agreement, finding the paper he needed. It was a photocopy of a legal document Garret had signed. He held the paper next to the journal.
"Looks the same," Dean said. He slammed the book closed.
"He's our guy," Sam agreed. He shoved the paper back into his pocket, turning to leave with Dean just behind him.
"Let's salt and burn the bitch," Dean crowed, shoving the journal under his arm, "We should light this up too."
"No," Sam said, "Get it to the cops. There're families out there that deserve to know what happened."
Dean nodded and they headed down the hill. It was getting dark. It was later than they'd hoped it would be but if they hurried they could find their way out of the forest. Dean froze, grabbing Sam to stop.
"Listen," Dean whispered. Sam listened; there were the sounds of heavy boots treading lightly, a gun being loaded. The air around them had dropped significantly and Dean whipped out the EMF which let out a shrill note.
"Can you see him?" Sam asked quietly. Dean shook his head. There was a snap of a broken twig and icy laughter.
"Run," Dean ordered, pushing Sam forward. The two of them bounded through the woods. Twigs clawed at Sam's face, trying to catch onto his hair and clothes. He glanced over his shoulder, relieved to find Dean on his tail. He ran harder when he caught sight of the Impala, metal glinting in the early moonlight, and nearly crashed into it.
He tried to let his breath catch up with him, leaning against the hood of the car.
"Let's go find out where he's buried," Sam panted. Dean didn't answer, there was no sound of Dean gasping for breath. Sam turned around, then scanned the whole area, finding himself completely alone.
He ran faster back to the cabin, but he took nearly twice as long trying to navigate his way through the dark forest. He could feel his hands shaking around his flashlight.
'I want you to watch this, Sam.' The devil didn't shine that time, he let him keep his eyes. 'I want you to see how beautiful you are inside, how every bit was made for me.' The hooks pulling his eyelids apart were ice cold.
Sam stumbled, a flash of the cage was there and gone in a second. He scrambled back to his feet, willing his legs to go straight. He ran.
You squawked, a cruel voice in the back of his head reminds him. It's his own. You squawked for one hundred and eighty years.
…Like a pig. Bled like one too…
Dean. Dean. Dean. Sam shouted his brother's name over and over in his head like a mantra, screaming over the sounds of Hell.
"Can you even see where you're going?" Lucifer came up beside him at a leisurely jog, "I'm just saying, there's no point in running when you don't even know where you're going."
Sam set his jaw and ran on, swinging his torch, trying to follow the small line of light.
"If you don't hurry, you're going to find your brother leaking his insides out," the Devil said.
"Shut up," Sam hissed, coming to a stop. He shone his light around the small clearing he'd come to, trying hard to ignore Lucifer, who was leaning against a tree trunk.
"I can help you," he hummed, flashing Sam a smug look.
"I don't need your help," Sam growled, "You're not even real. Why are you here?"
Lucifer frowned. "Didn't you get the memo? You and I are made for each other. Two sides of the same coin. I'm in you, kiddo, just like I'm meant to be. Sounds a little kinky, huh?"
"Go screw yourself," Sam spat.
The devil chuckled. "Why should I when you're right here?"
Sam turned away, digging his thumb nail into the scar on his palm. Lucifer vanished and Sam trudged deeper into the woods.
It was harder finding the cabin in the dark, especial when the terrain was so uneven. He'd carried his shotgun all the way up the hill but he hadn't had to use it. That made him uneasy, if Garret wasn't coming after him then he was busy doing something else.
Sam didn't waste any time barging into the cabin. There were no lights but Sam could see the glint of metal at the other end, he shot at it, Garret vanished. Sam pushed himself in, feeling a sharp pain building behind his eyes.
"Dean?" Sam called. His brother was hanging from the ceiling, his toes just brushing the floor. "Dean!"
Dean blinked his eyes open and smiled tiredly. "My hero," he mumbled.
"What happened to you?"
"The bastard clocked me," Dean grumbled, "I woke up here. Let me down, would you? The chains on my wrists hurt like a bitch."
Sam nodded, reaching up. He shuddered when his fingers came into contact with the hook and chain. They were ice cold.
"Sammy?"
"Huh?"
"You okay?"
Sam shook his head clear and began to find a way to undo the chains around Dean's wrists. His head was throbbing, images flashed before his eyes, too quick to see but quick enough to know.
"We need to be quick," was all Sam said, "Garret'll be back."
He swallowed hard, feeling extremely nauseous. His hands were shaking.
"…at me. Sam, look at me."
He blinked, looking up at Dean. By the look on his brother's face, he must have spaced out. He could feel it coming; Hell was crashing into him like waves on a rock. It was only a matter of time before the tide came in. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his fingers. They were numb and jittery. He had to free Dean before Garret came back, if he didn't hurry up then he wouldn't be able to save Dean.
"Sammy, look out!" Dean cried.
Sam whirled around just in time to see the ghost in the doorway, then he was flying and crashing into the wall, landing painfully on the blood-stained table. The shotgun was out of his hand, on the other side of the room, and Garret was approaching. Sam was relieved that he passed Dean and went straight for him. Dean was yelling behind them, tugging furiously at the chains.
"You're a squealer," the ghost chuckled, "I can tell."
Things were swimming in and out of focus, blood was coming down the walls, from his hair, on his hands. Garret had the knife again and he was coming towards Sam. Sam fumbled in his pocket, fiddling at the lid as he tossed salt at the ghost, sending it away again.
"Sammy!" Dean was shouting. Sam scrambled back to his feet, swaying a little he grabbed the wall for balance. He went back to Dean, trying to pick the lock on the chain. He was still shaking and his head was pounding. He could hear Dean talking to him but it was like background noise, muffled calls behind the blood rushing in his ears. He was light-headed, dizzy, in pain, trying to ignore the horrors his broken brain was showing him.
If he could free Dean then it would be okay. He just had to save Dean.
Garret came back just as he picked the lock. He didn't have time to remove the chains so Dean was still left hanging as Sam was hurled into the wall again. He barely registered the painful bruises which were no doubt forming on his body. He felt something warm and wet trickle on his upper lip.
Garret was coming at him, having picked the knife up again. Dean was furiously trying to free himself, balancing unstably on his toes.
"I wonder why he took the book back," Satan mused, pointing to where the journal was resting on the other end of the table, "Or why his soul is stuck up here in the woods."
Sam reached out and touched the book. Garret hissed.
"He followed you when you had the book. And he only took Dean when he took five kids last time," Lucifer went on, "I'm just saying, this is kinda obvious."
Sam tossed more salt onto the spirit, giving himself some time. Then he emptied the rest onto the diary, followed by lighter fluid. Garret reappeared just in time to see the book go up in flames, he screamed, burning away to nothing. Sam sighed, panting hard.
"Sam?" Dean called, almost free, "You good?"
Sam good barely nod his head. He was so cold, his head was in agony and his nose hadn't stopped bleeding. Fire flashed before his eyes, screams and laughter.
Don't leave me! Adam had cried, Don't leave me alone down here.
We're going to have so much fun, kiddo, Satan cooed, I want us to get along.
Sam didn't remember how he'd ended up on the floor but there he was, head dipped, his bloody nose dripping onto his hands. Dean had managed to get himself down and he was at Sam's side, asking him what was wrong.
Sam lurched to the side and threw up.
Then everything was filled with icy fire and bloody agony.
Sometimes he heard a soft voice, pleading with him, a hand stroking his hair, someone humming Hey, Jude.
But mostly he was drowning, having his tongue ripped out so he couldn't cry out for help. Now and then he'd get glimpses of the inside of a cabin, an old baseball cap, he would hear someone pacing, calling his name, coming into his vision.
But then it would all wash away, he would sink back into the Devil's hands.
He came back to with a heavy gasp, feeling like he hadn't taken a breath in days. He was hot and cold, sweat clung to him like a second skin, sticking the thin fabric of the bed sheet to him. He wasn't wearing much, he noticed when he peeled the blanket away with shaking hands. He'd been stripped down to his boxers. A tugging at the back of his hand alerted him to the IV attached there. It took a long while to get himself sitting up, wrapped in the blanket because he decided he was colder than hot.
He was in Rufus' cabin, occupying the only bed there. He noticed the blankets on the couch and the sleeping bag on the floor next to the bed. His stomach coiled, growling protests because it was so empty. He'd lost weight, he realised, ribs actually visible, muscle somewhat diminished. He ran his tongue across his cracked lips and decided he needed water before he could even attempt to let his foggy brain try to figure out what was going on.
He shuffled around so his feet touched the floorboards and pulled out his IV, which wouldn't have been so painful if his hands hadn't been so weak and shaky.
Getting to his feet turned out to be harder than expected. His legs were like rubber, shaking underneath him and threatening to take him down. He used the wall to guide himself the tens steps it should have taken to get to the kitchen. He vaguely remembered that the tap water in the cabin was not drinkable and he just managed to stop himself from sucking it right out of the tap.
He found several bottles of water in the fridge and grabbed the one on the top shelf, he barely had the energy to bend that far, and collapsed onto the nearest chair, not bothering to close the fridge. He gave himself a few moments before attempting the Everest that was removing the bottle's cap.
He managed, after about seven minutes of straining so hard he broke into a sweat. He threw up right after downing the whole bottle in under a minute, chucking up water and bile all over the floor. He lay his head down on the table, feeling way too exhausted to even look for a cloth, let alone clean up the mess. After a long moment of resting his eyes he remembered where he could remember being last, then wondered where his brother was. There was a horrible moment where he thought Garret might have got to him, then he remembered that someone had to have gotten him all the way to Rufus' cabin.
"Sammy?"
Dean was at the door, a bag of groceries in hand. He stared at his little brother, wide-eyed, then the bags were dropped carelessly on the ground and he was striding over to Sam, yanking him into his arms.
Sam rested his head on Dean's chest, enjoying the warmth for a minute, feeling too tired to even open his eyes.
"God… Sam…" Dean sounded suspiciously close to tears, "I wasn't sure if you…"
"I threw up," Sam remembered suddenly. His voice was soft and raspy. Dean shook a little and Sam realised he was laughing, then he pulled away, crouching down to take Sam's face in his hands. Sam blinked lamely at him, a little thrown-off by the open affection.
"How long have you been up?" Dean asked.
"Not long," Sam said, though it could have been hours given that he currently had the mobility of a 90-year-old. Dean got to his feet, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off with ease, he set it down on the table.
"Slow sips," he said. Sam did as he was told, taking a few small sip before setting it back down.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You don't remember anything?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Would I be asking if I remembered?"
"At least you can still bitch," Dean remarked, "Next we'll test your reflexes."
He took a seat opposite Sam and folded his hands in front of him, the way he usually did when he was serious, like their father had done.
"You've been out for almost two weeks," Dean said, "It took me about a day to get you here, Bobby was here when I arrived. We've been looking out for you since."
"Thanks," Sam muttered, "But what happened to me? Have I just been out?"
"Sometimes," Dean said, "You were in and out. You talked sometimes but we couldn't understand what you were saying. Bobby says it was Enochian. What was it like for you?"
"I don't remember much," Sam said. It was Hell.
Dean stared at him for a moment, detecting the lie. "Good," he said, "You were catatonic. It's good to see you up and about again. Bobby'll be back soon. Do you want anything?"
"I'm pretty hungry, actually," Sam said. Dean nodded and got to picking up the abandoned grocery bags, setting them on the counter. He covered Sam's vomit with an old towel and went about cooking something on the hob.
They got on with it. Like they always did. Because they always had work to do. Because the world was so much bigger than just the two of them.
Next up is Idreamofivan.
Also, I started a new fic if you wanna check it out? Maybe?
It's called From Eden and it will be spectacularly sad. There is a character death but said character will feature throughout. Also, Cas is in it and I haven't really written anything with him yet so that's exciting, huh? Anyway, the plot comes from a post on tumblr which gives the story's premise:
As Cain predicted, Sam is killed by Dean's hands under the influence of the Mark of Cain. Dean tries to cope with his actions by visiting Sam in different time periods where he tries be there for his brother at times he felt he was not. Sam never tells Dean about these visits.
There six chapter, I swear. If you read Keep The Empty From His Eyes then you know what I'm talking about.
Anyway, thanks for reading!