Shadows From the Dim Hereafter

By: CoffeeManiac

Not Slash. Rated T for some mature content.

Warnings: Violence. Hints at sensitive subject matter. Lots of HurtSam. Some HurtDean. This story is not labeled as horror, however, towards the end, there are a couple of short, but fairly gruesome descriptions so, please be prepared.

Heads up: Mind the warning about gruesome.

Thanks again for the great feedback and reviews. And to the "follows" and "favorites".

Part 6

Sam groaned when his treacherous mind chose to wake up. Lancing pain shot through his body. Bone deep and aching, he couldn't blink without aggravating the bruises. His left eye had swollen leaving his vision blurry. His right eye looked around trying to absorb whatever he could.

He remembered having a plastic truck when he was a kid. He growled out engine noises as he pushed it around the room. One day, Dean came home from school and accidentally stepped on it. He crushed the toy into shards. Sam's chest felt like that, crushed and jagged.

He shifted against the cot springs then wished he hadn't. His mind swirled behind closed lids as pain radiated from his ribs to his belly.

June had lost all control when Sam rejected her. Her fists rained down on him unrelenting while Sam twisted helplessly, unable to protect himself or escape. He didn't know how long she beat on him but when she stepped back, she seemed surprised by what she'd done. The crash of the cellar door slamming as she left was the last thing Sam heard before darkness overwhelmed him.

As he lay there after waking, Sam wondered how many times a person can get knocked out before brain damage ensues. He didn't want to be brain damaged. His intelligence was the only thing that set him apart. How would he get into college if he was drooling or unable to speak in sentences or…? He stopped that line of thought. The fact that he was thinking all of that lent support to the fact that he wasn't damaged. At least not yet.

He sighed softly, winced at the pull on his face and sighed again. He flexed his fingers and wiggled his toes because those were things he could do. He wished sleep would take him again.

Living with hunters, going on jobs made bumps and bruises inevitable. But, Sam had never been this hurt, had never thought he might die from an injury. He had never been in pain like this and he didn't know what to do. He felt restless and anxious but he couldn't move. His body betrayed him with every breath because nothing but pain washed back on him. Frustration welled up, choking him with its uselessness.

Sam thought about the girl in the laundry room. She had been terrified and looked beaten. That made him wonder about the shapeshifter Derek killed. He was convinced now that Derek and June were monsters which meant he had witnessed the murder of an innocent. And he had failed to save her. He wondered if he'd be able to save the laundry room girl.

Shifting again, he gasped and reminded himself to stay still. But that was nearly impossible.

He pictured the cot in his mind. Metal frame, bare springs and a flat pillow was all he'd noticed. But, earlier when he tried to move, it had shifted with him. If he tried harder, would he be able to flip it? If he could, what would he gain? The mechanism holding him down was still attached beneath the bed. The belt around his middle still held his hands and feet in place. Unless turning over the bed actually broke the frame and that, in turn, released the lock on the bed then it would be pointless. He'd just be stuck face down on the floor with a bed lying on top of him.

He also might puncture a lung or do some other fatal damage in the process. He didn't think it was worth the risk. He was confident that Dean wouldn't think so either.

One lesson his father drove home was that they should never put themselves in a situation that they couldn't escape. One of his most vivid memories was being around five years old and sitting on a branch at the top of a tree with no idea of how to get down.

Sam wondered why he was thinking about that.

A sharp twinge shot up from his chest to his face and he groaned.

He wondered where June and Derek were. If they chose not to come back, Sam would die. He'd dehydrate, probably quickly given his battered condition. He suspected it wouldn't be fast enough though. He really didn't want to die slowly and alone in a dirty cellar.

He wanted to see Dean and his father again. He wished he could apologize for pushing his father to the breaking point. He wished he hadn't said all the crappy things he said. He thought it would be terrible to die with such hard feelings between them.

Sam held his breath through another jab of radiating pain. The constant ache was bad enough but the sudden flares really hurt.

He shifted again but overcompensated when the pain started. As he twisted back his torso exploded in an agonizing blast. He cried out with a curse as shadows crowded into his consciousness. His breaths came hard and heavy while he tried to adjust. His mind stubbornly refused to release him so he focused on staying still and breathing.

"Let me go!" he screamed.

Desperation and frustration and anger overwhelmed him. "Let me go," he screamed again.

Shaking now, he started talking to himself. "Calm down, calm down. This isn't helping anything. Come on, Sam, think."

Slowly the trembling dissipated, his heart stopped feeling like a railroad train beating against his chest and his breaths came slower. He kept talking for a long time, determined not to let fear overwhelm him.

He startled when the cellar door opened. He hadn't heard the telltale footsteps.

June stood on the threshold for a moment, not speaking or moving and Sam tried to keep his expression impassive. She pulled her ponytail out again then replaced it but never stopped looking at Sam. She descended the steps like a politician ascending a podium, all stiff control.

She no longer wore the yellow dress. Blue jeans, work boots and a long-sleeve Henley that looked too big, hung off her narrow frame.

She stalked towards the cot, picked up the chair and moved it out of the way.

"June," Sam said, thinking she was there to kill him. She was probably dressed to bury his body.

"You can't look like this when your father comes," she said.

Surprised by her words, Sam held his breath when she lay on the floor and reached under the cot. He felt a slight release around his middle and realized she had unlocked the mechanism holding him to the springs.

"Get up," she ordered.

Eagerly, Sam tried to sit up. He couldn't believe his luck. Until he jarred his ribs and back. The sudden pain flooded him and he fell back with a cry.

"Oh, my God," he murmured.

"Please. Save the dramatics," June said. Her voice cut through the blare of agony. "Get up."

Not confident that he'd succeed, Sam was still determined to get out of the basement. He dug past his fear and forced himself to slowly roll on to his side. That worked better but he was panting through it, trying to keep the pain manageable. Using the edge of the cot for leverage he kept rolling until his knees hit the hard packed floor. His vision swam but he fought back. He knew if he passed out, she'd either bind him again or kill him and he wasn't willing to allow either to happen.

Awkwardly working with the short tether on his wrists, Sam grasped the edge of the cot to push up. The cot flipped up a few inches from his weight and he cursed. June let out a suffering sigh and put her arms under his. He used her help to get on his feet. The change in altitude sent a lightning bolt through his skull. He gasped as he squeezed his eyes closed, fighting nausea with everything else.

"Look, Sam, if you're not going to do this…" June said.

"No, no, I'll do whatever, okay?"

Sam would agree to anything just to get out of the cellar. Once he reached the main level, all promises were off.

"All right, I'll give you a chance. If you can get up the steps on your own then I'll let you clean up. If you keep up with all this drama then I'll just leave you down here."

Sam couldn't get words out around the bile threatening his throat so he shifted away from her instead and concentrated on balance. He surprised himself when he didn't sway too much. Swallowing to keep his gag reflex in check he took a short step. The chains on his legs gave just enough.

"Can you…" he motioned towards his ankles.

June sighed again as if he asked her to carry him then reached for the band around his middle. Sam flinched backward earning a glare from her. "Just until we're at the top. I don't trust you not to run."

Sam nodded.

She was right not to trust him. He was hoping he'd be able to shove her back down the steps and make a getaway through the patio door.

He considered doing nothing and just waiting for his father and Dean to arrive but he couldn't stop wondering if she was lying. As far as he knew his family wasn't going to be there for a couple more days. What if June and Derek were just trying to keep him from trying to escape? What if they were preparing for Dad and Dean to arrive so they could kill them too?

June yanked the belt around his waist and drew him closer to her. She knelt down in front of him and unlocked the tether between his ankles. When she stood up, she motioned towards the cellar entrance.

Relieved to have his legs free, Sam moved slowly across the floor then climbed the two steps towards the door. Each moment that he grew closer to getting out of the cellar, he worried that she'd change her mind. He walked through the threshold and put his foot on the first step. Dizziness swept through him and he grabbed the wall wishing for a railing or recess but relying on the rough cement instead. The gray faded away from his vision and he steadied.

The rest of the journey took too long. Sam was sweating by the time he reached the main floor. His legs felt limp and his head pounded like a jackhammer. His ribs pulled with every movement and more than once he thought he'd lose his balance and tumble backward down the cement steps. But, he reached the top with June close behind, berating him for his slow pace.

His hope plummeted when he looked up to find Derek standing by the patio door with arms crossed and a stern expression.

"What are you doing?" Derek asked and Sam hesitated, not knowing how to answer and wondering if Derek could read minds now.

"He needs to get cleaned up," June answered.

Derek rubbed his hand over his head. He looked between Sam and June with a thin-lipped frown.

"What happened to him?" He asked.

"You know. You did it," she accused.

"I didn't do all that. I thought we were trying to make him look better, not worse."

"Don't worry about it. We'll think of something. Like you said, Winchester isn't going to believe him anyway. The kid's a liar."

Sam bristled at that though he couldn't say why he cared what they said about him. June probably thought he lied because she still believed he had been flirting with her. But, what really bothered him was their certainty that Dad would take their word over Sam's. Whatever Dad had said to Derek must have made it seem like there was no trust between them.

Derek looked Sam up and down. "You're so skinny. Does your dad ever feed you?"

Sam assumed it was a rhetorical question.

"Hold still," Derek said as he knelt down in front of him. Sam saw his chance. A good kick would knock Derek down and Sam could run.

"Wait. Just help me get him into the shower."

"A washcloth will do," Sam said quickly. He didn't like the idea of being naked around either one of them.

"I'll be nice," June said.

Sam spun back towards her to argue but he moved too quickly and dizziness swept over him. He reached out for the closest thing to catch himself which was June. She stepped towards him but then hands grabbed him and dragged him back. The yank jarred his ribs and Sam's body exploded in pain. He wilted with it but Derek held him up with one arm around his waist and the other around his neck.

Derek shook him. "Hold still."

Sam didn't realize he was struggling until he forced himself to stop.

"You know he's not a pet," Derek said to June. "You can't keep him."

"She wanted to keep him. I can feel it," June said.

"You have to push that down. You shouldn't still be feeling like that," Derek said.

Sam felt like he was falling down Alice's rabbit hole. Who wanted to keep him?

"Come on," Derek said to Sam and pulled him backwards.

Adrenaline surged up and Sam threw his head back trying to connect with Derek's nose. He hit something and heard a satisfying grunt from the other man. The grip on his neck tightened and oxygen stopped moving into his lungs. He thrashed with panic, trying to escape until slowly, Sam felt his vision graying as Derek choked him.

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Dean slept for an hour with his head propped against the passenger window. He was wrapped in the army jacket they purchased a few weeks ago at a second hand store. John listened to him snuffle and snore and was glad for the Percocet he'd managed to procure a month earlier. But, Dean was never one to stay idle for long. Even as a young child, Dean only slept six or seven hours at a time. As he grew older, that time shortened even more. The painkillers kept him docile but not asleep.

He woke with a yawn and a stretch, wincing as he irritated his head injury. Then he quietly stared out the side window for a while. John knew Dean was preparing for a serious conversation. His son hated dealing with sensitive subjects and John wasn't a fan of it either. But, he also knew that Dean needed to talk about something. The kid practically wore a neon sign when something was bothering him.

It took another hour before Dean finally spoke.

Three hours away from Rochester, Minnesota with overcast skies and a cold wind to keep them company, Dean shifted in his seat to sit up straight.

"Why'd you hit him?" he asked and they both knew that he meant Sam.

"I don't know. Obviously, I lost my temper." John heard the irritation in his voice. He hated having to explain himself, even more so when he knew he was wrong.

"You two fight all the time."

The statement hung between them because it was true. How could John respond to that?

"You can't…," Dean hesitated then said. "He's a teenager so you have to be the adult."

John scoffed. "You don't think I know that? He's just so pig-headed all the time. Won't listen, won't stop giving his opinions on everything, won't stop acting like he knows everything. It's gonna get him killed, Dean."

"He doesn't think he knows everything. He just acts like that because he doesn't want you to know how scared he is."

"What does he have to be afraid of?"

Dean scowled. "Seriously?"

"He can take care of himself. We've both made sure of that. And we watch him all the time. I don't know why you think he's scared."

"He's fifteen, Dad. He fights monsters. Plus he's got that gigantic brain so he sees everything all the time."

"When you were fifteen…"

"We're not the same. You can't think he's going to act like me."

John shook his head, exasperated. He watched the scenery pass and wished Mary was there to help him. She'd been gone for years but he still thought she'd understand both boys better than he ever would.

"Dad…"

"I know, all right? I know that Sam is different than you. I know he's struggling with who he is. I know that I'm not the man or the father that he wants me to be. But, Dean, I can't just listen to it all the time and do nothing. I'm his father, I deserve some respect. I've earned that much."

"So has he."

John glanced at his oldest son. Dean looked back at him with such defeat that John recoiled internally. He knew that Dean was in pain, that he was tired and he missed his brother. But, even factoring in all that, John knew that he instilled some of that surrender into his boy and his stomach clenched with the knowledge.

"I know. I promise, Dean, I won't lash out like that again. Not at either of you. I was wrong, okay? Sam can be difficult but I was wrong."

Dean's shoulders slumped a little as if a burden had been lifted off him.

"Try and get some sleep, son. We're still more than two hours away."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied but he didn't close his eyes. "Do you think we should call June or Derek?"

John wiped a hand over his mouth. He had been thinking about that.

"You know what? Let's surprise Sam."

John didn't say that he thought there might be trouble or that he was starting to worry about his last conversation with June. He didn't want to scare Dean by telling him that June didn't sound like herself or that John had a knot in his belly. Even as he tried to rationalize away his fear, he couldn't quite let go of it.

Dean startled him when he said, "I think you're right. Let's surprise all of them."

John exchanged a look with his son and realized that Dean had fears too.

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The cold, smooth surface around him confused Sam as he woke. He couldn't get a purchase on anything as his hands and feet slid against the slick walls. As full consciousness descended, he realized that the band around his waist was gone. He moved his limbs freely. He pushed his eyes open slowly. The left remained swollen and sluggish while he opened the other with a soft moan.

Lying on his back, he looked up at the tiled ceiling and then the metal shower spigot swam into focus. He looked around himself finding that he was naked and scrunched into the bathtub. One of his legs hung over the side, while the other was bent at an uncomfortable angle.

Sam shifted around carefully, getting himself into a less exposed position. Every movement sent shards of pain cutting through his head and chest. His throat hurt too but the concussion raging since the first blow he took kept his attention. His ribs shifted weirdly too and he had to fight to keep from slipping away again.

A creak startled him and he shifted away covering himself with his hands at the same time. When the bathroom door opened, June stood in the doorway with Derek hovering behind her. Sam was glad to see that Derek's nose was bruised and swollen. June tried to smile but the expression looked wrong on her face.

"Take a shower," she said. "There are clothes on the sink. Come out when you're done."

Sam just stared at them. He wasn't sure he could stand up. Getting situated on the smooth porcelain then showering without losing his balance or passing out seemed like an impossible task. But, he couldn't ask for help. Modesty aside, he was entirely vulnerable too.

They backed away and closed the door. Sam remained on his back wondering how he was going to do what they wanted. He could refuse but he was naked in a bathtub. Nothing says "hide a murder" like a body in a bathtub.

With slow, deliberate moves, he turned on to his side, grimacing at the cold. His back brushed against the edge of the tub and he winced. It felt like a cut or something back there. He figured with all the times he had spent getting knocked around and knocked out, he shouldn't be surprised at a few scrapes to match the rest of his injuries.

He got his knees under him and waited a moment to catch his breath. Once the room stopped acting like a carnival funhouse, Sam gripped the tub and pushed up. He got his feet planted but stayed curled over as his head and ribs sent a chorus of agonizing complaints. He waited again, breathing in short gasps with his eyes squeezed tight.

"I can't do this," he said softly. Then he kept waiting and kept breathing until finally the worst of the pain started to fade.

Carefully, he released his death grip on the edge of the tub and forced his body to stand. He fell against the back wall and locked his knees. Trembling and weak, he took more time to adjust. Knowing the pain would eventually start to subside allowed him to keep trying to stay upright. With his vision wavering he thought about how much it would hurt to fall over so he held on.

"Come on, Sam, keep it together," he told himself.

When his legs stopped quavering and his hands stopped shaking, Sam leaned forward carefully and turned on the water. The cold blast from the shower nozzle sent goose bumps skittering over his flesh. He gasped as he recoiled away from the spray.

"Damn it." He should have thought about that, prepared for it.

He stayed still, plastered against the wall.

The water turned warmer but the transition was too slow. Sam shivered violently as his body adjusted to the temperature. He struggled with staying on his feet while his injuries asserted themselves again. As the shower soaked him he felt several more painful pings that he couldn't identify. They were all on his back from shoulders to hip. He reached behind to see if he could feel what they were but he couldn't figure it out.

Pink swirled with the water going towards the drain and he hoped he wasn't still bleeding from someplace.

He turned his face into the water and drank greedily. He thought his brain must really be scrambled because he hadn't thought about getting a drink, or food, in a long time. Basic survival abandoned him somehow. As the water filled him though, it had an immediate stabilizing effect. He had needed it.

The bathroom door opened again to reveal June. Sam grabbed at the shower curtain and pulled it closed, belatedly realizing that he had forgotten to do that so the floor was probably flooded.

"You're an idiot," June said, angrily. "Hurry up and finish so you can clean up this mess. God, it's like you're five instead of fifteen."

She slammed the door and Sam hoped she was on the other side of it, not standing there waiting for him.

Nausea bubbled up inside him. The shower water sloshed uncomfortably in his stomach.

He jumped when a loud bang landed against the door. "Hurry up," June's shrill voice screamed.

Sam started looking around for a weapon; a razor, a pair of scissors or something heavy to use as a club, anything that he could use to stab or bludgeon his captors. His goals were simple. He needed a phone, a chance to look for the girl he saw and to get out of the house. Nothing complicated or insurmountable, he thought.

It would be easier if he could see clearly but no plan was perfect, he thought, and then the ludicrousness of that struck him and he laughed. Dean would call him "crazy" and maybe it was true.

As Sam dried off, he spotted a plunger beside the toilet. Maroon colored rubber stuck to the end of a three foot wooden stick. Sam picked it up. It was lightweight but solid. It might not knock either of them out but it would hurt to get hit. He slid the rubber end off and set it down then hefted the stick again. Obviously it wasn't made to be a weapon but it was going to serve as one.

He dressed in the jeans and gray sweatshirt left on the toilet. No underwear, t-shirt or socks but the clothes were dry and warm. He stopped a couple of times to settle his vision and let the pain ease away but mostly he was eager to take action. He knew the only thing working for him was adrenaline but for now, it was all he needed.

He slid the wooden handle under the sweatshirt and wrapped his arm close to his body to keep it hidden. Sam figured they'd know he was hurt and wouldn't question the way he hunched forward. Just as pulled the shirt down a little, the door opened again.

June stood with one hand on the door handle and one on her hip.

"You've milked this long enough, Sam. I want to see you on your knees in front of that tub. Clean up the water and make the floor spotless."

Sam thought about the stick he carried wondering if he could keep it from sliding into view. He also wondered if he'd be able to get down on the floor without passing out.

"You don't have a mop?" He asked.

She cocked her head with a frown, no doubt ready to deliver a scathing response but he didn't give her a chance. In one smooth motion, Sam let the stick slide out into his hand and swung it hard across her head.

June stumbled to one side and fell onto her knees. Sam ignored the agonizing jolt through his own body. He let his training and instincts take over. Bringing the stick back around, he jabbed the end into the side of her skull. She dumped over with a grunt and he smashed her again. Blood spurted from her cheek when it split and she stopped moving.

Sam stumbled towards the dining room. He leaned against the door jamb letting the pain and sweat wash over him. He wished he had stopped to search June. She might have her phone or a weapon with her but he didn't think he'd get up again if he knelt down to go through her pockets.

He considered his options and decided he had to brave the upstairs to see if the girl was there. Once he found her, they could escape the house, knock on a neighbor's door and use their phone. He moved quickly through the dining room, living room and into the guest room. He expected to find his duffle where he carried a gun and a couple of knives inside, but the space was empty. Even the bed had been stripped. It was like he'd never been there at all.

Sam refused to think about the meaning of that. He moved across the floor and opened the door that led to the upstairs. With every breath and every step, he worried that Derek would appear.

He kept moving, kept listening and watching. He heard the creaks of the house and the wind outside. He focused past those noises, searching for any threat. As he ascended the steps, he was grateful for the carpet covering. He clutched his makeshift weapon and looked in front and behind him as he climbed.

When he reached the top, he found a half wall on his right side and doorway on his left. He glanced over the wall, recoiling at the sudden copper odor in the air. His vision remained blurry from his swollen and damaged face but he recognized blood stains on the plush carpeting. A short gate separated him from the macabre mess so he pushed it open. As soon as he entered the small room, he gasped at the smell of decomposition and blood.

A small ticking noise drew his attention to the ceiling where he spotted a large air processor. The metal gleamed with its newness. There was no dust or grime on it and the store tags dangled from one end. Sam had seen this type of machinery in bars. It was used to suck tobacco smoke out of a room. He guessed they used it to keep the gruesome smell of death from traveling through the house.

Sam heard something else that made his heart pick up and his skin ripple with goose bumps. It sounded like sucking and chewing as if someone were close by devouring chicken off a bone. He turned towards the noise and found Derek hunched over a bed with a body lying before him. The naked legs of the body twitched but not like the living. Sam forced himself to look higher.

The girl from the laundry room, eyes glassy and dead, stared back at him. Her bare arms were tied to the headboard but her life struggle had clearly ended. Her skin showed where her flesh had been flayed and torn by bites.

Sam gasped and stepped back, his bare foot squishing in something cold and thick. Derek spun towards him with blood around his mouth and covering his cheeks. As he darted up from the chair, Sam saw where he'd been feeding on the girl.

Sam raised his stick in horror as Derek barreled toward him with an awful growl. Derek didn't notice or didn't care because he impaled himself with a sickening squelch. His eyes widened in surprise as Sam stepped back.

Derek reached towards his stomach, grasped the stick and slid it free. He smiled at Sam around chunks of something in his teeth and blood sliming out of his mouth. Sam shoved into him and darted towards the stairs. Adrenaline kept him running until he reached the bottom when Derek drove into his back, tackling him into the guest room.

Sam yelled out as his broken ribs seemed to twist inside him. Derek flipped him on to his back, pinning his arms above his head. Sam struggled weakly but Derek just pushed harder, grinding his bones with the pressure.

With black creeping into the edges of his eyesight, Sam gave one more try at pushing Derek off him but the much larger and heavier man just waited. His blood soaked grin followed Sam into unconsciousness.

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