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Alternate Born-Again Identity
THURSDAY NIGHT
Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the bright lights and tries to relax. He's strapped to a table and several people in surgical masks are sticking pointy metal things into his shoulder for some unknown reason... But he's not curious as to why: there's always something tearing at him in the Cage.
No! Not the cage! I'm out! Didn't I get out? There are so many drugs running through his system that he can't keep his thoughts in his head anymore. He mumbles at the operating room ceiling, "I'm out... Dean said... got me out!"
"No he didn't, Sam! You're just deluding yourself. Where is Saint Dean while these awful people torture you? Hmm?" Lucifer speaks softly and starts doodling on Sam's face with a marker. "He stood back and let you jump into the worst Hell possible to suffer for all eternity. You really think he cares for you? Would bother rescuing you?"
"Yes! He tried didn't he?" now he's beseeching.
Lucifer feigns distress, "No, he didn't! Nobody cares about you but me. How many times do I have to beat it into you?"
Then Sam gets his memories back, and he's pissed. "Shut up and get out of my head!"
"Oh, I think thats the longest suppression yet! I'm getting better at this, buddy!" Satan gives him an affectionate bop on the nose.
Sam can't hold in the groan of despair as he tries to twitch out of reach. Of all the tortures he's endured, Lucifer's touch is the worst.
In the Cage, the Devil never held the knife himself-he was almost always kind in person-he just created things to do the carving for him. It was a sick game he played to make Sam believe that he wasn't actually responsible for the abuse. So in retaliation, Sam fought to convince himself that the worst agony is Lucifer's affections.
One of the doctors raises his eyebrows as Sam jerks away, "Take it easy, the bullet's almost out," he tries to reassure.
Another doctor whispers, "Is he not feeling the pain meds either? What the hell is wrong with this guy?"
God... please... just let me die... And then Sam's anchor is ripped away from him again, and he's hurled straight back into Hell...
1 HOUR LATER
After a short walk, Dean is in the middle of a small woodlot. It's almost pitch black and he makes sure he's alone before he phones Briar back.
"What do you want?" the sheriff practically spits out as he answers.
Dean decides he's ready for the questions. "What did you do to my brother? And don't sweet-talk me. I saw the blood on his shirt."
"He resisted arrest so we shot him. He's stable now though. Physically anyway... What did you do to him? He's a stark-raving lun-"
"Careful Phil, what did I say about that attitude?" Dean takes a second to collect himself, This guy is so dead. "I guess I can't convince you to let us both go and we pretend this never happened? Nobody else has to die."
"Not a chance. You won't stop killing people, Dean. Psychopaths like you never do... until they're caught."
Dean sighs, It was a long shot anyway. "Put Sam on the phone."
"I'm not with him."
"Don't insult my intelligence, Phil. You, and probably all of your deputies are with my brother. Put him on the phone." Dean's patience is wearing thin and he's pacing through the trees.
Briar seems to be stalling, "He's not exactly lucid at the moment. He won't even underst-"
But Dean's had enough and he snaps, "If you don't put my brother on the phone right-fucking-now you will have another body on your hands. And I get creative when I'm pissed."
There is a silence, and then a muffled, "talk," through the line.
"Sammy?" Dean's heart rate picks up when there's no immediate reply.
Then, "What?" Sam's voice sounds far away: they're on speaker phone.
"Hey," Dean breathes out, relieved. "I got the shifter, Sam, and I know the cops are after me. Just sit tight and I'll find a way to fix all of this, alright? I'm getting you out." He says it all quickly in case Briar thinks they're speaking in code and hangs up on him.
"Shut up! I'm not falling for it again."
"What?" Dean stops his pacing, heart hammering.
"Stop pretending to be... Him!" Sam sobs into the phone. "Just take me back to the Cage. You win."
Now Dean is horrified. He thinks this is all fake... "Sammy, we've been over this! This is not the Malibu Dream Mansion, and you know it... you're just forgetting! Day 5 of sleep deprivation, remember?" he pleads.
"No! I'm not getting... Dean!" Sam's tone shifts from pissed to relieved almost instantly, and he's forcing the words out with some difficulty, "Lucifer can screw with my memory now, and he's not going to let me sleep... till I'm dead. Please don't come for me... it's not worth it."
Dean puts his game-face back on. So, you're still in there. "No way. Don't start with that crap. I'm not letting you give up, Sam, and don't you dare ask me to leave you in Hell again, or you're getting your ass kicked. Just sit tight and wait for me."
"Dean..." Sam sounds exasperated, and the bitch-face can practically be heard.
Dean lets out a broken chuckle. "See you soon, bitch,"-he clears his throat-"Briar, I still gotta talk to you."
"I'm here," the sheriff responds. He sounds closer: no longer on speaker.
Dean drops his mask drop again."I don't know if you followed any of that, but my brother... just... see if you can drug him out or something, okay? He'll be fine if he gets some sleep." Maybe...
"The doctor's already pumped him full of sedatives, but he won't go under. They don't think he feels pain killers either. What the hell is that about?" Briar asks, sounding totally out of his element.
Dean groans in distress and pulls at his hair. Shit. Shit. SHIT! This is so much worse than I thought... "Could you at least... lock him somewhere without restraints? I'm sure he has trouble with them."
"That would explain why he nearly skinned his hands trying to get the cuffs off," Briar replies, thoughtful.
Really wishing he didn't hear that, Dean chokes out, "Please. Just help him," and hangs up.
He checks the call time: 4 minutes, 13 seconds. Somebody probably traced that one. Dean drops the phone in the woods, hoping somebody wastes their time trying to find it, and jogs back to the foreclosed house.
Once there, he grabs his bag out of the cupboard and empties it on the kitchen floor. There has to be something here I can use to get to Sam...
He looks at the 2 remaining cell phones and toys with the idea of calling someone for help. But Dean quickly realizes, All of our friends are dead... Everyone. Cas, Bobby, Frank... and now I'm losing Sam... It's just one hit after another.
Suddenly, a cold breeze comes through the window and a certain rumpled trench-coat is blown onto Dean's shoe. It had been left at the bottom of his bag since he pulled it out of the river all those weeks ago.
Aw Cas, Dean thinks miserably. He never really got the chance to mourn his friend properly. He's had so much other shit to deal with... And now he's feeling as alone as he was during those agonizing minutes in Stull cemetery.
'Team Free Will' had just saved the world, and Dean was the only one left. Sam had jumped into the Cage, bits of Cas were all over the place, and Bobby was lying dead of a broken neck. If Cas hadn't been resurrected and brought Bobby back, Dean probably would have eaten a bullet right there... Hell, he might have even opened the Cage again and jumped in himself.
Looking down at the grimy coat, Dean frowns as he remembers. Cas tried to bring Sam back too. Maybe Cas couldn't get all of him, but he tried. And if he hadn't tried, Dean might still be drowning in disguised misery with Lisa and Ben, and he may never have gotten the real Sam out the Cage.
"Cas!" he cries at the cracked and stained ceiling. "It's Dean. Where are you, man? And don't tell me you're dead. You've come back too many times for me to believe that... We need you down here..."
It's the first time he's prayed to the angel since before his betrayal, and Dean can't help but hope that maybe he's just been hiding out somewhere... Maybe he's been waiting for me to call... His pulse quickens as the seconds tick by.
Dean is still angry of course, and doesn't even know how he would react if Cas actually shows up. Yes, the angel was sorry at the end, but he's the one who broke Sam's head in the first place...
A minute passes... Nothing. Dean curses himself for getting his hopes up. He's on his own. Sighing, he puts the trench-coat back in his bag and looks at his other things. His eyes dance over matches, herbs, chalk, and a new idea forms...
Emmanuel shoots straight off the couch with a gasp. What in the world was that? It was like a voice seared straight into his brain, leaving his heart pounding. He knew the words were meant for him. Cas? What an odd name... Could it really be mine? And who is Dean...? Does he think I'm dead?
Emmanuel takes a calming breath. He knows nothing about who he is, only that he's different. He somehow heals people's ailments with nothing but a desire to, and he doesn't need sleep or food like everyone else... But hearing somebody calling for him telepathically? That's new. Could this Dean be like me...? Emmanuel clears his throat and answers aloud, "Umm... Dean? Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"
No response. Emmanuel frowns with disappointment. This Dean is asking for his help, but he has nothing to go on besides a first name... All he can do is wait and hope he gets called on again with more information.
Briar scratches his chin absently as he watches Sam flinching frequently on the stretcher in his cell. There are two deputies just outside the bars with the sheriff, and another six are stationed throughout the building. There would have been two more officers, but Harris is in the hospital with a slight concussion, and Baker is damn near catatonic after having a conversation with Dean. Briar doesn't blame the kid a bit.
This is hardly enough guys, the sheriff thinks anxiously. The Feds say SWAT's about an hour away and Briar can only pray they manage to bag the older brother before he shows and rips them all to shreds.
He thought he was handling the situation pretty well considering who he was dealing with, and then Dean phones and he's reduced to a stuttering mess.
Briar has seen photos of some of the Winchester's murders. How they torture and dismember... and to have that monster threaten his sister... his Sara... Briar called her as soon as he got the chance to make sure she was okay and tell her to leave town immediately. He didn't have any spare hands to ensure her safety. They were both in tears before they hung up.
Needless to say, the sheriff did not cater to Dean's wishes of freeing Sam from the restraints. According to their reputation, the little brother is just as dangerous as the older, and this law man is taking no chances. So Sam remains strapped down to the hospital gurney despite left over sedatives in his system keeping him immobile anyway.
Briar had the younger Winchester moved to the Sheriff's Department following the patch-ups to his wrists, shoulder, and leg. The doctors had been most curious about his apparent immunity to drug-induced sleep, and wanted to run some tests, but they were more than happy to discharge Sam when they learned of the big-brother-shaped threat to the hospital if he stayed.
Briar frowns and tries not to pity the monster through the bars. He is pale from blood loss, coated in sweat, and breathing rapidly. Ever since they put him in the ambulance he has alternated between pleading with someone who isn't there, yelling at someone who isn't there, and the current behaviour of trembling with a creepy vacant expression. Not once had Sam acknowledged or even looked at a real person since his arrest, until he heard Dean's voice over the phone. It was like a fog lifted off him and he came back to life.
Briar reflects on the conversation that followed: it was one of the strangest exchanges Briar had ever heard, and if he ignores some of the bizarre jargon, it was really quite sad. Well, it would have been sad if the brothers weren't mass-murdering codependent psychopaths who killed his best friend and countless others and threatened his sister.
Dean strikes a match and drops it into a bowl. Smoke billows and an acrid odour fills the kitchen as the reagents burn. Summoning complete, Dean picks up Ruby's knife as he waits. This was such a bad idea...
"Weren't planning to use that on me, were you, Squirrel?" the smarmy demon asks, popping into the room.
"Depends," Dean greets hesitantly.
"I see. What have I done to offend this time?" Crowley drawls as he glances around the room: checking for Devil's Traps, no doubt.
Dean regards him carefully. So, he does learn. "No traps today, Crowley. We need your help."
The demon stares at him. "And what, may I ask, have you two Neanderthals gotten yourselves into this time? Started another apocalypse?"-he looks around the room again-"Where's Moose?"
"Not sure where, but he's been taken by local cops. I want you to spring him." Dean can't keep the grimace off his face as he speaks.
Crowley looks absolutely delighted. "What? Sam and Dean Winchester can't kill their way through a few empty meat-suits?"
"They're humans, Crowley," Dean growls. "We can't just kill them, and they are actually smart enough to carry guns. Unlike your piss-poor demons."
"Oh Squirrel. That conscience of yours is going to be the death of you... again. What drove you to call me? Run out of friends to die for you?"
Dean's temper flares, but he manages to keep it out of his tone. "You want us to gank leviathans. We can't do that behind bars."
"And how many have you bagged exactly? Three? Four? Marvelous job so far. Convince me why I shouldn't just gut you right now and leave your precious moose to rot." Crowley tilts his head with a little smirk.
Dean's grip on the knife tightens. "Alright, you still owe us for saving your ass from Lucifer. Get Sam out and we're even. We'll even drop Dick for you. Free of charge."
The demon raises his eyebrows. "If you don't recall, I gave you the Colt, Pestilence, and Death's coordinates. I owe you nothing."
Dean bristles at that. "The Colt was useless, and Bobby sold his soul to find Death. But you're right: you don't owe me, you owe Sam. Hell, everything living thing on this fucking planet owes Sam for jumping into that pit."
Crowley looks thoughtful and doesn't respond right away. "Fine, I'm feeling generous. I'll give you his location." Then he vanishes.
Dean hardly has time to say, "Well fuck you very much," before the demon is back.
"He's tied and trussed in the town jail: 121 West State street. Total of 9 mooks... Looks like they know you're coming." Crowley sounds bored as he relays the info. He then pulls a police brochure out of his jacket, drops it on the floor, winks, and disappears.
Dean sighs, lowers Ruby's knife, and picks up the brochure. Well, that could have gone much worse... Sorry, Sam. I'm coming now.
"Yes, sir... thank you." Briar shuts his cell and lets out a pent up breath he didn't know he was holding. He smiles at his deputies in relief, announcing, "SWAT's almost in town," and heads to the front doors to meet their saviours.
It's now just past midnight and the Algona streets are calm. This time, Dean comes armed with 2 rock-salt-loaded shotguns; one in hand and one slung over his back. He carries extra rounds in his coat, and his .45 mm in the back of his jeans. The rock salt rounds will hurt-as Dean knows from personal experience-but they won't kill anyone. As pissed as Dean is, these guys think they're getting rid of two monsters, and he doesn't want to kill them for it. The .45 is coming along just in case... things don't turn out well.
Dean circles the red brick Sheriff's Department from a safe distance. The building has three entrances: main door at the front, side by the driveway, and back facing a small parking lot. He settles for the side door.
This place is tiny, Dean realizes, annoyed. It's unlikely he can sneak in and start taking guys down without everyone else hearing it, but it's his only option.
After closer inspection, Dean notices a security camera by his door of choice. Shit... they're gonna know I'm here as soon as I start picking the lock... Dean puts his weary brain to work, glad he's kept his distance until now. If I can take out the cameras, at least they won't know which door I take...
He scans the building's wall and grins. Power lines. No way this place has a generator. Dean follows a thick hydro wire down the wall to where it feeds a rectangular power box. Not having a clue how it works, he backs towards the parking lot, pulls out his .45, and shoots the cable. It snaps and sparks angrily, and he sprints for the back door, knowing he just announced his whereabouts in the most obvious way possible.
Reaching the door, Dean crouches to fit in his lock picks, and startles when the door is already open. Was this thing locked electronically? What a stupid idea.
He steps into the pitch black building and grins as he hears cops running and swearing and shouting for flashlights. He kind of wishes they'd hurry up and find some: he can't see anything either. Though, he doesn't really need to see to know where to go.
The brochure Crowley gave Dean earlier has a small floor map of the building for some community open-house, and he took the time running here to memorize it. Now, it's just a small matter of groping his way around corners as silently as possible.
Dean holds his trusty shotgun in his right hand as he drags his left across the hallway wall, counting doorways as he goes. Third door on the left, straight through the room to next doors, first left...
He quickly takes note of panicked breath and squeaky shoes coming up behind him, so he pauses in his search and turns. Whoever the guy is has no idea how to fight in the dark, and it takes Dean about 2 seconds to put him in a rear choke hold. Another 6 seconds and the poor dude is out cold on the floor. Dean pats him down and scores a rifle, cuffs, and the keys for them. Pocketing the keys and ammo clip, he cuffs the guy's ankle and wrist together, then gets back to finding the correct door.
By this point, there are flashlight beams popping up around corners, and it gives Dean enough stray light to start running.
"He's in the building!" a petrified yell echoes behind him. "He got Collins!"
"Everyone get to the cells and calm down, for fuck's sake!" Briar's equally hysterical voice responds.
Dean doubles his speed. They're going to center on Sam. This sheriff has a decent head on his shoulders after all... Awesome...
Taking the last turn at a full on sprint, Dean kicks open the door into a tiny cell block with both shotguns raised. He hits two of the three deputies square in the chest, and they fly back into the cell bars with a clang and slump to the ground. But the last deputy-a lady-manages to get a shot in before Dean has time to drop his extra gun to pump the other and fire again. The bullet sails under Dean's left arm and grazes his side, but does nothing to hinder his aim and another deputy hits the floor.
Dean has just enough time to feel awful about hurting a girl before a heavyset man peels around the corner behind him. A fourth shotgun blast and he too drops.
A silence fills the building outside the cell block and the officers stop coming. All that can be heard are coughs from the fallen deputies, and spent shell casings rattling across the floor.
Dean picks up a stray flashlight and takes the opportunity for a quick look at the whole reason for this break-in.
Sam is lying with his chest and arms strapped to a wheeled hospital gurney in the nearest cell. He's wearing only torn jeans and is covered in bandages. His skin looks deathly pale in the flashlight beam... and he's glaring at Dean with complete hatred.
He must have forgotten again, Dean's heart sinks. Dammit, brother... I'm not just Lucifer fucking with you... But he has no time to spare for talk, and instead takes quick stock of the place.
The room is square, and contais 3 cells. One cell in each corner but for one where a small desk is situated. There is a swivel chair, filing cabinet, a tall metal desk lamp, extra guns and ammo, and a couple of tear gas canisters. Solid double doors separate the room from the hallway, and there are no windows.
Making up his mind, Dean rolls the chubby deputy out of the room, takes his gun, and closes the double doors. He grabs the desk lamp, smashes the head onto the floor, and sticks the shaft through the door handles.
Next, he heads for the wounded deputies, who play dead as Dean searches them and takes their guns and tasers. Awesome, he thinks as he also scores a ring of keys to the cells and drags the limp officers into one and locks them in.
Dean then pushes the swivel chair over and wedges it against the room's doors, effectively locking them all in, and takes a quick breather. He checks the graze on his left side and is surprised to see his shirt drenched in blood. Huh... barely even felt it, Dean recalls. Not having the time or patience to deal with it, he unlocks Sam's cell.
Noticing Sam's expression of loathing hasn't changed, Dean sighs and drags his hand over his face. "Sammy, I'm here to get you out... C'mon, drop the bitch-face."
There's a bang on the door as somebody outside kicks it. A voice cries, "He's locked himself in, sir! You are not getting away with this, you hear me? Fucking bastard! You're both dead!"
Dean groans and ignores the voice, locking eyes with his brother who looks like he's on Death's door. One shit-storm at a time... "Sammy, please... you aren't in Hell anymore and I'm not just some hallucination! Give me a reason to think you're still in there..."-he chokes out the last bit when tears threaten-"Or I'll end it... for both of us." He holds up his .45 mm and forces a gentle smile on his face. He only says it to get a reaction from Sam, but he quickly realizes that if it doesn't work... What exactly would I be living for with you gone, little brother?
Thankfully, it does get Sam's attention. He jerks violently and his hateful gaze disappears, being replaced with one of utmost torment. "Dean!" he gasps, "You have to get out now! I heard the sheriff on the phone... SWAT will be here any minute. Please, you can't get us both out."
Dean lets out a watery chuckle of relief and puts the handgun back in his jeans, saying, "Shut up, Sam. You don't get to tell me what to do," and starts wheeling Sam's stretcher out the cell door. He can't exactly run out with a busted leg, but the gurney is the next best thing.
Before reaching the double doors, Dean pauses to reload the shotguns and asks partly joking, but mostly serious, "I let you sit up, can you handle a gun? Or you gonna start shooting me?"
Sam frowns and opens his mouth like he wants to bitch, but then the fight seems to leave him and he just looks miserable. "Probably best I stay down."
Dean nods solemnly and rests shotgun #2 on Sam's chest. Removing the propped chair ever so quietly, he puts his ear to the door and listens for any movement in the hallway. He hears nothing so he turns off the flashlight, plunging the room into darkness, and opens one of the doors a fraction with the lamp still in the handles. He can just make out 3 shaking beams of light trained on the door before he closes it again.
Now what? We can't exactly wait for them to leave, Dean fumes. If SWAT shows up... He jumps when something tugs on his coat, but it's just Sam trying to get his attention. He flicks the flashlight back on and looks at his brother.
"Tear gas," Sam whispers, looking at the desk.
Dean feels a rush of gratitude for the kid and pats his undamaged shoulder affectionately. Even sleep-deprived, insane, anemic and drugged out, his little-big genius comes through.
Grabbing a tear gas canister, Dean quickly reads through the tiny diagrams printed on the side explaining how to use it. The thing looks like a grenade and apparently works the same way.
Dean sighs: he knows how tear gas works. This will be unpleasant, he thinks, and glances down at Sam. "Eyes and mouth closed till we're clear... and hold your breath."