The Ruin of Souls
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.
Edited: by Teajunkie. Thank you for all your help polishing this piece.
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Consciousness came slowly, his brain quietly whispering at him to stay under; it was safer and quieter in oblivion. As Sam's eyes blinked open, his breath quickened, straining to pull in air with a heavy weight resting on his chest. He was in utter darkness, unable to discern even shadows. That, and he was cold. No, make that freezing. His new world was silent save for his own breathing.
Sam tried to move his arm to reach the flashlight in his pocket, but it was pinned underneath him, the other trapped between his chest and whatever was on top of him. Wherever he was, it was cramped, leaving little room to maneuver. It smelled of mildew and old dust. Every small movement he managed was accompanied by sharp bursts of pain up his neck into his head, and something crunched underneath him. Sam knew he had to move, but the confined space and intense cold were conspiring against him.
Finally, he was able to get a numb hand into his pocket and retrieve his flashlight. It must have kicked up a fresh cloud of dust, because something tickled his nose and he sneezed several times. Sam groaned, and with shaking fingers he slid the switch on and took a look around his prison. It took his brain a few moments to figure out exactly where he was, and when he did, it caused panic to scrabble up his throat. He was lying in a pit in the ground; the low, domed-shaped, stone structure around him was windowless with a heavy wooden door. If he had to guess, he'd say it was an old icehouse. It would certainly fit given the time period the house was built and the intense cold.
He shone the light around the small space, then at whatever was pinning him to the bottom. He wasn't the only one in the pit. Elisabeth's mummified face was exposed and remarkably still mostly preserved, permanently frozen in sleep. She was wrapped in burlap and thick twine. Her shrunken form was leathery brown, and Sam could see Elisabeth's spirit, superimposed over her body. The edges of her frostbitten skin blurred when the ghost stirred and reached out a hand to touch Sam's face. He jerked his head back, hitting it soundly against the hard-packed ground. Her fingers burned his skin and his flashlight sputtered, but stayed on.
"He's here," Elisabeth whispered.
"D-Daniel?" Sam asked. He tried to free one of his legs. He needed the extra leverage to get Elisabeth's body off him, but they were twisted, hopelessly trapped and bent under him with zero clearance. He used the hand with the flashlight to push against Elisabeth's body. Her corpse was heavy, a leaden weight that pushed against him with a supernatural force.
"I'm so cold." Elisabeth's spirit leaned into him, her ghostly head and hands resting on his chest, seeking the gap between his buttons to place them on the thin material of his t-shirt. Her physical body's face pressed up against his when he shifted, trying to get his other hand free. "I don't want to be alone."
"Dean!" Sam shouted, or rather attempted to shout. The cold stole his breath and he coughed weakly. It wasn't the cold, he realized, but the air itself. It was stale and thin, and it felt as if he was quickly running out of it.
With a surge of adrenaline, Sam clawed and pushed against Elisabeth's body. It fell to the side and he scrambled backward until he hit the wall. He patted the outside of his jacket and jeans, searching for his phone. When his brain sluggishly caught up to his actions, he remembered he'd been talking to Dean when he'd been blindsided. His phone was probably nestled in the fallen leaves. Perfect.
"Dean!" Sam groaned as the force of another cough rattled his head, and although thoughts of a concussion ran through his mind, it really didn't seem important at the moment.
"Don't worry," Elisabeth cooed softly in his ear, her breath only chilling Sam more. "It only hurts for a little while."
Sam ignored her. He certainly didn't plan to stay there long enough to find out. He twisted around, and his knees creaked in protest of the cold. He dug his fingers into the crumbling mortar between the stones as he pulled himself to his feet. The low clearance forced him to stoop over. He made his way to the door on clumsy feet, using the wall for support.
He struggled with the rusty latch, but the door didn't budge. It didn't appear locked; it just wouldn't open. He coughed, the freezing, stale air burning his lungs. He couldn't wait for Dean to find him; Sam didn't even know where the icehouse was located. He could be miles away from where he and Dean had been searching. It would certainly help explain how Elisabeth's body had gone undiscovered for over a century.
A ricochet in the tiny space could be disastrous, but Sam figured it was worth the risk if Dean heard the gunfire. Better a bullet than slowly freezing to death anyway. Sam slowly, painfully inched his hand behind him to the gun he had tucked safely in the hidden keep of his jeans. He fumbled blindly with the weapon as he fought to get it loose. Normally it just slipped out, but then again, normally he wasn't fighting frostbite. When it finally broke free, Sam let out a sob of relief.
It took supreme effort to get the weapon untangled and out in front of him. His hand was shaking so hard, he wasn't sure he could fire the gun. His finger stuck to the metal trigger and that was when Sam noticed the blood. He'd torn up his hand on the rough-hewn stones earlier, and hadn't even felt it. He used one arm to shield his ears, jammed the muzzle of the gun into the ancient wood, and fired. The gunshot rang out like a bomb going off in the small space. As he emptied his clip, the weapon fire seemed to suck the last of the precious air out of the room.
As he sank to the floor, Sam could only hope Dean had heard.
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"Damn it, Sam, I can't leave you alone for five minutes," Dean grumbled to hide his worry. A few minutes with Elisabeth's spirit in the rain had left him shivering and bone-cold for hours. Sam had been missing for over thirty minutes. He'd tried calling Sam back, but it went straight to voicemail every time.
A muffled gunshot sounded to his left and Dean took off running, heedless of the slippery leaves under his feet. Nearly hidden by thick trees and fog, a small, moss-covered, domed stone structure sat tucked neatly into the hillside. "Sam!" His voice reverberated in reply, but the woods remained eerily silent.
Dean's feet slid in the mud in his haste, and he braced his hand on the wall as he circled around to the front. "Sam!" He'd have felt better if he had heard any noise from the other side of the door. He tried the knob and it turned easily, but the door didn't budge. It was possible the lock was catching. Dean felt in his pockets for the lock-pick set—then remembered where he saw it last: in Sam's hand right before he'd stuffed it inside his jacket.
Dean jerked his head, his face scrunched. Fine, he would do this his way. "Sam, if you're in there, move away from the door!" he shouted as he lifted his leg and gave the door a solid kick. The wood groaned in protest, but didn't give in the slightest. He stood with one hand braced on the door, chest heaving, and contemplated his next move. When cold seeped into his jacket and a white breath of air appeared on his next exhale, Dean straightened, shotgun drawn and ready.
Elisabeth hovered a mere three feet from him, her eyes reflecting a deep despair that seemed to amplify the chill that surrounded her. "I'm so cold."
Dean's teeth chattered from the supernaturally induced cold even as the heat of anger rose from within. Yet, he resisted the urge to try to get intel from a ghost, knowing it wouldn't do him any good. If he'd needed any proof Sam was inside, Elisabeth showing up was enough for him. And if Sam had been with her for over half an hour, he was definitely in trouble. The problem, of course, was the door wasn't budging out of sheer desperation alone. He needed the ax from the Impala. "Sam, hang in there. I'll be right back."
"Don't leave us alone," Elisabeth keened from behind him.
Dean ignored her, just as he tried to ignore the anxiety burning in his chest. He dropped the duffel by the door to lighten his load, and ran at top speed to the car. The keys jangled noisily in his hand as he worked the lock before the trunk finally popped open. He dug around for the ax, slammed the lid closed, and took off back into the woods. Luckily, the small structure wasn't far.
"Sammy, I'm here. Stand back." He waited for a second and strained to hear anything from the other side of the door. As before, Sam remained quiet. Dean set the shotgun down, gripped the ax tightly in panic-sweaty hands, and swung.
The ancient wood splintered and gave way easily. "Thank God something's going right," Dean muttered under his breath and swung again. It was slow work. Way too slow. "Sam, man, talk to me." He waited a second for a response, then swung for the third time.
A crack appeared. The fourth swing caused enough stress fractures on the door to push a section inside. A blast of freezing air blew out of the hole, carrying the stench of decay and musty hay. Dean wrinkled his nose, but it didn't stop him from shining his light into the jagged opening. He couldn't see Sam. Maybe he'd been wrong.
Angling the light downward, Dean caught sight of the toes of Sam's boot. "Damn it!" he swore for the second time. Sam was lying in front of the door. "Sam, you have to move." There wasn't a twitch from his brother. Dean fidgeted and adjusted his stance. He quickly ran through various scenarios, but this was the fastest way to get to his brother, and Sam's lack of responsiveness grated on his frayed nerves.
Reaching a decision, he swung the ax viciously several times in rapid succession until something gave with a loud crack and the door splintered enough for Dean to kick out several large pieces. He squeezed through the opening, sharp wooden splinters digging into his jacket. "Sammy?"
Sam didn't so much as blink. He didn't even appear to be breathing. Dean knew the drill; he had to be extremely careful moving his brother or it could set off a chain of events that could kill Sam. That, and his brother wasn't exactly a lightweight. He'd been hard enough to manhandle when Dean had first picked him up from Stanford, but Sam had steadily packed on lean muscle since then, and he was definitely heavier than he looked.
"Hey, wake up." Dean touched Sam's cheek, his heart thudding against his ribs when he realized how cold his brother was. "Help me out here, bro."
There was zero response from Sam. Dean knew he had to act now. Screw the risks. If his brother wasn't breathing, what did it matter anyway? Dean placed trembling fingers on Sam's neck, searching for a pulse. The sluggish beat brought instant relief, and now that he wasn't on the verge of panic, he could see the slow and shallow rise of Sam's chest. Dean let out a sigh of relief. Sam was alive. He could work with anything past there.
Dean pushed his brother along the stone floor away from the door. "Dude, you really gotta lay off the Wheaties." He flicked on his flashlight and shone it in Sam's face to get a good look at his brother.
Sam's eyes fluttered open and he pawed weakly at Dean's chest, then batted the flashlight away. "Elisabeth's here," he whispered.
"I know."
Sam nodded and patted Dean again. "Be careful."
"You're telling me to be careful?" Dean wasn't sure if he should laugh hysterically or slug his brother. "Really? 'Cause I'm not the one who managed to get himself turned into a human ice pop."
Sam blinked at him in confusion, his eyes starting to close.
Dean patted him lightly on the cheek. "Hey, hey, none of that. Stay awake, or I'll…" He paused, trying to think of something sufficiently horrible. He leaned in closer and used his best I'm-the-boss-of-you voice. "I'll cut your hair while you sleep."
Sam opened his eyes and glared at Dean, although it lacked his usual intensity.
"That's it," Dean said, brushing actual frost out of Sam's hair. "Can you stand?"
"Yeah," Sam said, but it ended in a cough so intense it left him breathless. "Help?"
It was then Dean noticed the handgun next to Sam on the dirty floor. He picked it up and stuffed it into his jacket. The lecture on firing off a weapon inside a stone bowl could wait until later. He looped an arm under Sam's and hauled him to his feet. When Dean felt his brother's equilibrium totter, he used his hip to balance Sam against the wall. There was absolutely no maneuverability in the tiny room, and to boot, two steps back and he'd fall into what looked like a pit filled with musty-smelling hay.
"Elisabeth," Sam said, obviously following where Dean had pointed his flashlight.
"We'll get to it later. You first," Dean said as he shone the flashlight toward the door. He reached forward, and the door, ironically, swung open as if it were never latched. "Of all the stupid…" he muttered. He stopped when Sam's knees gave out. Dean had to pivot quickly to keep his brother upright. "Come on, Sammy, one step at a time."
Sam clumsily moved his feet while Dean supported his weight and dragged him out the door. It was awkward, and Dean's back was definitely going to be screaming at him tomorrow. They'd barely made it twenty paces from the structure when Sam went down, and there was no stopping it this time. Dean just followed him, minimizing the impact of the crash landing.
"You g-gotta f-finish it," Sam stuttered through chattering teeth. Shivers wracked his tall frame, a good sign that Sam's body was trying to get warm.
Dean tugged on Sam's shirt and shook his head. "I told you. We take care of you first."
"N-no." Sam's forehead curled and his eyes, although tired, gazed at Dean earnestly.
Dean rolled his eyes. There were instances, like now, when he had a hard time not giving in to Sam when he gave him that look. It was as if twenty years had never passed and his younger brother was silently begging for Lucky Charms all over again. Burning her bones now was the smarter thing, but all Dean wanted to do was get Sam out of there and warmed up before he lost his toes. "Fine."
Dean took off his leather jacket, tucked it over Sam and under his chin. It was a sign of how miserable Sam was when he didn't protest, but in fact, pulled it closer. If Dean didn't know better, he'd swear his brother had sniffed the collar.
Sam's eyes fluttered closed. His entire body shivered and trembled, his lips a decided shade of sickly blue-gray. Dean patted him gently on the shoulder as he stood and walked the short distance back to the icehouse to get the duffel he'd dropped by the door before he'd run to the car for the ax. He slung the bag over his shoulder and entered the structure again. He flicked on his flashlight and wasn't completely surprised to see Elisabeth standing on the far side of the pit, watching him.
Unlike most spirits, she didn't make a move to stop him. There were no last minute angry shouts, strong gales of wind, or invisible hands flinging him away from the body. Instead, she simply looked on quietly with a mixture of wistfulness and relief on her face. "He's here," Elisabeth said gently as her physical body burst into flames. She simply faded from view, exiting the world as quietly as her disappearance had been.
Smoke quickly filled the small room. Dean covered his face with his shirt sleeve and coughed as he walked out of the old icehouse and hurried to his brother. Sam hadn't moved. His face was pale and he shivered so violently it almost looked like a seizure. When Dean placed a hand on his shoulder, Sam startled, his hands rising instinctively in a defensive posture.
"Easy," Dean said, moving his hands to cup Sam's icy cheeks.
Sam's movements calmed immediately. "D-Dean?"
Not good, Dean decided. Sam was definitely confused and disoriented. It was past time to go. He pulled Sam's arm over his shoulders and bodily levered him off the ground. Dean ignored the groan of protest and the way Sam's head lolled as Dean all but dragged him to the car. It seemed to take an eternity as his brother trembled and staggered beside him.
Dean braced Sam against the Impala, allowing his brother to sag against him as he opened the passenger door. He slid Sam inside and tucked his jacket around him again. Then he opened the back door to get the old quilt they kept there. After wrapping the blanket around Sam, Dean climbed in the other side and started the engine. He cranked the heat to full, turned the car around, and headed for the motel.
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Sam was vaguely aware that Dean had rousted him a few times. He'd plied Sam with warm tea and soup, and there was one nightmarish memory-dream of a trip to the bathroom. For some strange reason he could have sworn Dean had only been wearing jeans and a thin t-shirt while even under a mountain of blankets, Sam couldn't get warm. He'd finally stopped shivering though, which had helped his head to stop pounding, and he was pretty sure he'd slept after that.
Which was why when he blinked his eyes open, Sam wasn't surprised to see his brother sitting on the opposite bed, his back braced against the headboard, knees bent, watching television. Dean seemed to know exactly when Sam woke because he turned off the TV and put the remote on the side table. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, arms resting on his legs.
"You awake this time?" Dean asked, hazel-green eyes sparking with concern.
This time? "Think so," Sam scratched out. He coughed and winced at the dryness in his throat. Dean must've seen it because a cup appeared under his nose. "Thanks." Sam shifted in the bed until he was half-sitting. He reached for the cup, noticed his hand was bandaged, and frowned in confusion.
"You scraped it up pretty good," Dean explained. "Must have been on the wall and the door because I found rock fragments and wood splinters in there. Blood on your gun, too. Do you remember?"
Remember hurting his hand or remember Dean patching him up? He didn't honestly remember either one, and that bothered him. "What happened?"
Dean's brow furrowed in concern. He scrubbed a hand down his face and then over his head. "What do you remember?"
"Looking for Elisabeth's remains when something hit me. I woke up in some old building. An icehouse maybe? Elisabeth's spirit was there." Sam frowned. "That's all I got."
"She wanted company and she about damn near froze you to death," Dean said, the venom evident in his tone. He continued to rant, but as he walked away his voice faded out.
Sam thought he'd stopped until Dean turned around and it was obvious he was still talking.
"—ammy, you listening to me?"
Losing time happened. A good knock to the head sometimes resulted in residual memory bleed-out, but his hearing? That was something else entirely. "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Sam struggled to find the right words and finally decided brutal honesty worked. "I think I'm having trouble hearing."
That got Dean's attention. He fished through his duffel, pulled out a flashlight, and strode over to Sam. The bright light in his eyes caused Sam to wince and turn away.
"Hold still."
"Knock it off."
Dean switched from Sam's eyes to his ears, tilting Sam's head with his hand. "Good news? I don't see any blood." Dean sat on the opposite bed and turned off the flashlight. "Bad news? It still means a doctor."
Sam frowned, thinking. "Didn't you say my gun had blood on it?"
"Yeah?"
"So if I was stupid enough to fire it off in there, it would have been like a cannon going off in that enclosed space." Sam crossed his arms, prepared to go ten rounds with his brother over this, even with his throbbing headache.
"Try stupid enough to fire off your whole clip," Dean stated matter-of-factly. He leaned forward and rested a hand on Sam's knee. "But it's how I found you. Doesn't matter though, Sam. Whether it's the head concussion kind of problem or the inner ear kind, it's nothing to mess around with."
Sam felt one of his eyebrows climb into his hairline.
"Don't give me that look. It's not the first concussion you've ever had, you know." Dean stood up, walked over to the table, and grabbed his keys. "Try to get some more sleep."
"Where're you going?" Sam asked, and no, he did not just sound like his eleven-year-old self when Dean left on his first date.
Dean smiled, the lines around his eyes wrinkling in amusement. "See if this backwater town sells any warm coats that will actually fit you, and poke around for a clinic."
"I have a coat," Sam said rather crossly. He wasn't even sure why he was annoyed, just that he was. Maybe it was the headache.
"Not a warm enough one. You might have failed to notice this, but it's eighty-three degrees in here and you're buried under four blankets." Dean turned to leave, but stopped at the door and twisted to look at Sam. "Oh, and by the way, it's the concussion," he explained. "Always makes you cranky."
"How…?"
"It also makes you think you're just thinking things," Dean said, the smile turning into a classic older-brother smirk. "But you're really saying them out loud."
Well, crap.
"You wouldn't believe the stuff I've learned just from listening to concussed or drugged Sammy ramble." Dean laughed. "I'll be back in a few."
After the door clicked shut behind Dean, Sam scooted down in the bed, pulling the covers up to his ears. He had every intention of getting up in five minutes to shower, but he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, Dean was gently shaking him awake.
"Gah, stop," Sam complained. "You're making the room spin."
"You're dizzy?" Dean asked, helping him sit up. "Good thing I found a doc. He can take a look at your head. Maybe even give you something for that cold while he's at it."
"I don't have a cold." Sam flipped back the covers to get out of bed as his bladder demanded. The cool air made him shiver and he pulled them over himself again. He could wait a few more minutes.
"You will," Dean said. "You were hypothermic, Sam."
"You don't get a cold from being cold," Sam argued. "It's a virus."
"Oh, yeah?" Dean asked, waving his arm toward Sam. "Tell that to my brother Snotty McSneezerton."
"I'm not—" Sam started to protest when a massive sneeze caused his ears to ring and a wave of nausea to run over him. Stupid know-it-all older brothers. Sometimes Dean's hunches bordered on scary. Sam peered over his hands only to see his brother giving him the raised eyebrow I-told-you-so look. "I'm going to take a shower," he announced as he pushed the blankets aside and stood.
Sam took a moment to gain his equilibrium, then carefully picked his way to the bathroom. The room was cold, so he shut the door and started the water running before taking care of business. All he really wanted to do was climb back into bed and sleep for a week.
"I bought pizza," Dean called, his voice muffled by either the closed door or by Sam's hearing impairment.
"Could we not talk until I'm out?" Sam groused. He rolled his eyes at his brother's fading laughter. Steeling himself against the nippy air, he stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water felt wonderful, slowly warming him.
When Sam emerged from the bathroom, lunch was laid out on the table. The laptop hid all of Dean's face from view except his forehead which, even from the doorway, Sam could see was scrunched in apparent frustration.
"What's up?" Sam asked, sitting down across from his brother. Dean didn't respond, so Sam pushed the monitor screen down slightly to make eye contact. "What are you doing?"
"You really are having trouble hearing," Dean said, his casual tone belied by the concern that flashed in his eyes. He gestured to the pizza. "Eat. Don't hurl."
"Your bedside manner sucks." Sam noticed his brother had picked up plain cheese at least. He gestured to the computer with the point of a slice. "What're you reading?"
"There's just something about this hunt…" Dean's voice trailed off for a second. "I'm not sure it's over."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Something about Elisabeth, I guess." Dean grabbed a slice of pizza and started munching. "She's still so afraid of Daniel after all this time, said he was there."
Sam shook his head and pointed to his ear. "Try it again without the mouthful of food."
Dean's forehead furrowed to match his frown. "I said, Elisabeth was so sure Daniel was there and she seemed afraid of him, even after all this time."
"We've seen that before." Sam took a sip of tea, relishing the hot liquid and orange flavor. He would have preferred coffee but, given the circumstances, he could see why Dean had fixed tea. The aroma wafting over from his brother's cup would have to be enough for now. "What makes you think this time is different?"
"Not sure," Dean confessed. "It might be nothing."
Sam frowned thoughtfully. Dean may trust Sam's research, but he trusted Dean's instincts. "Okay, let's go back out to the farm."
"The only place you're going," Dean said, waving a finger in Sam's direction, "is the clinic."
"Dean."
"Don't 'Dean' me." Dean closed the computer and tucked it into its bag. "This can wait."
Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn't very well argue. He was far from deaf, but the impairment made him a walking, talking, non-hearing liability if things went sideways. "Yeah, okay," he conceded, his tone conveying the apprehension he felt. The last thing Sam wanted was for Dean to be saddled with him out of some sense of duty. Until a qualified physician popped his bubble, Sam had to believe the hearing issue was temporary and he wasn't in any hurry to hear otherwise.
"Glad you see things my way." Dean grabbed another slice of pizza and jammed nearly half of it into his mouth in one bite.
Sam grimaced and chuckled silently to himself. "Whatever," he groused, but he was onto Dean. No one could break Sam out of a funk like his brother.
Dean opened his mouth, revealing a gelatinous lump of half-chewed pizza, and grinned. He gulped noisily with an exaggerated swallow. "Admit it. You totally know I'm always right."
"That's disgusting," Sam replied, gesturing to the remaining pizza in Dean's hand. "And I absolutely, unequivocally do not admit you're always right."
"Okay," Dean said with a shrug. "You don't have to admit it. It's enough that we both know it's true."
"I—" Sam started, his head pounding anew. Verbal acrobatics aside, he knew he wasn't winning this one. Not with a concussion and not when Dean was obviously playing to win. "Fine."
The answering caw of Dean's delighted cackle was almost enough to make up for it.
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Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading!