Who doesn't love some Sam whump? Here you go! It's a little bit of an AU from the ending of 5x03 and beginning of 5x04, just because I thought that Tim and Reggie may have given up a little too quickly at trying to pull Sam in as their attack dog at the bar. So here's a warning for some forced demon blood drinking, this was written for a whump exchange so Sam gets put through the wringer a bit. I don't think what's described is any worse than what we saw on-screen in the show as a whole, but still, just a heads up. Also a warning for a very, very, very temporary death, because I decided to not pull punches with poor Sam on this one, especially given my giftee's prompts. Big, big thank you to my wonderful buddy Lilac Letter for giving this a look over and helping me out!
I hope you guys enjoy, I'd love to hear some thoughts! Still don't own anything.
Sam's head was pounding something fierce. He honestly would've preferred the dark silence of his mind; it had been so long since he'd been able to sleep without waking up covered in sweat, images of Jess—Lucifer—burned into his retinas. But if his head was hurting this badly, something was wrong, and if something was wrong, he would have to deal with it, tired or not.
He winced as he cracked his eyes open. Thankfully there wasn't much light to assault his sensitive head, with a dim naked bulb hanging from the ceiling the only thing to light the space. He wasn't overly excited to find himself in what appeared to be a basement, and even more so, one with a set of prison-like bars stretching from one side of the room to the other. And he was on the wrong side of the bars from the stairs leading out.
Now that his predicament had him fully awake, he tested the limits of his binds and found them, also unfortunately, beyond his ability to break. His hands were handcuffed behind him to a metal chair and his legs had undergone a similar treatment to the chair's legs. He tried shifting his body weight back and forth, but the chair was bolted to the ground.
No dice.
"We don't usually stick humans down here," said a voice from the shadows under the wooden staircase.
Sam looked up immediately and squinted through the darkness.
It took a moment, but slowly Tim materialized from the shadows and came to stand in front of the bars. "But then again, you're not fully human, are you?"
You're a monster, Sam, a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.
The angry words from Dean's voicemail played through his head.
Dean.
He had been on the phone with Dean not long ago, telling him about Lucifer. Then Dean told him to pick a hemisphere and said goodbye. That was the end of that. He remembered getting the rest of his things from the motel, heading to the car, hearing crunching gravel to his right and turning…
Only to be struck on the left side of his head—where the nexus of his pain currently was—with something hard, probably a rifle butt. It got fuzzier from there.
"You didn't honestly think we'd just turn tail that easy, now did you?" Tim lowered his gaze and frowned at Sam.
"Lindsey," Sam whispered. He couldn't protect her like this. If they had gone back to the bar after he'd finally left from staking it out, they could've easily gotten her.
"The girl's fine," Tim said. "You're the one we need, and unlike you, we're not in the business of killing innocents to get it."
Sam looked at the floor. It was concrete with bits of debris strewn about.
Tim leaned his elbows on the cage. "Now, lucky for us, you aren't innocent, are you? See, here's the deal." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another sickening red vial.
Sam grimaced just at the sight of it. He hadn't been able to get the metallic taste out of his mouth for hours afterwards. It was as if the fumes had permeated into him, making a home behind his ribs, a fog around his soul.
"Just like before. You help us take out that nest of demons, and we send you on your merry way." He slowly tilted the vial back and forth and back and forth, trying to draw Sam's eyes to it.
Sam resolutely kept his eyes on Tim and shook his head. "I can't. Not again."
"Why the hell not? You didn't seem to have a problem with it before! But now that it's my best friend dead, suddenly you can't? The world's goin' to hell in a hand basket, Sam. May as well take as many demons down with us as we can."
Sam straightened as much as he was able in the chair. He rolled his shoulders back in defiance.
Tim sneered at him and forcefully put the vial down on the wooden table just outside the cell. "Problem is, we don't have much of this stuff, so I can't have you spitting it back at us every chance you get." He shucked off his jacket and tossed it next to the vial. Steps thundered from overhead and Sam watched as Reggie walked down into the basement and came to stand behind Tim. "A little compliance would go a long way."
Sam shook his head again. "I won't do it. Even with the blood. I'm not your attack dog."
"Better an attack dog than a punching bag, don't you think?" Reggie said as Tim pulled a key from his jacket pocket, unlocked the cell, and handed it back to Reggie. Tim stepped inside, right into Sam's space, and didn't even give him a chance to reply before he punched him hard across the cheekbone.
Sam's head snapped to the side and immediately began to pound with a white-hot agony. Sam groaned as Tim grabbed his chin and forced his head back to center. His vision swam and refused to stabilize even as Tim tried to make eye contact with him. Tim dropped his hand, letting Sam's head hang down towards his chest, and placed another blow to Sam's other cheekbone.
He could practically feel his brain rattling in his skull. He bit the side of his mouth from the force of the impact and immediately spat blood onto the floor. It didn't have the same aftertaste as demon blood, but that had never been a comfort.
"Don't like that? I've got the good stuff right here," Tim teased.
Sam heaved breaths in and out. He didn't even bother shaking his head. His silence would be answer enough.
Sure enough, Tim let out a heavy breath of frustration before another punch landed. Sam felt something crack. But the agony didn't really reach a new height until he was forced to take the fourth hit. It connected right at his temple and immediately sent sparks of lightning throughout his entire body. Sam felt the instant pain and then…nothing.
He didn't quite black out, he didn't know what—he was floating, he was sure of it. He was disconnected. Somewhere dark. Not the basement. Not.
Where—
With a heaving gasp he felt like he was snapped back into his body all at once. Every bruise and scrape made itself known tenfold and he doubled over as much as he was able. His skin stretched uncomfortably over limp muscles. His mouth still tasted like blood.
Tim roughly patted his cheek. "No sleeping on us, Sam, not until the job is done."
Sam wanted to say that he wasn't, that he hadn't, but then that meant that he had—that Lucifer had—
Sam groaned and spit more blood onto the floor. He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't think about it.
"They're on their way," he heard Reggie say quietly. Tim stepped away to converse, their voices too soft and muffled by the breaking waves of pain and ringing in his head to make out more.
He did register two pairs of footsteps when they made their way back into the cell. He opened his eyes just in time to see Tim grab a fistful of his hair and jerk his head up.
"No," Sam whispered and tried to struggle against the hold.
"Relax," Reggie said. He pulled something from his pocket and moved closer. "Just a little insurance so you don't rat out our backup. If you do manage to make it out of this." He affixed a strip of fabric over Sam's eyes and tied it tightly behind his head before Tim let him go.
The sudden vanishing of one of his senses had Sam pulling against the restraints harder than before. There was darkness and the taste of blood in his mouth and the biting metal of the handcuffs and that was all. Eventually there were sets of heavy footsteps above the basement. Multiple muffled voices gave him something to listen to. At one point, he heard several people come down the steps into the basement, but it was impossible to tell if all of them went back up or not.
Maybe he was being watched.
There was no way of knowing.
So he calmed his breathing as much as he was able, his head screaming with the effort. But he didn't want to give any possible bystanders the satisfaction of seeing him struggle.
Time passed. How much he wasn't sure. He never fully fell asleep—the mere thought of Lucifer masquerading as Jess again made him want to put it off as long as possible. Eventually, men made their way back down into the basement. Sam heard the metal door creak open and at least two people walked into the cell with him.
"You thought anymore about our offer?" Tim asked.
Sam clenched his jaw.
Someone, maybe Tim, maybe not, sighed. Without further preamble, Sam heard someone move behind him. Again, they buried a hand in his hair and used it to pull his head back. His scalp burned in discomfort and he had no choice but to go along with it.
"You'd'a thought John woulda put a stop to that long hair of his. Liability is what it is," someone Sam didn't know tsk-ed at him. That got a chuckle from one of the other men. At least three people with him, then. "Guess he's still not good at listening to his family."
Shame burned deep in Sam's chest. Sam had no way of knowing exactly what the demons had told them, and what Tim and Reggie had told to the others. How much was fact, how much was fiction, how much was blown out of proportion with him the only villain, he had no clue.
Maybe he was. He did start the apocalypse, after all. He had thought killing Lilith would be a good thing, but then again, the road to hell wasn't paved with people thinking they were doing the right thing.
"Alright then," Tim said. "You made your bed. Now you're gonna help us do what needs to be done."
The hand in his hair tightened as another pair of hands worked to force open his jaw.
Not again. Sam struggled, but to no avail. Just like last time, the blood spilled in, sulfuric and toxic in a way that his own blood wasn't. The hands closed his mouth, pinched his nose shut, and eventually he had no choice but to swallow. It burned the whole way down, the kind of flames that even backcountry moonshine couldn't touch. Sam continued to struggle, twisting his head side to side as the hands dropped and the men watched him writhe in the chair.
He didn't want this, he didn't want this, he told Dean he was done, he had promised to do better and be better and how would he ever explain this to Dean if he found out and would he ever believe Sam again and and—
And then it settled. He took in a gasping breath of air. The fire coursed through his veins. Thirst he had been trying to push down for weeks was finally, for the moment, sated. The pounding in his head dulled. The pins and needles in his extremities died down. But it wouldn't last. He'd need more to function like this. He'd need more to bust out of here and show these hunters just exactly what they were dealing with.
A monster, Sam, a vampire.
That's exactly what he was. That was exactly what he had apologized to Dean for being. Even with Dean not there, he couldn't just go back on his promise. He wanted to be better. He wanted to make it right. This wasn't the way.
The poison in his veins thrummed in displeasure of his unwillingness to accept. He stopped struggling and settled for clenching and unclenching his hands instead. The power bled from his fingertips, begging to be used.
The blindfold was ripped off, leaving him staring at Tim, Reggie, and another hunter he couldn't place.
"Now, whattya say we take down some black-eyed sons of bitches?" Tim asked, half a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Sam looked at each of them in turn. They looked so hopeful in the face of their possible revenge. Had Sam ever looked so hopeful?
Sam locked eyes with Tim. "I say no." He could feel the remnants of the blood on his teeth.
Tim continued to stare him down while Reggie's face morphed to hold his fury. "We don't have time for this," Reggie said through clenched teeth. He pulled a knife from a holster on his waist, walked around the chair, and pulled at Sam's hair with one hand while placing the knife against his neck with the other. "You and your demonic mojo are coming with us, end of story, or we end you."
The three of them launched into a heated discussion about the merits of keeping him alive, where the hell they could get more demon blood to force into him, and if it was even worth it in the long run. Sam tuned most of it out. The knife was cold against his neck.
If Lucifer wanted him so badly…
Sam leaned forward, just enough so that the knife bit into his skin. It stung but was nothing like the demon blood that was working its way through his veins. "Do it," he challenged as a red rivulet began to run down his neck. He watched as Tim and the other hunter's eyes widened. "I started the apocalypse, right? I won't help you. So do it."
None of the men wavered and the knife remained pressed firmly against his throat. He could feel his pulse jumping erratically under the blade as he fought to keep control, both against the demon blood and his own adrenaline.
Finally, through some unspoken communication, Reggie removed the knife with a frustrated noise. Sam remained perfectly still. The collar of his t-shirt was becoming increasingly wet against his skin. He kept his eyes on Tim and only saw Reggie's fist coming to meet him out of the corner of his eye, too late to do anything about it.
He didn't dream, not really, but he also didn't float like before. He was suspended in the haze of unconsciousness that he had become all too familiar with over the years. Images of yellow eyes above pyres played behind his eyes. He ran and ran and ran, hands outstretched in front of him to reach Jessica on the ceiling, only for her to morph into Lucifer the instant he finally managed to pull her to safety.
When he groggily pulled himself back to consciousness, he had no idea how long it had been, and his situation hadn't improved. His head still hurt, his mouth still tasted like blood, and he was still shackled to the chair. He could feel cuts on what felt like every inch of his face. The dried blood cracked and pulled as he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The area around them was swollen and fuzzed the edges of his vision. His neck seemed to have clotted though, which was good.
He was also grateful to find that the hunters hadn't put the blindfold back on. He could freely look around the room, wincing as he did so, to find it empty. He strained his ears for the sound of boots on the ground floor above him, but was met with only silence. Maybe they had decided he wasn't worth the trouble and gone without him? One could only hope.
But just as he was starting to wonder, the door opened and shafts of hazy yellow light spilled into the otherwise fairly dark basement. One set of boots began to descend and Sam had to squint because they almost looked familiar—
"Sam?"
Sam's eyes had to be playing tricks on him. They had to be. It was either the multiple concussions or maybe being temporarily dead or the demon blood, but there was no way that was Dean walking towards him, opening the lock on the bars with keys he shouldn't have. There was no way that was Dean kneeling in front of him, looking worried at finding his brother in such a state.
Dean raised his hands to Sam's face but then lowered them ever so slightly. "Sam?" he asked again.
"I didn't want it," Sam whispered. "I promise." His voice cracked in desperation. He needed Dean to believe him. In that moment, he would do anything to keep that look of worry on Dean's face. Anything was better than the anger or disappointment he had seen too much of recently. Or, not recently, really, considering he hadn't seen Dean in weeks. It was the longest they'd gone without seeing each other since Dean had been taken from him for four whole months.
He watched a flurry of emotions cross Dean's face, his pounding head lagging too far behind to categorize them all. After a moment, Dean did raise one hand and put it very gently on the side of Sam's head. He brushed a blood-soaked piece of hair behind Sam's ear from where it had been hanging in front of his face. "I know, Sam," he replied just as quietly.
Dean held Sam's eyes, and Sam could read the one and only thing there: truth. Sam sagged against the restraints, letting his head rest on Dean's hand. It hurt, but it was nice, to be propped up for even a moment. How Dean knew or why he believed him, Sam didn't care. For now, it only mattered that Dean did.
Eventually, Dean removed his hand and got to work freeing Sam from the restraints. Neither of them said anything about the empty vial on the table outside the cell. Sam could still feel it coursing under his skin. Not as strong now, but still there. Maybe he wouldn't need to detox after just one small vial. Maybe he could handle it. He knew he wouldn't go looking for more, even without Dean here, and with Dean here, that possibility had dropped to an absolute zero.
"Think you can stand?" Dean was crouching in front of him again, having moved while Sam was spacing out.
"Yeah," Sam said, favoring words to nodding.
"Alright. Let's get you out of here." Dean braced him so he wouldn't fall over when he did stand. When Sam's knees buckled as he tried to take a step and the dizziness became too much, Dean slung Sam's arm over his shoulder to take his weight without saying a word.
"The others?" Sam asked as they began the slow process of moving across the basement floor towards the stairs.
There was a beat of silence. "Not a problem anymore."
They made it to the base of the stairs before Sam had to pause. As he did so, he looked at Dean, still worried. "You came," he said, still in disbelief that this wasn't a dream.
Dean nodded slightly. "I did."
"Why?"
Dean clenched his jaw and looked up the stairs. Then he started up them, nice and slow. "Bobby called. Said you hadn't been answering after he sent some other hunters your way. Thought there could be trouble."
It sounded too simple. Dean shouldn't have driven hours just for that, not after their last conversation. "That it?" Sam pressed. His foot almost snagged on a loose nail but Dean held him upright.
They went up six more steps, nearing the top, before Dean answered. "I know I said we should pick a hemisphere. But that doesn't mean I want you dead."
Sam swayed as the stairs ended and they stood on flat ground. The sun was up now. Sam could see flecks of dust drifting through slits of light that snuck in between partially closed curtains. He turned his head just a little so he could look at Dean.
Dean was staring back at him, jaw clenched as his eyes took in the mess that was Sam's face. His eyes were a brilliant green even in the dim light. Sam was glad to see them filled with something other than anger.
"Thank you," Sam said, the two words conveying everything he wanted to say.
Dean nodded, a sign that he got it all, because he always did, even after weeks spent apart. "Yeah," he replied with a fleeting quirk of a smile.
He carefully readjusted Sam and then set about bringing them both out of the house and into the afternoon.