For Your Own Good
Summary: "Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise." Sam doesn't know how right he is.
Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.
Chapter Eight
Sam rouses to the sound of raised voices outside his bedroom door. He surfaces slowly, through layers of soupy sleep, and rubs exhaustion from his face, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
"Of all the damn fool things I've ever heard! Have you lost your damn mind!"
Bobby is here.
"How I raise my boys is none of your business!" John thunders. "You have no right to tell me-"
"You have no right to use witchcraft on your own son!" Dean cuts their father off, an unheard of display of disrespect. His voice is almost shrill with unbridled rage, hurling words violently across the room. "How could you do this? To Sam? I can't fucking believe you."
There's a beat of ominous silence before John speaks again, using his low dangerous don't-mess-with-me voice. The one that usually sets Dean back on his heels. The one that, once upon a time, in a life that seems long ago, Sam would always argue with. Sometimes just for the sake of it, to prove that he wasn't afraid.
That had been a mistake. He should have been scared. He should have listened.
"I'll do whatever I deem necessary." John says coldly. He sounds a long way from apologetic.
"Was it necessary to make him clean weapons until his fingers bled?" Dean spits, sounding a long way from intimidated."Or to make him run until he passes out? Was it necessary to cut his hair? What's wrong with you!"
"I am keeping him safe!" John roars. "I'm keeping us all safe!" Something shatters against a wall. Sam imagines his father emphasizing his point with an empty bottle.
"John, you have to stop this." Bobby steps in again, calmer now, a voice of reason this time. "It ain't right. Doing this to your own kid? It's just wrong. And this spell? You're playing with fire."
"I know what I'm doing," John states defiantly. His voice is back to grim and determined.
Sam rolls over and watches the sunlight playing on the wall, scattered by the wavering branches of a small determined tree, potted outside the room. He listens to the argument go on and on and on.
Dean is absolutely furious. Outraged. Sam has never heard him yell at anyone like this, let alone their father. It's actually kind of scary. Sam almost wants to get up and tell Dean that it's okay and that he should just accept things as they are, like Sam has. He still feels too sick to get out of bed, though, and maybe he hasn't actually accepted things because his heart is thumping frenetically against his ribs, wild with anxious hope. He stays where he is and prays to anything listening for John to back down.
Bobby, after his initial outburst, is more restrained. He argues with logic and lectures John on the inherent dangers of witchcraft, insisting firmly that the only safe way to proceed is by removing the curse, before any further damage is done. Sometimes he speaks too quietly for Sam to make out what he's saying, hearing only the mumble of his gravelled voice and troubled tone, but occasionally his words get sharp and assertive. Bobby is unfaltering in the face of John Winchester's scathing rage and barely veiled threats of violence. A couple of times, Sam hears scuffling noises and he thinks that Bobby is holding Dean back from launching himself at their father.
Sam stares at the wall and the listless light, and waits for John to decide what happens next.
XXX
Sam is shaken awake by Dean's insistent hands.
He doesn't remember falling asleep but the sun has drooped in the sky and the bedroom is dim.
"Hey," Dean's voice is gentle, like Sam is liable to break if he speaks at full volume. "You feeling any better?"
Sam thinks about it. The pain in his head has settled back into a vague throb and his bones don't feel quite so heavy. "Yeah." His throat is still prickly though and his voice is scratchy and raw.
"Good." Dean offers him a tight-lipped smile. "Think you can get up? It's time to go." He's already peeling back Sam's blankets.
"Where are we going?" Sam asks, allowing Dean to guide him upright. His arms are fed into sweatshirt sleeves and his feet stuffed into shoes.
"Bobby found an old barn outside of town. He's there with Dad, setting up. We're going to meet them."
Sam coughs wearily into his elbow. "Setting up what?"
"The counter-spell, Sleepy Smurf. They should be about ready by now." Dean steers him across the bedroom.
They're outside, almost at the Impala, before the brisk evening air wakes Sam up enough for him to understand.
He isn't just floating in a fever dream, lost in a hopeful hallucination. This is actually happening.
Sam's steps falter under a wave of relief so strong that he feels it hit him like a physical blow, almost knocking him off his feet. He sucks in a breath, grabbing at Dean's sleeve.
"What?" Dean swings around immediately, eyes wide with alarm, and Sam throws his arms around his brother.
Dean rocks back a step, surprised, before returning the embrace. He wraps his arms around Sam and holds him tightly. Sam presses his face into Dean's collarbone and squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden rush of tears.
One of Dean's hands slides over Sam's spiky hair. He draws in an unsteady breath of his own, cupping the back of Sam's head with a calloused palm.
"Sorry it took me so long."
Sam shakes his head against Dean's chest and hopes that his brother interprets it as absolution. It doesn't matter. He doesn't care how long it took Dean to figure things out, only that he has. Only that, somehow, Dean has actually convinced their father to remove the curse.
Sam tries to force a 'thank you' from his lips but it must be too close to acknowledging the spell's existence because he can't get it out.
"Come on," Dean says, giving Sam a final squeeze. "Let's go fix this."
XXX
Sam shivers.
The barn is draughty, old and lantern-lit. Chills keep rattling up Sam's spine. He adjusts his sweatshirt, tugging it tighter around him, and tucks his hands into his armpits in an attempt to ward off the cold. He's standing in the centre of a circle, sprayed in bright green paint on the floor.
Bobby is crouched down at Sam's side, checking the sigils painted around the circle's edge one last time. His mouth is set in a grim line as he looks from the book to the floor, inspecting each one carefully.
"It's gonna be important that you don't move," he tells Sam. "Things are probably gonna get hectic and I don't want you getting hurt."
Sam nods. "Okay," he promises.
"Once things get going, it might be harder to stay still," Bobby warns him. He looks up at Sam, his face grave. "You remember what happened when the spell was cast?"
How could Sam forget? He can still see the horrible creature that had sprung into being to bind him every time he closes his eyes. Sometimes, in his dreams, it tries to strangle him. But his head is shaking a denial.
"There is no spell. Dad didn't do anything."
Bobby makes a 'harrumph' sound and mutters something under his breath. His eyes flick to the barn door. Sam follows his gaze.
John is a shadowy figure, filling up the doorway. The scarlet tip of a cigarette flares brightly as he sucks in a drag, bathing his face in an eerie red glow. He blows a long stream of smoke out into the darkness.
Sam ducks his head, averting his gaze before John catches him looking and decides to change his mind about reversing the spell.
"Right," Bobby says. "Well, that thing that didn't happen? The creature you didn't see? You're gonna see it again. And it might not be so keen on letting you go. That's why Dean and I have these."
Bobby gestures to a machete that rests beside the book he's been consulting. Something is smeared across the blade. Some sort of oil. It has an earthy, herby sort of scent. Strong. It works its way into Sam's nostrils, even though his sinuses are stuffed up.
"You don't need to worry," Bobby continues. "Dean and I are gonna deal with it. All you gotta do is stand there and look pretty, okay?"
Bobby flashes Sam an encouraging smile. Sam makes an effort to return it. He's glad that Bobby is here.
He is worried, though. He doesn't want to see that... thing again or find out what happens if it decides it wants to keep him. When he shudders, he isn't sure if it's from the cold or out of fear.
"It's gonna be fine," Dean says. He reaches across the paint line and squeezes Sam's shoulder reassuringly. He hasn't left Sam's side since they stepped out of the Impala and Sam is insanely grateful. John hasn't said anything to him or even looked Sam's way, but his silent rage is daunting. He lurks, huge and hulking and pissed off, over by the door, glowering and breathing smoke into the night. Dean acts as a shield, moving unerringly to place himself firmly in between Sam and John.
Sam nods his agreement and tries not to look as apprehensive as he feels. It will be fine. Dean won't let anything bad happen. Neither will Bobby. It will be fine.
"Are you okay?" Dean asks.
Sam swallows and hopes his brother can't tell how scared shitless he is. He nods again, not trusting his voice.
"Just stay still," Dean reminds him gently. "And we'll handle everything else."
Satisfied with the sigils, Bobby picks up the book and the machete and rises to his feet.
In the doorway, there's a scuffing sound as John crushes the butt of his cigarette beneath his boot. He steps into the barn.
"Sam, no moving until this is done."
The order is delivered flatly but Sam can hear the undercurrent of spite in the command. This is John demonstrating his power, deliberately pulling Sam's strings to prove to Dean and Bobby that he is still the one in charge. To remind everyone that what's happening now only happens if he allows it.
Sam wasn't moving much to start with but now he's struck unnaturally still. Even his shivering stops. "Yes, sir."
Dean watches him stiffen, eyes growing wide with horror. He whirls around to face their father. "Stop it!" he demands angrily. "What the fuck!"
Bobby glares venomously. He shakes his head in disgust.
Unrepentant, John stalks over to the altar that has been arranged beneath one of the lanterns. He holds out an expectant hand.
"Finished with that book?" he snaps impatiently.
"Let him move." Spinning back to Sam, Dean grabs his shoulder, again, but seems to realise that he has no next move. His fingers press grooves into Sam's arm, desperate and furious and stuck, just like Sam is. "Let him move!"
"You want this done right or not?" John asks, cruelly, as if Sam can't even be trusted to stand correctly.
"Bobby, do something," Dean implores. "Make him stop."
Looking from Dean, to John, and then to Sam, Bobby grimaces apologetically. "Let's just reverse the spell. Sooner the better."
Dean's mouth opens. Sam sees the argument brewing in his brother's darkening expression but Bobby shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, a warning in his worried eyes.
Don't push it, his expression says.
Dean hesitates – he wants to push, Sam can tell. Dean wants to yell and scream and throw punches – but instead he breathes out an angry growl and forces himself to step back, releasing Sam's arm. His eyes beg for forgiveness.
"Fine. Let's just do this."
Bobby nods. He untucks the book from beneath his arm and brings it to John. His hand lingers on it as he passes it over, holding it back.
"Don't try anything stupid, Winchester," Bobby warns, voice low.
John's chin rises in a confrontational jut. The two hunters stare each other down.
"Let's get this over with," John says sourly.
Bobby relinquishes his hold on the book. With one last warning look at John, he returns to Sam's side, taking his place next to the circle. Dean takes up his own position, on the opposite side, and raises his machete.
"Actus," John says.
The circle glows.
A feeling, uncomfortably familiar, of watery warmth sweeps up from Sam's feet, swallowing him. This time he's ready for it when his lungs seize up and he rides out the moment of suffocation without panic. The warmth recedes.
John begins to speak, the foreign words rolling flawlessly from his tongue. He barely glances at the inscription of the spell. He must have studied it intensely before cursing Sam. John always has been a perfectionist that way. Sam can imagine him staying up late, quietly practising his conjuring under cover of darkness while Sam lay asleep nearby, blissfully and horrifically oblivious.
Now, Sam stands motionless as John's voice fills the barn, a deep booming drone that drills dread right into the marrow of Sam's bones. He's been here before, trapped inside a circle while his father chants, and it hadn't ended well for him. Maybe it's a good thing that John ordered him not to move. He wants to run.
Flames burst from the candles. Beside Sam, Dean flinches, startled.
"Easy now," Bobby murmurs. The candlelight glints dangerously on the oiled blades. Dean adjusts his stance, shifting on the balls of his feet.
John's chanting is getting faster and something is loosening inside Sam's chest. It's warm.
Then it's hot.
Then it's burning and Sam is screaming and a silvery serpent made of smoke and chains is surging up his throat. It's a sickening, slippery, slithering sensation. Sam gags, choking, as the creature spills out of his mouth..
Dean yells something and Bobby calls out a reply. Sam has no idea what either of them are saying. The snake is heavy, coiling around his shoulders, sliding down his torso. It moves speedily from his hips to his thighs and down past his ankles, where it swirls around his feet.
Sam sucks in a deep, desperate breath. His throat feels raw but his lungs swell and his skin tingles. A network of nerves sparkle to life that he hadn't even realised had been deadened. He sways, light-headed and overwhelmed, as ownership of his body returns to him. He has to throw out his arms to steady himself.
He can move again.
His legs tremble, though, threatening collapse. He feels unsteady. Disoriented. It's almost like he's forgotten how to stand, how to balance, how to simply be in his own body without someone else in command.
"Watch out!" Bobby yells a warning.
The misty serpent at Sam's feet has grown darker, thicker, bigger. It circles him, dizzyingly fast, solidifying and expanding, swiftly growing into an enormous column of black smoke with the head of a snake. It rises up before him, huge violet eyes glittering in the candlelight.
Distantly, Sam is aware of the creature's huge thrashing tail. The yells and cries of alarm that echo around the barn. But the violet eyes are drinking him, drawing him in. He can't look away. The tugging in his bones makes him want to strip out of his skin.
Something is tearing inside of him. Being dragged inexorably from somewhere deep inside his chest, leaving behind a void so hollow that it seems more like an abyss; a blank nothingness, empty and endless. There's a flash of light so dazzling that everything goes white.
At the same time, the serpent lets out a high-pitched shriek. The violent pull behind Sam's ribcage relents at once. Whatever was being ripped from him abruptly slams back into place, leaving him gasping, completely breathless and clutching at his chest. The barn has gone dark again.
Sam's eyes are burning. He blinks away the stars that have imprinted on his retina in the aftermath of the brilliant light that had so briefly filled the barn. There's an ache in his chest and his throat feels pretty much how he'd expect it to feel after vomiting up a snake made of magical chains but he feels lighter than he has in months. It feels like he's been curled up into a tight little ball inside his own skin and now, finally, he can stretch himself out, from his toes to his fingertips.
Dean is standing in front of him, face flushed with exertion. His shoulders heave, his breathing heavy, and his eyes are a little wild with fright. The machete in his hand is stained with something dark.
Surrounding Sam, wisps of a shattered smoke monster swirl towards the floor, vanishing into the same glowing sigil from which it had once burst forth.
The light from the sigil fades.
With a hiss, the candles on the altar sputter out.
Sam sways, staggers a step, and Dean tosses down his machete to grab him. Sam latches on and lets Dean hold him up while his head spins and the world threatens to fall out from under him.
"Sammy?" Dean asks urgently. "You still with me?"
Sam nods, his face mushed against Dean's chest.
"Did it hurt you? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," Sam says, even though he feels a little loose. Like a wobbling tooth.
"It worked, right? That's the end of it?" Dean speaks to Bobby over the top of Sam's head. Sam pulls away, just enough to watch for Bobby's response.
Bobby looks to John. He raises an eyebrow that manages to be both expectant and disapproving.
John's lips are pressed together in a tight waspish line. He folds his arms dourly across his chest.
"Sam, come here."
There's no tug towards obedience. Instead, Sam shies away, drawing closer to his brother. Dean's arms tighten around him protectively.
Sam opens his mouth and says the word he's been wanting to say to his father for months. "No."
Somehow, John manages to look even more pissed off. His face clouds darkly with disapproval. "Happy?" he snaps.
"Thrilled," Bobby snarls back.
They glare at each other.
"Let's go," Dean mutters in Sam's ear, and then, louder, to Bobby or John or both, "I'm taking Sam back to the motel. He needs to be in bed."
There's a part of Sam that wants to protest being treated like a tired toddler in need of a nap – that wants to protest doing anything that anyone else tells him to do - but sleeping sounds really good right now.. The longer he stands here, the harder it's getting to keep his eyes open.
Together, they cross the barn. Sam focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, almost blinded by exhaustion, and lets Dean lead the way. They're almost at the door when John calls out to him.
"Didn't I make you faster? Stronger?" John's voice is bitter, challenging, rising with anger. Sam flinches as a hand slams down on the altar, creating a sudden violent thump. "Didn't I make you better!"
Sam shrinks against Dean, who tugs him closer, tucking Sam behind him as he whirls around.
"He didn't need to be better!" Dean yells furiously. "He needed you to be a fucking father!"
Taken aback by Dean's sudden rage, John's eyes narrow. He draws his shoulders back, standing at his full intimidating height. He goes to speak but Dean cuts him off before he can make a sound.
"I swear, you say one more thing and I'll not only take Sam and make sure you never, ever see us again – I'll put you in a circle and set one of those monsters on you."
Sam gasps, stunned by the ultimatum. Dean sounds like he really means it.
John must hear it, too, because colour drains from his face. His shoulders drop and his mouth snaps closed. He glances at the circle painted on the floor. Suddenly, he seems uncertain.
"You boys should head out," Bobby says grimly. "John and I are gonna talk."
Dean's arms turn Sam back towards the door. Sam can feel John's gaze following them across the barn but he doesn't say anything and Sam doesn't look back.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean murmurs quietly. "Let's get out of here."
Sam leans against his brother, and obeys.
END
A/N: Thank you, to everyone, who left kudos, comments/reviews, or simply read this and enjoyed. I hope you liked the ending! You have all been so lovely and supportive and I've really loved hearing what you all think.
Reviews get to run away with Sam and Dean and live happily ever after without John.
