A/N: Tag for Ep 12.01 Keep Calm & Carry On. References Ep 11.05 Beyond the Mat. Spoilers through Ep 12.02 Mamma Mia.
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"No! No!"
Sam pounded on the door in frustration as the bolts slid home, securing him once more in his basement prison. So close to freedom, he thinks wearily, allowing his head to slump forward onto the stairway he is sprawled on, so close.
Eventually he finds the strength to pivot and shuffle his way to sitting, staring blankly into the darkened room below. As he stills, the damage inflicted on his body blooms in a growing cacophony of pain, but the empty ache in his heart shouts loudest. In the silent, empty space he allows himself to fall apart, slumped on the stairwell, shot, beaten, bruised, tired, hungry, dirty. For one moment he allows tears to fall and the sense of loss to overwhelm him. These last…hours, days…how long had it been? Sam's sense of time was completely skewed, thanks in part to the drugs in his system. So much had happened since he hugged his brother one last time…
"Come on. You know the drill Sammy. No chick-flick moments. Come on."
"Yeah, you love chick flicks."
He smiles as he remembers Dean chuckling at that. "Yeah, you're right. I do. Come here." The hug was far too brief, trying so hard to communicate without words the love they had for one another. It would never be enough. All too soon, Dean was pulling away, turning away.
"Okay. Let's do this." And then he was gone.
Sam remembers how slow time had seemed to move after that. How the misfit band of rebels - human, angel, demon, witch, and God - had slowly regrouped and headed together to a pub to await the outcome that hinged on his brother's sacrifice. How Chuck had suddenly disappeared, and when it seemed all was lost and their Hail Mary had failed, the sunlight blossomed - even as his own heart broke. Time blurred forward from that point…how long had it been since he had stood there in shock with the others and realized that their world - their SUN - had been saved? And while the world celebrated, Sam could only think that once again, the cost had been too high. There had been no time to fully comprehend the depth of his loss, however, as he had been blindsided and SHOT by that stupid bitch in his HOME, a high and mighty Brit with an ax to grind and (apparently) the means to do it.
He trembles as whatever drug had been injected into him causes the tormenting voices and visions to reappear. Technicolor images of those he has loved and lost, culminating once again with Dean, but this time Sam's imagination supplies the horrific effect of the soul bomb going off. He whimpers, his body shaking with sorrow.
"Dead. I'm dead because of you. I'm dead because of you. This is all your fault. This is your fault." phantom Dean whispers.
No, he thinks, no! This isn't real.
"We're all dead because of you, Sam."
I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Please forgive me.
"It's your fault. It's all your fault. Just die. Why won't you die, Sam? Why don't you die? It's your fault."
It's Dean's voice, but Sam knows - KNOWS it is not something his brother would ever say to him. "Not real!" he whispers, lowering his head back to rest against the railing. He's just done. Battered. Beaten. Broken. No one is coming for him. Alone. He looks over at the broken glass and pool of his own blood on the floor. Feels the throb of the cut on his hand, the places on his body where the bullet penetrated, the taser hit, the fire burned, the needle punctured, not to mention the many emerging bruises caused by his fight to escape. What is the point? Why keep fighting? He mused sadly. Dean was DEAD. He was alone. Again. "What's the point?" he whispers to the room. I'm sorry Dean, I wasn't strong enough. Fading, defeated, Sam slumps further, his system finally shutting down as he passes out from pain and grief.
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Awakening from the dream state his captor had trapped him in was jarring, as visions of his abduction, abuse, attempted escape, and subsequent discouragement flooded rapidly through his mind. An attempt to stretch his limbs quickly clues him into the fact he is once again firmly bound to the hated chair.
"You'll have to admit, it was fun while it lasted." the sadistic woman said.
Shaking his head, trying to clear it, Sam blustered. "What did you do to me?
"A hallucination created by potion and powerful spell work. So...was it good for you? Hm. Sadly, I can't do the spell again. Your brain would liquefy, which we don't want. Yet. So... I'll have to resort to less... pleasant methods."
Sam stares first at her, then at the tools of torture she is currently caressing like treasured toys. Why am I fighting her? What reason do I have to not give in?
Even as the thoughts form, from somewhere in his memory he hears Dean's gruff voice answer him, "Keep grinding. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how hard it gets, you gotta keep grinding. And that's how we're gonna win." Sam suddenly feels his resolve grow. Dean wouldn't have given this chick a damn thing, and he won't either. If he's going down, he's going down swinging. He owes his brother that, if nothing else. Determined, he straightens as much as he can in his shackles, staring with hatred at his tormentor. She pauses, briefly, at the look in his eye, then continues, picking up a knife and pliers.
"Enhanced interrogation was never part of my job description."
Sam stills as the knife traces the arc of his neck, then pulls at his lip, nicking him ever so slightly. He looks up into the determined, haughty eyes above him and braces himself.
"But as it turns out... ...I'm a quick study."
Biting down, Sam tries desperately to not give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Finally crying out as the torment continues, he feels himself slipping once more into oblivion. As he fades, he promises silently I'll keep grinding Dean. We're going to win…