Breaths came slow, labored—as though the chains squeezed tight around his throat instead of gnawing hungrily at his wrists.
The taste of blood was on his tongue, though he wasn't sure when it had gotten there.
His body stung as though every inch had become a home to a nest of needles, their tips worming into his flesh to render him a mockery of a porcupine. He felt sick—nauseated. Maybe that's where the blood came from. Maybe it had slid up his throat with the stomach acid he'd barely managed to swallow down. His chest hurt—tightened, sank. Like the inescapable isolation pressed in around him like a vice, crowded him till he could barely breathe.
In several heartbeats, he had wished he wouldn't. He wished he could stop. But not even Lucifer had taught his body how to hold its breath through unconsciousness. To will itself to death with the strength of mere resolve. If Sam's death had been Lucifer's goal, Sam probably would've learned such a feat in a span of hours. Instead, Lucifer had instructed Sam's body in pain. Tutored it in wretched agonies unimaginable, tortures unfathomable to a human soul. With the intricacies of a master, an unmatched skill that demanded admiration. And beneath the Devil's thorough attentions, Sam's body had learned how to suffer. Perhaps a form less worthy of esteem. If expertise cost a mere ten thousand hours, how much did a nigh ceaseless two hundred years earn him? Lucifer, in his generosity, was always eager to offer Sam the opportunity to discover new avenues of misery—always delighted to acquaint Sam with an innovative desolation, to familiarize his body, mind, and soul to another novel violation.
And so, when the withdrawals of his infernal addiction began to wring shudders from his bones, it was truly no surprise that his body and mind saw an invitation to practice the craft of suffering. It couldn't be termed an art—in its purest form, there was no design or plan or even intention to its practice. At best, it was a trade—a trade in which Lucifer was determined to help Sam excel. That wasn't to suggest that there couldn't be beauty in it, but merely that the talent rested undeniably in the hands that created the pain, that sculpted the sufferer.
Given that the figure that currently nursed a scream from Sam's throat had died years ago beneath the coil of Sam's whim, he wasn't entirely certain to whom he should attribute the glory of the torment. There was something precise and exact about the carve of the blade, of the tear of the skin, that Sam thought would earn Lucifer's pride, insofar as the archangel would deign to extend it to a demon.
But then, Sam's eyes reopened amidst a haze of blurry tears to find his body whole—or mostly, given the sting lingering around his wrists. It took a few minutes to remind himself it was merely a hallucination, though the same must have happened three times already. That it wasn't real. Even if it felt it. That it wasn't the Cage. Even if he saw the lightning flashing through the runed bars.
He forced a shallow breath as deep as he could manage, its release proving rockier than a paper boat cast into the rapids. His eyes flicked carefully about the room while his mind still buzzed in panic. He was alone. It wasn't real. Just like the last one wasn't. Just like the next one wouldn't be. Though he wasn't sure it mattered.
He closed his eyes, and the chains around his wrists jingled like bells as a shiver raced through his body. Sweat had taken to him like vultures to a carcass, though he found the cold creeping deeper with every beat of his heart. It only swelled his longing for the fire-like warmth of demon blood, its promise to bloom in his chest a ready heat, a security, a balm like the comfort of sunlight on a winter day and a flare like the brilliant strength of an inferno. Maybe the blaze would consume him from within, but how alive he'd feel in the flames. He couldn't help but think it'd be better than this slow demise, this lingering, inescapable threat as his body slowly failed, piece by piece.
Another breath—a shaky exhale, and his eyes cracked open once more, trailing about the rough patterns in the concrete for the thousandth time. His gaze flicked over the empty jugs of water, tossed into the corner of the room. He couldn't remember Dean bringing them in—he couldn't even remember if they'd appeared all at once or individually. He couldn't be sure if they were real, or a mere figment of his mind to disrupt any hopes of calculating the days. Hours? Weeks? His mind was a hazy blur. He wasn't certain if there even was a world outside the dark cement walls, or if his mind had constructed that too—as an anchor for survival or an instrument of torture, he wasn't sure.
"Shut up," he whispered to no one, because the noise in his head rose too loud. It was a plea, but a meaningless one. No amount of begging would free him from this hell.
"Well." His heart stuttered and skipped like a scored record. A voice sliced through the shrill silence—one all too familiar, one that froze his blood, stiffened his bones to a brittle immobility. "Look at you." Sam's eyes skated slowly toward the figure, drawn like a magnet, though he knew who he'd find. He almost refused to look—afraid. But still, his gaze crawled along the concrete until it finally landed on a pair of well-worn boots. His breath faltered as his vision drifted upward, over jeans and a dark leather jacket. And a face, a few patches of greys spotting his beard and hair, wrinkles betraying a stress beyond his years. A dozen scars lining his skin, collected from decades of warring against the supernatural.
Before him stood John Winchester, his expression as hard and unyielding as the stone walls around them. He didn't blink; he didn't flinch, scrutinizing Sam with an intensity that, for a moment, made Sam wonder if he was the one out of place—if he were the ghost haunting his father.
"Dad," Sam stared in disbelief, the word a fragile whisper. Of all the conflagration of emotions he might have expected to feel at the sight of his father, he didn't expect the most profound to be… relief. And yet it hit sharp and sudden, cracking his voice, sweeping through his chest like a tide.
After John died, Sam wasn't sure he ever truly resolved how he felt about his father. He knew he regretted so many things he said to the man—that their last conversation was him picking a fight, for one. Something that had recurred on a loop in his head for months after it'd happened. Just wishing he could take it back. Just wishing he could say goodbye. And yet, at the same time, he knew he was furious—for the secrets, the lies, the neglect, the things John said and did that a father should never put on his children.
But… seeing the man standing before him… it just made Sam realize how much he missed him. Even if a part of him hated himself for it. Even if he couldn't truly understand why.
Then John's lips curled in disgust, eyes narrowing as though he couldn't bear full sight of the thing before him, "Pathetic."
Sam flinched, the chains rattling with the jolt of the word. It forced his gaze to falter, to struggle to rise and return to his father's face.
"Look at yourself," John scoffed, eyes raking over his son, "You look like death. All because of that poison." He took a few steps, shaking his head, "You make me sick."
Sam shifted beneath the sting of the words, "Dad—"
"The worst part is," John interrupted, glaring his spite, "You did this to yourself. And even after everything that's happened… you still can't get enough of the stuff."
"It's not like that," Sam swallowed, struggling to keep his breath steady as he held John's gaze. He didn't start this… did he? He couldn't quite remember.
"It's not like what?" John echoed—mocked. "If Dean hadn't chained you up, you'd be hunting down a demon right now for another taste." As Sam dropped his eyes, John's lips curled, "Or tell me I'm wrong."
Sam was silent, his chest tightening with the accusation, his hazy mind scrambling for a defense that wouldn't come. His hands clenched into fists against his thighs, the chain clinking softly as his knuckles whitened.
John's gaze flicked to the shackles briefly, the fire of his rage receding to a smolder, "I should've known Dean would be too weak to do what needed to be done." His eyes dragged back to Sam's face as he shook his head somewhat somberly. "I should've done it myself."
The words were a knife plunged deep. Sam worked his jaw, trying to fight the wetting of his eyes. The words were merely weapons, and he had endured tortures far more severe. He forced his chin upward, tightening his words, "Then why didn't you?"
John shrugged, "I was too dumb. Thinking maybe if I killed Yellow Eyes in time…" his voice trailed off with bitterness, but soon snapped back, hard, "But it was too late. It was too late the minute that demon infected you with its filthy blood."
Sam jerked against the chains as he recoiled against the words. He couldn't be sure of the target of John's sparking wrath, of who bore the weight of his blame—Azazel, or Sam? "You don't—" he measured a breath, "That's not true."
"You're a monster, Sam," John stated—like it was a fact, not an accusation, like Sam's rebuttal didn't even matter. "You're not a kid anymore. It's time to stop pretending you can be something else."
His words were so familiar—John had said much the same when Sam was merely fourteen, hesitating to kill a kitsune. And then again, when he found Sam's SAT study books, lined with college brochures.
Sam gritted his teeth, anger flaring in his chest even as tears clawed at his eyes, "I tried, Dad. I tried to be the solider you wanted—"
"I know," John nodded, his tone surprisingly padded with perhaps a hint of… sympathy? "I know you did, Sammy. It isn't fair. But you were always gonna end up like this."
"Then why lie to me?" Sam shouted, not entirely certain from where the strength of the words had sprung. "Why train me to be a hunter—why let me believe I could be normal?"
"I didn't," John replied just as curtly, "That was all you. I trained you to take out monsters. And it's time, Sammy."
Sam stared at him, a thin thread of horror pulsing within the pound of his heart, "Time for what?"
"It's time for you to end this," John answered simply, squatting before Sam so their gazes were level, mere inches apart. John tilted his head toward the chains, "There's enough slack there. You're a smart kid—I know you noticed."
Sam's blood felt cold, his body twisting away from the words as they wriggled their way beneath his skin.
"There's worse ways to go, Sammy." John noted quietly, almost softly. Sam suddenly wished the rage would return—somehow, it was better than this utter determination.
"I'm not—" Sam fidgeted in the chains, finding his own voice thin, "I'm not gonna… I can't." It was wrong. He didn't… he didn't want to die.
"It's the only way to be sure," John's tone was low, grim—steady and sure. "Even if you somehow got clean, even if you survive… this," he gestured to the room, "How long is it gonna be before you're back here again? How many times is it gonna take for you to get the message?" He dropped his head, shaking it, before he held Sam's gaze, "How many more people have to die because you can't man up and face what you are?"
Sam's silence stretched like a taut wire, his pulse the only sound he could bear to make. He wasn't sure if the beat thrummed in defiance or assent with his father's words. He couldn't rid the faces of those he'd killed from his mind.
"You think Dean's gonna do it? You think he'll be strong enough?" John pressed, a slow urgency to his every syllable. Sam didn't reply. Frankly, he couldn't be sure Dean wasn't doing it now, even if not intentionally. John shook his head in answer to his own question, pain wrinkling the corners of his face, "He'll hesitate. And you know what happens then." It wasn't quite a question, but the answer came fatally heavy, "People die."
"You're asking me to…" the word found itself lodged in Sam's throat. He swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease the shakiness from his voice, the dread drowning his lungs. "You're asking me to kill myself."
"I'm not asking, Sammy," John replied without hesitation, his voice gravely calm. "I didn't always see it, but I know you always try to do the right thing." His eyes searched Sam's, bespeaking both a weariness and a conviction beyond a whisper of doubt. "This is the right thing, Sam. This is the only move you've got."
Sam's jaw quivered, his eyes falling to the chain. John was right—there was probably just enough slack. His arm tugged against it lightly, tempted to test it. It'd probably be quick—less painful than every breath. He'd die here anyway. Maybe he'd be better off ending it now, before the withdrawals escalated. Before they had him screaming words at his brother he didn't mean, entertaining thoughts he didn't believe, cursing people he loved. For Dean's sake, maybe… maybe it'd be better to end it now.
He squeezed his eyes shut. It'd be so easy. He merely had to loop his arm over his head, drape the chain along his neck, and lean forward. Gravity would do the rest. Wound tight, the chain would hold the shackle in place. He'd black out soon enough. And then… it'd be over.
The simplicity of it made him want to puke. It wrought an uneasy shudder along his every nerve—the thought, just needling its way through his mind. An intruder he suddenly couldn't evict.
It was so easy, and yet, impossible. He couldn't.
It… it was wrong—it couldn't be right. Even if the withdrawals would kill him anyway, his death… it wasn't going to be at his own hands. He didn't want it to be.
John seemed to register the resolution—or perhaps the weakness—drawing Sam's features. His gaze tumbled to the floor, sparks of anger flooding the avalanche of regret, "I should've… I should've done it myself. I should've let those hunters do it." He glanced back toward Sam with a self-deprecating tsk, "But that's why you look human, isn't it? That's why that yellow-eyed freak let you stay with us. So every time I'd look at you… I'd see Mary," he forced his gaze upward, as though to hinder the fall of tears. "And that Dean would see his baby brother. And hell if it didn't work."
Sam didn't speak, trying to ignore his father's words, though they all struck like punches to the gut. He wanted to swear it wasn't true. But he couldn't.
"I killed hunters coming after you, you know," John pushed himself to his feet, disappointment and frustration radiating off his skin almost visibly, "Hunters that were just doing their job. But I couldn't see it back then. Didn't want to." He glanced back toward Sam, "Think about how many lives I could'a saved, if I just…"
"Stop," Sam tried, but the word was hardly a command—more a plaintive plea, backed with barely a whisper of breath.
"What'll it take for you to realize this is the only way?" John swung back around, his voice honing to an edge, "More innocent blood on your hands? When you do to another family what Yellow Eyes did to us?" He crossed the few steps of distance he'd created, jabbing a finger backward, "When you hurt your own brother?" He scoffed, "Wake up, Sam. You already have."
"Shut up!" Sam barked, the clang of metal joining the echo of his shout. John went still, but for a tilt of his head and arc of his brow, waiting. The sudden silence seemed to betray Sam's fragility. He didn't have the strength to command the air—he didn't even have the strength to rid the tremor from his voice. "You… you're not even real."
The remark was as much an aspersion as it was a reminder to himself. Given the beehive that had replaced his skull, and the familiar, distinctive hint of cheap aftershave and leather cloying the air around the man before him… that awareness kept slipping from his mind.
"You say that like it changes anything," John replied levelly, his expression shifting, almost softening.
Sam's throat tightened—he couldn't help the tear that escaped down his cheek, though he jammed his face roughly into his shoulder to wipe it away.
"You lied to me," he whispered, trying to build his words into even a flimsy mockery of strength. "You knew about Yellow Eyes' plans for me. You knew there was something… something wrong with me." He forced his eyes upward until he held John's gaze, "But you never said a word. You… you knew, and you left. You knew, and you knew that you were gonna die, but you… you didn't even tell me goodbye." He searched his father's eyes, as though the hallucination before him might hold answers, as though it might offer up some explanation to satisfy years of regret and questioning.
But it didn't. John only shrugged, "You're right." They were rare words his father had only extended a handful of times, but somehow… this time, they offered no comfort or satisfaction.
"It wouldn't have changed anything, Sam," John continued, his words quiet, now. Sam's lip curled—he wanted to protest. He couldn't know that. John read the objection on his face, shaking his head softly, "You were always gonna end up this way. One way or another."
Sam wrung his head, trying to shake the claim even as it clung to his skin and sank to his bones. His vision was blurry.
John's gaze didn't depart, his voice maintaining a low, steady pace, "You've been fighting this for years—for your whole life—and look where it's gotten you."
"That's not fair," Sam gritted out. He couldn't… he couldn't know that. No one could be predestined for… for this. If he was going to end up here, again and again, after everything… if trying to do the right thing didn't matter, if saving people didn't matter, if he couldn't escape something that happened to him when he was six months old… what was the point?
"It's not," John agreed again. For years, Sam had sought little more than John's assent, but now, for the second time in minutes, John had offered just that, and Sam hated it. Still, John continued almost… pityingly. "It isn't fair. But this is the hand you were dealt. And you've only got one right move."
Sam searched his father's eyes, even as tears tormented his own. He yanked against the shackles, grunting against the harsh sting as they scored into his wrists. "Dad…" he started thinly, but he wasn't sure if it was the start of a plea or a protest as the words fell away before they could reach his throat.
"You'd better do it soon," John added, his eyes skating about the room, "Some of the other ghosts in your head aren't gonna let you do what needs to be done. And if your pal Lucifer shows up—" Sam winced at the name, though John barely paused, "You're gonna wish you'd done it when you had the chance."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force out another breath. Maybe John was right. He wasn't entirely sure why he resisted. He'd die anyway. What difference did it make?
He just… couldn't think clearly. He cursed the wretched fog thickening in his skull, the way his thoughts kept slipping like water through his fingers. If he could just get a little blood…
His jaw clenched, muscles trembling with exhaustion as he reopened his eyes, only to blink in confusion. He frowned, his eyes skating about the room. But he was alone.
Somehow, the room felt colder, the sudden silence and solitude overwhelming.
Sam's body sagged, the breadth of fatigue undeniable. Every limb ached, his bones stiff and brittle, his muscles threatening to cramp or collapse. His wrists burned, the skin rubbed raw, with blood crusting along the shackles. His body screamed from the effort of the rigid posture, the sense of claustrophobia hastily driving his mind further into insanity. His vision blurred—not from tears, this time, but perhaps mere exhaustion. He wasn't sure how long it'd been since he'd slept—if at all. His own heartbeat felt too loud, even amidst the oppressive silence, almost drowning out the thoughts in his head.
He just… he needed to think.
But the only thing he could focus on was the pulse in his veins, the gnawing hunger. His eyes flicked down to trace the blue lines that almost looked black in the dim light.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He yanked against the shackles until the pain shrieked in his skull, sharp and searing. For a few blissful seconds, the agony was blinding enough to purge any thought from his mind even as it wrung tears from his eyes. But within a few seconds, the pain dulled again, and his eyes traced back to the blood trailing down his hands. It was both warm and cold, almost like a live current dancing across his skin. Mocking. Inviting.
It wouldn't help.
Sam drew his wrist upward, the stench of sulfur intoxicating.
"Well," a familiar, slick voice made Sam flinch in sudden surprise. "Doesn't this look cozy?"
Sam twisted around, something akin to disbelief and dread crawling up his spine.
Footsteps echoed off the concrete walls. Sam stared at the figure looming before him, his mind a sudden conflagration of emotions. Anger, shame, shock. Hate. Skepticism. A dizzy haze, a blind focus.
The man shook his head, tsking, "Why, hello, Moose." His eyes flicked scarlet, a grin twisting his face, "Up for a little chat?"
