Fic: Chased by the Devil
Wrote for the Oh Sam: A Sam-focused H/C Sam Meme!
Prompt by the talented Pkwench.
The semi-bulletproof advantages of being marked as the devil's chosen vessel - being able to get between your brother and bullets. Trouble is? It fucking hurts, reapers turn their backs to you/hide behind their hands when you die, being brought back to life is scary, and your brother is really fucking pissed off at you for having done it.
Word count: 3065
Warning: Deathfic... kinda. Angsty goodness.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Lucifer. Gen.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine. But I do dabble in the affairs of others sometimes.
Set sometime in Season 5 after Abandon All Hope.
Spoilers: Everything in Season 5.
Chased by the Devil
Sam and Dean enter the dim, derelict factory. The air reeks of mildew, rust, and faintly sulfur. Sam know immediately that they have the right place.
Castiel had informed Dean yesterday of a possible location that demons were using to harness power for a spell Pestilence is planning to unleash across America, causing untold damage.
Sam is distinctly aware that they have absolutely no idea what is in this building. Pestilence himself could be here, or a swarm of demons. Hell, this could be a trap.
His shoulders pull tight at the thought that they are going in blind. But fuck, what choice do they have? There's no way they can let disease sweep across country.
Dean takes point ahead of Sam, keeping his gun out steady in front of his body. Sam follows, gun barrel pointed at the floor, but his finger on he trigger.
Light filters from the lazy midday sun through dirty high windows, leaving pockets of dark with splashes of light reflecting off puddles onto walls. Water drips distantly, and it echos off the walls.
The large room narrows into an unlit corridor. Dean curses quietly, while Sam pulls out his flash light in his left hand, while holding his gun in his right. He flicks the beam of light across the passage way. At the end of the hall is a bigger room, possibly at the center of the building. Dean slowly edges forward, a tense line of muscled shoulder nudges Sam to continue forward.
As they exit the hall, Sam and Dean walk into a large room, devoid of anything but cement floors, high filthy windows, and a floor covered in runes etched with charcoal. Dean keeps his gun clasped in a firm grip, searching for any movement, while Sam holsters his gun in the band of his jeans and waves the flashlight over the markings on the floor.
They are not anything Sam recognizes, but if he had to guess, they would be Babylonian. The complicated scriptures weaves together to create a intricate circle in the middle of the room.
“Dean,” Sam breathes, goosebumps rise on his arms.
Dean looks in Sam's direction, and then follows Sam's flashlight's beam down to the runes. He looks up to catch Sam's gaze.
“I assume that means something to you?” Dean murmurs.
“Dean, this is a circle of power. You put a sacrifice in this circle, and it feeds into the recipient,” Sam remarks.
“So, in this case, what? Pestilence?” Dean asks Sam, turning his full attention to the circle.
“Maybe,” replies Sam.
Dean walks up to stand beside Sam, and crouches down to touch one of the charcoal marks. Sam leans over and smacks Dean's hand away.
“Don't touch them. I don't know what these mean exactly, but you don't want to have them activate on you,” Sam says over Dean's shoulder.
Dean stands, his knees pop and he gives a grunt of pain. “So we can't touch it, can't go in it, but we've got to destroy it?”
Sam huffs in frustration while looking around the dark room. The sound of bird feathers shuffling and pigeon's cooing echo faintly in the distance. “Where are the demons? Look at how exact this is. It took a long time to set up. They wouldn't just abandon it.”
“Maybe they're out getting their sacrifice?” suggests Dean. He gently pulls the flashlight out of Sam's hand and sends a beam of light around the room. His eyes set on a rusted iron barrel at the end of the room. He edges around the circle, while Sam continues to study the runes.
Dean stops at the barrel. The top is off, and it's full of murky water, funneled down over time through the leaky roof. He gives the barrel a shove. The water ripples, but it doesn't tip.
“Sam, come help me with this,” Dean calls. Sam looks up at Dean, lost in his own thoughts. He follows Dean's path over to the barrel.
With their combined strength, the heavy barrel teeters. Water sloshes over the side on Sam's arm and chest. Both groan with the strain, and eventually gravity pulls the barrel over, spilling a huge wave of water across the floor.
The water rushes over the charcoal runes with speed, washing away any distinctive markings.
The pressure in the room changes minutely, and a weight against their lungs they hadn't noticed before is released as the spell is destroyed.
Dean looks over a Sam smugly, breathing slightly elevated. “Score one for Team Free-Will, eh Sammy?”
Sam grins back, feeling considerably good over this small victory. It might not stop the apocalypse, but it'll slow it down. Hell, after their history, any victory is a party.
Sam turns his view back to the wet floor, but not before seeing a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He turns back in time to see something coming at Dean's back at lightening speed.
“Dean!” Sam shouts in warning, as he grabs Dean's coat at his shoulder, and moves his body into Dean's.
Sam doesn't think about consequences, he pushes Dean out of the path of the incoming knife held by the demon charging. Dean, off balance, falls ungracefully to the concrete floor.
The demon lets out a scream of rage, and thrusts the blade into Sam's neck, only to then focus her black eyes up on Sam's face.
Strangely, he can feel knife scrape against his spine, shattered bits of bone dragging along the side of metal, and it's a horrible feeling. The blade travels into Sam's neck with enough force, that the tips comes out the other side.
The demon, wearing a punk teenage girl, no older than sixteen, eye's widen, and mouth opens in disbelief. Sam suspects the expression on his face is somewhat the same. Randomly, Sam thinks, yeah, Boss isn't going to be too happy with you, is he.
“Sam!” Dean cries distantly, somewhere off to his left, down on the floor.
Sam's legs seem to suddenly refuse to carry his weight. He realizes he's falling backwards slowly as his legs crumple beneath him.
The knife, still grasped tightly in the shocked demon's hand, slides out of Sam's neck, dripping red.
As Sam falls backwards, familiar arms capture his back, wrapping warm flesh around his stomach, pulling Sam's back to Dean's chest. Sam's head falls limply forward, so that his shocked, unblinking eyes, can look at the blood staining his plaid shirt and jeans.
There's this throb of pain with each beat of Sam's heart, followed by a thick gush of more blood spilling down his front. It doesn't hurt as much as it should, and Sam knows that probably means he's in trouble.
Dean pulls Sam's head back to look at the wound. Blood rushes out quickly, and Dean clamps his hand around the cut, hands slipping for grasp.
Sam catches sight of the demon girl, still standing in front of them with the knife, watching in terror. She suddenly throws her head back and spews out of the girls body, dark cloud streaming out a window in escape. The girl collapses to the floor, and Sam doubts she's alive.
Yeah, you better run. Boss is going to be pissed you hurt his vessel.
“Sam,” Dean chokes out. Sam's eyes roll back to catch sight of Dean's worried face hovering above him.
Sam tries to say something, but his throat makes a wet gurgling noise, and he feels his mouth fill with something wet and salty. Sam knows the taste of blood anywhere, especially demon tainted blood like his.
“Sam. Hey, Sam,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “You're going to be okay. Alright? You're going to be fine.”
Sam looks up into Dean's green eyes, obscured by the dim light. Something falls onto Sam's cheek, makes a wet line down to mix with the other wetness collecting around his neck and chest.
Dean's crying.
Sam blinks slowly, tries to breath, and chokes on blood. His chest convulses with a cough, and specks of black splatter Dean's chin and neck. More than the pain of the cut, he feels the hurt of suffocation, his lungs drowning in his own blood. Sam closes his eyes as the pressure of the need to breath becomes unbearable.
“Sam!” Dean cries, punctuating with a slap to Sam's cheek. Sam opens his eyes to see Dean, but his vision kind of fuzzy and wavers in and out of focus.
“Don't you worry Sam. I'm going to phone Castiel, and he'll be able to fix you up, no problem. Sam!” Dean says with desperation that hurts Sam more than the need to breath does.
Dean pulls a hand off his neck and slips it into his pocket. He pulls out his cell phone but it slips out of his slick fingers and falls to the floor, clattering.
Dean's eyes meet Sam's, and he puts his hand back over Sam's neck.
“You're not going to die here, okay? You don't get that out. Sam? Sam, look at me!” Dean says sharply, again smacking his cheek.
Sam's eyes flutter open, he didn't even realize they were closed.
His vision kind of goes dark, flutters. Dean's just a shape but he can feel his body against Sam's. The feel of his hand clutching his ruined neck, his other arm wrapped around his torso, keeping him upright against Dean's chest. Sam's cold, his body numb and Dean's body is like molten heat against Sam's back and throat.
Sam thinks lazily that the heat feels really good. Why can't he be that warm?
“Sam? Sam! Sam, don't you leave me. You hear me? Sam?!” A voice says from above him.
Dean?
“Sam!” A voice calls distantly. Sam's suddenly far too tired to care about it.
Sam sinks back. His eyes stop working, or maybe there closed. But he can't see Dean anymore, and he feels like he's sinking back in cool water. He can't really feel anything, like his body laying across Dean's, but he thinks, somewhat logically, that he can't have moved.
Sam lives in a dark calm. There's no sounds, smells, tastes, or movement. He just sinks, and then drifts in a current that pulls him in some indefinable direction.
And this happens for quite some time.
He doesn't really think about anything. Just drifts and sinks. It's kind of nice.
Then, the current picks up. Slowly, the tug gains speed, and suddenly Sam's being thrown, tossed, and free falling.
And then it stops, and he's standing on solid ground, and he can see again.
Sam's on a rocky beach. The water claps loudly against rocks and logs as it laps the sea line, while seagulls cry.
Sam thinks he should be scared or worried. But all he can feel is a numb coldness where his body should be.
The world ripples with the crash of the waves, and Sam obscurely thinks about the one time he tried magic mushrooms when he was nineteen with his roommate, Ryan.
Sam notices a dark figure that wasn't there before, because he would have noticed him or her, yet he didn't suddenly appear. The person walks easily across the difficult terrain of the beach towards Sam.
As the person draws near, Sam can see it's a wrinkled old man in a black suit. His brow is heavy, hiding his eyes in darkness. Lines pull at his sunken lips and hidden eyes. His hands, covered in age spots and bulging veins, are clasped together at his waist.
Instinctively, Sam knows it's a Reaper.
He should be scared of him, Sam knows this. But he isn't. Any past or could have been futures is obliterated from Sam's thoughts, and he can only remember the beach.
He takes a step towards the Reaper, and thinks, yes.
The Reaper unclasps his hands and brings a pale hand to Sam's chest. Heat explodes out from his hand, and roles through Sam. The beach shivers with Sam, and he can hear himself gasping.
Abruptly, the Reaper pulls his hand away from Sam, surprise evident, despite his lack of expression. The heat leaves with him, and Sam feels even colder than before. Sam's knees weaken, and he trembles as the Reaper takes a step away from Sam.
A noise makes its way through his throat, uncontrolled.
I can't be left here. I can't!
He tries to make a grab for the man, but the Reaper simply melts away into the beach, leaving Sam alone, again.
No, not alone.
He feels it like a burn across his back and shoulders. A pressure builds, and his muscles twitch.
He knows who is there, but he makes himself look anyways. He turns around to see Lucifer. He's in his vessel, yet he doesn't look like he's disintegrating like the last time they met.
Lucifer meets Sam's gaze, and Sam freezes. He's beautiful.
“Sam,” Lucifer calls, softly. “It's not time. You are still needed.”
“No,” Sam whispers. He takes a step backwards.
Lucifer looks amused and takes a step forward.
“Sam, it's time to go back.” He stretches a perfect hand out towards Sam. Heat ripples off his hand and it hits Sam like a blast of wind. His skin tightens and eyes water. He knows this is bad. He's not sure how, but Lucifer is bad, and anything he is going to do to Sam will be bad. Yet his legs refuse to move, locked in place.
Lucifer's fingers touch Sam's cheek softly, trailing over to Sam's hair, and an intense fire spreads from his touch across Sam's face, so hot and painful.
He's screaming, and he doesn't remember starting. And suddenly, he's running away from Lucifer, down the beach.
Sam runs as fast as he can, jumping over logs, rocks, and slippery seaweeds. The pain stays in his cheek and travels across to his eyes and lips. It scares him, and he runs faster.
Distantly, he can feel Lucifer behind him, following at his own leisurely pace, and that spurns him to just Go, Go, Go.
The burn continues to travel across his face and head, down his neck and through his chest.
The beaches waving features are no longer hypnotic, but aggressive, disorientating.
Sam trips on an outcrop of rock and falls to his knees. His hands scrap and sting against the rocks. The burn intensifies, flaring as it travels down his stomach to his hips. He pulls himself up and runs.
Sam runs. The beach never really changes, and the waves continue to crash against the rocks, and the seagulls cry as he runs past them. He burns, feels like his skin is bubbling off his body, like it's pooling and dripping off his body, and leaving puddles of himself across the rocks.
Lucifer continues to follow, like an explosion he can't completely outrun. Sam knows, somehow, that he's losing ground.
Sam doesn't know how long he flees, but the burn flares over his groin and spreads to his feet, and suddenly, he can't run anymore.
He collapses down on the hard rocks, pain flaring through points of contact. His chest heaves for breath he didn't realize he'd been out of until now. He tries to get up again, but he can't. He lies there, and feels Lucifer's approach, and is suddenly more scared than he can ever remember being, in this strange life at the never ending beach.
Lucifer walks quietly to Sam's side and bends down over him. Sam can't look up at him, but he feels the heat of his body, and it's excruciating.
He studies Sam for a quite moment, and says quietly, “See you in Detroit, Sam.”
He touches Sam's back, and the world shatters into nothing.
Sam loses himself.
He is pulled through a thick, black current. Violent and aggressive, Sam is ripped away, traveling to an unknown.
And suddenly, he feels a pain in his chest, and there's something wrapped around his body tightly. His chest compulsively coughs painfully and forces air into starved lungs.
Sam gasps, and opens his eyes to see darkness. Well, actually not exactly black, but a faint light filtering through something wrapped around his face.
His whole body trembles, as his muscles twitch to life. The muscles in his back cramp and knot, then release, and cramp again. Sam's stiff, and he hurts. He's wrapped in something that feels like cloth, or a blanket.
It's difficult, but he wiggles his arm free, and pulls the blanket away from his face and gasps a lung full of fresh air.
The light hurts his eyes and Sam takes a moment to adjust before looking around.
He's in the back seat of the impala, legs scrunched uncomfortably up to fit, wrapped in an old stained blanket Dean and him keep for nights they can't afford a hotel.
The car is hot with all the windows rolled up and the sun shining brightly through the windows. He breaths through his nose for the first time and catches the sent of rigor mortis, and shit.
Nothing really makes sense.
I was on a beach, wasn't I? No. I was with Dean, at the old factory... stop a ritual...
Sam lies there in the blanket, staring up at the ceiling of the car, feeling confused. He zones out, thoughts lazy in the heat, and his eyes fall shut. He loses track of time and simply drifts in a way he's become accustom to.
The door of the impala creaks loudly as it's opened, and Sam opens his eyes to see Dean, red eyed, looking away from Sam. He looks old, lines around his mouth and eyes that shouldn't be there, and a week old beard covers his face. He chest shutters and Sam catches the sound of a quiet sob being swallowed down.
Sam blinks. He opens his mouth, but it's just so dry. Like he's swallowed saw dust.
He smacks his lips together and runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to gather moister. He swallows and nearly chokes, but stubbornly refuses to cough.
He forms the words on his lips, feeling foreign, yet so familiar too.
“Dean,” he croaks quietly.
Dean turns his head slowly, and their eyes meet.
“Sam.”