Horror comment fics
wave_obscura beta'd my ficlets from the horror comment meme on sharp_teeth, so I'm sharing them with you. Enjoy!
Title: Path of Darkness
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: The exit is close, but Sam won't turn around.
A/N: Written in answer to smilla02's prompt: "Dean, Sam - He and Dean are so close to the exit, Sam can already see the glow of light in the distance. Dean is behind, Sam can hear his familiar steps. And he won't turn around. He will not. A re-telling of the myth of Orpheus."
They picked their way in silence up a steep and gloomy path of darkness.
The light at the end of the tunnel. Sam can see it, or thinks he can - sometimes he blinks and then he’s not sure what the difference is between it and the sparkles dancing behind his eyelids. But Sam has to believe and cling to it like he clings to hope. Getting them, both of them, out of this hell; this is what keeps him walking even though his head is fuzzy with exhaustion and his legs hurt and his lungs are strained from lack of oxygen.
He can hear the heavy thump of Dean’s footsteps behind him and the sound of his harsh breathing. The footsteps get slower and slower, and the breathing more and more erratic and shallow, but Sam doesn’t look back. He doesn’t. He slips on blood and steps on crunching bones, the blood and the bones of the people who couldn’t get out of here. It smells like decay but that stopped bothering him hours ago. He can’t help but think about all those missing people, trapped in the dark with their hands stretched out towards the light, never reaching it. Sam shivers and it’s not because of the cold seeping through his bones.
The sound of Dean stumbling, a pained and muffled curse, and Sam stops dead, and aches with the effort not to turn around, not to put his arm around his brother’s shoulders to help him walk.
“Don’t look back,” Dean wheezes. “You can’t look back.”
“I know,” Sam snaps.
“So keep walking.”
And Sam walks.
---
Pluto told him he might now ascend from these Avernian vales up to the light, with his Eurydice; but, if he turned his eyes to look at her, the gift of her delivery would be lost.
Don’t look back, the fucking thing - ghost or spirit or whatever the hell it was - had told him. Don’t look at your brother and I will let you both get out of here.
It had sounded easy. After looking for his brother for days, after going down there, where there was no light and no sound and no life, Sam thought that nothing could be more easy than just walking, and never looking back. Hadn’t he been good at that, once?
One foot in front of the other. Don’t wonder what it is that you feel under your feet. How long can one man last without his sight and his hearing before he goes crazy? But he’s not alone, he’s not, Dean is behind him and his breath is hissing - did he hurt his throat or his ribs, is he slowly choking to death? - and the music of his footstep is irregular - is he limping? Sam wants to reach behind him and feel the warmth of his brother’s hand, but he doesn’t dare because he doesn’t know whether touching is out off limits too. He doesn’t want to lose Dean because he didn’t read the fine print.
“Do you need to stop?” he asks, more to shake off the blanket of silence than because he thinks his brother will agree.
“I need to… get the fuck… out of here.”
The light is getting closer, now he’s almost sure of it. It’s bigger and unwavering like the sun. Sam thinks he can feel the heat on his face, but it’s probably only his imagination. He wants to reach out and touch it, then lick his fingers and taste honey on his tongue. He knows it’s crazy, though. You can’t touch light; it’s immaterial like the soul. It doesn’t taste anything either. Sam sticks out his tongue to wet his parched lips. He’s so, so thirsty.
Dean moans low in his throat. It sounds terrible, like a death rattle, and it scares Sam shitless.
“Dean?” he calls.
Dean doesn’t answer though Sam can still hear him walking.
“Dean, please,” he tries again, plaintively, like when he was little and was afraid of the dark. He’s not afraid of the dark, now; he’s afraid his brother is dying and that he’ll never see the light in his eyes again. Does it matter if he turns around, then? If he leans against his brother and holds him in his arms, one last time?
“Sam,” Dean finally rasps. “Keep walking.”
Sam walks because if he stops they’ll both die here, and their bones will blanch anonymously with a thousand others. That much he knows.
---
There remained but little more to climb till they would touch earth's surface, when in fear he might again lose her, and anxious for another look at her, he turned his eyes so he could gaze upon her.
Light is so blinding that for a moment all Sam sees is painful white. He moans and falls on his knees. He feels the caress of the breeze on his cheeks, hears the bird singing, smells pine needles and wet ground. Something heavy falls at his side and Sam’s eyes snap open. He squints in the daylight until he makes out the form of his brother curled in on himself.
“Dean!”
He reaches out to Dean’s shoulder and his brother groans. Sam tugs on his arm and cups the back of his head with his hand, makes him sit down and asks breathlessly:
“Dean, you okay? Oh God, please, tell me you’re okay.”
Dean slowly opens his eyes. The light is obviously hurting him too because he opens them just enough to show a thin line of green.
“We’re out?”
Sam feels a sob bubble in his throat.
“Yes, we are,” he chokes.
“You okay?”
Sam leans forward and wraps his arms around him.
“Yes, I am.”
Sam sniffs in the collar of Dean’s jacket.
“Should come back and blow those fucking tunnels up.”
Sam chuckles helplessly.
Her last word spoken was, "Farewell!" which he could barely hear, and with no further sound she fell from him again to Hades.
Title: Eyes Tight Shut
Characters: Dean, Sam, John
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: Dean's lost and blind, but there isn't any reason for panic. Right?
A/N: Written in answer to animotus's prompt: "Dean, Sam, John (not wee!chesters) - Good old-fashioned horror situation: pitch dark,i n the middle of the woods, they are hunting some kind of entity, Dean suddenly can't see anymore and loses his bearings..."
“Dad!”
It was supposed to be a fucking Wendigo.
Dean had been so excited. He’d hunted a Wendigo only once, two years ago, when Sam was still too young to be hunting - or too young for this kind of hunt, at least. Dean had tried to get his brother excited for it.
“The Wendigo is an amazing hunter, so quick, you can’t imagine. You blink, and he’s on you.”
“And how is that supposed to make me look forward to hunting it?”
“Well, it’s a challenge! The bastard will be hard to kill, and it’ll be… I don’t know, fun.”
Sam had looked very unimpressed. Dean had shrugged. Sometimes, he didn’t know what the hell was wrong with his brother.
Now he regretted convincing Sammy to participate in this hunt. He regretted agreeing when his father asked him to come - well, not that his father had really asked anything. This hunt wasn’t a one-man job, period. But Dean had been more than willing, as usual.
They’d tracked the Wendigo for a long and frustrating time, but they hadn’t managed to find out where his lair was. Dad had started to doubt that it was even a Wendigo, and had decided that they should call it a day and go back to the car, but night had fallen, sudden and quick. Somehow, they’d gotten separated.
“Dad!” Dean tried again. “Sammy! Dad! Where the fuck are you?!”
His throat hurt from screaming and he paused to swallow. He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t. His father and brother weren’t too far away, but they couldn’t hear him right now because of… those fucking trees blocking the sound. And there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why Dean couldn’t see a goddamn thing.
It had happened suddenly. One minute, Dean was trying to peer through the darkness, to make out the difference between the shadowed shapes of trees and the figures of Sam and Dad. Then he’d blinked, and there was nothing. No ghostly, barely distinguishable trees and bushes, no moonbeam dimmed by the tree leaves. Just thick, uniform black, like a curtain had fallen before his eyes.
He hadn’t moved since this unexpected blackness, but he couldn’t stay standing there like one of those stupid trees, he had to do something. He fell on his knees and searched the ground blindly with his hands until he found a branch long enough to use as a cane. A white cane. The thought sent sharp pain through his chest, but he couldn’t think about that right now.
He stood up carefully, one hand gripping his flare gun, tentatively exploring the air, the other holding the branch in front of him. He took a step, and another, clumsily drawing arcs in front of him like he’d seen blind people do.
“Dad! Sam!”
He got an answer, this time.
“Dean!”
It sounded far away and echoing, but it was unmistakably his dad’s voice. Dean stilled, trying to pinpoint where it came from, then turned in the estimated direction. He breathed in deeply to shout at the top of his voice:
“Dad! I’m here!”
“Dean!”
What the… It was Sam, this time, but it was coming from behind Dean. Had his father and brother been separated too? God, he hoped that they weren’t as blind as he was, or it was going to be hell to find each other in the woods.
“Sam!”
“Dean!”
Dad again, but the voice sounded much closer. Dean frowned. This was impossible. Unless… Dean’s heart started to pound louder, until the noise filled the space and he couldn’t hear anything else. It was impossible unless this wasn’t his father, or his brother he was hearing calling him. Unless they had it completely wrong, and it wasn’t a Wendigo at all they were hunting. Or that was hunting them.
“Dean!”
He didn’t call back this time. Wendigos could mimic human voice, but not that perfectly. Whatever it was, Dean didn’t want to lead it to him. Of course, it was maybe already too late. He started walking again. Move, he had to move.
“Dean!”
To his left.
“Dean!
To his right.
“Dean! Dean!””
Farther, closer. Dean tried to walk faster, but his foot caught something and he fell headfirst in the dirt.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath.
His knees were hurting and he’d bitten his tongue, tasted blood in his mouth. He’d lost his branch, so on all four he fumbled around to find it. He felt a warm breath on his neck, stopped moving.
“Lost something, boy?”
Dean gasped, swirled around and pointed his flare gun in front of him. Before he could shoot, though, an inhuman shriek pierced the air, and there were hands on his shoulder.
“Dean!”
Dean struggled against the grasp, throwing uncontrolled punches with a strength born from panic. He met solid flesh, and there was a yelp of pain that sounded very much like Sammy.
“Sam?” he breathed.
“Yeah, that’s me. Are you… Don’t you see me?”
“I can’t see anything,” Dean said, trying not to sound frightened and failing.
“Oh. Uh, that’s probably the spirit…”
“A spirit?”
“Yeah. Dad torched his bones, so you should… be back to normal in a minute.”
It would have been reassuring if Sam hadn’t sounded so damn anxious.
“Okay,” Sam said. “I’m gonna touch you, so… don’t hit me, alright?”
“Alright.”
A hand gripped his forearm; Dean forced himself to relax. This was Sammy, he wasn’t going to hurt him.
“Can you stand up?”
“Of course I can!” Dean snapped.
Sam huffed but didn’t say anything. Instead, he helped him get to his feet.
“Thanks,” Dean mumbled.
Sam’s grip on his arm tightened. He placed his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, warm and comforting, and Dean felt tension melt away from him. Then heavy, hurried footsteps came from behind him, and Dean couldn’t help but tense again.
“Dean! You alright?”
It was his father. Dean let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“He can’t see anything, Dad,” Sam explained.
Dean felt his father manhandle him to make Dean face him, take his chin with rough fingers.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Dad finally said.
Dean closed his eyes, relieved by the mere presence of his father in front of him, and his brother at his back. When he opened them seconds later, Dad was looking back at him.
Title: Whispers
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: The only thing Sam wants is to hear his brother's voice one more time
A/N: Written in answer to lolitakun's prompt: "Sam is in a mental hospital, and has hallucinations of Dean, telling him to kill."
Dean’s standing in the corner of the room, looking as he did when he was twenty-six - when he came looking for Sam at Stanford, a lifetime ago. Spiky hair and green eyes bright with mischief, looking young and unscarred by life. Not like he did the last time Sam saw him - which is a relief and Sam doesn’t question why. He knows you have to count your blessings, and that they’re few and far between.
“Sam? Do you know where you are?”
Sam wants to ignore the voice questioning him, but he knows it won’t do any good. They keep asking and asking, the flow of questions never drying up. Sam doesn’t bother with their names or faces anymore, but he knows that they’ll leave him alone only if he answers the questions.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Where?”
“I’m in a mental hospital.”
---
The first time Sam sees Dean he thinks he’s a ghost and he’s afraid. Not that he’s scared of ghosts - what a ludicrous thought - but he’s worried that Dean’s restless, stuck in limbo and that is wrong, wrong. Dean should be at peace - if he can’t be with Sam, then he should be able to rest, at least.
But there aren’t any cold spots and salt doesn’t make him go away, so Sam understands - Dean isn’t a ghost, Sam’s just going crazy. He’s surprisingly okay with this.
He starts seeing Dean everywhere, nights and days. In his room, in the common area, in the hallways, in his doctor’s office. Dean just stands there with his arms folded and he looks at Sam, sometimes smiling and sometimes not, but he never looks sad or reproachful, which surprises Sam because if he has to have hallucinations of his brother, he’d think that it would be of him hurling accusations, calling him a monster, asking him why he didn’t save him. Sam’s subconscious has always been adept at torturing him.
But there isn’t anything like that. At first Dean doesn’t even talk. He’s just there, and Sam gets used to him.
---
You have to kill them, Sammy. You have to save all of them, like you saved me.
That’s the first thing Dean says.
“Kill who?” Sam asks.
Everyone.
It doesn’t make any sense, but Dean’s finally speaking and Sam’s overjoyed. He’s missed the low rumble of his brother’s voice. He revels in it and doesn’t think too much about what Dean’s saying. After all, it isn’t really Dean speaking - it’s just Sam talking to himself, being crazy.
But Dean’s relentless, and every time Sam sees him he repeats:
Do it, Sam. Save them like you saved me.
“Why does it have to be me?” Sam wants to know.
Because, Sam. It always had to be you.
Then Dean disappears; Sam reaches out, wanting to force him to stay, force him to stay with him because he misses him so much and he’s so, so lonely. Feels like he can’t breathe, sometimes. A nurse rests a hand on his shoulder and then Sam remembers - crazy, he’s crazy.
---
He manages to ignore Dean for a few days, though it hurts to do so. There’s something wrong about what Dean says; Sam can’t put his finger on it. When Dean speaks Sam mostly listens to his voice, to the familiar texture and the comforting tone, and he doesn’t want it to ever stop. But something isn’t right and Sam just wishes he could think clearly enough to understand why.
And one day, Dean doesn’t show up. He doesn’t appear the next day either, and the day after that, and with each day passing Sam feels like the weight on his chest become heavier, constricting his lungs and his heart.
“Please, Dean,” he whispers when he thinks nobody can hear him. “Please, come back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He stops eating and the doctors worry. He doesn’t sleep at night but waits, waits for his brother to come back because he can’t, he can’t, he can’t be without him. He peers through the darkness and listens to the silence.
Until, one morning:
Are you going to do it, Sam?
---
“Are you listening?”
Sam contains an annoyed sigh. Why all the questions? He never has a moment of peace. He rolls his eyes in Dean’s direction, and his brother smirks. Yes, the doctor is an idiot. He doesn’t understand. Then Dean’s expression is serious again. Are you ready, Sam?
Sam is, he fingers the sharpened piece of plastic in his pocket. Go straight for the jugular - I know! God, his brother can be a pain in the ass, sometimes.
“Do you remember why you’re here, Sam?”
Sam almost doesn’t answer. What’s the point? He doesn’t want to think about it, why can’t the man understand that? He glances at Dean for support and sees his brother nodding. Tell him, Sam. Sam shakes his head - he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t. Please, don’t make me.
It’s okay, Sam. You’re okay.
The love in Dean’s voice is unbearable and Sam’s tearing up, which is ridiculous because everything is okay. Dean said so.
“Why are you here?” the doctor insists, and Sam finally gives in.
“I remember. I killed my brother.”
---
Do it, Sam, do it!
No, no, no. Please, Dean, don’t make me.
You have to. I can’t live like this, I can’t become one of the things we hunt. You’ll save me, Sam. Save me, please.
I can’t, I can’t.
It’s okay, Sam. You’re going to be okay.
Title: Path of Darkness
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: The exit is close, but Sam won't turn around.
A/N: Written in answer to smilla02's prompt: "Dean, Sam - He and Dean are so close to the exit, Sam can already see the glow of light in the distance. Dean is behind, Sam can hear his familiar steps. And he won't turn around. He will not. A re-telling of the myth of Orpheus."
They picked their way in silence up a steep and gloomy path of darkness.
The light at the end of the tunnel. Sam can see it, or thinks he can - sometimes he blinks and then he’s not sure what the difference is between it and the sparkles dancing behind his eyelids. But Sam has to believe and cling to it like he clings to hope. Getting them, both of them, out of this hell; this is what keeps him walking even though his head is fuzzy with exhaustion and his legs hurt and his lungs are strained from lack of oxygen.
He can hear the heavy thump of Dean’s footsteps behind him and the sound of his harsh breathing. The footsteps get slower and slower, and the breathing more and more erratic and shallow, but Sam doesn’t look back. He doesn’t. He slips on blood and steps on crunching bones, the blood and the bones of the people who couldn’t get out of here. It smells like decay but that stopped bothering him hours ago. He can’t help but think about all those missing people, trapped in the dark with their hands stretched out towards the light, never reaching it. Sam shivers and it’s not because of the cold seeping through his bones.
The sound of Dean stumbling, a pained and muffled curse, and Sam stops dead, and aches with the effort not to turn around, not to put his arm around his brother’s shoulders to help him walk.
“Don’t look back,” Dean wheezes. “You can’t look back.”
“I know,” Sam snaps.
“So keep walking.”
And Sam walks.
---
Pluto told him he might now ascend from these Avernian vales up to the light, with his Eurydice; but, if he turned his eyes to look at her, the gift of her delivery would be lost.
Don’t look back, the fucking thing - ghost or spirit or whatever the hell it was - had told him. Don’t look at your brother and I will let you both get out of here.
It had sounded easy. After looking for his brother for days, after going down there, where there was no light and no sound and no life, Sam thought that nothing could be more easy than just walking, and never looking back. Hadn’t he been good at that, once?
One foot in front of the other. Don’t wonder what it is that you feel under your feet. How long can one man last without his sight and his hearing before he goes crazy? But he’s not alone, he’s not, Dean is behind him and his breath is hissing - did he hurt his throat or his ribs, is he slowly choking to death? - and the music of his footstep is irregular - is he limping? Sam wants to reach behind him and feel the warmth of his brother’s hand, but he doesn’t dare because he doesn’t know whether touching is out off limits too. He doesn’t want to lose Dean because he didn’t read the fine print.
“Do you need to stop?” he asks, more to shake off the blanket of silence than because he thinks his brother will agree.
“I need to… get the fuck… out of here.”
The light is getting closer, now he’s almost sure of it. It’s bigger and unwavering like the sun. Sam thinks he can feel the heat on his face, but it’s probably only his imagination. He wants to reach out and touch it, then lick his fingers and taste honey on his tongue. He knows it’s crazy, though. You can’t touch light; it’s immaterial like the soul. It doesn’t taste anything either. Sam sticks out his tongue to wet his parched lips. He’s so, so thirsty.
Dean moans low in his throat. It sounds terrible, like a death rattle, and it scares Sam shitless.
“Dean?” he calls.
Dean doesn’t answer though Sam can still hear him walking.
“Dean, please,” he tries again, plaintively, like when he was little and was afraid of the dark. He’s not afraid of the dark, now; he’s afraid his brother is dying and that he’ll never see the light in his eyes again. Does it matter if he turns around, then? If he leans against his brother and holds him in his arms, one last time?
“Sam,” Dean finally rasps. “Keep walking.”
Sam walks because if he stops they’ll both die here, and their bones will blanch anonymously with a thousand others. That much he knows.
---
There remained but little more to climb till they would touch earth's surface, when in fear he might again lose her, and anxious for another look at her, he turned his eyes so he could gaze upon her.
Light is so blinding that for a moment all Sam sees is painful white. He moans and falls on his knees. He feels the caress of the breeze on his cheeks, hears the bird singing, smells pine needles and wet ground. Something heavy falls at his side and Sam’s eyes snap open. He squints in the daylight until he makes out the form of his brother curled in on himself.
“Dean!”
He reaches out to Dean’s shoulder and his brother groans. Sam tugs on his arm and cups the back of his head with his hand, makes him sit down and asks breathlessly:
“Dean, you okay? Oh God, please, tell me you’re okay.”
Dean slowly opens his eyes. The light is obviously hurting him too because he opens them just enough to show a thin line of green.
“We’re out?”
Sam feels a sob bubble in his throat.
“Yes, we are,” he chokes.
“You okay?”
Sam leans forward and wraps his arms around him.
“Yes, I am.”
Sam sniffs in the collar of Dean’s jacket.
“Should come back and blow those fucking tunnels up.”
Sam chuckles helplessly.
Her last word spoken was, "Farewell!" which he could barely hear, and with no further sound she fell from him again to Hades.
Title: Eyes Tight Shut
Characters: Dean, Sam, John
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: Dean's lost and blind, but there isn't any reason for panic. Right?
A/N: Written in answer to animotus's prompt: "Dean, Sam, John (not wee!chesters) - Good old-fashioned horror situation: pitch dark,i n the middle of the woods, they are hunting some kind of entity, Dean suddenly can't see anymore and loses his bearings..."
“Dad!”
It was supposed to be a fucking Wendigo.
Dean had been so excited. He’d hunted a Wendigo only once, two years ago, when Sam was still too young to be hunting - or too young for this kind of hunt, at least. Dean had tried to get his brother excited for it.
“The Wendigo is an amazing hunter, so quick, you can’t imagine. You blink, and he’s on you.”
“And how is that supposed to make me look forward to hunting it?”
“Well, it’s a challenge! The bastard will be hard to kill, and it’ll be… I don’t know, fun.”
Sam had looked very unimpressed. Dean had shrugged. Sometimes, he didn’t know what the hell was wrong with his brother.
Now he regretted convincing Sammy to participate in this hunt. He regretted agreeing when his father asked him to come - well, not that his father had really asked anything. This hunt wasn’t a one-man job, period. But Dean had been more than willing, as usual.
They’d tracked the Wendigo for a long and frustrating time, but they hadn’t managed to find out where his lair was. Dad had started to doubt that it was even a Wendigo, and had decided that they should call it a day and go back to the car, but night had fallen, sudden and quick. Somehow, they’d gotten separated.
“Dad!” Dean tried again. “Sammy! Dad! Where the fuck are you?!”
His throat hurt from screaming and he paused to swallow. He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t. His father and brother weren’t too far away, but they couldn’t hear him right now because of… those fucking trees blocking the sound. And there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why Dean couldn’t see a goddamn thing.
It had happened suddenly. One minute, Dean was trying to peer through the darkness, to make out the difference between the shadowed shapes of trees and the figures of Sam and Dad. Then he’d blinked, and there was nothing. No ghostly, barely distinguishable trees and bushes, no moonbeam dimmed by the tree leaves. Just thick, uniform black, like a curtain had fallen before his eyes.
He hadn’t moved since this unexpected blackness, but he couldn’t stay standing there like one of those stupid trees, he had to do something. He fell on his knees and searched the ground blindly with his hands until he found a branch long enough to use as a cane. A white cane. The thought sent sharp pain through his chest, but he couldn’t think about that right now.
He stood up carefully, one hand gripping his flare gun, tentatively exploring the air, the other holding the branch in front of him. He took a step, and another, clumsily drawing arcs in front of him like he’d seen blind people do.
“Dad! Sam!”
He got an answer, this time.
“Dean!”
It sounded far away and echoing, but it was unmistakably his dad’s voice. Dean stilled, trying to pinpoint where it came from, then turned in the estimated direction. He breathed in deeply to shout at the top of his voice:
“Dad! I’m here!”
“Dean!”
What the… It was Sam, this time, but it was coming from behind Dean. Had his father and brother been separated too? God, he hoped that they weren’t as blind as he was, or it was going to be hell to find each other in the woods.
“Sam!”
“Dean!”
Dad again, but the voice sounded much closer. Dean frowned. This was impossible. Unless… Dean’s heart started to pound louder, until the noise filled the space and he couldn’t hear anything else. It was impossible unless this wasn’t his father, or his brother he was hearing calling him. Unless they had it completely wrong, and it wasn’t a Wendigo at all they were hunting. Or that was hunting them.
“Dean!”
He didn’t call back this time. Wendigos could mimic human voice, but not that perfectly. Whatever it was, Dean didn’t want to lead it to him. Of course, it was maybe already too late. He started walking again. Move, he had to move.
“Dean!”
To his left.
“Dean!
To his right.
“Dean! Dean!””
Farther, closer. Dean tried to walk faster, but his foot caught something and he fell headfirst in the dirt.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath.
His knees were hurting and he’d bitten his tongue, tasted blood in his mouth. He’d lost his branch, so on all four he fumbled around to find it. He felt a warm breath on his neck, stopped moving.
“Lost something, boy?”
Dean gasped, swirled around and pointed his flare gun in front of him. Before he could shoot, though, an inhuman shriek pierced the air, and there were hands on his shoulder.
“Dean!”
Dean struggled against the grasp, throwing uncontrolled punches with a strength born from panic. He met solid flesh, and there was a yelp of pain that sounded very much like Sammy.
“Sam?” he breathed.
“Yeah, that’s me. Are you… Don’t you see me?”
“I can’t see anything,” Dean said, trying not to sound frightened and failing.
“Oh. Uh, that’s probably the spirit…”
“A spirit?”
“Yeah. Dad torched his bones, so you should… be back to normal in a minute.”
It would have been reassuring if Sam hadn’t sounded so damn anxious.
“Okay,” Sam said. “I’m gonna touch you, so… don’t hit me, alright?”
“Alright.”
A hand gripped his forearm; Dean forced himself to relax. This was Sammy, he wasn’t going to hurt him.
“Can you stand up?”
“Of course I can!” Dean snapped.
Sam huffed but didn’t say anything. Instead, he helped him get to his feet.
“Thanks,” Dean mumbled.
Sam’s grip on his arm tightened. He placed his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, warm and comforting, and Dean felt tension melt away from him. Then heavy, hurried footsteps came from behind him, and Dean couldn’t help but tense again.
“Dean! You alright?”
It was his father. Dean let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“He can’t see anything, Dad,” Sam explained.
Dean felt his father manhandle him to make Dean face him, take his chin with rough fingers.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Dad finally said.
Dean closed his eyes, relieved by the mere presence of his father in front of him, and his brother at his back. When he opened them seconds later, Dad was looking back at him.
Title: Whispers
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
Summary: The only thing Sam wants is to hear his brother's voice one more time
A/N: Written in answer to lolitakun's prompt: "Sam is in a mental hospital, and has hallucinations of Dean, telling him to kill."
Dean’s standing in the corner of the room, looking as he did when he was twenty-six - when he came looking for Sam at Stanford, a lifetime ago. Spiky hair and green eyes bright with mischief, looking young and unscarred by life. Not like he did the last time Sam saw him - which is a relief and Sam doesn’t question why. He knows you have to count your blessings, and that they’re few and far between.
“Sam? Do you know where you are?”
Sam wants to ignore the voice questioning him, but he knows it won’t do any good. They keep asking and asking, the flow of questions never drying up. Sam doesn’t bother with their names or faces anymore, but he knows that they’ll leave him alone only if he answers the questions.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Where?”
“I’m in a mental hospital.”
---
The first time Sam sees Dean he thinks he’s a ghost and he’s afraid. Not that he’s scared of ghosts - what a ludicrous thought - but he’s worried that Dean’s restless, stuck in limbo and that is wrong, wrong. Dean should be at peace - if he can’t be with Sam, then he should be able to rest, at least.
But there aren’t any cold spots and salt doesn’t make him go away, so Sam understands - Dean isn’t a ghost, Sam’s just going crazy. He’s surprisingly okay with this.
He starts seeing Dean everywhere, nights and days. In his room, in the common area, in the hallways, in his doctor’s office. Dean just stands there with his arms folded and he looks at Sam, sometimes smiling and sometimes not, but he never looks sad or reproachful, which surprises Sam because if he has to have hallucinations of his brother, he’d think that it would be of him hurling accusations, calling him a monster, asking him why he didn’t save him. Sam’s subconscious has always been adept at torturing him.
But there isn’t anything like that. At first Dean doesn’t even talk. He’s just there, and Sam gets used to him.
---
You have to kill them, Sammy. You have to save all of them, like you saved me.
That’s the first thing Dean says.
“Kill who?” Sam asks.
Everyone.
It doesn’t make any sense, but Dean’s finally speaking and Sam’s overjoyed. He’s missed the low rumble of his brother’s voice. He revels in it and doesn’t think too much about what Dean’s saying. After all, it isn’t really Dean speaking - it’s just Sam talking to himself, being crazy.
But Dean’s relentless, and every time Sam sees him he repeats:
Do it, Sam. Save them like you saved me.
“Why does it have to be me?” Sam wants to know.
Because, Sam. It always had to be you.
Then Dean disappears; Sam reaches out, wanting to force him to stay, force him to stay with him because he misses him so much and he’s so, so lonely. Feels like he can’t breathe, sometimes. A nurse rests a hand on his shoulder and then Sam remembers - crazy, he’s crazy.
---
He manages to ignore Dean for a few days, though it hurts to do so. There’s something wrong about what Dean says; Sam can’t put his finger on it. When Dean speaks Sam mostly listens to his voice, to the familiar texture and the comforting tone, and he doesn’t want it to ever stop. But something isn’t right and Sam just wishes he could think clearly enough to understand why.
And one day, Dean doesn’t show up. He doesn’t appear the next day either, and the day after that, and with each day passing Sam feels like the weight on his chest become heavier, constricting his lungs and his heart.
“Please, Dean,” he whispers when he thinks nobody can hear him. “Please, come back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He stops eating and the doctors worry. He doesn’t sleep at night but waits, waits for his brother to come back because he can’t, he can’t, he can’t be without him. He peers through the darkness and listens to the silence.
Until, one morning:
Are you going to do it, Sam?
---
“Are you listening?”
Sam contains an annoyed sigh. Why all the questions? He never has a moment of peace. He rolls his eyes in Dean’s direction, and his brother smirks. Yes, the doctor is an idiot. He doesn’t understand. Then Dean’s expression is serious again. Are you ready, Sam?
Sam is, he fingers the sharpened piece of plastic in his pocket. Go straight for the jugular - I know! God, his brother can be a pain in the ass, sometimes.
“Do you remember why you’re here, Sam?”
Sam almost doesn’t answer. What’s the point? He doesn’t want to think about it, why can’t the man understand that? He glances at Dean for support and sees his brother nodding. Tell him, Sam. Sam shakes his head - he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t. Please, don’t make me.
It’s okay, Sam. You’re okay.
The love in Dean’s voice is unbearable and Sam’s tearing up, which is ridiculous because everything is okay. Dean said so.
“Why are you here?” the doctor insists, and Sam finally gives in.
“I remember. I killed my brother.”
---
Do it, Sam, do it!
No, no, no. Please, Dean, don’t make me.
You have to. I can’t live like this, I can’t become one of the things we hunt. You’ll save me, Sam. Save me, please.
I can’t, I can’t.
It’s okay, Sam. You’re going to be okay.