FIC: Occultis Lacrima 2/3
TITLE: Occultus Lacrima
ARTIST: Shimera
AUTHOR: Electric Light Shadowboxer
RATING: R for language and possible disturbing imagery.
WORD COUNT: 13,662
SUMMARY: Things haven’t been easy for the brothers Winchester. Now something is wrong with Dean. Sam may be able to save him, and the world, but it just might cost him his life.
WARNINGS: Bad language and disturbing imagery.
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It was nearing five in the morning when Sam turned onto the main road in Gibbons Virginia. His jaw cracked as he yawned and he rubbed at his bleary eyes, trying to keep awake just a little longer.
A drizzle was falling from the still dark sky, coating the windows of the impala with crystal droplets that broke up the light from the old fashioned streetlamps like tiny prisms. The street was empty and the store windows were dark. A small town, like so many they had passed through before. There may be differences on the surface, but underneath they were all the same. After a while it got hard to remember which town was which. They all ran together in an endless stream of normality which always seemed to be denied to the Winchesters. It made Sam angry. He glanced over at his brother, worry creasing his brow.
Dean was passed out in the seat next to him, head leaning against the cool glass of the impala’s window, light illuminating his slack face in intervals as they drove down the empty road. Sam would feel better if it was a natural sleep instead of the alcohol induced unconsciousness Dean had slipped into. But maybe, even that was for the best.
They’d been hardly out of town when Dean had pulled the pint from the back pocket of his jeans. Sam had started to protest, but Dean had glowered and all but growled at him. He’d figured at this point it was best just to leave him alone. But as soon as they were done with this job they were going to be taking some time off, heading back to Bobby’s. Apocalypse or not, Dean had to get himself together before it was too late.
After the disappearing stripper he didn’t know what to think. The little voice in the back of his head piped up, poking at him cruelly. That wasn’t true. He knew exactly what he thought. He thought Dean had lost it. He was seriously starting to rethink his whole ‘get Dean back on the job’ gambit. Right now, he wasn’t sure he wanted his brother near a gun.
The thought hurt his head.
Sam turned his attention back to the street. Gibbons was a small town, one main street with a diner, hardware store, small pharmacy that probably still had a soda fountain, and a grocery that was apparently owned by mom and pop, if the sign was to be believed.
He let out a small breath of relief as he approached the small motel and saw the light was still on. With small towns like this you never could tell. They’d spent their share of nights in the impala, but it was hard on Sam to fold himself up into the small space; it couldn’t have been much easier on Dean.
The motel was small, looked like seven rooms in all, one story. It had seen better days, but they’d stayed in worse. Sam glanced up at the sign and couldn’t decide whether to chuckle or head in the other direction. With all the angels and demons on their ass lately they really didn’t need any more religion shoved down their throats. Still, it was late, he was tired, and they had to get out to Blackwater and get this taken care of.
With a shake of his head, he pulled into the empty parking lot of the Christ the King Motel. He shut off the engine and looked through the rain speckled windshield at the lighted windows of the office. He thought about waking Dean, but he was still out cold so he decided it would be best to let him sleep while he got the room.
Inside the small office Sam shook the water from his hair and looked around for the attendant. There was no one at the counter, but he could hear a TV coming from a back room. He rang the bell and tried his most harmless smile on the woman who poked her head through one of the doorways. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you so late. I was hoping to get a room?”
Once he manages to procure a key he drives the car to the front of room six and turns the engine off, listening to it tick as it cools down. Dean’s drunken snores are the only other sound and Sam is so tired he could just go to sleep right here. He rubs at his face and pushes open the car door, unfolding himself from the impala’s interior. First thing he does is check the room. They’re not too picky, but even they’ve turned down a room or two if it was too dirty.
He flicks the light on and looks around. He stares at the large picture hanging over the dresser. He’s not sure whether to be horrified or laugh. He steps closer and blinks at the image of Christ, posed beatifically, warm glow around his head and eyes anime wide. And yes, it’s on velvet. Sam surveys the rest of the room and it’s clean enough. Maybe they can take down the painting.
Sam manages to get Dean into the room and down onto one of the queen beds. Dean looks pale against the purple of the bedspread, eyes bruised and lips slightly chapped. He stares at his brother’s insensible form for a moment, curled in unconscious abandon, before heading back out to the car and grabbing both of their duffels.
Once everything is inside, he goes about getting Dean situated in the bed to finish sleeping it off, and then collapses on the other bed to grab a couple hours before they head out to Blackwater.
* * *
“SSsssseypotsylnoyaw loofyastissssseyssssseyssssseysssseyyasti. Onyawtuosselesu piruoytuoforuoytaemgab. Neadyasti.”
Sam shot up out of the bed as the noise broke through the mantle of sleep. He was instantly alert, gun in hand before he knew what was happening.
“Piruoytouforuoytaemgab. Lessesueceipfotaem.”
Sam’s eyes swung over to the other bed where Dean was sitting up, covers pooled around his hips. “Dean?”
“Yasti! Lliktiuoysselthroweceipfotaem.”
Sam swallowed and slid out on the far side of the bed, across the room from Dean. He came around to see his brother’s eyes open, thousand yard stare penetrating the far wall. “Dean, man, you awake?”
“Ssssseyylnoyaw. Taeuoymorfehtedisnituoyob. Yastiropirtsruoytaemffostisenob.”
Sam felt his balls try to crawl back up inside. “Cristo!” When there was no reaction Sam grabbed the vial of holy water and sighted the gun just to the left of Dean’s leg. The chance that Dean was possessed when he didn’t react to the name of the holy was slim, but it was better safe than sorry. He took a deep breath, and then threw the water in Dean’s face.
“Osysaetsujpeels. Yassssstidnapeels.”
No reaction, not even a blink to get the water out of his eyes. Sam stepped forward and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “What the fuck, Dean!”
Still no response. Dean continued to sit on the bed, still, eyes open, and the nonsense pouring from his mouth. Sam grabbed the EMF, but his brother didn’t cause it to go off.
With a dry mouth Sam grabbed the mini recorder and snapped it on, letting the tape pick up Dean’s voice. Then, with his heart in his throat he called Bobby.
* * *
Sam stood at the foot of Dean’s bed watching his brother sleep. Dean had continued on for about an hour after Sam had woken and then he’d simply closed his eyes and fallen back into the bed, sound asleep. Sam had tried waking him, but his brother had been out of it. A quick check of his pulse and respiration had shown that Dean was okay. He reacted to pain and his eyes reacted to light.
He’d still been tempted to take him to the hospital. In the end though, he’d decided against it. He didn’t know what this was, but he knew supernatural when he saw it and this definitely fell into that category.
In a way it was a relief. He’d attributed Dean’s odd behavior to the mental stress they’d both been under. That it was supernatural was a good sign. Monsters Dean could deal with, even angels if he had to, but emotions were beyond Dean’s ability to handle.
He returned to the table and sat down, staring down at what he had written. He’d spent the last several hours going over the tape of Dean’s garbled speech, putting it down on paper so he could try to translate it. He’d poured over their father’s journal as well as websites dedicated to obscure and obsolete languages. Bobby was doing the same thing, looking for anything that might explain Dean’s behavior.
So far neither one of them had turned up anything. Sam had tried calling Castiel, but his phone had gone straight to voicemail. As usual, when they needed him, when Dean needed him, Castiel was nowhere to be found.
Sam tapped the pencil eraser on the legal yellow pad angrily. He’d tried different combinations, substituting letters for different letters, omitting every odd letter. Nothing worked. Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was just gibberish.
He stared down at the words he’d translated from the tape.
Sssssseypotsylnoyaw loofyastissssseyssssseyssssseysssseyyasti. Onyawtuosselesu piruoytuoforuoytaemgab. Neadyasti. Piruoytouforuoytaemgab. sselesueceipfotaem. Yasti. Lliktiuoysselthroweceipfotaem. Ssssseyylnoyaw. Taeuoymorfehtedisnituoyob. Yastiropirtsruoytaemffostisenob. Osysaetsujpeels. Yassssstidnapeels.
Suddenly his eyebrows shot up and he started reversing the letters, separating them until they made sense. His breath caught in his chest, making his lungs feel like they were going to burst.
Yessssss/stop/only/way. fool/say/it/yesssss/yesssss/yesssss/yesssss/say/it. No/way/out/useless. Rip/you/out/of/your/meat/bag. Dean/say/it. Rip/you/out/of/your/meat/bag. Useless/piece/of/meat. Say/it. Kill/it/you/worthless/piece/of/meat. Yesssss/only/way. Eat/you/from/the/inside/out/boy. Say/it/or/strip/your/meat/off/its/bones. So/easy/just/sleep. Sssssay/it/and/sleep.
Sam jumped up from the table, knocking his chair over and banging his knees on the underside. He was over to Dean’s bed in three long strides, hands out to jerk him up off the pillows. “Dean, Dean, wake up!” He shook him hard.
Dean opened his eyes, lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks, before he slammed them shut and grabbed at his head. “Fuck!”
“Dean! Dean, oh, God, Dean, speak to me!”
Dean bared his teeth, breathing in short pants as his eardrums reverberated with the decibels driving into them, through them, until he thought he’d go deaf. “Sam!”
Sam cupped Dean’s head, unsure of what was wrong. He tried to pry Dean’s hands from his ears. “Dean, let me see. What is it? What’s wrong?”
Dean squinted at him, but clamped down harder on his ears. He could see Sam’s gigantic, worried, face; see his lips moving. But he couldn’t hear a word he was saying. He just had to ride this out. It was always worse when he first woke, as if whatever was happening gained more of a foothold while he slept. Granted, it had never been this bad, but if he could just hold on. “Sam, wait, just, wait until it calms down.”
Sam winced as his brother shouted at him. He cupped his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, massaging gently and listening to his brother grunt in pain. He wanted to do something, to make it stop. But he didn’t know what this was, didn’t know how to help so he sat there and continued to massage Dean’s tight muscles. “Come on, dude. Deep breaths. Don’t hyperventilate like some girl on me.”
The last was meant as a dig to elicit some reaction from his brother, but of course he couldn’t hear him to respond. Sam licked his bottom lip and drew his free hand through his shaggy hair.
About ten minutes after waking, Sam felt Dean’s muscles start to relax. “Dean? Can you hear me?”
Dean winced and took a deep breath. “You don’t have to yell, Sammy.”
Sam stood up off of Dean’s bed and filled him a glass of water from the sink. “I’m talking in a normal tone of voice, Dean. I’m not yelling.” He handed the glass over to Dean.
Dean reluctantly pulled his hands away from his ears, half expecting to see blood, but they remained clean. “Yeah, well, you’re voice is as ginormous as the rest of you. Tone it down a little.” He sipped at the water and closed his eyes.
Sam sat down on the bed across from Dean, watching as he scooted up against the headboard. He moved as if everything hurt. He was pale, sweaty, and shaking. He’d seen him look better after being worked over by any number of supernatural creepy crawly.
He waited until Dean opened his eyes again before lowering his voice and confronting him. “What the hell is going on, Dean? What was that?”
Dean started to shake his head and then thought better of it. He swallowed a little more of the water, easing his scratchy throat and sighed. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
Dean glared at him. “No, Sam, I don’t know.”
Sam stood up from the bed and grabbed the voice recorder and legal pad. “How long has it been going on?”
Dean scooted off the bed and started to pull clothes from his duffel. “A couple weeks. It’s nothing, Sam. Let me grab a shower and we’ll get going to Blackwater.”
Sam stared at him, incredulous. “Dean, we’re not going to Blackwater. We’ve got to figure this out.”
“I’m fine. Whatever this is, it’ll go away, but I’m not going to sit around here and wait until it does. We have work to do, Sam.”
Sam glared at Dean and snapped on the cassette recorder. Dean’s voice, strange and vacant, poured off the tape.
Dean stopped and turned from where he was heading into the bathroom. He could feel the blood draining from his face and had to put a hand out to the wall when the room started to swim. “Where did you get that?”
When the tape stopped Dean swallowed down the bile that tried crawl up his throat and choke him. “Is that me?”
Sam shut off the recorder, mouth grim as he took in his brother’s reaction to the tape. “Do you know what this is?” When there was no answer Sam shook his head and looked away. “You woke me up this morning. Dean, you were sitting up in bed and this was pouring out or your mouth. I couldn’t get you to respond to me. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
Dean looked away, trying to bury the fear. “I didn’t realize it until just now, but it’s the same thing I’ve been hearing.” Dean felt his nostrils flare. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not going to make any difference.” He clutched his boxers and undershirt tighter in his hands, starting toward the bathroom.
“Wait, Dean, I figured out what you were saying.”
“I know what I was saying!” Dean winced and put a hand to his head. “Just leave it alone, Sammy.”
Sam stood, a bolt of anger striking through him. “You know what you were saying.” He glared at his pigheaded brother, too stubborn for his own good. “You’ve heard this before. What is it, Dean?”
Dean half turned, looking at him over his shoulder. “It’s the language spoken in hell, Sam. That’s how I know it. I listened to it for forty years.”
Sam felt the anger cool a little. “What . . . what does that mean?”
Dean turned finally, facing Sam. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I was going crazy. I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it.” He looked away. “Maybe in a way I am. Maybe those forty years in hell are starting to catch up with me.”
Sam frowned, his whole face falling, eyes darkening. “Dean, no. Why now? Did you actually listen to what you were saying?”
Dean turned away from him and started back toward the bathroom. “Doesn’t matter, Sammy. Let’s just get the job done and get the hell out of here.”
Sam could feel his face scrunch up in what Dean called his bitchface, but he couldn’t help it. Whatever this was, it needed to be dealt with. He’d thought at first maybe the angels were trying to communicate to Dean, to get him to say yes to Michael. But why would angels use Hellspeak? Maybe Dean really was going crazy. Maybe he was reliving his time on the rack, being tempted off to torture souls.
Sam listened to the water start up in the bathroom. It didn’t matter. They weren’t going to Blackwater, not with Dean like this. Sam grabbed up his phone to call Bobby when it rang in his hand.
Sam let out a huff of exasperation at the familiar number on the screen. “Castiel, I’ve been trying to call you.”
He listened to the irate angel. “He’s in the shower. No we’re at Christ the King motel in Gibbons Virginia, but Cas . . .” He sighed and clicked off the phone.
“I need to speak to both of you.”
Sam turned, not at all surprised by the angel’s appearance. “Yeah, well, I need to talk to you. Something’s wrong with Dean.”
Castiel tilted his head in the way that always reminded Sam so much of a dog. “I know. That’s why I need to talk to him.”
There was a loud bang from the bathroom, followed by Dean’s screaming.
“Dean!” Sam ran to the bathroom, flinging open the bathroom door. Steam billowed out blinding him for a second. When he could see again he found Castiel already in the bathroom, kneeling down in shower over Dean, his tan trench coat darkening with water. Beneath him Dean was huddled in the bottom of the tub, hands to his ears, grunting in pain. The water running toward the drain was tinged pink with blood.
Castiel picked him up and stepped out of the shower, cradling the naked man in his arms. “He’s injured himself.”
Sam grabbed a towel and followed Castiel out of the bathroom. While Castiel laid Dean out on the bed, Sam grabbed the first aid kit from Dean’s duffel and hurried over to see where his brother was injured.
“Dean, can you hear me?” Sam ignored the water seeping through his Wrangler’s as he knelt next to Dean and prodded his head, running his fingers through his hair. He stopped when his hand came away red.
Dean remained unresponsive, trying to curl in on himself, those small peculiar grunts of pain escaping between his lips.
Sam turned Dean on his side and inspected the wound. It didn’t look like it was too bad. All head wounds bled like a bitch. He grabbed the antiseptic, using the towel to try and stop the flow of blood, and started to work on Dean’s wound, the only thing he knew how to fix. “What the hell’s going on, Cas? What’s wrong with him?”
Castiel stood beside the bed, face impassive as ever, watching as if they were both curiosities and none of it affected him. “The angels have . . . upped their game.”
Sam stole a quick glance at the angel before turning his attention back to his brother. “What does that mean, Castiel?”
Castiel was quiet a moment, studying the naked man on the bed. “When Gabriel was discovered, he was recruited back into the garrison. They’re using him to torture Dean until he is too weak to do anything but say yes.”
Sam finished bandaging the spot on his brother’s head and pulled the covers up over Dean. “So this is a trick? Just deserts?” He turned and stood, glaring down at the angel. His anger flared so brightly it blinded him, hatred for all the angels and what they’d put his brother through pierced through his heart. “How do we stop it?”
Castiel studied Sam a moment before looking away. If Sam didn’t know better he’d think the angel was showing some emotion, feeling shame.
“Like everything else Gabriel has done, it’s real. Dean will go mad unless we can stop them.”
Sam walked away, hands going through his hair. “How did they even find us, Castiel? I thought we were supposed to be angel proof or something.”
“I do not know the details except that they have recruited Forcas to their side.”
Sam turned and approached Dean’s bed, laying a hand on his back. “Forcas? What the hell does that mean?” He shook his head. “Never mind, how do we stop this?”
Castiel rounded the bed and placed his hand over Dean’s temple area and the human’s panting grew less, his grunts softer. “That is all I can do.” He turned to Sam. “Forcas has a gift for returning lost property. He’s also the angel tasked with guarding knowledge of mathematics and logic. Whatever argument they used to bring him over must have been very persuasive.”
Sam swallowed, trying to digest what Castiel had said. Dean was still shivering under his hand. “There must be something we can do. I can’t sit around here and watch this happen to him.”
Castiel looked away, water still dripping from his hair where he’d gotten wet in the shower. “There may be someone who knows how to help, but I don’t know if I can find her.”
Sam stood. “Please, Cas, we’ve got to try something.”
Castiel stared down at Dean. “Very well. But when I leave what little I have done to calm him will go with me and I am not sure how long it will take.”
Sam nodded. “Please, Cas, just hurry as fast as you can.”
The angel disappeared in a rustle of wings and Sam turned as Dean’s grunts from the bed grew louder, his chest heaving with his panting breath.
“Hold on, Dean.”
Part 3