Each Our Own Devil - Part Three
This is part three of my third submission to the Sam-centric h/c challenge at ohsam for rainylemons' prompt. Warnings, summary and further details can be found in the uber-long A/N to Part One.
Yeah. So. Before starting this chapter, I had to ask myself: plot, or h/c? If the former, I was going to have to write a whole lot more of this story, and frankly, right now? I can't afford to. As it is, I've written this chapter under incredible amounts of pressure. I might come back to this story later - much later - and expand on it, but not now.
That said, I hope you enjoy!
Three
Sam knows it's starting again.
There's a peculiar sense of déjà vu to this particular situation, Dean thinks. It's not like it's the pleasant kind, either - not the kind where the cute bartender is fawning over him and he knows that if this goes the way of the past so many dozen times, he'll have her in bed and melting under his touch in two hours, tops. No. It's the kind where he's sitting in some run-down little room, staring at his dead brother, watching as the sole reason he dragged himself through day after endless day blinks out of existence - just like that, poof, like so much roadkill.
Okay, so he's willing to admit that it might not be the same thing: after all, he can see Sam's chest rising and falling gently as he breathes, and Dean's spent hours with a hand loosely wrapped around one of Sam's wrists, a finger on his pulse point. Thump - your brother's alive, Dean - thump - another day, another moment, and Sam's still there - thump - you haven't let him down, not yet -
It's been thirty-two hours since Sam got his soul back, and he still hasn't woken up.
Dean hates this, hates this waiting, hates that he has no idea what's going on with Sam, because for all that Crowley did his simpering 'Sam's-back-home-now' act, Dean knows he can't trust him. Most of all, perhaps, Dean hates that he has no choice in the whole damn thing. Sam might never wake up, Sam might wake up a raving maniac, frothing and hallucinating and thirsting for demon-blood. Sam could - Dean doesn't really want to think about this, but denial hasn't done him much good through the years - wake up irredeemably altered by playing host to the devil.
Dean remembers how he felt after his own little taste of Hell. Thirty years of being tortured and ten more of doing the torturing - he remembers the nightmares, the memory-dream-memory where he's slowly drawing the knife over fresh skin, blood welling, red and rich and viscous, strangled screams echoing deliciously in his ears as he pushes his knife through the resistance of muscle before it's sliding into soft gut -
(how good it felt)
Sam's spent a century with the devil, and Dean wonders what he will see in Sam's eyes when he wakes up (sam's long gone dean).
Somewhere around the three-hour mark, Dean had finally gathered his wits enough to pick up his phone and call Bobby. Dean isn't sure what he said - c'mon, it's Bobby, the man's practically made a career out of deciphering the frantic ramblings of desperate Hunters, and his experience on the Winchester front probably makes him a friggin' super-specialist, or something - but given that Bobby kept alternating between you moronic idjits and calm down, Dean, we'll figure this out, Dean thinks he might have freaked Bobby out a little. But, what the hell, first Sam's dead, then Sam's off, then Sam's missing a soul, and now Sam's missing an eye and is in a goddamned deal with a demon again - with all the freaking out that's due, he's only surprised that his hair hasn't turned silver already.
For the last eighteen hours, though, Dean's been praying.
He focuses on the rise and fall of Sam's chest, tries to lull his mind into the sort of meditative calm Sam used to lecture to him about, a million years ago. Sure, the pills he took for his killer headache helped, but he's trying, here, okay? If screaming at the heavens doesn't work, and he doesn't have a random Heavenly Weapon handy to lure an angel down, the most he can do is put his heart and soul in prayer, and hope that Castiel is invested enough in that 'profound bond' of theirs to flutter down and give a damn.
But Castiel doesn't come, and Dean's beginning to lose hope.
(what am i supposed to do, sammy)
When the nineteenth hour starts, and Dean's drifting off with the reassuring thump thump thump under his fingertips, Sam wakes up.
It's not the dramatic snap-awake-with-a-horror-movie-gasp that Dean was expecting despite himself; he probably wouldn't have even noticed if he didn't have his hand wrapped around his brother's wrist (and here he thought Sam's supposed to be the emo brother). Sam's hand shifts underneath his, and when he looks up, Sam's staring at him with his one eye.
"Sammy?" he says, and there's (wonder and fear and relief and worry) something clogging his throat, so he clears it and tries once again, stronger, higher, "Sammy, hey. You awake, buddy?"
Sam doesn't say anything, but now there's a tear slipping down the side of his face, and Dean feels something inside his chest twist painfully.
Sam takes his hand out of Dean's grip, and closes his eye again.
Here's how Sam knows it's starting again:
It's warm. There are days (years, decades) when it's so cold that he feels like his blood is frozen in his veins, and those are the days when he lies on a field of ice and watches. He watches as two points of light in the sky swirl lazily around each other, before they pick up speed and momentum and collide; the light from the collision is like the death of a star: it burns bright, hot, scorching through his eyes and melting the ice around him, before the heat recedes away and he floats, sightless and empty.
When it's warm, however, that's when the (blessed) emptiness goes and fear creeps in.
(lucifer sees him)
When he wakes up to a forgotten dream, a faint memory -
(lucifer remembers him)
Sometimes, it's Dad. Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, re-assembling his gun; Dean, watching him intently even as he pretends to study his Latin; Sam, curled up on the couch, working on the Algebra assignment that's going toward most of his Math grade for the semester. Usually, Dad wouldn't be too thrilled about Sam lying around doing schoolwork when there is so much he has to learn (fight-repeat-survive-repeat-kill-repeat-hate-repeat) but it's a quiet evening, for a change. Sam's relaxed, frayed nerves settling, and wonders if he can escape the field of ice by hiding in his own mind, his memories.
That's usually when Dad swings the gun around and shoots him in the chest.
Even as blood gurgles from his throat and his limbs flail desperately, Dad steps up to him, lifts his chin with the still-warm muzzle. Dad's eyes are misted over, and he's smiling as he says, "I'm proud of you, son," before he pulls the trigger and Sam's brains spatter the wall behind him.
Sometimes, it's Jess and desperate love where they're slipping behind book-cases, huddling into dark corners, tumbling onto their bed, ripping the clothes off each other and it's warmth and passion and freedom flowing dizzyingly hot through his veins; then the heat becomes actual fire, and that's it, Jess is on fire, but she's still kissing him, still in him and around him and everywhere until he's burning too, from the inside-out -
Sometimes it's Mom -
- Madison -
- PamelaAndyAvaJakeMaxBrady -
But mostly, it's Dean.
He thinks (the first two-hundred and twenty times, anyway; after that, he doesn't think much of anything) that Dean's the worst: his brother doesn't do anything. Sam's struggling; there's a - a miasma, something intangible yet so very real that's creeping its tendrils down his throat and through his lungs and tearing through - and Sam's calling, he is, he's calling for Dean who's right there, though every word tears his throat until blood's dripping lazily down his chin, but Dean doesn't respond.
Dean sits there and looks at him with the kind of pity he'd probably reserve for a dying animal.
"Dean, please -"
"It's okay, Sam," Dean says, and smiles. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Dean watches as Sam chokes on his own blood.
(you don't deserve to be saved you're a monster sam)
When this isn't on endless repeat, Michael and Lucifer merely choose to expend their frustrations on him instead of each other. Then, it isn't warm, or cold; no field of ice or points of light in the sky. There's just pain, simple and raw, and after a few decades, the pain stops being punishment and begins to seem like escape.
An escape from -
(this is your life, Sam Winchester)
It's warm again, now, and though the pain hasn't gone, Sam knows the devil's paying attention, and the loop has started.
He opens his eyes to blinding light.
Even after a century in the Cage, the pain is shocking; there's a stabbing inside his head, a sharp point trying to push its way out of his right eye (and he knows how that feels; there is literally nothing Lucifer hasn't tried on him over the past century) and he can't see; there's only the light, and when did the ice stop and when did he -
His vision resolves slowly, the light fading until it's more annoyance than pain, and though the stabbing in his head hasn't relented, he can -
see -
see Dean -
"Sammy," Dean says, and he looks terrible: eyes rimmed in red and black, hair tousled and greasy, flakes of crusted blood around his temples. He's... worried, his hand is on Sam's, the weight warm warm warm (help me not going anywhere sam die monster save)
The loop's started again, and Sam waits to die.
"Goddammit, Sam!" He isn't sure if it's healthy, safe, or whatnot, but Dean hasn't spent the last two days stewing in misery without food or sleep (or Sam or peace or) for Sam to just conk out after waking up, so he reaches out and shakes Sam's shoulder, hard. "C'mon, Sam, don't you dare -"
Sam opens his eye again, and he stares at Dean blindly, more tears leaking. His lips are doing that twitching thing that Dean knows is a sure sign of Sam being upset, or in pain, or just plain bitchy, and - damn, it's just so like Sammy that Dean can't help but feel a perverse burst of happiness. Sam's fingers are scrabbling, pushing away even as Dean tries to help him, and now he's saying something, voice so low that Dean has to strain to hear him -
"no Dean don't stay please don't stay please -"
And damn if that isn't like a punch to the gut. Sam - Sam needs to know. He needs to know that he's back, and Dean's there, and neither of them are going anywhere. He sits on the bed by Sam's side, clutches his shoulders and shakes him again. Sam's trembling under his touch, his whispered litany never ceasing, and if Dean's mumbling nonsensically too, it's only because he needs to make sure Sam listens to his voice, okay? "Sammy, c'mon, you're back, dude - you're here, and I'm here, and everything's gonna be okay, alright? Stuck with me for good, man, I'm not going to leave you -"
At this, Sam gasps and bolts upright.
Dean blinks; well, the dramatic movie-awakening's a little overdue, but he's willing to take what he can get. He tentatively squeezes Sam's shoulder - before his brother shudders, and proceeds to upchuck all over Dean's lap.
"Oh, Jesus - dude, gross much?" He leaps to his feet, grabs a nearby towel and tries to wipe off as much of the vomit as he can before it starts to dry (and dried vomit is a bitch to get out of denim, he should know). Sam sways where he sits, greasy mop falling into his eyes - eye, goddamit, he should really stop this - before he's listing toward the bed again, and Dean rushes forward to catch him. Sam flinches and tries to twist away, but Dean's got a punishing grip on his biceps. "Sam -"
"Don't stay!" Sam screams, voice breaking up like he's not used it in years (he hasn't used it in years) before he slams a fist into Dean's gut with surprising strength. Dean's grip slackens as all air leaves his lungs, and Sam uses the opportunity to push Dean away and get off the bed. He stumbles and doesn't make it very far; he's barely taken a couple of steps before he's sinking to the floor, one hand pressed to his eye socket.
"Hey, hey, take it easy." And Dean's reaching for Sam again; he thinks Sam might even find his sudden touchy-feely mother-hen jag funny, though Dean's serious here, serious about holding onto his little brother because - because it's Sammy, and that's all the reason he'll ever need.
Sam scoots away from him on his backside, his hand still against his eye, and - god help him - fingernails scrabbling away around his socket, deep enough to draw blood. "Don't stay," he says breathlessly. "Go!" When Dean only keeps moving toward him, genuine fear bleeds into his expression. "Go!" he screams. "Leave me alone!"
"No can do, Sammy, sorry," Dean says firmly, and lunges for Sam as his brother finally hits the wall. He grabs Sam's hands, pulls them away before he can mutilate himself further, and Sam doesn't stop screaming. He kicks and he heaves and shakes his head from side to side even as Dean tries to pin his limbs down, even as Dean tries to tell him that he's real he is he is and Sam's not (not now, not ever) stuck Down There anymore -
Finally, after an eternity and a half, Sam seems to relent. He settles down, pliant in Dean's grip, chest heaving like he's just run a marathon. "Dean?" he says, voice small and lost in a way Dean hasn't heard from his super-confident, independent brother, ever. His hands reach up, tugging on the lapels of Dean's shirt and then moving up to the sides of his face like a blind man's. "Dean," he says again and Dean thinks that maybe this is the point where he has to start the I'm here, Sammy ramble up one more time, but he figures it's better this way: he's here, and Sam's here, and they find their way toward each other.
Sam looks at him, finally, all furrowed-brow and misty eye. "Dude," he says. "You reek."
Dean's mouth drops open. Trust Sam to come up with a way to dumbfound him, even now. "Yeah, well," he says, "I'm not the only one." Shit, that was a lame comeback - wait. What the hell is he doing, sitting there and thinking about witty conversation? "Hey, listen - you... you okay?"
Sam turns his head away. "I'm... you got me back. Here."
That's... not really an answer, but Dean's still on the don't look a gift horse in the mouth policy. "Yeah. I mean, it's kind of a really long story, but you're back, Sammy."
Sam nods. Maybe it's because Dean's expecting a yeah, because 'a long story' is really enlightening complete with an eye-roll and a bitch-face, but when Sam just slumps further in his grip and tells him, "I'm sorry, Dean," it feels like another punch to the gut.
"What the hell are you apologising for?"
Sam blinks, opens and closes his mouth like he's searching for words, before he's pressing against his socket again. "Hurts," he says.
So, okay, maybe Sam's not up for linear conversation right now. That's okay; the man's fresh out of a century in Hell and back into his screwed-up Terminator body, and Dean's kind of surprised he got this much out of Sam in the first place. "Right," Dean says, getting up, feeling more grounded than he has in days. "Let's get you cleaned up first, then something for the pain." He extends his arm. "What do you say? Can you stand?"
Sam stares at Dean's hand like it's some sort of prop from Aliens. "I'm not an animal, Dean," he says.
Dean's barely begun wondering where that came from, before there's a familiar charge in the air, lifting the hairs on his arms and neck, a blast of air and a faint flutter - and sure enough, when he turns, Castiel's standing there.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean gapes at him for a few moments before finally finding his voice. "Well, hey, Cas, I'm sorry, I don't think we've got any Heavenly Nukes right now," he says. "Just, you know, the small matter of getting my brother's soul back; nothing terribly important."
Castiel narrows his eyes. His trench-coat is ripped, Dean notes, the sleeves spattered with blood. "I have been fighting a battle," he says, "that you and your brother have just complicated. I got here as fast as I could."
"Right." Dean rolls his eyes. "Your civil war shindig. It's funny how we never hear anything about it, but it's always an excuse -"
He's cut off by Castiel's hand against his chest, slamming him against the wall. "I don't have to be a servant to your pervasive sense of entitlement," he says quietly, and Dean thinks he can see Castiel - the actual deal, the burn-your-eyes-out light - coiling and twisting behind Jimmy Novak's eyes. "Raphael has finally gathered enough followers to launch an offensive against Hell, to try and release Lucifer and Michael." He lets go of him, and Dean scrambles to find his feet before he lands on his ass. "And now I have reason to believe that he will come after your brother."
Dean raises his eyebrows. The Apocalypse is supposed to be over; this shit's supposed to be done with, and the cosmos still can't cut his brother a goddamned break? "So, okay, now, everybody wants a piece of Sam. That's just freakin' peachy."
"This has nothing to do with fruits, Dean," Castiel says. "Sam is still Lucifer's vessel, and the key to every gate in Hell; and he will be coveted by every faction of this war. We need to get you both to safety."
"Nothing's safe," Sam says suddenly, and, as Castiel and Dean whip around to face him, he smiles. "Except the Cage. It's safe because he'll never leave - never leave me, and I'm still there."
At first, the shadows scuttle like spiders from dark corners. Sam's vision is shot - half his field is completely blacked-out, and the half that he can actually see tilts and sways until his stomach churns and bile rises up the back of his throat. But the shadows are there, creeping, growing, and if he looks right over Dean's shoulder he can see a black tendril coil gently around his brother's neck, threatening, threatening, always threatening.
This is - (hell-earth-dean-dream-reality)
Sam wants to believe, so badly, that his brother's yanked him back up - somehow, except Sam is pretty sure he doesn't want to know how, only that he is sorry, so very sorry that he remains the reason Dean keeps selling his soul for - but sometimes, if he looks just right; if he squints his eye and blinks slowly, the half of his vision that's blank suddenly comes alive, and he can see -
two points of light against a stark night sky -
shining down upon a sea of blood -
(it's okay, sammy. i'm not going to leave you)
"Sammy? Sam, hey!" Dean must've started talking again; with no small amount of effort, Sam tries to ignore the other reality - although, really, how can he, when it's meshing in with this reality and those shadows are growing - and focuses on Dean. "Dean?"
Castiel steps forward to stand beside Dean, and the shadow-tendrils retreat abruptly to their side of Sam's splintered reality. Sam stares, fascinated, as light literally leaks from the angel, wisping off the host's skin and colouring every slow exhale. The angel is injured, exhausted, and the cracks are showing. He is sure Novak does not have very long if Michael was any indicator in the way he tore out of Adam in the cage, destroying him from the inside-out. There was not much of Adam to salvage, but somehow, Sam survived, like he always does (it always had to be you).
"Sam," Castiel says, crouching down, "what do you last remember?"
(and then i'd be whole again, like magic)
"Lucifer," Sam whispers. "I can still see him."
Dean lets loose with an expletive, but the moment's gone; Sam's losing this reality as the Cage and the shadows get bigger and bigger and consume his universe -
Castiel takes hold of his hand, his touch sure and warm, and Sam's yanked back. "Listen to me, Sam," the angel says. "I know you can still see the Cage, that Michael and Lucifer still haunt your every waking moment. But both Heaven and Hell want you, Sam, so you must survive; you must hide until you're strong enough -"
"Then make me so," Sam says. "Fix my eye; give me back -" my life my sanity
Castiel shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sam, but this is something beyond even my means to fix. I might... only end up damaging you even more."
Dean makes a frustrated noise. "C'mon, there's gotta be something you can do, right? Fix his memory, his mind -"
"If I could do all of that, Dean, I would!" Castiel snaps. "But your brother's wound isn't merely flesh that can be knit back together, Dean; his soul has been ravaged in the Cage with the devil for decades; and it's been none-too-gently restored."
"But Crowley said that Sam's not been in the Cage, not for a long time -"
"Demons lie," Sam croaks.
There's silence in the room after that, heavy and pervasive, and Sam hangs his head, panting, as the stabbing in his eye starts up again. He feels Castiel's fingers against his forehead, lightly brushing aside his hair before settling.
"You will rest now, Sam."
Both of the realities recede into darkness as a deep calm washes over him, and he closes his eyes.
Sam sleeps.
This is how he thinks the world will survive.
He walks through streets - erstwhile battlefields - teeming with people, the injured and healthy, rich and poor, the young and old alike, searching, searching. There's a buzz in the air, the sound of sorrow and laughter and anger and joy and of... just being, under this sunshine that's bouncing off the windows of houses and the windshields of cars and the glasses raised to toast victory.
He turns abruptly, and pulls open the nearest door. There are people everywhere - children barrelling down the staircase as they laugh and chase each other, the adults smiling and talking and sharing, tending to old wounds with promises to cause no more. Their eyes follow him as he keeps walking: wary, but accepting.
He stops in front of a large mirror, smooth edges gilded with gold. He reaches out to touch his reflection, fingers linking across the glass.
"Sam," it says, and smiles.
The world will survive.
Finis
Yeah. So. Before starting this chapter, I had to ask myself: plot, or h/c? If the former, I was going to have to write a whole lot more of this story, and frankly, right now? I can't afford to. As it is, I've written this chapter under incredible amounts of pressure. I might come back to this story later - much later - and expand on it, but not now.
That said, I hope you enjoy!
Three
Sam knows it's starting again.
There's a peculiar sense of déjà vu to this particular situation, Dean thinks. It's not like it's the pleasant kind, either - not the kind where the cute bartender is fawning over him and he knows that if this goes the way of the past so many dozen times, he'll have her in bed and melting under his touch in two hours, tops. No. It's the kind where he's sitting in some run-down little room, staring at his dead brother, watching as the sole reason he dragged himself through day after endless day blinks out of existence - just like that, poof, like so much roadkill.
Okay, so he's willing to admit that it might not be the same thing: after all, he can see Sam's chest rising and falling gently as he breathes, and Dean's spent hours with a hand loosely wrapped around one of Sam's wrists, a finger on his pulse point. Thump - your brother's alive, Dean - thump - another day, another moment, and Sam's still there - thump - you haven't let him down, not yet -
It's been thirty-two hours since Sam got his soul back, and he still hasn't woken up.
Dean hates this, hates this waiting, hates that he has no idea what's going on with Sam, because for all that Crowley did his simpering 'Sam's-back-home-now' act, Dean knows he can't trust him. Most of all, perhaps, Dean hates that he has no choice in the whole damn thing. Sam might never wake up, Sam might wake up a raving maniac, frothing and hallucinating and thirsting for demon-blood. Sam could - Dean doesn't really want to think about this, but denial hasn't done him much good through the years - wake up irredeemably altered by playing host to the devil.
Dean remembers how he felt after his own little taste of Hell. Thirty years of being tortured and ten more of doing the torturing - he remembers the nightmares, the memory-dream-memory where he's slowly drawing the knife over fresh skin, blood welling, red and rich and viscous, strangled screams echoing deliciously in his ears as he pushes his knife through the resistance of muscle before it's sliding into soft gut -
(how good it felt)
Sam's spent a century with the devil, and Dean wonders what he will see in Sam's eyes when he wakes up (sam's long gone dean).
Somewhere around the three-hour mark, Dean had finally gathered his wits enough to pick up his phone and call Bobby. Dean isn't sure what he said - c'mon, it's Bobby, the man's practically made a career out of deciphering the frantic ramblings of desperate Hunters, and his experience on the Winchester front probably makes him a friggin' super-specialist, or something - but given that Bobby kept alternating between you moronic idjits and calm down, Dean, we'll figure this out, Dean thinks he might have freaked Bobby out a little. But, what the hell, first Sam's dead, then Sam's off, then Sam's missing a soul, and now Sam's missing an eye and is in a goddamned deal with a demon again - with all the freaking out that's due, he's only surprised that his hair hasn't turned silver already.
For the last eighteen hours, though, Dean's been praying.
He focuses on the rise and fall of Sam's chest, tries to lull his mind into the sort of meditative calm Sam used to lecture to him about, a million years ago. Sure, the pills he took for his killer headache helped, but he's trying, here, okay? If screaming at the heavens doesn't work, and he doesn't have a random Heavenly Weapon handy to lure an angel down, the most he can do is put his heart and soul in prayer, and hope that Castiel is invested enough in that 'profound bond' of theirs to flutter down and give a damn.
But Castiel doesn't come, and Dean's beginning to lose hope.
(what am i supposed to do, sammy)
When the nineteenth hour starts, and Dean's drifting off with the reassuring thump thump thump under his fingertips, Sam wakes up.
It's not the dramatic snap-awake-with-a-horror-movie-gasp that Dean was expecting despite himself; he probably wouldn't have even noticed if he didn't have his hand wrapped around his brother's wrist (and here he thought Sam's supposed to be the emo brother). Sam's hand shifts underneath his, and when he looks up, Sam's staring at him with his one eye.
"Sammy?" he says, and there's (wonder and fear and relief and worry) something clogging his throat, so he clears it and tries once again, stronger, higher, "Sammy, hey. You awake, buddy?"
Sam doesn't say anything, but now there's a tear slipping down the side of his face, and Dean feels something inside his chest twist painfully.
Sam takes his hand out of Dean's grip, and closes his eye again.
Here's how Sam knows it's starting again:
It's warm. There are days (years, decades) when it's so cold that he feels like his blood is frozen in his veins, and those are the days when he lies on a field of ice and watches. He watches as two points of light in the sky swirl lazily around each other, before they pick up speed and momentum and collide; the light from the collision is like the death of a star: it burns bright, hot, scorching through his eyes and melting the ice around him, before the heat recedes away and he floats, sightless and empty.
When it's warm, however, that's when the (blessed) emptiness goes and fear creeps in.
(lucifer sees him)
When he wakes up to a forgotten dream, a faint memory -
(lucifer remembers him)
Sometimes, it's Dad. Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, re-assembling his gun; Dean, watching him intently even as he pretends to study his Latin; Sam, curled up on the couch, working on the Algebra assignment that's going toward most of his Math grade for the semester. Usually, Dad wouldn't be too thrilled about Sam lying around doing schoolwork when there is so much he has to learn (fight-repeat-survive-repeat-kill-repeat-hate-repeat) but it's a quiet evening, for a change. Sam's relaxed, frayed nerves settling, and wonders if he can escape the field of ice by hiding in his own mind, his memories.
That's usually when Dad swings the gun around and shoots him in the chest.
Even as blood gurgles from his throat and his limbs flail desperately, Dad steps up to him, lifts his chin with the still-warm muzzle. Dad's eyes are misted over, and he's smiling as he says, "I'm proud of you, son," before he pulls the trigger and Sam's brains spatter the wall behind him.
Sometimes, it's Jess and desperate love where they're slipping behind book-cases, huddling into dark corners, tumbling onto their bed, ripping the clothes off each other and it's warmth and passion and freedom flowing dizzyingly hot through his veins; then the heat becomes actual fire, and that's it, Jess is on fire, but she's still kissing him, still in him and around him and everywhere until he's burning too, from the inside-out -
Sometimes it's Mom -
- Madison -
- PamelaAndyAvaJakeMaxBrady -
But mostly, it's Dean.
He thinks (the first two-hundred and twenty times, anyway; after that, he doesn't think much of anything) that Dean's the worst: his brother doesn't do anything. Sam's struggling; there's a - a miasma, something intangible yet so very real that's creeping its tendrils down his throat and through his lungs and tearing through - and Sam's calling, he is, he's calling for Dean who's right there, though every word tears his throat until blood's dripping lazily down his chin, but Dean doesn't respond.
Dean sits there and looks at him with the kind of pity he'd probably reserve for a dying animal.
"Dean, please -"
"It's okay, Sam," Dean says, and smiles. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Dean watches as Sam chokes on his own blood.
(you don't deserve to be saved you're a monster sam)
When this isn't on endless repeat, Michael and Lucifer merely choose to expend their frustrations on him instead of each other. Then, it isn't warm, or cold; no field of ice or points of light in the sky. There's just pain, simple and raw, and after a few decades, the pain stops being punishment and begins to seem like escape.
An escape from -
(this is your life, Sam Winchester)
It's warm again, now, and though the pain hasn't gone, Sam knows the devil's paying attention, and the loop has started.
He opens his eyes to blinding light.
Even after a century in the Cage, the pain is shocking; there's a stabbing inside his head, a sharp point trying to push its way out of his right eye (and he knows how that feels; there is literally nothing Lucifer hasn't tried on him over the past century) and he can't see; there's only the light, and when did the ice stop and when did he -
His vision resolves slowly, the light fading until it's more annoyance than pain, and though the stabbing in his head hasn't relented, he can -
see -
see Dean -
"Sammy," Dean says, and he looks terrible: eyes rimmed in red and black, hair tousled and greasy, flakes of crusted blood around his temples. He's... worried, his hand is on Sam's, the weight warm warm warm (help me not going anywhere sam die monster save)
The loop's started again, and Sam waits to die.
"Goddammit, Sam!" He isn't sure if it's healthy, safe, or whatnot, but Dean hasn't spent the last two days stewing in misery without food or sleep (or Sam or peace or) for Sam to just conk out after waking up, so he reaches out and shakes Sam's shoulder, hard. "C'mon, Sam, don't you dare -"
Sam opens his eye again, and he stares at Dean blindly, more tears leaking. His lips are doing that twitching thing that Dean knows is a sure sign of Sam being upset, or in pain, or just plain bitchy, and - damn, it's just so like Sammy that Dean can't help but feel a perverse burst of happiness. Sam's fingers are scrabbling, pushing away even as Dean tries to help him, and now he's saying something, voice so low that Dean has to strain to hear him -
"no Dean don't stay please don't stay please -"
And damn if that isn't like a punch to the gut. Sam - Sam needs to know. He needs to know that he's back, and Dean's there, and neither of them are going anywhere. He sits on the bed by Sam's side, clutches his shoulders and shakes him again. Sam's trembling under his touch, his whispered litany never ceasing, and if Dean's mumbling nonsensically too, it's only because he needs to make sure Sam listens to his voice, okay? "Sammy, c'mon, you're back, dude - you're here, and I'm here, and everything's gonna be okay, alright? Stuck with me for good, man, I'm not going to leave you -"
At this, Sam gasps and bolts upright.
Dean blinks; well, the dramatic movie-awakening's a little overdue, but he's willing to take what he can get. He tentatively squeezes Sam's shoulder - before his brother shudders, and proceeds to upchuck all over Dean's lap.
"Oh, Jesus - dude, gross much?" He leaps to his feet, grabs a nearby towel and tries to wipe off as much of the vomit as he can before it starts to dry (and dried vomit is a bitch to get out of denim, he should know). Sam sways where he sits, greasy mop falling into his eyes - eye, goddamit, he should really stop this - before he's listing toward the bed again, and Dean rushes forward to catch him. Sam flinches and tries to twist away, but Dean's got a punishing grip on his biceps. "Sam -"
"Don't stay!" Sam screams, voice breaking up like he's not used it in years (he hasn't used it in years) before he slams a fist into Dean's gut with surprising strength. Dean's grip slackens as all air leaves his lungs, and Sam uses the opportunity to push Dean away and get off the bed. He stumbles and doesn't make it very far; he's barely taken a couple of steps before he's sinking to the floor, one hand pressed to his eye socket.
"Hey, hey, take it easy." And Dean's reaching for Sam again; he thinks Sam might even find his sudden touchy-feely mother-hen jag funny, though Dean's serious here, serious about holding onto his little brother because - because it's Sammy, and that's all the reason he'll ever need.
Sam scoots away from him on his backside, his hand still against his eye, and - god help him - fingernails scrabbling away around his socket, deep enough to draw blood. "Don't stay," he says breathlessly. "Go!" When Dean only keeps moving toward him, genuine fear bleeds into his expression. "Go!" he screams. "Leave me alone!"
"No can do, Sammy, sorry," Dean says firmly, and lunges for Sam as his brother finally hits the wall. He grabs Sam's hands, pulls them away before he can mutilate himself further, and Sam doesn't stop screaming. He kicks and he heaves and shakes his head from side to side even as Dean tries to pin his limbs down, even as Dean tries to tell him that he's real he is he is and Sam's not (not now, not ever) stuck Down There anymore -
Finally, after an eternity and a half, Sam seems to relent. He settles down, pliant in Dean's grip, chest heaving like he's just run a marathon. "Dean?" he says, voice small and lost in a way Dean hasn't heard from his super-confident, independent brother, ever. His hands reach up, tugging on the lapels of Dean's shirt and then moving up to the sides of his face like a blind man's. "Dean," he says again and Dean thinks that maybe this is the point where he has to start the I'm here, Sammy ramble up one more time, but he figures it's better this way: he's here, and Sam's here, and they find their way toward each other.
Sam looks at him, finally, all furrowed-brow and misty eye. "Dude," he says. "You reek."
Dean's mouth drops open. Trust Sam to come up with a way to dumbfound him, even now. "Yeah, well," he says, "I'm not the only one." Shit, that was a lame comeback - wait. What the hell is he doing, sitting there and thinking about witty conversation? "Hey, listen - you... you okay?"
Sam turns his head away. "I'm... you got me back. Here."
That's... not really an answer, but Dean's still on the don't look a gift horse in the mouth policy. "Yeah. I mean, it's kind of a really long story, but you're back, Sammy."
Sam nods. Maybe it's because Dean's expecting a yeah, because 'a long story' is really enlightening complete with an eye-roll and a bitch-face, but when Sam just slumps further in his grip and tells him, "I'm sorry, Dean," it feels like another punch to the gut.
"What the hell are you apologising for?"
Sam blinks, opens and closes his mouth like he's searching for words, before he's pressing against his socket again. "Hurts," he says.
So, okay, maybe Sam's not up for linear conversation right now. That's okay; the man's fresh out of a century in Hell and back into his screwed-up Terminator body, and Dean's kind of surprised he got this much out of Sam in the first place. "Right," Dean says, getting up, feeling more grounded than he has in days. "Let's get you cleaned up first, then something for the pain." He extends his arm. "What do you say? Can you stand?"
Sam stares at Dean's hand like it's some sort of prop from Aliens. "I'm not an animal, Dean," he says.
Dean's barely begun wondering where that came from, before there's a familiar charge in the air, lifting the hairs on his arms and neck, a blast of air and a faint flutter - and sure enough, when he turns, Castiel's standing there.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean gapes at him for a few moments before finally finding his voice. "Well, hey, Cas, I'm sorry, I don't think we've got any Heavenly Nukes right now," he says. "Just, you know, the small matter of getting my brother's soul back; nothing terribly important."
Castiel narrows his eyes. His trench-coat is ripped, Dean notes, the sleeves spattered with blood. "I have been fighting a battle," he says, "that you and your brother have just complicated. I got here as fast as I could."
"Right." Dean rolls his eyes. "Your civil war shindig. It's funny how we never hear anything about it, but it's always an excuse -"
He's cut off by Castiel's hand against his chest, slamming him against the wall. "I don't have to be a servant to your pervasive sense of entitlement," he says quietly, and Dean thinks he can see Castiel - the actual deal, the burn-your-eyes-out light - coiling and twisting behind Jimmy Novak's eyes. "Raphael has finally gathered enough followers to launch an offensive against Hell, to try and release Lucifer and Michael." He lets go of him, and Dean scrambles to find his feet before he lands on his ass. "And now I have reason to believe that he will come after your brother."
Dean raises his eyebrows. The Apocalypse is supposed to be over; this shit's supposed to be done with, and the cosmos still can't cut his brother a goddamned break? "So, okay, now, everybody wants a piece of Sam. That's just freakin' peachy."
"This has nothing to do with fruits, Dean," Castiel says. "Sam is still Lucifer's vessel, and the key to every gate in Hell; and he will be coveted by every faction of this war. We need to get you both to safety."
"Nothing's safe," Sam says suddenly, and, as Castiel and Dean whip around to face him, he smiles. "Except the Cage. It's safe because he'll never leave - never leave me, and I'm still there."
At first, the shadows scuttle like spiders from dark corners. Sam's vision is shot - half his field is completely blacked-out, and the half that he can actually see tilts and sways until his stomach churns and bile rises up the back of his throat. But the shadows are there, creeping, growing, and if he looks right over Dean's shoulder he can see a black tendril coil gently around his brother's neck, threatening, threatening, always threatening.
This is - (hell-earth-dean-dream-reality)
Sam wants to believe, so badly, that his brother's yanked him back up - somehow, except Sam is pretty sure he doesn't want to know how, only that he is sorry, so very sorry that he remains the reason Dean keeps selling his soul for - but sometimes, if he looks just right; if he squints his eye and blinks slowly, the half of his vision that's blank suddenly comes alive, and he can see -
two points of light against a stark night sky -
shining down upon a sea of blood -
(it's okay, sammy. i'm not going to leave you)
"Sammy? Sam, hey!" Dean must've started talking again; with no small amount of effort, Sam tries to ignore the other reality - although, really, how can he, when it's meshing in with this reality and those shadows are growing - and focuses on Dean. "Dean?"
Castiel steps forward to stand beside Dean, and the shadow-tendrils retreat abruptly to their side of Sam's splintered reality. Sam stares, fascinated, as light literally leaks from the angel, wisping off the host's skin and colouring every slow exhale. The angel is injured, exhausted, and the cracks are showing. He is sure Novak does not have very long if Michael was any indicator in the way he tore out of Adam in the cage, destroying him from the inside-out. There was not much of Adam to salvage, but somehow, Sam survived, like he always does (it always had to be you).
"Sam," Castiel says, crouching down, "what do you last remember?"
(and then i'd be whole again, like magic)
"Lucifer," Sam whispers. "I can still see him."
Dean lets loose with an expletive, but the moment's gone; Sam's losing this reality as the Cage and the shadows get bigger and bigger and consume his universe -
Castiel takes hold of his hand, his touch sure and warm, and Sam's yanked back. "Listen to me, Sam," the angel says. "I know you can still see the Cage, that Michael and Lucifer still haunt your every waking moment. But both Heaven and Hell want you, Sam, so you must survive; you must hide until you're strong enough -"
"Then make me so," Sam says. "Fix my eye; give me back -" my life my sanity
Castiel shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sam, but this is something beyond even my means to fix. I might... only end up damaging you even more."
Dean makes a frustrated noise. "C'mon, there's gotta be something you can do, right? Fix his memory, his mind -"
"If I could do all of that, Dean, I would!" Castiel snaps. "But your brother's wound isn't merely flesh that can be knit back together, Dean; his soul has been ravaged in the Cage with the devil for decades; and it's been none-too-gently restored."
"But Crowley said that Sam's not been in the Cage, not for a long time -"
"Demons lie," Sam croaks.
There's silence in the room after that, heavy and pervasive, and Sam hangs his head, panting, as the stabbing in his eye starts up again. He feels Castiel's fingers against his forehead, lightly brushing aside his hair before settling.
"You will rest now, Sam."
Both of the realities recede into darkness as a deep calm washes over him, and he closes his eyes.
Sam sleeps.
This is how he thinks the world will survive.
He walks through streets - erstwhile battlefields - teeming with people, the injured and healthy, rich and poor, the young and old alike, searching, searching. There's a buzz in the air, the sound of sorrow and laughter and anger and joy and of... just being, under this sunshine that's bouncing off the windows of houses and the windshields of cars and the glasses raised to toast victory.
He turns abruptly, and pulls open the nearest door. There are people everywhere - children barrelling down the staircase as they laugh and chase each other, the adults smiling and talking and sharing, tending to old wounds with promises to cause no more. Their eyes follow him as he keeps walking: wary, but accepting.
He stops in front of a large mirror, smooth edges gilded with gold. He reaches out to touch his reflection, fingers linking across the glass.
"Sam," it says, and smiles.
The world will survive.
Finis