Survivor [10x03 darkfic]
WARNINGS: Torture, blood, violence/gore, body horror (sorta).
CHARACTERS: Sam, Cas, (Demon) Dean.
SUMMARY: "He twitches like a wilted bug, trying to force blood-crusted eyes open. His head hurts. Why does it hurt, again? He wishes he could remember." An alternate and more horrible ending to 10x03.
It's not like Sam's unused to pain. It's not like Sam hasn't been pulled apart many, many, many times. It's just - when you're alive, it's different. Different sensations, a whole different breed of pain. Honestly, Sam had gotten so used to what the Cage felt like, he had a hard time adjusting at first. It definitely didn't hurt as bad, now that he's gotten his head figured out. In the real world, it felt like something was missing, when he got hurt. Some vital piece just wasn't there to make it true misery. These sort of thoughts are what keep his time, laying crumpled in a heap in the middle of the bunker's dungeon. He twitches like a wilted bug, trying to force blood-crusted eyes open. His head hurts. Why does it hurt, again? He wishes he could remember.
The floor somehow manages to see-saw as he squints, even though he's not upright. He's staring at his fingers, his hand, his arm; he tries to move them - wills his fingers to react - but they're still, bloodless, shaped like feeble claws. Pain flares in his shoulder, radiating hot and sharp. There. That's the living pain. That's the proof that he's uptop. His vision sharpens into focus and he remembers a little bit of what happened. The arm is too far away from him. It's his, but it's too far away to be his. He sucks in a strangled breath as his eyes fall on the end of the arm. A gory stump where it used to be attached to his shoulder.
Don't freak out. Don't panic. Don't. Don't.
He rolls himself pathetically to the shoulder that still has its arm attached, the limb weak, too weak, but he manages to lean his weight on it and pick his head up. Breathe in, breathe out, don't vomit, don't hyperventilate. He should have bled out. Right? Dean must've - the demon that his brother turned into, he must've cauterized it. Should've been more blood on the floor, if he hadn't. He cranes his head to look at the spot where his arm should be.
Against his better wishes, he throws up mostly bile on the floor.
Okay.
Okay, Sammy, he hears Dean say. He's insane, has had voices like that ever since Hell. Dean's voice is the ultimate judgement, the one with the plan, the one that struggles against Sam's very nature. Sammy, don't pass out. Roll over, check yourself. Any weapons? Anything you can use? Get the fuck up, man.
“You were supposed to be the one with the plan,” Sam growls, shaking from shock. “You tell me what to do. You’re the one who wanted me here.” He rolls onto his back and feels his face with his hand, flinching at the feel of what could be his skull. The skin’s split away from the side of his head, just enough. Something ricocheted off it. That’s why his bell was so rung, why his focus is so wrung out. Hammer, Dean’s voice helpfully supplies. Sam swallows and closes his eyes. Yeah. Hammer. You gonna save me or what, Sammy? Because you know I don’t have any faith in you actually doin’ it.
“Shut up,” Sam hisses. His willpower must be charged by his stubbornly rising anger; he drags himself to his knees and sways there, chin nearly touching his chest. The place is dark, with one swaying light. And pretty bare. There’s the chair that he had tied Dean down in, and - his arm. Too far gone to reattach, not that it was ever a possibility in Sam’s mind. He drags himself toward the door, relieved to find a lot of materials still littering the shelves. He practically slams into them, his weight too much to hold for long - legs are jelly, won’t listen. Shakes his head. Feels time passing by slowly. Minutes tick by. He breathes in and out again. Missing his arm. Skull. Hammer. Dean.
He collects some ingredients with the reassurance that he had memorized the vials properly. Photographic memory. Dabbled in witch craft enough. It’s blurry, but it’s there. Doesn’t take long before he manages to get the front door blown wide open, and he knows he has to move fast; he uses the wall as support, uncoordinated but in motion as he paws along the cold surface with his good arm.
"Is that my boy, getting up from his beauty nap?" Dean's voice echoes, cold and unfeeling.
Sam hears the footsteps echoing from behind him, and he tries to will his legs to move faster. He could not afford to be captured, because it meant torture, more torture and more blood and Dean's voice and Dean's knife. Tears fill his eyes at the now vicious throbbing where his limb used to be. He's not sure how he can function without both. He's not sure how a hunter can get through life with one arm. He doesn't want to cure Dean and have him see this. His mutilated little brother. Move, Sammy, I'm almost there. You got to move.
"S'not... you..." he whispers in a ragged voice.
"Come on, Sam, this is a snail's race. You can't get out in time. I've got the doors locked down; it's just you and me."
Breathe in, breathe out. Hearing is tinny. Everything's tinny.
World's got to stop spinning.
He falls against the bottom steps that lead into the main hall, screaming in agony when his shoulder plows right into the concrete. Blood drips in straight lines, sliding down and over the edges in small, gruesome waterfalls. And Sam pants and pants, air feeling sour the moment he draws it in. Bad air. Sweat drips into his eyes. His muscles lock as he moves inch by inch over each squared hurdle. Footfalls are just down the hall. He’s lost too much blood, he’s lost, he’s lost.
"Dean," he rasps, "Dean, don't. Don't. Dean."
I'm sorry, Sam, Dean's voice says, soft.
But suddenly fingers curl in his hair from beside him, gripping tight as he’sdraaagged, his legs thumping on each step, his bloody shoulder grinding into the floor. He screams weakly while reaching up and groping sluggishly at Dean’s hand holding tightly to his shaggy hair. He’s only offered a snort as the demon shakes him by the head, throws Sam’s free hand loose again to slap the floor.
"You and me against the world, Sam. Aww, you and me," Dean coos mockingly.
He pulls Sam up with his supernatural strength and slams him down on the table. Sam’s ear is pressed over a map, and there’s blood from his head wound spotting it with red polka dots. Breathe in, breathe out, chokes, lungs burn. Dean flips him over and wraps his hands around Sam’s throat and squeezes. Hovers over him and pushes his thumbs against Sam’s windpipe. Black curtains are closing in the corners of his eyes, and Dean’s eyes, well, they’re black. Of course they are.
"We'll have a grand ol' time - "
"Sam!!"
Cas-?
Dean turns toward the front door, eyes widened, and there’s a blast of white light that eats up everything. And then everything is black, and Sam fears for a less-than-sane moment that he’s lost in Dean’s eyes.
He floats for a while, the pain ebbing away and coming back, like waves on jagged, bony rocks. There’s Dean’s voice, and it’s rugged and low and how it’ssupposed to be, and then there’s Castiel’s, whispering but firm. A hand curls around his wrist. Checks a pulse there. Life knocks against the walls of his veins, a consistent thudding. Something pinches at his head, water runs down his throat, and it carries something that makes him float longer, easier. Cold on his forehead. Soft cotton on his chest. He’s dead weight when he turns over, face against softness. Pillow. He moans and tries to wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up.
"It's... It's gonna - be okay, Sam," Dean says, but he sounds like he doesn't believe it. A hand smooths back hair tickling his nose. Two fingers press the wound on his scalp, and he feels the heat, the sensation of skin mending. A voice - Castiel's voice, hollow as though stuck in an old, rotten tree log - says that it's all he can do for now. When Sam hears a distance apology beyond the black expanse, he breathes a sigh and sinks back into the covers. Dean's alive. Sam can rest. Somewhere the dark, deep recesses of Sam’s mind, Lucifer looks over at Sam and throws up his hands flippantly.
Who says you need two arms, anyway?
CHARACTERS: Sam, Cas, (Demon) Dean.
SUMMARY: "He twitches like a wilted bug, trying to force blood-crusted eyes open. His head hurts. Why does it hurt, again? He wishes he could remember." An alternate and more horrible ending to 10x03.
It's not like Sam's unused to pain. It's not like Sam hasn't been pulled apart many, many, many times. It's just - when you're alive, it's different. Different sensations, a whole different breed of pain. Honestly, Sam had gotten so used to what the Cage felt like, he had a hard time adjusting at first. It definitely didn't hurt as bad, now that he's gotten his head figured out. In the real world, it felt like something was missing, when he got hurt. Some vital piece just wasn't there to make it true misery. These sort of thoughts are what keep his time, laying crumpled in a heap in the middle of the bunker's dungeon. He twitches like a wilted bug, trying to force blood-crusted eyes open. His head hurts. Why does it hurt, again? He wishes he could remember.
The floor somehow manages to see-saw as he squints, even though he's not upright. He's staring at his fingers, his hand, his arm; he tries to move them - wills his fingers to react - but they're still, bloodless, shaped like feeble claws. Pain flares in his shoulder, radiating hot and sharp. There. That's the living pain. That's the proof that he's uptop. His vision sharpens into focus and he remembers a little bit of what happened. The arm is too far away from him. It's his, but it's too far away to be his. He sucks in a strangled breath as his eyes fall on the end of the arm. A gory stump where it used to be attached to his shoulder.
Don't freak out. Don't panic. Don't. Don't.
He rolls himself pathetically to the shoulder that still has its arm attached, the limb weak, too weak, but he manages to lean his weight on it and pick his head up. Breathe in, breathe out, don't vomit, don't hyperventilate. He should have bled out. Right? Dean must've - the demon that his brother turned into, he must've cauterized it. Should've been more blood on the floor, if he hadn't. He cranes his head to look at the spot where his arm should be.
Against his better wishes, he throws up mostly bile on the floor.
Okay.
Okay, Sammy, he hears Dean say. He's insane, has had voices like that ever since Hell. Dean's voice is the ultimate judgement, the one with the plan, the one that struggles against Sam's very nature. Sammy, don't pass out. Roll over, check yourself. Any weapons? Anything you can use? Get the fuck up, man.
“You were supposed to be the one with the plan,” Sam growls, shaking from shock. “You tell me what to do. You’re the one who wanted me here.” He rolls onto his back and feels his face with his hand, flinching at the feel of what could be his skull. The skin’s split away from the side of his head, just enough. Something ricocheted off it. That’s why his bell was so rung, why his focus is so wrung out. Hammer, Dean’s voice helpfully supplies. Sam swallows and closes his eyes. Yeah. Hammer. You gonna save me or what, Sammy? Because you know I don’t have any faith in you actually doin’ it.
“Shut up,” Sam hisses. His willpower must be charged by his stubbornly rising anger; he drags himself to his knees and sways there, chin nearly touching his chest. The place is dark, with one swaying light. And pretty bare. There’s the chair that he had tied Dean down in, and - his arm. Too far gone to reattach, not that it was ever a possibility in Sam’s mind. He drags himself toward the door, relieved to find a lot of materials still littering the shelves. He practically slams into them, his weight too much to hold for long - legs are jelly, won’t listen. Shakes his head. Feels time passing by slowly. Minutes tick by. He breathes in and out again. Missing his arm. Skull. Hammer. Dean.
He collects some ingredients with the reassurance that he had memorized the vials properly. Photographic memory. Dabbled in witch craft enough. It’s blurry, but it’s there. Doesn’t take long before he manages to get the front door blown wide open, and he knows he has to move fast; he uses the wall as support, uncoordinated but in motion as he paws along the cold surface with his good arm.
"Is that my boy, getting up from his beauty nap?" Dean's voice echoes, cold and unfeeling.
Sam hears the footsteps echoing from behind him, and he tries to will his legs to move faster. He could not afford to be captured, because it meant torture, more torture and more blood and Dean's voice and Dean's knife. Tears fill his eyes at the now vicious throbbing where his limb used to be. He's not sure how he can function without both. He's not sure how a hunter can get through life with one arm. He doesn't want to cure Dean and have him see this. His mutilated little brother. Move, Sammy, I'm almost there. You got to move.
"S'not... you..." he whispers in a ragged voice.
"Come on, Sam, this is a snail's race. You can't get out in time. I've got the doors locked down; it's just you and me."
Breathe in, breathe out. Hearing is tinny. Everything's tinny.
World's got to stop spinning.
He falls against the bottom steps that lead into the main hall, screaming in agony when his shoulder plows right into the concrete. Blood drips in straight lines, sliding down and over the edges in small, gruesome waterfalls. And Sam pants and pants, air feeling sour the moment he draws it in. Bad air. Sweat drips into his eyes. His muscles lock as he moves inch by inch over each squared hurdle. Footfalls are just down the hall. He’s lost too much blood, he’s lost, he’s lost.
"Dean," he rasps, "Dean, don't. Don't. Dean."
I'm sorry, Sam, Dean's voice says, soft.
But suddenly fingers curl in his hair from beside him, gripping tight as he’sdraaagged, his legs thumping on each step, his bloody shoulder grinding into the floor. He screams weakly while reaching up and groping sluggishly at Dean’s hand holding tightly to his shaggy hair. He’s only offered a snort as the demon shakes him by the head, throws Sam’s free hand loose again to slap the floor.
"You and me against the world, Sam. Aww, you and me," Dean coos mockingly.
He pulls Sam up with his supernatural strength and slams him down on the table. Sam’s ear is pressed over a map, and there’s blood from his head wound spotting it with red polka dots. Breathe in, breathe out, chokes, lungs burn. Dean flips him over and wraps his hands around Sam’s throat and squeezes. Hovers over him and pushes his thumbs against Sam’s windpipe. Black curtains are closing in the corners of his eyes, and Dean’s eyes, well, they’re black. Of course they are.
"We'll have a grand ol' time - "
"Sam!!"
Cas-?
Dean turns toward the front door, eyes widened, and there’s a blast of white light that eats up everything. And then everything is black, and Sam fears for a less-than-sane moment that he’s lost in Dean’s eyes.
He floats for a while, the pain ebbing away and coming back, like waves on jagged, bony rocks. There’s Dean’s voice, and it’s rugged and low and how it’ssupposed to be, and then there’s Castiel’s, whispering but firm. A hand curls around his wrist. Checks a pulse there. Life knocks against the walls of his veins, a consistent thudding. Something pinches at his head, water runs down his throat, and it carries something that makes him float longer, easier. Cold on his forehead. Soft cotton on his chest. He’s dead weight when he turns over, face against softness. Pillow. He moans and tries to wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up.
"It's... It's gonna - be okay, Sam," Dean says, but he sounds like he doesn't believe it. A hand smooths back hair tickling his nose. Two fingers press the wound on his scalp, and he feels the heat, the sensation of skin mending. A voice - Castiel's voice, hollow as though stuck in an old, rotten tree log - says that it's all he can do for now. When Sam hears a distance apology beyond the black expanse, he breathes a sigh and sinks back into the covers. Dean's alive. Sam can rest. Somewhere the dark, deep recesses of Sam’s mind, Lucifer looks over at Sam and throws up his hands flippantly.
Who says you need two arms, anyway?