(fic) Leveling the Playing Field (R)
"Fuck Dean! Enough with the wet towel snaps!" Sam growled, rubbing the back of his thigh as he was jolted from his nap. Dean had taken to loving the snap lately, and frankly it just pissed him off.
Sam sat up and turned to glare at Dean, and only had enough time to think about reaching for the gun under his pillow before the dark shadow -- Sam knew it wasn't Dean now, it wasn't right -- raised it's hand and Sam felt himself freeze. First it was a numbing nothing that prevented him from being able to move, but as Zachariah stepped from the shadows, a crept out through his veins, making him shiver and grimace before he could toss out a retort to the Angel.
"So glad I could find you alone, Sam--it's so hard these days to do that what with big brother hovering over you all the time." Zachariah tilted his head with a smirk and Sam collapsed on the floor in a shivering heap.
"What t-the hell do you want?" Sam stuttered, pushing himself to his feet shakily, doing his best to imagine blankets wrapped snuggly around him, or the hot sun shining down on him to keep the stabbing cold at bay.
The Angel turned with his hands clasped behind his back, seeming to inspect the shabby motel room they had claimed for the weekend. "As you are aware, Dean is quite hesitant to allow Michael to procure his true vess--"
"Hesitant?" Sam scoffed, clenching his hands into fists to keep his tremors at bay even though the cold slicing through his head is worse than any brain freeze he's ever had. "He's not hesitant, he won't say yes."
Zachariah turned the torn, discolored and faded Bible over in his hands twice before replacing it back on the desk where it had laid. "Oh, we're very aware of that, which is why I'm here."
Grimacing as the cold seemed to wrap around his lungs, Sam fought the urge to fall to his knees and double over. He and Dean had taken to ensuring there were circles of holy oil in their motel rooms, and Zachariah was smack in the middle of one right now. Calculating when the best moment to make his move was, and the second that Zachariah seemed distracted enough, Sam turned and lunged for the lighter on the nightstand.
Just as he curled his fingers around the case, pain tore across the back of his neck to the point where his vision swam and his knees buckled. Chills and lighter forgotten, Sam clasped a hand to the back of his neck and quickly became aware of the slash that was bleeding through his fingers.
"Please, Sam, this is hard enough as is," Zachariah said, with a tone of concern that Sam--even in his disoriented state--could tell was feigned.
The Angel looked down on Sam as he stepped closer, and Sam rolled onto his back, hand still clutched to his neck. “Fuck off. Dean’s not here,” Sam hissed, vaguely noting that the chills rolling through him were subsiding, leaving only the searing pain across the back of his neck.
“Yes, and as I said, that is precisely why I’m here, don’t you listen? See, if Dean won’t take his role as the Michael Sword, then we have no weapon against Lucifer, but if Lucifer doesn’t have his vessel, then we’ve levelled the playing field once again.” Zachariah smirked, and Sam grunted through clenched teeth as pain tore across his back, burning and bleeding just like his neck.
Sam panted, forcing himself to uncurl from the ground and trained his eyes on the dropped lighter, stretching for it when something black shot into his vision, licking a fresh red slice across the back of his hand before sliding out of sight again. He curled his hand quickly against his chest, cradling it and taking shallow breaths as Sam worked to push the pain away.
“Huh,” Zachariah coughed, “perhaps Alastair was right, using physical objects can be more rewarding than using magic.”
The Angel was staring fondly at the short, black whip that he held in hand when Sam rolled onto his back again to rest his head against the ground and cradle his arm without effort. Sam managed to pull in four deep breaths before the whip was raised and brought down across his cradled arm-now raised in a useless attempt of defence. Sam had barely registered the pain spreading up his arm before Zachariah lashed out at the side of his thigh.
The pain hit the point of adrenaline that allowed Sam to scramble to enough of an upright position so that he could hurl his weight and size at Zachariah. But without the calculation that the Angel could disappear in a second, Sam crashed head first into the dresser and felt the world tip dramatically as he collapsed back on the floor face first. It wasn’t a second before the rain of lashes tore into the skin on his back, and no matter how Sam turned or twisted, he couldn’t escape the blows.
When his vision start blacking out and he could no longer tell which way he was laying on the ground for the pain screaming through his muscles, Sam gave up. He could barely breathe, he could feel the blood coating his skin, and all he could hear was the snap of the whip and the thrumming of his heart. He fell motionless except for the seconds when the sharp leather cut through his already ribboned skin and into the muscle and he couldn’t help but realize how right Zachariah was. Sam never wanted to say ‘yes’ anyway, and if his body was torn to shreds and he was dead, Lucifer wouldn’t be able to trick Sam into saying it. At least this way, with Michael and Lucifer having no true vessel (Sam knew there was no way Dean would give in), the battle would be something that Dean and Bobby could handle.
So really, laying on the blood soaked carpet, groggy and blind from the pain, feeling the burn of exposed muscle underneath the snap of the whip-he was helping. His death would set things in the proper direction that he could never make them go in life. Warmth crept over him, and he let himself fall into the hypnotic beat of his heart as it slowed, let the numb wash over him until he couldn’t feel the floor he laid on, let his eyes fall shut because he couldn’t make sense of anything anyway. It would only be a matter of time...
----
As soon as Dean steps out of the Impala, he knows something is wrong. The uneasy feeling in his stomach tightens the closer he gets to the door, and he doesn’t bother with a key, instead opting to kick the door in. Grasping the door frame doesn’t stop him from falling to his knees.
“Sammy!!”