There Are no Great Redeemers, a Supernatural Fic
Title: There Are no Great Redeemers
Author: LaueHime
Genre: Horror, Angst.
Rating: Mature
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word count: ~ 4,800
Warnings: Spoilers for 10x02 and 10x03,[Spoiler for the story]character death, foul language, dark humor and a general sense of doom with a side dish of dark imagery. In other words, this is not a happy story (it’s quite tragic, actually).
Summary: Oneshot. AU after ‘Reichenback’, but includes canon from ‘Soul Survivor’.[Spoiler for S10]Sam is going to save his brother, whatever the cost.
Disclaimer: The show belongs to Kripke.
A/N: I don’t know what got a hold of me to write something like this, but it forced itself out. All I had to do was type. I still can’t bring myself to believe this came out of me.
A/N2: I’ve had this written for a while and I went over it more times than I usually do. At some point, I had to stop being too critical and finally post it. I hope it reflects the effort I put in it. Over all, I hope it’s enjoyable. You’d be kind to let me know! Thank you for your time.
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I
He comes to with the familiar groggy feeling of having had one too many down his gullet.
This is just another day facing one more ape who appears to think that he’ll be the boy-hero capable of cobbling whatever they think has been fractured within him.
He snickers at the thought of breaking yet another string of hope attached to a pathetic soul-bearing creature. Fear isn’t his middle name. He’s untamable. He is power.
Restraints hold him down like a caged animal. There’s a roar buried under the surface; simmering rage waiting to break through. He hides it behind a mask of contempt, one he doesn’t need to force considering he despises He who got him in this predicament.
The little prat hasn’t returned just yet.
He thinks of all the ways he’s going to unleash his wrath when he digs his claws into the boy.
Squirming doesn’t get him anywhere. Metal carving into his dead flesh only breeds a euphoric sense of grounding. The sweet elixir of life bleeds out of his idle heart in pulsating waves.
Creaking announces the beginning of the antic. The main buffoon walks to the foreground.
He gleams with excitation because this is going to be so amusing.
“Where’s the stripper I ordered? You think you can make me languish here without premium room service?”
Spiteful sparks light his glare like fireworks. His smile is nothing remotely courteous despite how wide it is.
What he gets as a response is a wrinkled brow and an annoyed, walking body of belligerence. Willed ignorance directed at him shoots blazing adrenalin through his veins. He grits his teeth at such insolence. After he has mangled his captor, he’ll retaliate against the traitor who sold him out.
Still, all he is presented is a broad back.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but let me spare you the trouble. It ain’t gon’ do jack.”
Black inky ribbons pool around his irises; emerald drowns in layers of coal. He cranes his neck so that his chin stands a little higher. Take a shot if you will, he says without uttering a single sound.
“Then you shouldn’t worry about it.”
It’s the first words coming from the strange bird to assemble in the conversation.
He’s not just wasting breathable air on soliloquy anymore. Company makes him rejoice; he’s going to make it worthwhile.
“How about you untie me and let me tear you to pieces now rather than later? I promise I’ll make it quick.”
Virulence stinks beneath the white-teethed beam; green eyes cold and empty like serpents of frozen rivers in January.
“How about I rip that cockswoggle act from you, instead?”
Amazingly, his irritation mirrors into exhausted and puffy hazel eyes.
“Is that really my little brother talking? And you say I have been a bad boy?”
Sam’s intake of air is loud enough to leave lingering reverberation on the silent waves of their psychological prison. It hardly has anything to do with the naked and soggy concrete that stands as the dungeon.
No words are spoken while a stinger the size of a needle breaks the skin on Sam’s arm. The hiss is quiet while it thinly weaves through an enamel barrier.
“You’re such an honorable martyr. Really. Watching you breaks my heart; I think I might cry.”
The pout on Dean’s face is like a mock accessory that doesn’t fit the integral attire.
Hair falls further into a veil that covers shameful hazel eyes. Long feet rub against concrete, past painted sigils and fainting droplets of perspiration. The eyes that look up to the demon are hard with determination.
Sam’s lips curl in earnest. Fleshy forearm skin is uncovered and inviting. The sleeve has been rolled to the elbow and the arm is secured so that it won’t escape.
Dean feels the prickle of defeat as unnatural warmth spreads from his arm to his chest. The world goes black as his lids squeeze tightly shut. Wounded pride hurts more than pierced epidermis. Feral choler rains out of his mouth. He spits fire like a dragon.
Sam stares in horror while he puts the syringe away. Drumming beats pick up speed inside his chest. His brother radiates murder in radioactive ripples.
“Why are you so upset? It won’t do squat, remember?”
Onyx glowers back at him like daggers possessed by an ill will to make sushi rolls out of him. Thunder suddenly booms from the man tied to the chair.
“As soon as I’m free, you’re a dead man!”
Sam starts the trek towards getting as far away as he can from his brother. That is, for the next hour at least.
“SAM! Get your fucking ass back here and untie me!”
Distance is physically erected between them at the closing of the door.
II
Everything feels oppressing. Screaming has ceased to leave more room for wallowing in engulfing darkness. Sam is ready to choke on it as he stands on one side of the ravine; his brother is on the other.
Dean doesn’t pay attention to the fact that company has returned. He lets his gaze run along the cracks on the walls.
“How are you feeling?”
The chief interested party lets it whirl past him in a pretty Olympic fashion. Sam has the syringe ready to draw liquid life from his pipeline. Only then does Dean look up.
“Your little trick isn’t working on me.”
Explosiveness is something that has dissipated from him. Sam takes it as a blessing, albeit small.
Dean suddenly flashes his beaming smile like nobody’s business.
“You know how I always keep my promises? Let me tell you that, when I get free, I’ll show you how pissed I am and I’ll make it very clear. That’s a promise.”
Sam concentrates on keeping his face composed. He doesn’t raise his eyes and all but runs. The needle goes in smoothly.
The beast channels its anger in one single blast. Sam keeps it together. He has a job to do.
“See you in sixty.”
III
“You don’t know when to give up, do you?”
Sam hardly set a toe beyond the doorframe when he receives the first proverbial stone.
A fine sheen of sudation pearls on Dean’s skin. Surely enough, the curving of his lips has straightened to trace an expression resembling a flat horizon.
“Something my brother taught me.”
Sam hardly looks up and keeps his voice at equal levels. If he can keep Dean’s sharp torrent from carving miseries into his skin, he might be able to stick to his resolve.
“Thank you for the nostalgia, but you can end it now.”
Thunder rises into possible lightning. Sam will be smitten if he doesn’t move from the line of fire. His smile is sad when he looks for vacant green eyes.
“You’re not my brother. Dean is. You’re a monster.”
His demeanor marks every word.
Dean’s laugh takes amplitude and strength. His face turns to stone-solid conviction.
“All me, Sammyboy. The only difference is that I fully assume what I do ‘cause I don’t give a fuck about you. Man, I wish I coulda done that before and bailed sooner.”
Smiling returns; offering a taunting aftertaste.
Sam discovers how a windpipe can wrap itself into a solid knot. Shifting gravity doesn’t help either, as he feels as though the ground has a magnetic attraction upon him. The walls start to swim before his eyes. He blinks himself back to reality.
“To do what? Be Crowley’s bitch? You two are gonna team up for sleepovers or something?”
Scorn adopts Dean’s face and makes itself at home.
“I am nobody’s bitch.”
He efficiently stabs with his eyes. Sam feels phantom holes bleeding gooey rue, swallowing him whole.
“Until this is over, you are.”
The needle slams into the shivering arm. Dean seethes. He could bite a head off.
Sam’s sight blurs into motleys of shapes with colors peeling off. A burning sensation has nested at the pit of his stomach, like ember trying to ignite a bigger furnace.
Dean is yelling obscenities into deaf ears. Sam’s eyes land on moving lips and thinks it’s like watching a Telenovela on mute. Clammy palms rub against coarse denim.
“… rip your fucking throat out! You hear me? Let me go, you son of a bitch!”
Reality slams back with the force of a wagon. The beast is squirming like it’s going to jump out of its skin.
Sam feels drained and walks out in troubling silence.
IV
“I hate you, Sam. Did for a long time. I tried to make myself believe that we were okay when we weren’t.”
Sam stares shockingly into pitch black. Dean has gotten up his high horse the moment he walked in. As much as he wants to shield himself from the boulders of his brother’s frustration, his skin is not impervious.
“I’m just like that soulless version of you. Remember him? Guy had your thoughts, your memories. I’m still me, too. From what I reckon, I still haven’t gotten you vamped or almost killed.”
There is no answer; Sam has nothing. Dean’s attacks are destroying the pillars of his sanity. He lets boisterous punches come if they will help quell the raging storm. He still won’t break even if he’s closer than he cares to admit.
“You didn’t want my help, then. What makes you think I want yours now? Is it because we’re brothers and you’re just gonna fix this? Fuck you is what I say!”
Fury materializes in the shape of spit directed Sam’s way.
Glaciers form at Sam’s core.
“Why did you save me if you hated me?”
Honest curiosity shines through hazel eyes. It doesn’t come without a side-dish of visceral agony served with nervous tremors on top.
Ferocious steam comes out of the demon.
“Why are you trying to save me now? Why do you even care?”
Sam boils like a volcano ready to erupt. Spontaneous combustion is next. Dean’s reply was unexpected and takes him off guard. On an actual battlefield, he would be dropping his guns. He feels more naked than ever, after Dean has ripped the last vestiges of his defenses.
“You’re my brother. I can’t let you down.”
The admission leaves a gaping hole in his chest. Metaphorical wind whistles through. Dean’s sudden burst of laughter leaves him frigid.
“Please, don’t make me laugh. You think you’re going to break me with all that sweet talk? It’ll take more than that. You don’t mean anything.”
Sam has the needle in his hand. Waltzing double vision is the last enemy to overcome. Wobbly knees are begging to give out, while injured shoulders burn like evil in holy water.
The sting and dizziness overwhelm him, next. Gravity wants to turn him upside down. The feeling abates once the needle is out.
“Such bravado. Really Sammy, keep torturing yourself and I’ll just keep watching. That’s better than the shit that’s on TV.”
The grin is evil and Sam doesn’t waste time. Dean screams like he has been prodded with a burning rod.
Sam shuts the screaming out to keep sickness from turning his windpipe into a living waste pump. He’s halfway through the cure and he’s already beat. He wants to lie down and sleep for the next two decades.
Luckily, something even better is waiting for him at the end of this tunnel.
V
Dean writhes and thrashes about in his seat. The motion makes unbearable ruckus of clanging chains. His words are hard to make out from the guttural vibrations of madness on vocal cords.
Sam is in and out.
VI
Droplets of constant effort bead from Sam’s hair, tracing the outline of his skull. Even his ample over-shirt wants to cling to him. He’s panting and the world is out of focus.
Dean has calmed; the ragged sound of his breath the only proof he’s still aboard. Light catches his eyes and illuminates them with a soul he doesn’t have.
“You know what? I think you’re right. This really is working. I’m feeling much better already.”
Eyebrows knit to weigh Sam’s perplexed expression.
Something resembling glee burns like a bright fire.
“Thank you, Sammy. Your dedication has cured me. You can let me go, now.”
It’s not an offer. Constraining emeralds lock into hazels.
Sam ponders the possibility.
“How do I know you’re cured?”
He’s reluctant because his brother offers no reason not to be. Dean is all smiles and compelling promises.
“C’mon, I’m your brother. Would I ever lie to you?”
The feeling compares to the snap of a rubber band; all air seemingly choked out of him in an instant. Sadness takes hold for even letting a sliver of wishful thinking corrupt him with deceiving make-believes.
“Where do I start? I can’t seem to pick.”
Glee turns to inclemency then into a malicious leer. Sam goes through the same process except for the self-preserving barrier he erects between them instead.
“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Sammy? You wanna talk? Well, talk.”
Thirty-something years of practice make Dean an accomplished virtuoso at pushing the right buttons. The gaping rift between them expands exponentially.
Sam finds solace in the act of staring back. Exasperation on Dean’s side spurts like a growing third entity.
“Come on! Man up! Let’s discuss this! What is it that you want?”
Sam’s disarray is as big as he is.
“A car? A dog? More attention? You want a foot massage or something?”
Sam’s face acts like a canvas, displaying a range of confused emotions before his hallmark frown reappears in the magnitude of its splendor.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Man, do you seriously expect me to believe you’re the smart one? What is. it. that. you. want. in. exchange. for. this?”
Dean’s hand ghosts into a circular motion over his bound limbs. Steam pours out of Sam like he’s riling from the inside. He’s a whistler and a handle away from screeching like a teakettle.
“Is that what this is about? You’re trying to bribe me?”
Disbelief screams louder than words.
“Who do you think I am?!”
“You, that’s who!”
“Fuck you, Sam!”
Silence like calm after the rain settles between them. Still, skies remain of frightening shades of gray. Punches are conveyed through glares rather than words.
“I promised Crowley I’d do whatever it took to save you.”
However quiet is the voice, the message resonates clearly. Dean’s snort is taunting.
“You two planning something behind my back?”
“Why? You jealous?”
The response is spat so quickly it takes the words off both their tongues. They roll off like rocks and clatter against concrete. Dean hums beneath his breath. He doesn’t take his malevolent eyes away from his brother.
Sam takes a confident step forward. Then two. The needle feels like a gun within his fingers. He hates the cold feeling that spiders up his arm like a poison. He wishes there was any other way.
“Soon, you won’t have to worry about him. You’ll be safe. I promised I’d bring my brother back or die trying.”
His eyes shine with resolve. Something about it tickles Dean’s sense of humor.
“Then I hope you die trying.”
If Sam doesn’t cure Dean, he’ll have nothing to live for. It can’t be his brother in there. In a way, agreement to Dean’s statement is the only path he can walk on.
He closes the distance between them and gives into another leap of faith.
VII
Dean has slumped like melted cheese over the past hour. Sam finds him in a boneless slouch. Opposing forces like crashing waves have ebbed into still waters. His presence hardly induces a change of state or form.
There’s a ruminative look where aplomb stood hours prior. Sam notes how his brother’s eyes are dark but, as Dean looks up, realizes it has nothing demonic. Resolve has been frayed then blended into shadows reminiscing of humiliation.
Desolation creeps its way inside him; cursing him for bearing the responsibility of his brother’s state of deterioration. If his experience with Crowley is anything to go by, he at least has early confirmation of the eminent success of his hard work.
Air flows tightly into his lungs. If he closes his eyes, he can hear the wheezing sound of obstruction. As he clears his throat to notify his brother, the distinctive tang of copper sprawls lazily on the back of his tongue.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet.”
The assessment is objective. Dean’s head rises mechanically. Sam can almost hear the silent cry of his brother’s protesting joints.
A studying look at reality leads to a dejected sigh then to a head turning towards uneventful horizons. However small the gesture is, it still leaves a hollowing ache behind.
“Why are you doing this? I don’t recall doing anything to you to deserve it. I let you live. Why are you punishing me?”
Words sting worse than injections. Sam sways from the impact. Knots on his face loosen as if he’s letting go of something. Empathy anchors itself sturdily.
There’s no anger left in Dean. His words are tainted with offence at being knocked so roughly about.
“I’m trying to save you, Dean.”
Tears threaten to drown his eyes into their sockets. He’s gone this far and there is the speck of something remotely human in Dean; something reflecting the ache of betrayal.
“Please. Please stop…”
Dean is beseeching. Sam’s throat constricts.
“Stop. I don’t want this! I don’t wanna go back to all the pain and guilt…”
It’s like every possible form of body liquid Sam possesses is drained at once. A mouth so dry can’t possibly speak, let alone the fact that words don’t begin to form in the first place.
“So either you let me go a demon or you kill me.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Doubt crooks his features. He knows he cannot kill his brother; wishes he won’t have to. Yet, he knows people don’t always get what they want.
That level of serious is new and terrifying when Dean is the one sporting it.
“I mean it. You wanna kill me? At least, do it right!”
“Why won’t you give me a chance?”
If there’s any hope, Sam will hold onto it.
Dean is unyielding.
“You’ve had chances, Sam. I’m just sick and tired of watching you make the wrong choices over and over.”
Something in Dean’s words hurt more than the flames that are licking their fingers off his insides.
Sam’s whole posture screams forsaking despite the way he has undergone his crusade while knowing what he was getting into. In the end, hope appears like an abstract concept his fingers will never quite entirely grasp.
“I’m sorry. If it’s the last thing I do, at least let me make things right. Believe in me just this once. It’s all I ask.”
“What could you possibly do to make it right? Aside from ripping Crowley’s throat, I just don’t see what.”
Sam smiles ever so weakly. There will be one less failure on his record for he has prepared for this.
“It’s part of the plan.”
Surprise lights Dean up like a Christmas tree. To think that he had actually let himself believe that Sam’s little act was directed solely at him.
“Try not to mess it up.”
Another assumption concerning his ability at constantly failing cuts deeper into his metaphorically torn skin, making blood run like tears. He wants to gag on the invisible hand clawed around his throat; pinning him to the proverbial wall.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Sam almost collapses as he draws blood. He doesn’t leave this time, granting his brother with his presence. Dean’s face contorts as he suffers the acid coursing through his veins.
It will be over soon.
VIII
Time flees by in stretches of minutes defined by staccatos of ticking seconds.
Dean regains feelings of heaviness within his battered body. Fire burns inside; his coughing faintly tastes like smoke.
Sam wouldn’t be eligible to compete, as it seems he has gotten worse for wear himself over the hours.
Dean catches a glimpse past thinning mist; humanity feeling like a presence lurking in the margins. Only, it doesn’t come out in the shape of terror smothering him with a leash weaved in anxiety. He’s been human before; recognizes the hazy feeling of old jeans.
“Is it over?”
Sam turns to face him; his movements worryingly sluggish. Fatigue appears like a shared burden.
“Why? Do you feel different?”
A hint of suspicion clings to his face, which is only dignified with an annoyed eye roll.
“If you’re asking if I feel like kissing you tenderly, the answer is no. You look like shit too.”
At that point, drifting in a sea of punches wouldn’t make a difference for Sam is already beat.
“What did you confess?”
For an instant, it’s as if a bomb has been dropped. Sam stares incredulously.
“To purify that damn mud you’ve been feeding me all day. What did you say? That you let me die? That you let me turn into a demon? Or, that I like being a demon more than I like being your brother?”
Cold breeze-like resentment sets within Sam’s bones. Shivering is increased painfully by the horror of the situation. For a few seconds, it feels the same as breathing underwater. The sound coming out past his lips is hollow and feels foreign. There is only that much he can take before he breaks.
“Actually, I made stocks for later.”
Confusion twists Dean’s smirk, but Sam is unremitting to ruining the big punch-line.
Contempt is huffed with little style.
“Whatever.”
A heart that has reached its limit shatters in a silent complaint. Sam closes his eyes; tremors of mournfulness assaulting him at once.
Time flies by and panic overtakes his exhausted body and spirit. The final step is about to unfold and the prospect of events to come would be enough to deflect even the bravest spirits.
Dean waits like a sitting duck.
“You wanna know what really bothers me, though?”
Silence is broken abruptly, startling Sam out of his daze.
“Not really.”
Dean glares at him and ignores the quiet plea.
“It’s your ability to make me feel like I’m the worst fucking asshole! I did horrible things to people. To you. And now that I’ve found something I want, you have to take it away from me by giving me the puppy eyes and telling me everything’s gonna be okay?!”
Sam looks broken beyond repair.
“Karaoke? Is that your definition of something you want? Join American Idol if you care that much!”
The shy smile is twisted enough to be read as a grimace. Dean clenches his fists, eliciting a symphony of creaking and pulling of his restraints. Aversion and disgust marry on his face.
If he weren’t so desperate, Sam would smile at the last joke he would ever crack at his demon brother’s dismay.
Sam pulls the needle closer as the time comes. Knowing it’s the last one doesn’t make it easier.
Shaking seizes his muscles in their psychosomatic fashion of trying to make him change his mind. Sweat rolls like rivers on his cool skin. His heart is like a motor trying to pump its way out. Air is too thick to fit into his lungs. Even panting doesn’t help, but he can’t help panting either. Dark spots dance mockingly in his vision.
Shutting off the flurry of his mind, he plunges the needle in. Lights and shadows close in on him. He wants to pass out.
Dean giggles.
“I see time has come. You think I’m gonna be a real boy, now?”
Sam blinks exhaustion away. He wants to sleep.
“You’ll be free. Don’t worry about… demons, ever again.”
Breaths come in short samples. Talking grows difficult. Emotional distress is overwhelming, but even with every odd against him he still needs to do this.
“You gonna take care of that, tough guy? Because you’re not gonna be of any help in that crappy shape of yours.”
Sam searches Dean’s eyes; shaking the demon to the core with their soulfulness.
“That’s the point… If I can’t be the brother you need me to be… least I can do is bring them down with me.”
Tremors try to counter his trajectory towards his unfinished business. Dean flinches as determination drives his little brother to his side.
“Cut the self-loathing and save it for someone who cares! And don’t expect me to be grateful!”
Sam nods tiredly. Acceptation lifts a weight from his features; washing them with something that strangely looks like complete and utter relief.
“Sure. Okay.”
“I can’t believe you’d show me mercy after everything I did! You’re such a fucking wuss! Man up for one second!”
The moving needle stops to allow the brothers to exchange looks. Dean is beyond irritated when he sees how the muscles in Sam’s jaw align like enemy forces. His little brother’s eyes darken in a way that has nothing to do with the putrefaction of his soul.
“You think that’s mercy? Think again.”
Interrupting hacks break the momentum to fold Sam at his middle. His breath runs out of him in a jeering song of gurgling secretions. When he stands back up, blood dribbling from his lips to his chin testifies of the terrifying game of life and death he has willingly started; the one he is about to end.
Green irises widen with mixed feelings. The dark blood can only mean one thing. He notices the faint glow for the first time. He doesn’t have time to ponder about anything else as he feels the sting in his arm. Poison runs through his veins and it hurts worse than every other time.
“You telling me you’re not doing this because your sappy little heart wouldn’t have it any other way?”
Dean’s words lose some venom as they travel from his brain to his lips, where his spite dies before he speaks.
“You can reflect on the meaning of my actions once we get this over with.”
Sam’s words are detached. Dean has a hard time focusing on them rather than the sizzling pain erupting from the bottom of his stomach.
With stark resolve, Sam produces a knife from his waistband. He presses the blade against the skin of his palm and caresses it with the cutting edge. Resolution presses the blade through the skin. Life starts to ooze out lazily between his fingers.
Dean loses tracks of his surroundings while they melt into a giant swirl of pain. He only feels his brother’s strong hold from behind him before realizing he can’t scream or fight. There is no running away.
Sam’s hand closes on his mouth, forcing the lukewarm poison onto his tongue. Words he can’t make out are spoken above him. Their meaning is disconcerting.
When the crushing taste of doom vanishes, he notes the void around him. Restraints have been loosened.
Confusion sticks to the unrelenting cobwebs in his mind. A guttural cry bursts out of him when all the hurt that has been on lockdown for months rush back to the shallow surface. There’s no mistaking the feeling of utter helplessness that can only belong to his human soul.
He feels guilty. He feels unbearable shame. For all he has said and done.
“Sam?”
His voice is weak. He tries again. He receives confirmation that his calls won’t be dignified with answers.
“Crowley? Get your ass in here, you son of a bitch!”
The echo of his own voice rushes back to him; syncing with the sickening thuds of his beating heart. Silence is deafening
“S…Sam?”
He reluctantly ventures out of the room. Indescribable distress weighs on him.
A heart can sink; he discovers the hard way. His knees break. The cold floor opens welcoming arms he falls into. That’s when he thinks about the meaning of Sam’s legacy.
Saving him wasn’t an act of mercy.
Dean let Sam think he was dead when he bailed. He gave the green light to have his brother tortured and spat countless awful things at him. He even wished Sam dead.
Sam took care of Crowley. Sam cured him.
Dean didn’t see this coming. He never thought the first two trials could be reactivated; never thought Sam would even consider the idea.
The Gates of Hell are sealed forever. Dean can move on.
Sam gave him that.
He’s still warm. Dean rocks both their weights in a silence he can’t break from fear of scattering what’s left of his brother’s memory.
It isn’t mercy Sam bestowed upon him. It’s the worst thing he could have done to him.
Dean keeps hearing the echoes of “I deserve it,” over and over in his head.
Even after the umpteenth time, it still doesn’t sound any less true.
FIN
Author: LaueHime
Genre: Horror, Angst.
Rating: Mature
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word count: ~ 4,800
Warnings: Spoilers for 10x02 and 10x03,[Spoiler for the story]character death, foul language, dark humor and a general sense of doom with a side dish of dark imagery. In other words, this is not a happy story (it’s quite tragic, actually).
Summary: Oneshot. AU after ‘Reichenback’, but includes canon from ‘Soul Survivor’.[Spoiler for S10]Sam is going to save his brother, whatever the cost.
Disclaimer: The show belongs to Kripke.
A/N: I don’t know what got a hold of me to write something like this, but it forced itself out. All I had to do was type. I still can’t bring myself to believe this came out of me.
A/N2: I’ve had this written for a while and I went over it more times than I usually do. At some point, I had to stop being too critical and finally post it. I hope it reflects the effort I put in it. Over all, I hope it’s enjoyable. You’d be kind to let me know! Thank you for your time.
* * *
I
He comes to with the familiar groggy feeling of having had one too many down his gullet.
This is just another day facing one more ape who appears to think that he’ll be the boy-hero capable of cobbling whatever they think has been fractured within him.
He snickers at the thought of breaking yet another string of hope attached to a pathetic soul-bearing creature. Fear isn’t his middle name. He’s untamable. He is power.
Restraints hold him down like a caged animal. There’s a roar buried under the surface; simmering rage waiting to break through. He hides it behind a mask of contempt, one he doesn’t need to force considering he despises He who got him in this predicament.
The little prat hasn’t returned just yet.
He thinks of all the ways he’s going to unleash his wrath when he digs his claws into the boy.
Squirming doesn’t get him anywhere. Metal carving into his dead flesh only breeds a euphoric sense of grounding. The sweet elixir of life bleeds out of his idle heart in pulsating waves.
Creaking announces the beginning of the antic. The main buffoon walks to the foreground.
He gleams with excitation because this is going to be so amusing.
“Where’s the stripper I ordered? You think you can make me languish here without premium room service?”
Spiteful sparks light his glare like fireworks. His smile is nothing remotely courteous despite how wide it is.
What he gets as a response is a wrinkled brow and an annoyed, walking body of belligerence. Willed ignorance directed at him shoots blazing adrenalin through his veins. He grits his teeth at such insolence. After he has mangled his captor, he’ll retaliate against the traitor who sold him out.
Still, all he is presented is a broad back.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but let me spare you the trouble. It ain’t gon’ do jack.”
Black inky ribbons pool around his irises; emerald drowns in layers of coal. He cranes his neck so that his chin stands a little higher. Take a shot if you will, he says without uttering a single sound.
“Then you shouldn’t worry about it.”
It’s the first words coming from the strange bird to assemble in the conversation.
He’s not just wasting breathable air on soliloquy anymore. Company makes him rejoice; he’s going to make it worthwhile.
“How about you untie me and let me tear you to pieces now rather than later? I promise I’ll make it quick.”
Virulence stinks beneath the white-teethed beam; green eyes cold and empty like serpents of frozen rivers in January.
“How about I rip that cockswoggle act from you, instead?”
Amazingly, his irritation mirrors into exhausted and puffy hazel eyes.
“Is that really my little brother talking? And you say I have been a bad boy?”
Sam’s intake of air is loud enough to leave lingering reverberation on the silent waves of their psychological prison. It hardly has anything to do with the naked and soggy concrete that stands as the dungeon.
No words are spoken while a stinger the size of a needle breaks the skin on Sam’s arm. The hiss is quiet while it thinly weaves through an enamel barrier.
“You’re such an honorable martyr. Really. Watching you breaks my heart; I think I might cry.”
The pout on Dean’s face is like a mock accessory that doesn’t fit the integral attire.
Hair falls further into a veil that covers shameful hazel eyes. Long feet rub against concrete, past painted sigils and fainting droplets of perspiration. The eyes that look up to the demon are hard with determination.
Sam’s lips curl in earnest. Fleshy forearm skin is uncovered and inviting. The sleeve has been rolled to the elbow and the arm is secured so that it won’t escape.
Dean feels the prickle of defeat as unnatural warmth spreads from his arm to his chest. The world goes black as his lids squeeze tightly shut. Wounded pride hurts more than pierced epidermis. Feral choler rains out of his mouth. He spits fire like a dragon.
Sam stares in horror while he puts the syringe away. Drumming beats pick up speed inside his chest. His brother radiates murder in radioactive ripples.
“Why are you so upset? It won’t do squat, remember?”
Onyx glowers back at him like daggers possessed by an ill will to make sushi rolls out of him. Thunder suddenly booms from the man tied to the chair.
“As soon as I’m free, you’re a dead man!”
Sam starts the trek towards getting as far away as he can from his brother. That is, for the next hour at least.
“SAM! Get your fucking ass back here and untie me!”
Distance is physically erected between them at the closing of the door.
II
Everything feels oppressing. Screaming has ceased to leave more room for wallowing in engulfing darkness. Sam is ready to choke on it as he stands on one side of the ravine; his brother is on the other.
Dean doesn’t pay attention to the fact that company has returned. He lets his gaze run along the cracks on the walls.
“How are you feeling?”
The chief interested party lets it whirl past him in a pretty Olympic fashion. Sam has the syringe ready to draw liquid life from his pipeline. Only then does Dean look up.
“Your little trick isn’t working on me.”
Explosiveness is something that has dissipated from him. Sam takes it as a blessing, albeit small.
Dean suddenly flashes his beaming smile like nobody’s business.
“You know how I always keep my promises? Let me tell you that, when I get free, I’ll show you how pissed I am and I’ll make it very clear. That’s a promise.”
Sam concentrates on keeping his face composed. He doesn’t raise his eyes and all but runs. The needle goes in smoothly.
The beast channels its anger in one single blast. Sam keeps it together. He has a job to do.
“See you in sixty.”
III
“You don’t know when to give up, do you?”
Sam hardly set a toe beyond the doorframe when he receives the first proverbial stone.
A fine sheen of sudation pearls on Dean’s skin. Surely enough, the curving of his lips has straightened to trace an expression resembling a flat horizon.
“Something my brother taught me.”
Sam hardly looks up and keeps his voice at equal levels. If he can keep Dean’s sharp torrent from carving miseries into his skin, he might be able to stick to his resolve.
“Thank you for the nostalgia, but you can end it now.”
Thunder rises into possible lightning. Sam will be smitten if he doesn’t move from the line of fire. His smile is sad when he looks for vacant green eyes.
“You’re not my brother. Dean is. You’re a monster.”
His demeanor marks every word.
Dean’s laugh takes amplitude and strength. His face turns to stone-solid conviction.
“All me, Sammyboy. The only difference is that I fully assume what I do ‘cause I don’t give a fuck about you. Man, I wish I coulda done that before and bailed sooner.”
Smiling returns; offering a taunting aftertaste.
Sam discovers how a windpipe can wrap itself into a solid knot. Shifting gravity doesn’t help either, as he feels as though the ground has a magnetic attraction upon him. The walls start to swim before his eyes. He blinks himself back to reality.
“To do what? Be Crowley’s bitch? You two are gonna team up for sleepovers or something?”
Scorn adopts Dean’s face and makes itself at home.
“I am nobody’s bitch.”
He efficiently stabs with his eyes. Sam feels phantom holes bleeding gooey rue, swallowing him whole.
“Until this is over, you are.”
The needle slams into the shivering arm. Dean seethes. He could bite a head off.
Sam’s sight blurs into motleys of shapes with colors peeling off. A burning sensation has nested at the pit of his stomach, like ember trying to ignite a bigger furnace.
Dean is yelling obscenities into deaf ears. Sam’s eyes land on moving lips and thinks it’s like watching a Telenovela on mute. Clammy palms rub against coarse denim.
“… rip your fucking throat out! You hear me? Let me go, you son of a bitch!”
Reality slams back with the force of a wagon. The beast is squirming like it’s going to jump out of its skin.
Sam feels drained and walks out in troubling silence.
IV
“I hate you, Sam. Did for a long time. I tried to make myself believe that we were okay when we weren’t.”
Sam stares shockingly into pitch black. Dean has gotten up his high horse the moment he walked in. As much as he wants to shield himself from the boulders of his brother’s frustration, his skin is not impervious.
“I’m just like that soulless version of you. Remember him? Guy had your thoughts, your memories. I’m still me, too. From what I reckon, I still haven’t gotten you vamped or almost killed.”
There is no answer; Sam has nothing. Dean’s attacks are destroying the pillars of his sanity. He lets boisterous punches come if they will help quell the raging storm. He still won’t break even if he’s closer than he cares to admit.
“You didn’t want my help, then. What makes you think I want yours now? Is it because we’re brothers and you’re just gonna fix this? Fuck you is what I say!”
Fury materializes in the shape of spit directed Sam’s way.
Glaciers form at Sam’s core.
“Why did you save me if you hated me?”
Honest curiosity shines through hazel eyes. It doesn’t come without a side-dish of visceral agony served with nervous tremors on top.
Ferocious steam comes out of the demon.
“Why are you trying to save me now? Why do you even care?”
Sam boils like a volcano ready to erupt. Spontaneous combustion is next. Dean’s reply was unexpected and takes him off guard. On an actual battlefield, he would be dropping his guns. He feels more naked than ever, after Dean has ripped the last vestiges of his defenses.
“You’re my brother. I can’t let you down.”
The admission leaves a gaping hole in his chest. Metaphorical wind whistles through. Dean’s sudden burst of laughter leaves him frigid.
“Please, don’t make me laugh. You think you’re going to break me with all that sweet talk? It’ll take more than that. You don’t mean anything.”
Sam has the needle in his hand. Waltzing double vision is the last enemy to overcome. Wobbly knees are begging to give out, while injured shoulders burn like evil in holy water.
The sting and dizziness overwhelm him, next. Gravity wants to turn him upside down. The feeling abates once the needle is out.
“Such bravado. Really Sammy, keep torturing yourself and I’ll just keep watching. That’s better than the shit that’s on TV.”
The grin is evil and Sam doesn’t waste time. Dean screams like he has been prodded with a burning rod.
Sam shuts the screaming out to keep sickness from turning his windpipe into a living waste pump. He’s halfway through the cure and he’s already beat. He wants to lie down and sleep for the next two decades.
Luckily, something even better is waiting for him at the end of this tunnel.
V
Dean writhes and thrashes about in his seat. The motion makes unbearable ruckus of clanging chains. His words are hard to make out from the guttural vibrations of madness on vocal cords.
Sam is in and out.
VI
Droplets of constant effort bead from Sam’s hair, tracing the outline of his skull. Even his ample over-shirt wants to cling to him. He’s panting and the world is out of focus.
Dean has calmed; the ragged sound of his breath the only proof he’s still aboard. Light catches his eyes and illuminates them with a soul he doesn’t have.
“You know what? I think you’re right. This really is working. I’m feeling much better already.”
Eyebrows knit to weigh Sam’s perplexed expression.
Something resembling glee burns like a bright fire.
“Thank you, Sammy. Your dedication has cured me. You can let me go, now.”
It’s not an offer. Constraining emeralds lock into hazels.
Sam ponders the possibility.
“How do I know you’re cured?”
He’s reluctant because his brother offers no reason not to be. Dean is all smiles and compelling promises.
“C’mon, I’m your brother. Would I ever lie to you?”
The feeling compares to the snap of a rubber band; all air seemingly choked out of him in an instant. Sadness takes hold for even letting a sliver of wishful thinking corrupt him with deceiving make-believes.
“Where do I start? I can’t seem to pick.”
Glee turns to inclemency then into a malicious leer. Sam goes through the same process except for the self-preserving barrier he erects between them instead.
“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Sammy? You wanna talk? Well, talk.”
Thirty-something years of practice make Dean an accomplished virtuoso at pushing the right buttons. The gaping rift between them expands exponentially.
Sam finds solace in the act of staring back. Exasperation on Dean’s side spurts like a growing third entity.
“Come on! Man up! Let’s discuss this! What is it that you want?”
Sam’s disarray is as big as he is.
“A car? A dog? More attention? You want a foot massage or something?”
Sam’s face acts like a canvas, displaying a range of confused emotions before his hallmark frown reappears in the magnitude of its splendor.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Man, do you seriously expect me to believe you’re the smart one? What is. it. that. you. want. in. exchange. for. this?”
Dean’s hand ghosts into a circular motion over his bound limbs. Steam pours out of Sam like he’s riling from the inside. He’s a whistler and a handle away from screeching like a teakettle.
“Is that what this is about? You’re trying to bribe me?”
Disbelief screams louder than words.
“Who do you think I am?!”
“You, that’s who!”
“Fuck you, Sam!”
Silence like calm after the rain settles between them. Still, skies remain of frightening shades of gray. Punches are conveyed through glares rather than words.
“I promised Crowley I’d do whatever it took to save you.”
However quiet is the voice, the message resonates clearly. Dean’s snort is taunting.
“You two planning something behind my back?”
“Why? You jealous?”
The response is spat so quickly it takes the words off both their tongues. They roll off like rocks and clatter against concrete. Dean hums beneath his breath. He doesn’t take his malevolent eyes away from his brother.
Sam takes a confident step forward. Then two. The needle feels like a gun within his fingers. He hates the cold feeling that spiders up his arm like a poison. He wishes there was any other way.
“Soon, you won’t have to worry about him. You’ll be safe. I promised I’d bring my brother back or die trying.”
His eyes shine with resolve. Something about it tickles Dean’s sense of humor.
“Then I hope you die trying.”
If Sam doesn’t cure Dean, he’ll have nothing to live for. It can’t be his brother in there. In a way, agreement to Dean’s statement is the only path he can walk on.
He closes the distance between them and gives into another leap of faith.
VII
Dean has slumped like melted cheese over the past hour. Sam finds him in a boneless slouch. Opposing forces like crashing waves have ebbed into still waters. His presence hardly induces a change of state or form.
There’s a ruminative look where aplomb stood hours prior. Sam notes how his brother’s eyes are dark but, as Dean looks up, realizes it has nothing demonic. Resolve has been frayed then blended into shadows reminiscing of humiliation.
Desolation creeps its way inside him; cursing him for bearing the responsibility of his brother’s state of deterioration. If his experience with Crowley is anything to go by, he at least has early confirmation of the eminent success of his hard work.
Air flows tightly into his lungs. If he closes his eyes, he can hear the wheezing sound of obstruction. As he clears his throat to notify his brother, the distinctive tang of copper sprawls lazily on the back of his tongue.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet.”
The assessment is objective. Dean’s head rises mechanically. Sam can almost hear the silent cry of his brother’s protesting joints.
A studying look at reality leads to a dejected sigh then to a head turning towards uneventful horizons. However small the gesture is, it still leaves a hollowing ache behind.
“Why are you doing this? I don’t recall doing anything to you to deserve it. I let you live. Why are you punishing me?”
Words sting worse than injections. Sam sways from the impact. Knots on his face loosen as if he’s letting go of something. Empathy anchors itself sturdily.
There’s no anger left in Dean. His words are tainted with offence at being knocked so roughly about.
“I’m trying to save you, Dean.”
Tears threaten to drown his eyes into their sockets. He’s gone this far and there is the speck of something remotely human in Dean; something reflecting the ache of betrayal.
“Please. Please stop…”
Dean is beseeching. Sam’s throat constricts.
“Stop. I don’t want this! I don’t wanna go back to all the pain and guilt…”
It’s like every possible form of body liquid Sam possesses is drained at once. A mouth so dry can’t possibly speak, let alone the fact that words don’t begin to form in the first place.
“So either you let me go a demon or you kill me.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Doubt crooks his features. He knows he cannot kill his brother; wishes he won’t have to. Yet, he knows people don’t always get what they want.
That level of serious is new and terrifying when Dean is the one sporting it.
“I mean it. You wanna kill me? At least, do it right!”
“Why won’t you give me a chance?”
If there’s any hope, Sam will hold onto it.
Dean is unyielding.
“You’ve had chances, Sam. I’m just sick and tired of watching you make the wrong choices over and over.”
Something in Dean’s words hurt more than the flames that are licking their fingers off his insides.
Sam’s whole posture screams forsaking despite the way he has undergone his crusade while knowing what he was getting into. In the end, hope appears like an abstract concept his fingers will never quite entirely grasp.
“I’m sorry. If it’s the last thing I do, at least let me make things right. Believe in me just this once. It’s all I ask.”
“What could you possibly do to make it right? Aside from ripping Crowley’s throat, I just don’t see what.”
Sam smiles ever so weakly. There will be one less failure on his record for he has prepared for this.
“It’s part of the plan.”
Surprise lights Dean up like a Christmas tree. To think that he had actually let himself believe that Sam’s little act was directed solely at him.
“Try not to mess it up.”
Another assumption concerning his ability at constantly failing cuts deeper into his metaphorically torn skin, making blood run like tears. He wants to gag on the invisible hand clawed around his throat; pinning him to the proverbial wall.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Sam almost collapses as he draws blood. He doesn’t leave this time, granting his brother with his presence. Dean’s face contorts as he suffers the acid coursing through his veins.
It will be over soon.
VIII
Time flees by in stretches of minutes defined by staccatos of ticking seconds.
Dean regains feelings of heaviness within his battered body. Fire burns inside; his coughing faintly tastes like smoke.
Sam wouldn’t be eligible to compete, as it seems he has gotten worse for wear himself over the hours.
Dean catches a glimpse past thinning mist; humanity feeling like a presence lurking in the margins. Only, it doesn’t come out in the shape of terror smothering him with a leash weaved in anxiety. He’s been human before; recognizes the hazy feeling of old jeans.
“Is it over?”
Sam turns to face him; his movements worryingly sluggish. Fatigue appears like a shared burden.
“Why? Do you feel different?”
A hint of suspicion clings to his face, which is only dignified with an annoyed eye roll.
“If you’re asking if I feel like kissing you tenderly, the answer is no. You look like shit too.”
At that point, drifting in a sea of punches wouldn’t make a difference for Sam is already beat.
“What did you confess?”
For an instant, it’s as if a bomb has been dropped. Sam stares incredulously.
“To purify that damn mud you’ve been feeding me all day. What did you say? That you let me die? That you let me turn into a demon? Or, that I like being a demon more than I like being your brother?”
Cold breeze-like resentment sets within Sam’s bones. Shivering is increased painfully by the horror of the situation. For a few seconds, it feels the same as breathing underwater. The sound coming out past his lips is hollow and feels foreign. There is only that much he can take before he breaks.
“Actually, I made stocks for later.”
Confusion twists Dean’s smirk, but Sam is unremitting to ruining the big punch-line.
Contempt is huffed with little style.
“Whatever.”
A heart that has reached its limit shatters in a silent complaint. Sam closes his eyes; tremors of mournfulness assaulting him at once.
Time flies by and panic overtakes his exhausted body and spirit. The final step is about to unfold and the prospect of events to come would be enough to deflect even the bravest spirits.
Dean waits like a sitting duck.
“You wanna know what really bothers me, though?”
Silence is broken abruptly, startling Sam out of his daze.
“Not really.”
Dean glares at him and ignores the quiet plea.
“It’s your ability to make me feel like I’m the worst fucking asshole! I did horrible things to people. To you. And now that I’ve found something I want, you have to take it away from me by giving me the puppy eyes and telling me everything’s gonna be okay?!”
Sam looks broken beyond repair.
“Karaoke? Is that your definition of something you want? Join American Idol if you care that much!”
The shy smile is twisted enough to be read as a grimace. Dean clenches his fists, eliciting a symphony of creaking and pulling of his restraints. Aversion and disgust marry on his face.
If he weren’t so desperate, Sam would smile at the last joke he would ever crack at his demon brother’s dismay.
Sam pulls the needle closer as the time comes. Knowing it’s the last one doesn’t make it easier.
Shaking seizes his muscles in their psychosomatic fashion of trying to make him change his mind. Sweat rolls like rivers on his cool skin. His heart is like a motor trying to pump its way out. Air is too thick to fit into his lungs. Even panting doesn’t help, but he can’t help panting either. Dark spots dance mockingly in his vision.
Shutting off the flurry of his mind, he plunges the needle in. Lights and shadows close in on him. He wants to pass out.
Dean giggles.
“I see time has come. You think I’m gonna be a real boy, now?”
Sam blinks exhaustion away. He wants to sleep.
“You’ll be free. Don’t worry about… demons, ever again.”
Breaths come in short samples. Talking grows difficult. Emotional distress is overwhelming, but even with every odd against him he still needs to do this.
“You gonna take care of that, tough guy? Because you’re not gonna be of any help in that crappy shape of yours.”
Sam searches Dean’s eyes; shaking the demon to the core with their soulfulness.
“That’s the point… If I can’t be the brother you need me to be… least I can do is bring them down with me.”
Tremors try to counter his trajectory towards his unfinished business. Dean flinches as determination drives his little brother to his side.
“Cut the self-loathing and save it for someone who cares! And don’t expect me to be grateful!”
Sam nods tiredly. Acceptation lifts a weight from his features; washing them with something that strangely looks like complete and utter relief.
“Sure. Okay.”
“I can’t believe you’d show me mercy after everything I did! You’re such a fucking wuss! Man up for one second!”
The moving needle stops to allow the brothers to exchange looks. Dean is beyond irritated when he sees how the muscles in Sam’s jaw align like enemy forces. His little brother’s eyes darken in a way that has nothing to do with the putrefaction of his soul.
“You think that’s mercy? Think again.”
Interrupting hacks break the momentum to fold Sam at his middle. His breath runs out of him in a jeering song of gurgling secretions. When he stands back up, blood dribbling from his lips to his chin testifies of the terrifying game of life and death he has willingly started; the one he is about to end.
Green irises widen with mixed feelings. The dark blood can only mean one thing. He notices the faint glow for the first time. He doesn’t have time to ponder about anything else as he feels the sting in his arm. Poison runs through his veins and it hurts worse than every other time.
“You telling me you’re not doing this because your sappy little heart wouldn’t have it any other way?”
Dean’s words lose some venom as they travel from his brain to his lips, where his spite dies before he speaks.
“You can reflect on the meaning of my actions once we get this over with.”
Sam’s words are detached. Dean has a hard time focusing on them rather than the sizzling pain erupting from the bottom of his stomach.
With stark resolve, Sam produces a knife from his waistband. He presses the blade against the skin of his palm and caresses it with the cutting edge. Resolution presses the blade through the skin. Life starts to ooze out lazily between his fingers.
Dean loses tracks of his surroundings while they melt into a giant swirl of pain. He only feels his brother’s strong hold from behind him before realizing he can’t scream or fight. There is no running away.
Sam’s hand closes on his mouth, forcing the lukewarm poison onto his tongue. Words he can’t make out are spoken above him. Their meaning is disconcerting.
When the crushing taste of doom vanishes, he notes the void around him. Restraints have been loosened.
Confusion sticks to the unrelenting cobwebs in his mind. A guttural cry bursts out of him when all the hurt that has been on lockdown for months rush back to the shallow surface. There’s no mistaking the feeling of utter helplessness that can only belong to his human soul.
He feels guilty. He feels unbearable shame. For all he has said and done.
“Sam?”
His voice is weak. He tries again. He receives confirmation that his calls won’t be dignified with answers.
“Crowley? Get your ass in here, you son of a bitch!”
The echo of his own voice rushes back to him; syncing with the sickening thuds of his beating heart. Silence is deafening
“S…Sam?”
He reluctantly ventures out of the room. Indescribable distress weighs on him.
A heart can sink; he discovers the hard way. His knees break. The cold floor opens welcoming arms he falls into. That’s when he thinks about the meaning of Sam’s legacy.
Saving him wasn’t an act of mercy.
Dean let Sam think he was dead when he bailed. He gave the green light to have his brother tortured and spat countless awful things at him. He even wished Sam dead.
Sam took care of Crowley. Sam cured him.
Dean didn’t see this coming. He never thought the first two trials could be reactivated; never thought Sam would even consider the idea.
The Gates of Hell are sealed forever. Dean can move on.
Sam gave him that.
He’s still warm. Dean rocks both their weights in a silence he can’t break from fear of scattering what’s left of his brother’s memory.
It isn’t mercy Sam bestowed upon him. It’s the worst thing he could have done to him.
Dean keeps hearing the echoes of “I deserve it,” over and over in his head.
Even after the umpteenth time, it still doesn’t sound any less true.
FIN