Fic: Void 2/2

[lennelle]

Part 1



Sam finds a case. Of course, he does. He's a goddamn news perusing freak.

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" Sam demands, tapping away at his computer and eating an entire packet of refrigerated frankfurters at the same time.

"I mean no, Sam. We're not up for a case right now. Not with you…" he cuts of, gesturing a hand at Sam's entirety.

"What?" Sam says, glancing down at himself. He's sucking on the end of one of the sausages, which gives Dean plenty of ammo that he won't be using. The amount of dick jokes he could be making right now, but his mind is elsewhere. Namely, focused on Sam's skeletal frame.

Sam still doesn't seem to notice anything wrong, which makes Dean wonder if this is more than just a physical ailment. Anyone with eyes could see how Sam looks; stick thin. He keeps having to hoist his jeans up on his hips, which are bony and likely sharp enough to cut something. Dean's surprised Sam is still getting around on two feet.

"You're sick, Sam," Dean says, like he's been saying for a while now, but it only seems to go in one of Sam's ears and out the other.

"I'm not sick," Sam says, rolling his eyes like it's the dumbest thing he's ever heard. "You've been taking hunts with a cursed mark on your arm for months."

"It's different," Dean bites back.

"Yeah, because there's nothing wrong with me."

Dean takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists under the desk. "How much do you weigh, Sam?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. What did the doc say?"

"That was a week ago. You've lost weight since then."

Sam's lips are pressed into a thin line, an indicator that his patience is wearing thin and the conversation is most likely over. "Fine. You don't want to take this hunt?" he says. "I'll go by myself."

Dean's more than ready to bite back, but the moment Sam gets to his feet he stumbles, grabbing the edge of the desk for balance. Dean is up, out of his chair and over by Sam's side by the time Sam's only managed to peel his eyes back open.

"You okay?" Dean asks, dropping a hand onto Sam's shoulder. He nearly recoils when he feels just how bony it is.

"Just got dizzy for a second," Sam says, but he's breathing through his mouth, colour leeching from his face.

"Yeah, you got dizzy because you're sick," Dean says. Without a word, he pulls Sam's arm over his shoulders and guides him slowly towards his bedroom. "You're going to rest, little brother. Let me and Cas take care of this."

"Supposed to be fixing you," Sam mumbles, head leaning tiredly against Dean's arm.

Dean sighs. "The Mark's my problem, Sam. It's my mess. Don't think about that until you're better."

Dean dreams of a hammer. Long and slender, a gentle weight in his hand, just the right balance for the perfect swing. The metal end of it is heavy, smashes right into the wall if you put enough muscle behind it. He's stalking the hallways, red light pulsing, the mark on his arm sings with the excitement of it all. It's a game of cat and mouse.

Sam has his back to him, head ducked around the corner, watching for Dean, not knowing he's right behind him. Dean moves softly, arm pulling back and swinging hard just as Sam spins around, eyes wide and terrified and -

Dean wakes up suddenly, sweaty limbs tangled up blankets. He flicks on the bedside light and glances at his arm where the mark is looking more irritated, the skin throbs. He pulls his sleeve down and takes a few breaths. His mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the inside of his cheeks. He gets unsteadily to his feet and stumbles, eyes still adjusting to the light, out into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

He pauses when he sees Cas standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes focused inside the room. There's a clang of pots and pans, and Cas turns to Dean, holding a finger to his lips.

"What's going on?" Dean whispers, joining him in the doorway. Sam is in his pyjamas, crouched on the floor by the fridge, packets of raw bacon, chicken and mince-meat on the floor in front of him. He grabs a fillet of chicken breast, pink and shiny and raw, and puts it in his mouth, tearing a tough chunk out of it and chewing slowly.

Dean makes to start forward, but Cas stops him with a hand to his chest.

"Sam is sleeping," he says.

Dean looks over again, and sure enough Sam's eyes are glazed and out of focus. He has to look away again when Sam scoops up a handful of mince-meat. His stomach churns at the sound of Sam's chewing and he clamps his teeth together in the hopes that he won't throw up.

"We have to stop him," he says to Cas. "He's going to make himself sick."

"I tried stopping him," Cas replies, eyes not straying from Sam. "He wouldn't move. He even - he was vicious. Like an animal."

Dean glares at him. "So, we just let him get on with it? He's gonna get salmonella or something."

"I don't think that's an issue," Cas says. "I don't think it's Sam who's eating this. There's something else here. I can feel a presence in this room."

"Demon?"

"Not a demon."

"What is it, then?"

"I don't know, Dean," Cas says, sounding frustrated. He opens his mouth, ready to say something more, but Sam is getting to his feet. He stumbles towards them, hands and chin stained with grease and something watery pink. Dean and Cas part to make room for Sam to pass by them into the hallway.

"Sammy?" Dean says tentatively. Sam keeps walking, so Dean grabs his shoulder and it's only then that he turns around. He shoves Dean against the wall, teeth bared, eyes turned a milky white. Dean bares his teeth right back, the Mark on his arm twinges. He pushes hard, sending Sam into the opposite wall, then he pulls back his fist and sends it flying right into Sam's face.

One hit sends him sprawling to the ground, unconscious, a line of blood running from his nose. Dean shakes out his fist and turns to Cas.

"Help me get him to the dungeon."

Sam, naturally, is confused when he wakes up chained the centre of a devil's trap. He stirs, face scrunching as he begins to feel the effects of Dean's fist to his face, then peels his eyes open to look up at Cas and Dean.

"What's going on?" he asks, and makes to sit up. Only then does his notice the cuffs and chains around his wrists. He jerks them experimentally, frowning when they don't budge. "Hey!" he snaps, now moved on from confused to pissed.

"It's for your own safety, Sam," Cas says.

"Safety," Sam repeats, glancing around the room. "What the hell? Did you kidnap me from my own bed? What's going on?"

"Something's wrong with you, Sam," Dean explains.

Sam glares at him. "Right back you."

"Dean's right," Cas says. "There's something else in this room, Sam. It's dark."

"The Mark of Cain," Sam points out. "You sure you're not just mixing things up?"

Cas glances warily at Dean, or rather, at the spot on his arm where the Mark is etched. "The Mark of Cain, yes, that's a darkness. I feel that all the time, but there's something else. It's getting stronger by the day, and it's attached to you, Sam."

Sam snorts. "This is ridiculous. Would you unlock these and we'll go upstairs and pretend this never happened?" he jangles his chains.

"We can't do that, Sammy," Dean says. "We can't even be sure it's you talking to us right now."

"That's ridiculous. Of course it's me," Sam sighs exasperatedly. He looks at them both with a steady gaze and says, "Don't you see how crazy this is?"

He sounds like Sam. He's wearing a very Sam-like expression on his face. But he still has the stains of the raw meat he devoured only a little while earlier clinging to his skin. His shirt hangs off his frame, it practically swamps him. His cheekbones are high and pronounced, his fingers are bony, his collar bones are sharp where they peek out from under his shirt. Sam's never been so thin, not even when his teenaged growth spurt left him more bones than boy.

He looks sick. He looks like he could be dying.

"We'll fix this," Cas says, and Dean isn't entirely sure who he's speaking to.

"Paracitus Inanis."

"What?"

"Paracitus Inanis," Cas repeats. "Also known as The Empty Parasite. It is a long-extinct supernatural species of parasitic worm."

"You think Sam has a parasite?" Dean asks, leaning across the table to get a glimpse at the book Cas is reading. There's a grisly drawing of a long worm with white eyes and a circle of razor sharp teeth. "Huh. Looks kind of like the Kahn Worm."

"Kahn Worm?"

"One of Eve's wacko creations," Dean explains. "It got inside peoples' ears and controlled their brains. You think Sam has worms?"

"Worm," Cas corrects. "It says here that Paracitus Inanis must hatch from the egg and grow through infancy inside a host. Once the worm is too large to be contained, it will exit the host."

So much about all of this is too disgusting to think about, but he has to ask. "Exit the host how?"

Cas clears his throat and recites from the book, "When the parasite abandons its host, it exits the same way it enters, via the gullet."

Dean feels his face twist. He has seen the grossest of the gross, but this is something else. This is like something out of Alien. How did Dean miss Sam getting attacked by a Facehugger?

"Sam was hunting while you were… gone," Cas says, answering Dean's unspoken question. "Perhaps that was when he contracted the parasite."

Dean sighs and rubs his hand over his tired face. He hasn't been sleeping much since he shed the black eyes. Nightmares. And guilt. And now, there's a parasite in his brother that needs removing. "How do we get rid of it?"

Cas glances back down at his book. "The parasite relies on the host to be fed, which is why Sam has been eating so much but losing weight at the same time. If the food supply is cut off, the worm will search for another host."

"So, we have to starve it?" Dean asks.

"We have to starve Sam, too," Cas corrects. "He's already malnourished. This may kill him."

"We can't just leave it in there," Dean says. "We keep an eye on him the whole time, if something goes bad - you got any mojo left?"

Cas looks a little embarrassed, if it's possible. This whole stolen grace thing must weigh on him more than Dean even cared to think about. It's strange sitting in the library with him, researching like he and Sam would for a case. It's almost like Cas has filled Sam's vacant role.

"I'm not letting him die," Dean says. "Not after everything."

Cas can't give him an answer to that.

The ridge of Sam's spine is steep and sharp, protruding under his skin like there isn't enough room. The shape of his ribs is harsh, like hollowed out grooves down his side. His shirt has been shed, the fabric caught against the manacles. He's pale and sweaty, drops of moisture sliding down his skin.

The moment Dean and Cas open the doors, and the light from the store room comes flooding inside, he cants his head to the side and observes them. The desperation he'd had when they'd locked him in is gone, because maybe Sam is gone. There's no please, guys, don't do this or I'm fine. I'm me.

Just quiet.

"We figured out how to fix this," Dean says, and Sam's eyes flash over to him.

"And how will you fix this?" Sam says, and Dean knows it isn't Sam. Sam wouldn't smile like that.

"You hungry?" Dean asks. Sam's smile drops and his eyes narrow. Dean grins. "Well, you slimy bastard, you're going on a diet."

"We'll give you the chance to leave now," Cas offers. "Before things become difficult."

"Difficult for me, or difficult for you?" says Sam. "I'm quite comfortable here, thank you. Besides, if I leave now, you'll smite me with those God-given powers of yours…" he breaks out into a wicked grin. "Oh, wait. You're running on a low battery. Barely even Angel anymore. What can you do to me?"

"I was hoping you'd ask," Dean says, holding out the blowtorch from where he'd had it behind his back. "I always liked my meat a little crispy."

Sam pales. "Do what you like," he says. "I'm not leaving. And you can't hurt me without hurting your brother."

Sam, or rather the parasite inside him, decides on the silent treatment after that, turning around to face away from them. Dean and Cas pull up chairs and wait. And wait. And wait. He's teaching Cas how to play poker - finally Cas' constant blank expression comes in handy - when things begin to change.

Sam is restless, shifting inside the devil's trap, tugging on his chains.

"Feeling peckish?" Dean asks. The thing glares at him.

"You're going to kill your brother like this," it says, gasping. "Not that you'd mind. You tried to bash his head in not long ago, didn't you?"

"Trying to play mind games?" Dean says. "Cute. Shut up and get out, would you?"

"I will get out of these chains and your flesh will be the first thing I feast on."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Threats ain't going to work either."

"Dean, it might be best not to engage," Cas suggests, eyes still on their game of poker. "It will be some time before it leaves Sam's body, and it will leave."

Dean shrugs and returns to the game, ignoring Sam hissing at them over his shoulder.

"Please," Sam gasps. Not-Sam. He's curled up on his side, shivering like he's freezing cold, covered in sweat with his hair clinging to his forehead over milky white eyes. "Please, you're killing me."

"That's the plan," says Dean. His voice betrays him by cracking, so he straightens his back and folds his arms over his chest. He has to remember that this thing on the floor isn't Sam. Jesus. How many times has Sam not been Sam?

"You're killing your brother," it says.

"No, you're killing my brother," Dean bites back. "Get the fuck out."

"Do you even care?" it asks, shuddering. "Your brother is in pain, and all you do is sit there and play cards. You can feel it, can't you? That Mark is leeching away the last of your humanity. You might not have black eyes anymore, but you're not one hundred percent human. It's only a matter of time. I know it, you know it, even Sam knows it. You're going to kill your brother and you're going to like it - "

"Dean!" Cas shouts.

Dean is on his feet, Sam's neck clamped between his fingers. He lets go and jolts back like he's been electrocuted. The thing inside Sam grins.

"There it is," it says.

Dean is breathing hard, chest heaving, hands shaking. The skin of his inner arm burns in a way that's almost a relief. Cas is lingering over his shoulder and Dean can feel where his arm is reached out and lingering in the air, not daring to take hold of his shoulder. On the floor, Sam is wasting away, pale and skeletal, grinning from ear to ear, skin creased around the milky whiteness of his eyes.

Cas finally grabs his shoulder and pulls him back into the store room.

"Take a walk," he says, hard-eyed.

"But - "

"Go."

Dean doesn't wander far. He makes it up the stairs and down the corridor until he comes face to face with the dent he made in the plaster, a dent he'd intended to make in Sam's skull. Sam, who is now chained to the very same spot Dean was weeks ago, wrapped up in something dark and oily and vicious, just like Dean was. But Dean's darkness was himself. Sam was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, without anyone to watch his back.

If Dean had been there, none of this would have happened.

He stares at the hole in the wall, thinks thank god I taught Sam to be quick. But God was never around to thank. He's breathing more steadily now, but his heart is still racing, more from fear than anything. Sam could die. For weeks, Sam has been dying and Dean never even noticed.

He brushes his fingers along the dent, thinks about how he should fix it when he has the time, then he turns back around and heads for the dungeon.

There are god-awful noises coming from beyond the store room. It's wet and thick, hacking, coughing, spine-curlingly sick. Cas is hovering more than standing, like he's torn between going to Sam's side and staying right where he is. Dean pauses at the edge of the devil's trap, not because he's afraid of what's inside, but because he's worried if he steps over he might not be able to get out again.

Sam gags and spits out a gob of spit that's grey and bubbling. He glances at Dean and his eyes are hazel and wet, the whites of them are turning red. He shudders and hunches over, neck straining. His limbs are shaking, only barely keeping him upright.

He hacks again, and this time the head of something thick and sluggish slides out of his mouth. Sam's eyes go wide and he does a backwards crawl as far as the chains will let him in an attempt to escape it. The worm is more like a snake, longer than Dean's arm, slithering up Sam's throat and out of his mouth like something out of a horror movie. But Dean has seen horror movies, and they're nowhere near as bad as real life. Nowhere near as awful as this.

The second the tail is out and slapping the concrete dungeon floor with a wet smack, Sam crumbles. His arms and legs fold and he lies there on his side, heaving breaths, still gagging. The thing makes to slither in Dean's direction and he stumbles back, but it's faster than he'd expected. It begins to curl around his leg and he can see its milky white eyes and razor sharp circle of teeth. Trying to kick it off only makes it cling tighter.

Cas appears, the palm of his hand lit up with pure light bright enough to blind Dean for a second. The pressure around his leg releases, then there's frantic hissing and the smell of burning meat. Dean peels an eye open and sees a charred streak across the floor beneath Cas' feet.

At the centre of the room, Sam rolls onto his back with a deep, rasping breath. Dean crawls over and pats Sam's cheek until he opens his eyes.

"God…" Sam mumbles, then coughs. There's oily, grey saliva running down his chin. "That was…"

"Disgusting," Dean finishes. Sam gives a weak nod of agreement, and closes his eyes again. Dean nudges his shoulder. "No sleeping yet, okay?"

"M-hm," Sam answers, still not opening his eyes.

Cas is there, crouching down by Sam's head. He places his palm over Sam's forehead, emitting a soft glow that makes Sam shudder.

"I've healed some of the internal damage," he says. "But there's a lot I can't heal. It will take time."

Dean sighs and rubs a hand over the bare skin of Sam's trembling arm. "Let's get you to bed, buddy."

Sam's mouth curls with distaste as Dean holds out a spoonful of oatmeal. He turns his head so there's no place for it to go but back in the bowl. Dean sighs and drops the spoon with a clang of metal against ceramic.

"You need to eat, Sam."

"I'm think I'm put off eating for life."

"Eat."

Sam drops his head back onto his pillow. He doesn't look much better than he did when he was hosting a supernatural parasite. He hasn't put on any pounds yet, and it makes him look like a chemo patient. At least he's clean and has some colour back in his cheeks; the only things keeping him from looking like a corpse.

"If I eat anything, I'll throw it back up," Sam says.

"Good thing I brought a bucket."

Sam glowers, but he doesn't have enough energy to really mean it. All he's done the past couple of days is sleep or throw up. Dean's getting more worried by the day. He was stupid to hope that Sam would just bounce back after everything that's happened.

"I'm tired," Sam whispers, eyes already closed. "I'll eat tomorrow."

Dean pats his hand. "Fine. Tomorrow, or I'm taking you to the hospital to get a tube inserted."

Sam doesn't register the threat, having already drifted off to sleep. Dean tugs the bed quilt up over Sam's chest, staying seated by his side a little longer. Scratching absently at the Mark, he lets the guilt settle in his stomach to turn sour. Sam's cheeks are hollow, eyes sunken, wrists slim enough for Dean to circle and have his fingers meet.

There's a thought at the back of his mind that tells him Sam is weak and defenceless. He wouldn't be able to stop an attack. Not from a monster or a person or a hammer.

There's something parasitic in Dean that needs to be killed.