comment fic meme!
Following the results of the poll we took last month (don't make it easy on us or anything, guys, haha!), we've decided to hold a comment fic meme once every three months. This gives everyone time to write and prompt to their heart's content, and allows us mods to keep up with y'all. And we're starting right now!
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Just try to talk to him, was all Bobby had given as a suggestion. This is his head, not yours. You've got less control than he does, and Sam? Sam's got almost none.
Going into Sam's head in the first place had been deemed a stupid thing. Actually, Bobby had called him the "stupidest ass currently breathing on the planet" but hey, tell him something Dean didn't already know. Going into Sam's head while the kid was hell-tripping couldn't end well.
But he couldn't stand it anymore. The second seizure Sam had had, right in front of him, had left Dean no other choice. Bobby would keep researching where Castiel was, and Dean? Dean would go after his brother.
When he opened his eyes, after what seemed like an eternity of keeping them closed, Dean found himself still in the panic room. Except the cot - Sam - were both missing. The air felt...different. Stagnant. Dead. There were no lights on, and the open door out into the basement did little to alleviate Dean's growing unease. The place reeked of death.
More than past time to find Sam.
The taste of the dream root was still bitter on his tongue as he rose from the chair he'd been seated on. He hadn't even been certain it would work, to get to Sam, but he'd had to try. Sitting there, watching Sam play dead on the cot, had been more than he could handle.
He left the panic room and headed out of the basement, trying light switches as he went. Nothing worked. The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't helping, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing as he stepped upstairs and into the kitchen. A man sat at the table, hands flat on the surface in front of him, a gun off to the side. His face wasn't visible, and his clothes were tattered and torn.
But it was the one person Dean would've known anywhere, even if the guy had been wearing a mascot costume. He swallowed and tentatively called out. "Sam?"
There was no response at first. Then, slowly, the head rose. The weak moonlight coming in from the windows was enough to make out features: nose, lips, eyes dull and dead as they met his.
Then Sam turned in the chair, and the moonlight suddenly illuminated everything.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean whispered, horrified. There was no hesitation as he ran towards his little brother, because Sam was burned, badly, face and neck and hands. There was blood and burnt flesh and opened wounds, and Dean was pretty damn certain that was bone he was seeing in the wound mostly covered by Sam's hair. Sam's hair that needed a good shower or six.
"No such number," Sam said softly, speaking for the first time. His voice was shredded, low and torn, and there was a resignation, a despair there, that felt like it would rip Dean in two. "No such soul."
He met Dean's stricken gaze with a quiet acceptance. "He's not here," he clarified. "Sammy. Your little brother. He's still outside. Deciding whether he wants to come in."
Dean, in the process of kneeling beside Sam, stopped. "What?"
"He's remembering," the Sam before him said, before giving a soft sigh. "The other Sam, the one with no soul, the one that was almost, you could say, created. He fought Sammy and lost to your brother. Now Sam remembers what he remembers. Knows what he knows. Putting together the pieces so Humpty-Dumpty can get back up again."
Dean felt sick. "You're the last piece," he said, already knowing what this Sam would say before he said it.
"Yes," Sam said. His eyes dropped to the table, and torn hands clenched into fists. "I'm the Sam that remembers Hell."
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His Sam was just outside Bobby's house. Deciding whether or not to come in. Dean needed to get out there, find some way to get them both out of here. Bad enough that Sam remembered what his soulless counterpart had done for the past year; Dean didn't have high hopes that he'd do well with over 150 years worth of Hell damage.
"You should go," Sam said quietly. "He's just outside near the porch. Waiting. Making up his mind."
Dean gazed at him long and hard. The Hell-torn man in front of him was a tattered soul. Broken from Lucifer over the years in a way Dean could never understand.
But he'd been wrong. This, this man, was more his brother than the man outside. This was the man who'd willingly taken Lucifer on and shoved both the archangel and himself into the Pit to save the world. This was the bright soul Dean had fought so hard to bring back.
This was his little brother.
Dean rose and headed for the cabinet nearest the window. He could feel Sam's eyes on him as he swiftly pulled out the first aid kit, the big one, and brought it over to the table. Only when he knelt again and began to open it did Sam finally speak. "What are you doing?" he asked, and he sounded so completely confused that it broke Dean's heart.
"Patching you up," Dean said. "You're a little messy, bro." Messy wasn't even going to describe it. This was pain that Lucifer had inflicted on Sam's soul. Burns and tears in the skin were the physical manifestation of something Dean couldn't even begin to repair. But god help him, he had to try.
He started with the burns, because he couldn't stand to see them anymore. He pulled out the burn kit and retrieved the ointment. It was only when he moved towards Sam's face that Sam shifted back suddenly. "What are you...I don't understand," Sam said, and Dean felt the knot around his chest tighten even further, his heart break a little more.
"I'm helping you," he said, keeping it simple. He carefully spread the ointment, watched Sam shudder and shake and shut his eyes tight against the gentleness Dean was bestowing upon him. "I'm fixing you."
"Can't be fixed," Sam whispered. "Broke me. Can't ever be fixed."
"Yes you can," Dean said firmly. He moved on to patching up the burns, gently, as best he could. God, they were everywhere, and Sam's skin felt brittle like ashes. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. "I'll fix you. It's what I do."
And as he moved through the kit, piece by piece, and turned the Sam before him into a mummy of bandages and care, Dean felt himself grow more determined. If Sam came out of this crazy, if Sam came back broken, then that's how he came back.
Dean would be there to help him, to fix him.
~Nebula
(I've got a plan to make this a little bit longer, but I've literally got to run out the door to a weekend business conference. But I'll be back!)
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What? It's a big job, he's gonna need help. *thinks* There's an extra pair of hands right outside. Yo! Sam! Get your butt in hear and help your brother patch you up!
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Wow.
The fact that Dean realized that this part of Sam was more his brother than the others was what got me the most. And when Sam was saying that he didn't understand and that he couldn't be fixed, and sounded almost as though he thought he didn't deserve fixing, my heart broke right along with Dean's.
Please do continue. :)
...OH, and if Sam remembers any of this later once he's woken up, I will love you forever and ever amen.
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Dean's gonna do his damndest to fix you, Sammy. No matter what.
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THIS!
~thud~
Perfect.
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boys! so lovely and sad
::hugs them::
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I wanted more of this Sam in the last episode...you are writing him very well. And that Dean gets that this is the Sam he needs to fix--oh yes!
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Just found this little gem. What can I say? U absolutely made my day! I have been looking for this fic forever - ever since the season finale i've wanted Dean to meet hell!Sam and show him some much needed brotherly love. I was starting to give up hope. Starting to think it simply didn't exist, but then this!!! - so thank you thank you thank you so so so much
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