FILL: Awesome, Part 3/?vail_kagamiOctober 11 2011, 22:05:39 UTC
Or he would bury them and laugh at their graves.
Sam twitched. Then he started seizing, and Dean maybe kind of lost it. The instinct to get to his brother overrode common sense in a millisecond and when the millisecond was over Dean found himself on the floor again, his leg a well of pain and Sam out of sight above him and frighteningly never making a sound.
Now would have been a really awesome moment for Bobby and his doctor friend to come in. Even if they‘d laugh. But the door remained closed and Dean remained on the floor.
The pain would have to shut up for a moment. The good thing about big brother instincts was that they also overrode things like agony and weakness. Dean only registered the pain as background noise as he awkwardly rolled around and pulled himself up on the side of the couch.
Somehow he made it to his one good foot and over to the wall, so he could use it for balance as he hobbled on. Once close to the gurney Dean held on to it and pulled himself over. By that time, Sam had stopped seizing and started whimpering again. His cheeks, when Dean patted them, were damp with tears.
He didn’t flinch away from the touch, but he whimpered again and that was almost worse.
“Hey Sammy,” Dean said loudly. “Time to wake up!”
There was no effect but for another twitch. For one terrible second Dean was convinced Sam would have another seizure right away, but he only muttered “No,” and “Please, not-”
Dean never found out what it was he didn’t want Lucifer (or Michael) to do.
“Hey, little brother,” he tried again, his voice a lot softer now. “You’re okay. You’re out. They can’t hurt you any more, so please, just open those eyes and revel in the glory of this shitty cabin.”
But Sam clearly didn’t appreciate beauty because his eyes remained stubbornly shut.
At least he was silent again. Dean dared to breathe a sigh of relief; he might not have been able to wake Sam, but at least he seemed to have shaken him from his nightmare.
Or so he believed until Sam shuddered and arched and screamed, “No, no, no, Dad, please don’t!”
Dean froze. He had not expected that.
Hell, but he should have. He’d suspected from the start that Lucifer (or Michael) took his shape every now and then for further torment, had seen it confirmed when Sam hallucinated Lucifer looking like Dean. But somehow, it had never occurred to him that they would use Dad, which was just stupid, because no one had ever been able to make Sammy feel vulnerable like John Winchester.
Dean’s hands clenched to fists. This was sick. He wanted nothing more than to get his hands on those bastards and tear them apart!
He’d make it last. He’d show them what he had learned, why he had been Alistair’s favourite pupil.
It normally scared Dean when he started thinking like this. But in this case he was not the one who needed to snap out of something.
“Sam!” he yelled. “You need to wake up, now!”
He reached for Sam’s shoulders again but the moment he touched him, Sam arched and started to scream in terror and agony. The kind of screams Dean had only ever heard from souls on the rack.
He swallowed bile and shook his brother harder, but there was no point. Sam wasn’t just asleep, he had been knocked out, had bumped his brain, and nothing Dean could do would wake him. Bobby had been right not to care that Dean couldn’t reach Sam from the couch because he was completely useless anyway.
“…locked inside his own mind for the rest of his life…” Castiel’s voice echoed through Dean’s mind - the grim prediction of what might happen to Sam if they gave him back his soul.
And then you went and did this to him. Dean pressed his lips into a thin line as a wave of bitterness and rage washed over him, mingling with the grief for his friend until he felt like throwing up.
Sam kept screaming and whatever Dean did to wake him only seemed to make it worse. The blow to his head had locked him in a tiny space with Lucifer and Hell and no way of getting out.
Re: FILL: Awesome, Part 3/?vail_kagamiOctober 12 2011, 12:32:42 UTC
Writing more, don't worry! Can't tell when I'll update, though, because a friend I see once a year at best is over for a few days and airlines are evil and I just want to sleep...
Re: FILL: Awesome, Part 3/?vail_kagamiOctober 14 2011, 09:57:05 UTC
You shall get MORE!
Unfortunately, I have a friend visiting whom I only meet once a year (if we're lucky). It takes away basically all my writing time. I tried to get this done before she arrived, but with all the preparations I had to make I didn't quite manage. I know this sucks.
Re: FILL: Awesome, Part 3/?debbiel66October 17 2011, 01:56:58 UTC
I'm just now reading these because I wanted to finish my fic before getting distracted. But I just love the way you're setting this situation up and really hope you'll be back to finish. Poor boys!
Re: FILL: Awesome, Part 3/?vail_kagamiOctober 17 2011, 09:31:27 UTC
Thank you! I'm so happy you like it!
Actually, I'm almost done. I could post the next part already, but I don't want to split the rest up because some things would seem too random if you can't read it all at once.
FILL: Awesome, Part 4/5vail_kagamiOctober 20 2011, 17:04:20 UTC
He gave up on shaking his brother in order to run his hand over his face and maybe pretend it was only the drugs that made them come away damp. Before he could actually do that, though, he froze, too shaken when the moment he let go of Sam’s shoulders his brother stopped screaming.
It was fucking disturbing. What the Hell did Sam’s mind make of his touch?
Maybe he should have gone with Bobby instead. Sammy would clearly have been better off alone.
Dean eventually got around to his original plan and wiped the tears from his eyes, though he didn’t bother with the pretending. What was the point?
What was the point of anything?
He hadn’t been able to save Sammy from Hell even after getting him out. When every little fucking thing translated as torture in Sam’s mind, all Dean could possibly accomplish was make it worse. His touches were burning or gutting, his words, if they even reached his brother at all, twisted into something else.
Worst of all was that Dean wasn’t sure if it would get any better once (if) Sam woke up. What if this was it? He’d known, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise even to himself, that Sam’s fragile hold against the horrors in his mind wasn’t going to last forever. That Sam wasn’t going to last forever.
Maybe not even for very long.
Eventually, he would get lost in his memories and hallucinations and not come back. At that point, Death would be the only possible (but not guaranteed) cure and a part of Dean almost hoped Sammy would still be able to off himself in an unobserved moment because even now he wasn’t sure if he could do that for him. (It would be the last thing he ever did.)
What if Sam never opened his eyes again? How long would Dean wait and hope before accepting defeat and saving his brother the only way he still could?
Like a child wanting his dad, Dean wished Bobby would come back and make some unconcerned remark that told him he was being overdramatic and this wasn’t actually that bad. His hands clutched the blanket Sam was covered in so tightly his knuckles showed white under his skin but he didn’t touch Sam anymore and Sam was finally almost still, almost quiet for being left alone. After a minute or two Dean realised that he was humming Metallica, as if he was in an airplane and a stupid song could keep it from moving too much. He stopped, feeling stilly on top of horrible.
Sam whimpered. He hadn’t whimpered before.
Huh, Dean thought.
***
There was an old armchair in Rufus’ old cabin. Sam was sitting in it, his head leaned back and his eyes looking at something far away. He didn’t react at all to Bobby entering the room, but Bobby couldn’t tell if that was because he had drifted off or because his splitting headache was so bad every movement was too much of an effort.
There was a book in the boy’s lap, opened at the first page. Sam had sat down to read when Bobby left for his supply run an hour ago. He winched in sympathy; the headache had to be pretty horrible today.
On the other hand, it served the damn fool right. Bobby had painkillers in his collection that made morphine seem ineffective in comparison but Sam refused to take them. Well, let him be in pain if he was so into that.
Dean was on the couch, snoring softly. He’d fallen asleep watching tv again and Bobby could tell that he had noticed his brother’s headache level from the fact that the volume was barely audible. Hardly a surprise it couldn’t hold his attention, then.
Sometimes, Bobby wondered if Sam was aware of the sacrifices Dean made for him. Watching his soaps nearly on mute went against everything the kid believed in.
Sam blinked slowly and finally focused his eyes on Bobby, though it remained the only part of him that moved. Eventually, the corner of his mouth twitched into the hint of a greeting smile and Bobby released a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. He’d been worried, for a moment, that Sam might have checked out again, and even with the kid looking at him there was no way of telling what he was seeing.
FILL: Awesome, Part 5/5vail_kagamiOctober 20 2011, 17:05:34 UTC
As much as Bobby hated to admit it, he didn’t know how to snap Sam out of that. Dean could, but Dean was also in pain and exhausted and the old hunter would rather not have to disturb him.
But he’d wake Dean from his well-deserved sleep before he would start singing to Sam like a goddamn nanny. That was his brother’s job. And Bobby would never forget the moment he came into the cabin in Windom with his old friend from the medical profession in tow to find Dean standing unsteadily beside Sam’s gurney and softly singing “Nothing Else Matters” to him. He’d returned Bobby’s expression of confused irritation with half-hearted glares but didn’t stop singing until the doctor had finished with his brother.
Sam had been out of it, completely still and quiet, and Bobby hadn’t really seen the point. Dean later claimed that his singing was able to chase away Sam’s hallucinations, but to Bobby that was just him trying to justify being a giant girl.
Aside from a couple of absence-seizures and the occasional horrible nightmare Sam had been surprisingly fine since he woke up from his cowbar-induced sleep. In fact, he had seemed more worried about his brother, who had to spend the long ride to Rufus’ cabin in Whitefish, Montana on the backseat of the Impala where he could stretch out his broken leg - and seriously, the only reason why Bobby had risked going back for this damn conspicuous car was that Dean would have bitched without mercy if they’d left it behind. That and the fact that they had to ditch the ambulance anyway, handy as it was, because it was even more conspicuous.
Actually they ditched little more than the shell of the ambulance, with all the drugs and equipment they could fit stuffed in the trunk of the Impala, on top of an arsenal of weapons and the boys’ duffels. Sam had insisted on keeping Dean doped up on pain medication. Dean had insisted that Sam had no right to insist on anything. It had been a very long ride.
And the first morning after arriving at their new temporary home, Bobby had woken to find Sam curled up in Dean’s lap and Dean singing “Eye of the Tiger” to him. It was then that he accepted that John Winchester had left him two daughters to take care of.
If their tight budget allowed for things like that, Bobby would buy Dean a skirt just to see the look on his face (or if he would, in fact, wear it). Since it didn’t and the groceries their money was better spent on were defrosting in Bobby’s arms, he mouthed a soundless greeting in Sam’s direction and moved towards the kitchen.
On the way he stopped to turn off the tv, so his girls could sleep.
Sam twitched. Then he started seizing, and Dean maybe kind of lost it. The instinct to get to his brother overrode common sense in a millisecond and when the millisecond was over Dean found himself on the floor again, his leg a well of pain and Sam out of sight above him and frighteningly never making a sound.
Now would have been a really awesome moment for Bobby and his doctor friend to come in. Even if they‘d laugh. But the door remained closed and Dean remained on the floor.
The pain would have to shut up for a moment. The good thing about big brother instincts was that they also overrode things like agony and weakness. Dean only registered the pain as background noise as he awkwardly rolled around and pulled himself up on the side of the couch.
Somehow he made it to his one good foot and over to the wall, so he could use it for balance as he hobbled on. Once close to the gurney Dean held on to it and pulled himself over. By that time, Sam had stopped seizing and started whimpering again. His cheeks, when Dean patted them, were damp with tears.
He didn’t flinch away from the touch, but he whimpered again and that was almost worse.
“Hey Sammy,” Dean said loudly. “Time to wake up!”
There was no effect but for another twitch. For one terrible second Dean was convinced Sam would have another seizure right away, but he only muttered “No,” and “Please, not-”
Dean never found out what it was he didn’t want Lucifer (or Michael) to do.
“Hey, little brother,” he tried again, his voice a lot softer now. “You’re okay. You’re out. They can’t hurt you any more, so please, just open those eyes and revel in the glory of this shitty cabin.”
But Sam clearly didn’t appreciate beauty because his eyes remained stubbornly shut.
At least he was silent again. Dean dared to breathe a sigh of relief; he might not have been able to wake Sam, but at least he seemed to have shaken him from his nightmare.
Or so he believed until Sam shuddered and arched and screamed, “No, no, no, Dad, please don’t!”
Dean froze. He had not expected that.
Hell, but he should have. He’d suspected from the start that Lucifer (or Michael) took his shape every now and then for further torment, had seen it confirmed when Sam hallucinated Lucifer looking like Dean. But somehow, it had never occurred to him that they would use Dad, which was just stupid, because no one had ever been able to make Sammy feel vulnerable like John Winchester.
Dean’s hands clenched to fists. This was sick. He wanted nothing more than to get his hands on those bastards and tear them apart!
He’d make it last. He’d show them what he had learned, why he had been Alistair’s favourite pupil.
It normally scared Dean when he started thinking like this. But in this case he was not the one who needed to snap out of something.
“Sam!” he yelled. “You need to wake up, now!”
He reached for Sam’s shoulders again but the moment he touched him, Sam arched and started to scream in terror and agony. The kind of screams Dean had only ever heard from souls on the rack.
He swallowed bile and shook his brother harder, but there was no point. Sam wasn’t just asleep, he had been knocked out, had bumped his brain, and nothing Dean could do would wake him. Bobby had been right not to care that Dean couldn’t reach Sam from the couch because he was completely useless anyway.
“…locked inside his own mind for the rest of his life…” Castiel’s voice echoed through Dean’s mind - the grim prediction of what might happen to Sam if they gave him back his soul.
And then you went and did this to him. Dean pressed his lips into a thin line as a wave of bitterness and rage washed over him, mingling with the grief for his friend until he felt like throwing up.
Sam kept screaming and whatever Dean did to wake him only seemed to make it worse. The blow to his head had locked him in a tiny space with Lucifer and Hell and no way of getting out.
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I'll probably update tomorrow.
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I'll post more soon. Unfortunately, I have very little computer time right now - barely enough to check my eMails.
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Unfortunately, I have a friend visiting whom I only meet once a year (if we're lucky). It takes away basically all my writing time. I tried to get this done before she arrived, but with all the preparations I had to make I didn't quite manage. I know this sucks.
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Actually, I'm almost done. I could post the next part already, but I don't want to split the rest up because some things would seem too random if you can't read it all at once.
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It was fucking disturbing. What the Hell did Sam’s mind make of his touch?
Maybe he should have gone with Bobby instead. Sammy would clearly have been better off alone.
Dean eventually got around to his original plan and wiped the tears from his eyes, though he didn’t bother with the pretending. What was the point?
What was the point of anything?
He hadn’t been able to save Sammy from Hell even after getting him out. When every little fucking thing translated as torture in Sam’s mind, all Dean could possibly accomplish was make it worse. His touches were burning or gutting, his words, if they even reached his brother at all, twisted into something else.
Worst of all was that Dean wasn’t sure if it would get any better once (if) Sam woke up. What if this was it? He’d known, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise even to himself, that Sam’s fragile hold against the horrors in his mind wasn’t going to last forever. That Sam wasn’t going to last forever.
Maybe not even for very long.
Eventually, he would get lost in his memories and hallucinations and not come back. At that point, Death would be the only possible (but not guaranteed) cure and a part of Dean almost hoped Sammy would still be able to off himself in an unobserved moment because even now he wasn’t sure if he could do that for him. (It would be the last thing he ever did.)
What if Sam never opened his eyes again? How long would Dean wait and hope before accepting defeat and saving his brother the only way he still could?
Like a child wanting his dad, Dean wished Bobby would come back and make some unconcerned remark that told him he was being overdramatic and this wasn’t actually that bad. His hands clutched the blanket Sam was covered in so tightly his knuckles showed white under his skin but he didn’t touch Sam anymore and Sam was finally almost still, almost quiet for being left alone. After a minute or two Dean realised that he was humming Metallica, as if he was in an airplane and a stupid song could keep it from moving too much. He stopped, feeling stilly on top of horrible.
Sam whimpered. He hadn’t whimpered before.
Huh, Dean thought.
***
There was an old armchair in Rufus’ old cabin. Sam was sitting in it, his head leaned back and his eyes looking at something far away. He didn’t react at all to Bobby entering the room, but Bobby couldn’t tell if that was because he had drifted off or because his splitting headache was so bad every movement was too much of an effort.
There was a book in the boy’s lap, opened at the first page. Sam had sat down to read when Bobby left for his supply run an hour ago. He winched in sympathy; the headache had to be pretty horrible today.
On the other hand, it served the damn fool right. Bobby had painkillers in his collection that made morphine seem ineffective in comparison but Sam refused to take them. Well, let him be in pain if he was so into that.
Dean was on the couch, snoring softly. He’d fallen asleep watching tv again and Bobby could tell that he had noticed his brother’s headache level from the fact that the volume was barely audible. Hardly a surprise it couldn’t hold his attention, then.
Sometimes, Bobby wondered if Sam was aware of the sacrifices Dean made for him. Watching his soaps nearly on mute went against everything the kid believed in.
Sam blinked slowly and finally focused his eyes on Bobby, though it remained the only part of him that moved. Eventually, the corner of his mouth twitched into the hint of a greeting smile and Bobby released a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. He’d been worried, for a moment, that Sam might have checked out again, and even with the kid looking at him there was no way of telling what he was seeing.
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But he’d wake Dean from his well-deserved sleep before he would start singing to Sam like a goddamn nanny. That was his brother’s job. And Bobby would never forget the moment he came into the cabin in Windom with his old friend from the medical profession in tow to find Dean standing unsteadily beside Sam’s gurney and softly singing “Nothing Else Matters” to him. He’d returned Bobby’s expression of confused irritation with half-hearted glares but didn’t stop singing until the doctor had finished with his brother.
Sam had been out of it, completely still and quiet, and Bobby hadn’t really seen the point. Dean later claimed that his singing was able to chase away Sam’s hallucinations, but to Bobby that was just him trying to justify being a giant girl.
Aside from a couple of absence-seizures and the occasional horrible nightmare Sam had been surprisingly fine since he woke up from his cowbar-induced sleep. In fact, he had seemed more worried about his brother, who had to spend the long ride to Rufus’ cabin in Whitefish, Montana on the backseat of the Impala where he could stretch out his broken leg - and seriously, the only reason why Bobby had risked going back for this damn conspicuous car was that Dean would have bitched without mercy if they’d left it behind. That and the fact that they had to ditch the ambulance anyway, handy as it was, because it was even more conspicuous.
Actually they ditched little more than the shell of the ambulance, with all the drugs and equipment they could fit stuffed in the trunk of the Impala, on top of an arsenal of weapons and the boys’ duffels. Sam had insisted on keeping Dean doped up on pain medication. Dean had insisted that Sam had no right to insist on anything. It had been a very long ride.
And the first morning after arriving at their new temporary home, Bobby had woken to find Sam curled up in Dean’s lap and Dean singing “Eye of the Tiger” to him. It was then that he accepted that John Winchester had left him two daughters to take care of.
If their tight budget allowed for things like that, Bobby would buy Dean a skirt just to see the look on his face (or if he would, in fact, wear it). Since it didn’t and the groceries their money was better spent on were defrosting in Bobby’s arms, he mouthed a soundless greeting in Sam’s direction and moved towards the kitchen.
On the way he stopped to turn off the tv, so his girls could sleep.
-end
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