Fic: Talk To Me
Title: Talk To Me
Author: safiyabat
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of the Cage. Nothing graphic.
Pairing: None - gen
Word Count: 1,128
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester. Present but not speaking: Castiel
Summary: Coda to 11.06, "Our Little World." After the team analyzes the outcome from their missions in "Our Little World," Sam conducts some analysis of his own.
“We’ll see if ‘God’ has any advice for us,” Dean sneered, turning to glare at Sam with his hands on the table.
Rage welled up in Sam, but he fought it down. He’d had decades of practice, after all, because it wasn’t okay to get angry. Wasn’t ever okay to get angry, especially not with Dean. “I’ll check the lore,” he said, turning on his heel and walking toward the library. Neither his brother nor Castiel, who’d built himself some kind of a damn television-addict nest in Sam’s room for the past few weeks, tried to stop him.
He kicked himself for the mean thoughts. Cas had needed to recover, and Sam wasn’t really using the room. It hadn’t ever really been Sam’s room anyway, or at least not just Sam’s room. It had a bed in it that he used, but it also had the only television in the bunker, and he didn’t have the right to get proprietary about that kind of thing. He’d offered it to Cas during his recovery, and no one knew better than Sam that people who’d had control of their body stolen from them by whatever means needed to recover. The fact that Sam had never been allowed that kind of recovery time, not once, didn’t mean that he had the right to begrudge it to anyone else. These were his issues; he didn’t need to go spreading them around like some kind of supernatural STD.
He focused on putting books on shelves, slotting the last one into its empty place as another vision ripped its way through his mind. He tried to breathe his way through it, and maybe if one of the others had followed him they’d have known something was up but as it was, he kept himself quiet like a champ. If gritting his teeth and bearing it were an Olympic event, Sam would take the gold home every time. It wasn’t like there was anything anyone could do about them anyway, no matter where - or who - they were coming from. Maybe it was for the best that no one had followed.
He knew what he was seeing as soon as he saw it, even though he’d never seen it like this. Not from the outside. The Cage, when viewed from the inside, had been an infinite expanse of fire and of ice, molten rock and raining nitrogen, only given shape by the intent of the beings who inhabited it. At the same time, it had been as small as a child-sized coffin.
Viewed from the outside, it was a clay box, carved, suspended over a void by chains. It might have been the size of an average shipping container.
The size, from the outside or the in, didn’t matter. What mattered was the thick cloud of cold and malice that poured forth from it. Sam couldn’t breathe past the lump in his throat, and if his heart beat any faster it might explode right out of his chest like that guy in that weird case with Fred Jones back after Dean came back from Purgatory. He watched, helpless to do anything else as his vision narrowed in on a small spot on the surface of the Cage.
It took everything Sam had not to scream when he saw what he saw. Because what he saw wasn’t the unblemished and secure walls of the Cage, that had held him and his tormentors for so many eons, but a crack. Not merely a crack, but a gap. Something had created a hole, in the wall of the Cage, and through that wall a hand reached out.
The vision ended, and Sam was back in his own reality. Sam took three huge gulps of air to steady himself. He had prayed for hope. For hope! And this was what he got? The Cage, cracking, and something - someone - escaping?
Shaking hands reached out and grabbed books at random before he fled to his room. He had no intention of looking at the books tonight, but he couldn’t let anyone see him. Not like this. They couldn’t see his shame, his desperation, his weakness. It was bad enough that Michael and Lucifer had heard him scream, and beg; he couldn’t stomach the thought of letting Dean and Castiel hear him like that. Not now. With Castiel, probably not ever.
His room, such as it was, was a safe place. He could lock and bolt the door. He could ignore the rumpled sheets . He could move all of the furniture that Cas had rearranged back to where it belonged, and the boxes left behind by the Men of Letters too, and the stacks of books and the stacks of notepads. Then, and only then, would he bury his face in the pillow and let himself go, in here where no one could hear him.
Of course they can’t hear you, a voice in Sam’s head purred. He wasn’t sure if it was Lucifer’s or his own, but that Arctic chill winding its way down his spine definitely didn’t come from Sam. If they can’t hear you, you don’t have to face up to the fact that they don’t care.
Sam forced himself to stop screaming and sit up, chest heaving as he forced himself back under control. The voice was wrong. It had to be. Dean was hiding something about his connection with Amara, Sam could read that as easily as a first year Latin primer. He hadn’t been attacking Amara, when Sam got there. He hadn’t even been considering attacking Amara. The moment she’d attacked Sam, though, he’d picked that knife right up and turned to her with murder in his eyes.
And yet, Dean had made that nasty comment about the visions he’d been getting. Stupid to tell him about them, the voice reminded him. He didn’t trust Sam with whatever he was hiding about Amara. Maybe whatever dark part of his psyche kept whispering to him was right. Maybe Dean didn’t care. It wasn’t like he’d let Sam’s hallucinations slow down his quest for Dick Roman, after Cas tore down Sam’s wall.
Sam took a few more deep breaths, struggling to even out his breathing. The fact was, Sam didn’t know how he was getting his visions, or even if they were visions. He’d had enough head trauma, never mind the psychic trauma of repeated possessions and resurrections, that he could very well simply be hallucinating. At the end of the day, Sam was psychic, and that did funny things to the mind even without trauma. If the Cage developing a fissure was real, and not a hallucination, then it was a major problem that they did not need.
The question was, could they do anything to stop it?
Author: safiyabat
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of the Cage. Nothing graphic.
Pairing: None - gen
Word Count: 1,128
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester. Present but not speaking: Castiel
Summary: Coda to 11.06, "Our Little World." After the team analyzes the outcome from their missions in "Our Little World," Sam conducts some analysis of his own.
“We’ll see if ‘God’ has any advice for us,” Dean sneered, turning to glare at Sam with his hands on the table.
Rage welled up in Sam, but he fought it down. He’d had decades of practice, after all, because it wasn’t okay to get angry. Wasn’t ever okay to get angry, especially not with Dean. “I’ll check the lore,” he said, turning on his heel and walking toward the library. Neither his brother nor Castiel, who’d built himself some kind of a damn television-addict nest in Sam’s room for the past few weeks, tried to stop him.
He kicked himself for the mean thoughts. Cas had needed to recover, and Sam wasn’t really using the room. It hadn’t ever really been Sam’s room anyway, or at least not just Sam’s room. It had a bed in it that he used, but it also had the only television in the bunker, and he didn’t have the right to get proprietary about that kind of thing. He’d offered it to Cas during his recovery, and no one knew better than Sam that people who’d had control of their body stolen from them by whatever means needed to recover. The fact that Sam had never been allowed that kind of recovery time, not once, didn’t mean that he had the right to begrudge it to anyone else. These were his issues; he didn’t need to go spreading them around like some kind of supernatural STD.
He focused on putting books on shelves, slotting the last one into its empty place as another vision ripped its way through his mind. He tried to breathe his way through it, and maybe if one of the others had followed him they’d have known something was up but as it was, he kept himself quiet like a champ. If gritting his teeth and bearing it were an Olympic event, Sam would take the gold home every time. It wasn’t like there was anything anyone could do about them anyway, no matter where - or who - they were coming from. Maybe it was for the best that no one had followed.
He knew what he was seeing as soon as he saw it, even though he’d never seen it like this. Not from the outside. The Cage, when viewed from the inside, had been an infinite expanse of fire and of ice, molten rock and raining nitrogen, only given shape by the intent of the beings who inhabited it. At the same time, it had been as small as a child-sized coffin.
Viewed from the outside, it was a clay box, carved, suspended over a void by chains. It might have been the size of an average shipping container.
The size, from the outside or the in, didn’t matter. What mattered was the thick cloud of cold and malice that poured forth from it. Sam couldn’t breathe past the lump in his throat, and if his heart beat any faster it might explode right out of his chest like that guy in that weird case with Fred Jones back after Dean came back from Purgatory. He watched, helpless to do anything else as his vision narrowed in on a small spot on the surface of the Cage.
It took everything Sam had not to scream when he saw what he saw. Because what he saw wasn’t the unblemished and secure walls of the Cage, that had held him and his tormentors for so many eons, but a crack. Not merely a crack, but a gap. Something had created a hole, in the wall of the Cage, and through that wall a hand reached out.
The vision ended, and Sam was back in his own reality. Sam took three huge gulps of air to steady himself. He had prayed for hope. For hope! And this was what he got? The Cage, cracking, and something - someone - escaping?
Shaking hands reached out and grabbed books at random before he fled to his room. He had no intention of looking at the books tonight, but he couldn’t let anyone see him. Not like this. They couldn’t see his shame, his desperation, his weakness. It was bad enough that Michael and Lucifer had heard him scream, and beg; he couldn’t stomach the thought of letting Dean and Castiel hear him like that. Not now. With Castiel, probably not ever.
His room, such as it was, was a safe place. He could lock and bolt the door. He could ignore the rumpled sheets . He could move all of the furniture that Cas had rearranged back to where it belonged, and the boxes left behind by the Men of Letters too, and the stacks of books and the stacks of notepads. Then, and only then, would he bury his face in the pillow and let himself go, in here where no one could hear him.
Of course they can’t hear you, a voice in Sam’s head purred. He wasn’t sure if it was Lucifer’s or his own, but that Arctic chill winding its way down his spine definitely didn’t come from Sam. If they can’t hear you, you don’t have to face up to the fact that they don’t care.
Sam forced himself to stop screaming and sit up, chest heaving as he forced himself back under control. The voice was wrong. It had to be. Dean was hiding something about his connection with Amara, Sam could read that as easily as a first year Latin primer. He hadn’t been attacking Amara, when Sam got there. He hadn’t even been considering attacking Amara. The moment she’d attacked Sam, though, he’d picked that knife right up and turned to her with murder in his eyes.
And yet, Dean had made that nasty comment about the visions he’d been getting. Stupid to tell him about them, the voice reminded him. He didn’t trust Sam with whatever he was hiding about Amara. Maybe whatever dark part of his psyche kept whispering to him was right. Maybe Dean didn’t care. It wasn’t like he’d let Sam’s hallucinations slow down his quest for Dick Roman, after Cas tore down Sam’s wall.
Sam took a few more deep breaths, struggling to even out his breathing. The fact was, Sam didn’t know how he was getting his visions, or even if they were visions. He’d had enough head trauma, never mind the psychic trauma of repeated possessions and resurrections, that he could very well simply be hallucinating. At the end of the day, Sam was psychic, and that did funny things to the mind even without trauma. If the Cage developing a fissure was real, and not a hallucination, then it was a major problem that they did not need.
The question was, could they do anything to stop it?