[FIC] The Long Dark
Title: The Long DarkRating: M (see warnings)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 4,000+
Warnings: Language; Memories and depictions of graphic torture
Spoilers: Up to 06x16, "And Then There Were None."
Note: This was written for the Fanworks Challenge over at ohsam, for the prompt, "Gen, season 6. After a huge fight, an angry Dean takes off. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but Sam suffers a huge seizure right after and Castiel has to take care of him. Sam is convinced he's too broken and that Dean would be better off without him. Castiel shows him otherwise." by center_galaxy. I hope this is even a little bit close to what you were imagining. For the purposes of this story, Sam temporarily has an iPhone. Let's just imagine that he temporarily used a smartphone after he lost his phone in “Frontierland.”
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They say hell hath no fury, but they've never seen Dean when he's pissed. And Dean calls Sam a girl. Not that Dean was scorned. By anyone, really. Certainly not by Sam. There was no scorning. Just an ill-advised trip to a bar, and Sam only had a few drinks.
Dean is not his brother's keeper, as much as he'd like to think so.
But hell certainly hath no fury quite like Dean when he's angry. Or maybe it does. Maybe he learned it there.
Sam doesn't think he learned fury during his stint in the Cage, though. He doesn't have any memories, really, nothing more than the awful stench of burning flesh that his first seizure left him with, but it's more an impression than anything. Before Sam went into the Cage, he had fury-tons of righteous and not-so-righteous anger with nowhere to go. In the Cage, he learned other things. Shame, helplessness. He thought he knew those things before. Now he wonders.
No. No time to think about that. His body recoils from the thought of it, the remembered panic of falling to a rickety floor, body locking and consciousness fading and lungs refusing to draw breath as he fell, as the fire boiled him from the inside and then the outside-
No.
He has bigger things to worry about right now.
So he turns to face Dean, squaring his shoulders because Dean's never going to be able to look at him like an equal if he can't stand on equal ground. "Look," he says. "I felt like shit. We had to torture Bobby today, Dean, and... I just needed a break. A drink."
"You think I don't know that? Who the fuck was handling the live wire, Sam? Who was the one who killed him? It wasn't you."
And in his freshman logic and philosophy classes, so long ago that he doesn't even remember which professor taught them, he learned that this sort of evasion might be called a red herring.
"That has nothing to do with this, Dean," he says, reasonable. Calm.
Those aren't the words he should have said.
He knows that looking at Bobby's still body, smeared with black goop from that awful worm, and watching Bobby's unshed tears of pain slick their way down his cheeks post-mortem-that was sick. It messed Dean up. Bobby's fine now, but he's sleeping. It's given both of them too much time to think.
Sam changes tactics. He can speak emotion. "I couldn't... I just needed to get it out of my head. I know I should have told you. I wasn't thinking."
"Wasn't thinking? You sure as hell weren't. Your head is broken, Sam. Your wall's showing cracks, people and things are out to rip off our balls and display them on the fucking mantel, and you thought it would be a good idea to get a little sloshed in a bar on the outskirts of town. Without telling me."
"Dean-"
"Don't 'Dean' me. You know what, Sam? This is Bobby's place. There's more than enough alcohol to get you piss-drunk with your awful constitution. Bobby wouldn't even miss the alcohol it would take to get you sloshed."
"I didn't think-"
"We've established that, Sam! You don't think. I try to watch out for you, Sammy, but you make it so hard sometimes." Sam's brother turns a little to the side, gaze leveled on the peeling off-white paint of the doorframe like he can start it on fire with his mind. Like if he didn't look away he'd have to punch Sam. Sam can take punches. He has in the past and he will in the future, no doubt-even from Dean. Especially from Dean. But he can't take this-his brother's assumption that Sam needs to be watched out for. He's been trying for years to prove that he's worth trusting.
It's not enough, though. Not ever.
Sam bites his lip and then clenches his jaw. At last, he spits, "You know what? I don't need you to watch out for me, Dean. Haven't for a long time."
"That's fucking rich, Sam! Do you even know what you do when left to your own devices? Need I remind you of Ruby? Hmm? Lilith?"
Dean has no idea. He has no idea why Sam went so far off the grid. "You really think that's because I was left to myself? You selfish bastard."
The words spill out like poison before Sam can stop them. He sees Dean flinch, shoulders drawing tight, so close he's either going to punch Sam or pull inside of himself and hurt. Sometimes it's the same thing.
"You left me, Dean. You sold your soul and you left me behind in a world I never wanted to live in. You were the only thing that ever made anything worth it, and you just... sold yourself, like you were nothing."
"I had to bring you back," Dean whispers.
"And you did. Only to leave me alone in the fucked up world where everyone was an enemy. You left me alone."
"I went to Hell for you, Sam! Don't you even talk like I did you wrong. Don't you dare."
"I didn't ask you to! What you did, it wasn't for me, Dean! It sure as hell wasn't for me."
The fist connects before Sam even realizes it's coming. He doesn't even hear Dean stalking close enough to hit Sam's teeth grind together with an ugly sound like chalkboards, except it's not only the sound but the sensation of it scraping up into his skull, a cacophony of shrieking noise. His mouth tastes like chalk, like dust and brightness, the sensation you can only know when you've been punched in the mouth hard enough to knock your teeth together.
The penny-sharp flavor of blood fills his mouth, and he spits it out at Dean without thinking.
His older brother steps back, wipes the fine spatter of blood from his cheek and brow, and offers Sam a cold smile. "I'm gonna go out, Sam. I'm gonna get a drink, because if I stay in this house with you, I'm going to kill you."
Sam manages to keep on his feet until Dean leaves, but then his knees knock and he lets himself down, hauling in deep breaths.
No panicking. Assess the damage.
His tongue explores his mouth. His teeth feel a little raw, if that's at all possible, and there's a great chunk of ragged flesh on the left side of his lower lip where Dean's fist ground the fragile skin against his teeth.
Not too bad.
He concentrates on breathing.
"Sam Winchester."
Fuck breathing.
Sam scrambles across the floor, hands up, and he will deny the whimper he makes for the rest of his life. In moments, the angel is beside him, one warm hand on Sam's shoulder, looking down at him with impossibly blue eyes. "Is something the matter?"
Sam shakes his head. "I-I didn't... why?"
"I sensed your distress. You called for me, even if you didn't use words." The man's chin tilts, eyes intent and too focused. He's doing better, but he still doesn't always manage the personal bubble thing. "What's wrong?"
"I-nothing, Cas. I just... Fuck." He can't look for his brother's trust if he's gonna cry on an angel's shoulder instead. "Just... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. You can go back to... to whatever you were doing."
Cas nods. "It was actually important."
Sam manages a laugh. He sits on his hands. That'll teach them to shake. "Good. Then you can..."
"What is the source of your distress? Is it the wall? Is there...?"
Sam shakes his head. "Nah, I'm fine." Say it enough and someone might actually believe it. When did he get so weak? "Just... uh, got in a fight with Dean. He was... I just needed to..."
"I cannot understand if you do not speak in complete sentences."
"It's nothing. Look, I'm really sorry I bothered you. Go do your important things."
"I cannot leave you."
"Dean's the one you're all buddy-buddy with, right? Profound bond or whatever? Please. Just..." He forces himself to his feet. He can stand. He can conduct a conversation while standing.
He can't stop shaking. It's moved from his fingers all the way up his arms, and all he can think is if I stay in this house with you, I'm going to kill you.
"Please," he says.
"Please what?" Cas steps closer, impossibly closer, and Sam really needs to talk to him about this personal space thing, but he can't concentrate because it's so damn cold and the smell, just won't-
"Do you smell that?"
"I don't smell anything. Except, perhaps, for..."
"Something burning. Do you smell it?"
"You're trembling. Perhaps it would be better if you sat down. I believe there is a condition humans sometimes suffer from called psychological shock. Perhaps I can get some tea for you."
"Is it cold in here to you?"
It's cold, ice cold, spreading not from outside but from inside, starting in his core and moving to his extremities, and he tries to say something else, but the sound that comes out isn't words.
He can't breathe. He still smells it. Something burning. Can cold burn?
Freezer burn.
So cold. Is he dying? It's only his fucking lip. He needs to get a hold of himself, needs to
If I stay, I'm going to kill you
Dean's face, splattered with Sam's blood. The smile devoid of everything Dean.
"I'm going to kill you."
Not Dean's face, but a man named Nick, but it's not Nick. Lucifer.
A smile.
The cold spreading through him. Dean's there again, covered in blood as he reaches gently to cup Sam's face, except Dean's blunt fingers dip into the socket of his eye instead, pushing and pushing until he gouges out the fragile sphere and blood gushes over Sam's face.
It's still Dean.
"I'm not going to kill you, Sammy. But you'll wish you were dead, oh boy hallelujah will you wish for death."
All Sam can do is look at his own eyeball.
"You'll... you'll see it my way, eventually. We have all the time..." The fingers extend again, fingers that know only gentleness. His brother's hands. "All the time... in the world."
Somewhere far away he hears Sam Winchester, please answer me. Are you all right? Please.
And then the voice is gone, and here he is, alone.
The other hand digs in, stealing his sight.
They have all the time in the world.
And maybe they do.
It feels eternal, this time.
- oOo -
Castiel cannot catch Sam as he falls, not because he doesn't have the strength, but because he isn't expecting it.
He falls with all the weight of a corpse, no care. Castiel has seen many corpses, empty of their souls. For a moment, he holds his breath. He doesn't know what to do.
But Sam is alive. He moves.
The relief that washes over Cas lasts about long enough for Sam to draw in a breath more like a scream in reverse, a raw sound that seems to stretch his ribcage farther than it should go.
Then Sam Winchester begins to seize in earnest, teeth clenched, arms jerking, spine arching. His leg collides with a bookshelf and his arm slams into the leg of a table.
Castiel does not understand human infirmities, but this does not match with what he knows of psychological shock. Jimmy Novak knew of seizures. Cas, too, knows of seizures. Misfires in the brain, he thinks.
He does not know what to do with one.
Another crash. Sam's head hits the floor and his leg lashes out again, cracking against the shelves.
It sounds painful. Praying that he's doing the right thing, Castiel grabs Sam's collar and hauls him into the middle of the room where there are fewer things to bump into.
There, he looks down at Sam's pale face, watches as bloody saliva whipped into red froth slides over Sam's lips and down his chin. He makes noises like a dying animal, noises that make Cas angry and sad, because this is not the Sam Winchester he knows.
Cas thrusts a hand into Sam's pocket.
He doesn't know about seizures (and Castiel is reasonably certain that no textbooks on the planet will contain references to hell-memory-induced seizures), but he thinks he can find out.
- oOo -
Torture gets boring after about a century, after Lucifer has hurt Sam in every way a body can be hurt, tried every variation on every human theme and then some. He tortures Sam with Dean's face on (an old favorite; it never stops hurting when it's Dean's gentle hands dealing the blows), and then it's Bobby, and then Jody, then Ellen or Jo or his mom. Sometimes his dad. Lucifer stopped using John pretty quick, though. Sammy got feisty when John was the one doing the hurting. So mostly it's Dean who puts him under the knife (scalpel, needle, spike, brand). After he's exhausted all avenues of causing pain, Lucifer moves on, changes tactics. Ever adaptable.
Then there was the silence, impossibly still and complete. Unable to see or hear or feel or smell, Sam was merely a consciousness in the shell of his own body. For years and years, silence. Not even the sound of a breath.
When his mind is gone so far that he can't feel the fear, that's when Lucifer restores him, just enough that he can go mad again.
And then there's the cold, almost always present, marrow-deep and numbing.
It's silent, now, too. Sam can't hear (he thinks his eardrums were pierced) and of course he can't see anymore, but he still has the pain. He holds on to it, because it's the only thing that's his in here, for now.
He senses no one else in the room. Michael might be there. Sometimes, Michael is angry. And Michael isn't ice. Oh, no, the archangel is fire, watching impassively as Sam's skin bubbles and burns from the inside out. Michael hates Sam, says he had one job but he just had to go and mess it up. All he had to do was lie there, let Lucifer do all the work, but instead he had to go and fight for the vessel (always a vessel, never a body). After centuries in here, the lesson gets pounded home: his body doesn't belong to him. Maybe it never did. First it was Azazel's, then John tried to stake a claim, and then Meg took him for a spin for a short while, and now it's Lucifer who owns him. Sam supposes that's the right order. Time means different things to him now, and his memories of before are faint.
Sometimes they don't assume any form. Sometimes, they're just pure energy, the bind that burns even the soul. Sam comes to know what it's like to have the layers of his very being stripped away by that light. (But at least it's not dark.)
Sam rarely sees Michael, but he has learned to fear the times when the angel comes to Sam's corner to play. Sometimes they pit Sam against Adam, with some pale allowance or reward to the victor. Mostly they play with their own toys, though. Sam doesn't know if Michael does to Adam what Lucifer does to Sam. Adam was, after all, obedient. Sometimes they just get so angry.
It's a blessing, really, to feel the blood drying in the sockets of his eyes, the dry stabs of pain through his skull. He holds on to the pain, this blessing.
Sometimes he sleeps, and has dreams of a brokenness that even archangels can't restore. It's the closest thing to peace he ever knows.
So he lies there for days and days, and he remembers how to fade.
- oOo -
The seizure lasts six minutes, which, according to the Internet, is dangerously long. Castiel doesn't know if the same scale applies to hell-related seizures. After the convulsions stop, Sam is lazy-eyed and unresponsive, barely responding even to simple commands. The Internet tells Castiel that's normal, too. It is called a postictal state. It lasts about an hour.
Cas gets a pillow to put under Sam's head and a blanket to put over him.
He dares not move him, not just yet, so he kneels next to the boy and watches him breathe.
- oOo -
Sam returns very slowly to awareness. First he sees the ceiling, recognizing that he's in a house. Then he realizes he's in Bobby's house. Finally, he recognizes a second presence in the room.
Not Bobby.
Cas.
It all comes back, and Sam feels sick. He bolts up, tries to rise.
“Please. Don't.”
For a moment, he's surprised that he can see and hear, worried it's a ruse.
That's silly.
He can't place the source of the fear, but it's fading fast. He tries to push himself upright again.
Cas stops him with a gentle hand on one shoulder. The angel tilts his head to the side, appraising, as Sam lifts himself to his elbows, and then-slowly-to a sitting position. Every part of his body aches, like he just ran ten miles without stopping for air.
A part of him says that pain is good, a blessing. Sam hopes he didn't go to sleep and wake up a masochist.
Well.
That might actually be a good thing, considering.
Cas tucks the phone back in Sam's pocket. “I’m sorry… You seem to have suffered a seizure. While you were unresponsive, I took the liberty of using your phone,” Cas informs him.
Sam doesn’t know if it’s just post-seizure brain (what with all the drug withdrawal and other supernatural interference, Sam has become reasonably familiar with seizures), but he can’t fathom why Cas would use his phone while he was seizing.
And because his filter takes a while to reboot, he blurts out, “What the fuck, Cas?”
Another head tilt. The angel’s eyebrows knit together. “I am familiar with various medical conditions in theory, but I did not have any knowledge pertaining to the more modern methods of treatment. I did… research.”
If Sam wasn’t hurting so bad, he might laugh. “You did research? I’m actually-” He groans as he gets one knee under him, then another, breathless from the minor exertion. “I’m flattered.”
“It was rather unhelpful, however; the Internet simply advised me to do… nothing. Unless, of course, a certain period of time elapsed, and then I was supposed to, perhaps, administer some medication if you had it or call emergency services.”
“Yeah? How long was I…” He waves a hand.
“Well past the time at which it said I should take drastic measures. Of course, you have no medication, so I could hardly administer it.”
Sam feels a sinking feeling in his gut. “So… what did you do?”
“As your ailment is spiritual rather than physical-although its effects manifest physically-I assumed that human physicians would not be able to treat you. I did not place any calls. I’m actually… I’m not entirely sure I know how I should do so using this phone. There is only one button.”
“Then how did you research seizures?”
“I asked the electronic assistance… being. I believe she may be called Siri.”
Sam rasps out a startled laugh. It hurts, but it feels good. It’s been a long time since he’s laughed and meant it. “That’s… Cas. I feel like you’re all grown up or something.”
Cas levels a steady gaze at him. “I have lived many, many times the span of a human life, Sam Winchester.”
“And somehow you have absolutely no ability to use technology.”
“It’s a reasonably recent development…”
Cas lets the silence marinate for a while before he speaks again. “Are you capable of standing? I can’t imagine that the floor is comfortable.”
“Let’s see.”
They make it to the couch, and Cas sits gingerly in the corner after making sure Sam is comfortable.
“I feel like I got kicked by a bull.”
“A bookshelf.”
Sam sinks into the cushions on the couch. His back is killing him. “A what?”
“During the seizure, your limbs collided with various pieces of furniture. I moved you out of the way, but you hurt yourself several times before I had the presence of mind to relocate you.”
Sam takes that in. “Thanks. And, uh... I'm sorry.”
“For what? I don't believe the seizure was voluntary.”
Sam shakes his head. “Just...”
“I read on the Internet that sometimes, during seizures, the victim voids their bowels.”
Sam's eyes go wide, a flush of shame spreading through him.
“You didn't,” Cas says.
The silence draws out again. Sam is pretty sure he's blushing all the way to his ears.
“I was attempting to...” Cas's eyebrows knit. “Perhaps I did it wrong. I was attempting to 'find the bright side' to this situation.”
Sam can't help laughing. “Well, at least I didn't piss myself,” he says. This time.
Castiel relaxes. “Yes. Not that it would have been a problem if you had. I could simply-”
“Cas.”
“Yes?”
“Please. Stop while you're ahead.”
Cas nods. “Before... you said you fought with Dean. Would you like to talk about it?”
He doesn't. He really, really doesn't. The words spill out anyway. “I just went out to get a few drinks. I couldn't be here anymore. I couldn't take it. Bobby's still sleeping and Dean was just... brooding, and the silence was killing me. I... don't like the quiet.”
Cas's hand settles down on Sam's shoulder, warm. “I see.”
“And, well-I just went to a bar, not even so far out of town, just so I could be around people, and sure... I drank a few beers because this girl, she-” he stops himself. “I was a little drunk, and I guess Dean noticed I was missing and got pissed-”
“Dean worries for you.”
Sam snorts. “I'm sure. I'd prefer listening over worrying any day.”
“Anger makes people foolish.”
“I know.” Sam forces himself to his feet, but his legs won't hold him. He drops to the couch again like a ragdoll, trying to swallow a hiss of pain. (If he doesn't make a sound, no one will know how much it hurts.)
Cas reaches out to steady him. “He's very concerned about your... soul, and the state of the wall. He's afraid of losing you.”
“But I don't need to be coddled. Dean has... he has so fucking much on his shoulders, and he doesn't need to hear that I'm afraid of the fucking dark. There's too much going on, and I wish...” Sam spits out the words he's been thinking. “I wish I never got my soul back, not if I'm just gonna keep fucking things up.”
“Sam-”
“No. I do. I fucked up the Apocalypse, I fucked up coming back to life, I fucked up Dean-”
“That was my mistake. It was not within my power to draw both body and soul from the Cage, and if I had known it, I would have... I would have found a way. That was my fault.”
Blue eyes bore into his. “Sam, you were tossed about by Fate and manipulated by the forces of hell, and...I am ashamed to say, those of Heaven as well, and you managed to take control of your own body against Lucifer himself. I would not say that was 'fucking up.'”
Sam leans back and shrugs off Castiel's steadying hand.
“You had no choice. I understand that feeling. Sometimes...” and here, Sam thinks he sees something for a moment, something deeply personal to Cas. “Sometimes we must work with the devil in order to bring a good thing about. And you did. When you were needed, you made the right choice. I did not hold the highest opinion of you when I first met you, admittedly...”
“I think you called me an abomination?”
“Perhaps.” The hand returns. Sam wonders if it's the only way Cas knows to connect with someone. Maybe he saw it on TV, or read about it on the Internet. The angel continues, “But... now I realize that you-the both of you-are strong. You are strong, Sam Winchester. It would serve you well to remember that.”
Sam tries to blink back the shameful burn of tears, but Castiel won't stop staring, too close and too warm, and Sam has kept himself from screaming or crying out for years before (when?) and he's going to break just because of a few, awkward words of kindness. How pathetic.
Castiel squeezes his shoulder and covers Sam's eyes with his free hand. “Rest, Sam Winchester. I will speak to your brother. When you wake, you will feel better.”
The way Cas says it, Sam can almost believe it.
THE END
Note: This fic is finished. I lost a whole, huge section and had to rewrite it, but I hope it came out all right. I considered writing about what happened when Dean came home, or maybe a scene where Cas talked with Dean, but I don't think the story needs it. Maybe one day I'll write that bit. Any thoughts would be deeply appreciated. I really don't know if I did the prompt justice. Comments or criticism are both welcome and will warm my cold, cold heart with glee.
Note: Find the sequel here.