SPN: "Scourge" ("Threat", Chapter 2)
Category: Supernatural
Title: Scourge
Genre: General/Angst
Rating: T
Summary: AU, future. Sometimes the most obvious danger isn't the one you should be focused on. Character deaths.
Previous chapter: Threat
Warning: Spoilers through 3x02
Dean died, because Sam wasn't good enough to save him, and the world changed. Not in the way he expected, with grief and an aching hole in his heart, but in actual, physical changes, a lust for hot blood and raw meat that he couldn't control. Fingers twisted into talons, teeth became fangs, rage overwhelmed him, and when he got control of himself, Ellen was dead under a pile of books and Bobby--dear God, Bobby--
Sam fled out into the darkness, running blindly, and he ran farther and faster and longer than he ever had before. When he came back to himself, he was on the highway talking to a hitchhiker.
That moment of clarity lasted for only a heartbeat.
When Henriksen emerged from Bobby's house, looking grim, cellphone stuck to his ear, Sam was crouched on the top of a pile of crushed cars, balanced there like a cat, lazily stripping the remaining flesh from the hitchhiker's left tibia. Hatred and anger boiled up and escaped through his teeth as an inhuman snarl.
Hours. Merely hours. He still had a grasp of time, though he had to fight for it, fight as desperately as he'd ever fought for anything. Only hours for the world to change. Hours for him to change.
Humanity was slipping away from him. He didn't know why, only knew that at the moment of Dean's death, the desire for hot blood and raw meat had taken over and he'd watched helplessly as his body went on a rampage. It had taken all his strength to stop at killing Bobby and Ellen, which left him none for saving the hitchhiker whose bones were scattered by the highway.
His jaw hurt where the molars were loosening; two had already fallen out, while the front teeth had gotten sharper and longer, like a predator's. His back ached in two long lines below the shoulder blades, and it felt like something was wriggling beneath the skin, fighting to get out. He could see colors even by moonlight, hear the whine of cars on the highway twenty miles away, smell the blood of the agents examining the house as it pulsed confined in their veins. When he thought about it, thought really hard, he could will himself into shadows and become invisible.
He didn't know why. Every hunter that had proclaimed him a danger or called him a monster, they'd never said anything a physical transformation; it was all about psychic power and magic. Even the ones who called him the Antichrist had never mentioned anything like this.
Four nights after Dean died, the pain in his back sharpened and the skin split and a pair of bat-like wings emerged. Instinct drove him to the sky.
Teeth. Wings. Hunger.
What was he becoming?
Why?
***
He lost his sense of time, and then he lost his watch, somewhere in a vagrant's guts.
After the seventh death, Sam tried to hide in the mountains, where nobody lived, hoping it would be safer that way, and discovered two things: he no longer felt the cold, despite clothes that had quickly become little more than bloody rags, and animal meat sat in his stomach like so many rocks until it finally forced its way back up his esophagus. The wendigo fared somewhat better, but was like dry bread after a feast and did nothing to sate the eternal hunger. The campers were the best; they gave him not only a meal but a laptop and an idea.
Henriksen tasted like vengeance and justice, tainted with copper. The other agents were so much meat, tasty in their own way, but he didn't know them, didn't care what their names were, didn't care for anything but the taste of their flesh between his teeth and the salt of the blood running down his throat.
"You should have let me save Dean."
Sam looked up, and growled at the sight of Ruby. "He didn't want--"
"He would have wanted to save you from this," the demon said softly, kneeling in front of him.
"Did you know--"
She shook her head. "This wasn't part of the plan. This-- We knew you were special, Sam, but we thought it was a different kind of special. Nobody realized you were the--you were this."
"What am I?" he whispered.
"I can't tell you."
"Yes you can!" he shouted.
"No," she said, "I can't. Demons can't say it. You need to ask a human."
Ask a human. He couldn't go near humans without wanting to kill and eat. "Did Yellow Eyes do this to me?" he asked.
"No," she said. "This is what you were born for."
He screamed--what, he never knew, since when he came to himself he was lying in a puddle of blood and meat and bone that had Ruby's blond hair.
***
Ask a human.
Easier said than done. Every human he'd seen for the last--
Every human he'd seen since Dean had died, he'd killed. Not just killed, eaten. Bobby, Ellen, Henriksen, even Ruby; there was nobody left.
Wait.
There was one left. If he could just hold on to himself long enough to ask-- If she knew, if she wasn't too scared or too intent on killing him--
Would that be so bad?
He lifted his head. The breeze was full of scents, scents that not so long ago he hadn't even been able to detect, and there hers was--distant, but distance was hardly anything to him anymore.
It was farther than he thought, and he was so hungry when he finally closed in on her scent that he practically fell out of the sky to land at her feet. She jumped away, raising a gun, before she got a good look at him. "Sam?" she blurted.
Jo. The scent of her blood was sweet and heavy in the air.
No. He had to focus. Had to stay human. "Kill me," he whispered.
"Oh, God, Sam..." She reached out, hesitantly, to touch his face. He flinched away with a snarl. "I'm so sorry--"
"Stop me, Jo, please--"
"I can't--"
"I killed your mother!"
"I know. But--nothing can kill you. Nobody can. Not now."
He staggered away from her, away from the temptations of blood and meat. "What am I?"
She looked at him--just looked, with a compassion he hadn't seen from her since Meg-as-Sam had attacked her. "The books call it the Scourge. When the earth reaches its limits, a Scourge is born. You--its job is to cleanse the world."
"One person can't--"
"You're not a person anymore, Sam." The words were soft, gentle, completely unlike Jo, and the uncharacteristic gentleness killed any hope he had left. "The hunger will only get worse. You can't fight it forever. It'll stay with you till you've killed enough to restore the balance, or until there's nobody left, if that's what it takes." She hesitated. "Your daddy--he recognized you, somehow. You should have changed years ago. But he did something that bound you to Dean. Kept you human, long as Dean lived. Never told you. Either of you. I guess he thought it was safer that way."
Dean. By failing to save Dean, he'd condemned himself to--to this.
"Hunters have known what you are for years. Even the FBI guy knew, somebody told him back when he first started investigating John. He never believed us, not really, that's why he was so determined to catch Dean, but now--he's got no choice."
"Had."
"What?"
"I--I--" He was still human enough to cry, to mourn the lives he'd taken
"Oh, God. I'm sorry, Sam." She touched his shoulder, lightly, undoubtedly meaning to offer what reassurance she could.
The hunger took over, and Sam lost every shred of control.
Title: Scourge
Genre: General/Angst
Rating: T
Summary: AU, future. Sometimes the most obvious danger isn't the one you should be focused on. Character deaths.
Previous chapter: Threat
Warning: Spoilers through 3x02
Dean died, because Sam wasn't good enough to save him, and the world changed. Not in the way he expected, with grief and an aching hole in his heart, but in actual, physical changes, a lust for hot blood and raw meat that he couldn't control. Fingers twisted into talons, teeth became fangs, rage overwhelmed him, and when he got control of himself, Ellen was dead under a pile of books and Bobby--dear God, Bobby--
Sam fled out into the darkness, running blindly, and he ran farther and faster and longer than he ever had before. When he came back to himself, he was on the highway talking to a hitchhiker.
That moment of clarity lasted for only a heartbeat.
When Henriksen emerged from Bobby's house, looking grim, cellphone stuck to his ear, Sam was crouched on the top of a pile of crushed cars, balanced there like a cat, lazily stripping the remaining flesh from the hitchhiker's left tibia. Hatred and anger boiled up and escaped through his teeth as an inhuman snarl.
Hours. Merely hours. He still had a grasp of time, though he had to fight for it, fight as desperately as he'd ever fought for anything. Only hours for the world to change. Hours for him to change.
Humanity was slipping away from him. He didn't know why, only knew that at the moment of Dean's death, the desire for hot blood and raw meat had taken over and he'd watched helplessly as his body went on a rampage. It had taken all his strength to stop at killing Bobby and Ellen, which left him none for saving the hitchhiker whose bones were scattered by the highway.
His jaw hurt where the molars were loosening; two had already fallen out, while the front teeth had gotten sharper and longer, like a predator's. His back ached in two long lines below the shoulder blades, and it felt like something was wriggling beneath the skin, fighting to get out. He could see colors even by moonlight, hear the whine of cars on the highway twenty miles away, smell the blood of the agents examining the house as it pulsed confined in their veins. When he thought about it, thought really hard, he could will himself into shadows and become invisible.
He didn't know why. Every hunter that had proclaimed him a danger or called him a monster, they'd never said anything a physical transformation; it was all about psychic power and magic. Even the ones who called him the Antichrist had never mentioned anything like this.
Four nights after Dean died, the pain in his back sharpened and the skin split and a pair of bat-like wings emerged. Instinct drove him to the sky.
Teeth. Wings. Hunger.
What was he becoming?
Why?
***
He lost his sense of time, and then he lost his watch, somewhere in a vagrant's guts.
After the seventh death, Sam tried to hide in the mountains, where nobody lived, hoping it would be safer that way, and discovered two things: he no longer felt the cold, despite clothes that had quickly become little more than bloody rags, and animal meat sat in his stomach like so many rocks until it finally forced its way back up his esophagus. The wendigo fared somewhat better, but was like dry bread after a feast and did nothing to sate the eternal hunger. The campers were the best; they gave him not only a meal but a laptop and an idea.
Henriksen tasted like vengeance and justice, tainted with copper. The other agents were so much meat, tasty in their own way, but he didn't know them, didn't care what their names were, didn't care for anything but the taste of their flesh between his teeth and the salt of the blood running down his throat.
"You should have let me save Dean."
Sam looked up, and growled at the sight of Ruby. "He didn't want--"
"He would have wanted to save you from this," the demon said softly, kneeling in front of him.
"Did you know--"
She shook her head. "This wasn't part of the plan. This-- We knew you were special, Sam, but we thought it was a different kind of special. Nobody realized you were the--you were this."
"What am I?" he whispered.
"I can't tell you."
"Yes you can!" he shouted.
"No," she said, "I can't. Demons can't say it. You need to ask a human."
Ask a human. He couldn't go near humans without wanting to kill and eat. "Did Yellow Eyes do this to me?" he asked.
"No," she said. "This is what you were born for."
He screamed--what, he never knew, since when he came to himself he was lying in a puddle of blood and meat and bone that had Ruby's blond hair.
***
Ask a human.
Easier said than done. Every human he'd seen for the last--
Every human he'd seen since Dean had died, he'd killed. Not just killed, eaten. Bobby, Ellen, Henriksen, even Ruby; there was nobody left.
Wait.
There was one left. If he could just hold on to himself long enough to ask-- If she knew, if she wasn't too scared or too intent on killing him--
Would that be so bad?
He lifted his head. The breeze was full of scents, scents that not so long ago he hadn't even been able to detect, and there hers was--distant, but distance was hardly anything to him anymore.
It was farther than he thought, and he was so hungry when he finally closed in on her scent that he practically fell out of the sky to land at her feet. She jumped away, raising a gun, before she got a good look at him. "Sam?" she blurted.
Jo. The scent of her blood was sweet and heavy in the air.
No. He had to focus. Had to stay human. "Kill me," he whispered.
"Oh, God, Sam..." She reached out, hesitantly, to touch his face. He flinched away with a snarl. "I'm so sorry--"
"Stop me, Jo, please--"
"I can't--"
"I killed your mother!"
"I know. But--nothing can kill you. Nobody can. Not now."
He staggered away from her, away from the temptations of blood and meat. "What am I?"
She looked at him--just looked, with a compassion he hadn't seen from her since Meg-as-Sam had attacked her. "The books call it the Scourge. When the earth reaches its limits, a Scourge is born. You--its job is to cleanse the world."
"One person can't--"
"You're not a person anymore, Sam." The words were soft, gentle, completely unlike Jo, and the uncharacteristic gentleness killed any hope he had left. "The hunger will only get worse. You can't fight it forever. It'll stay with you till you've killed enough to restore the balance, or until there's nobody left, if that's what it takes." She hesitated. "Your daddy--he recognized you, somehow. You should have changed years ago. But he did something that bound you to Dean. Kept you human, long as Dean lived. Never told you. Either of you. I guess he thought it was safer that way."
Dean. By failing to save Dean, he'd condemned himself to--to this.
"Hunters have known what you are for years. Even the FBI guy knew, somebody told him back when he first started investigating John. He never believed us, not really, that's why he was so determined to catch Dean, but now--he's got no choice."
"Had."
"What?"
"I--I--" He was still human enough to cry, to mourn the lives he'd taken
"Oh, God. I'm sorry, Sam." She touched his shoulder, lightly, undoubtedly meaning to offer what reassurance she could.
The hunger took over, and Sam lost every shred of control.