SPN Fic: Second
Title: Second
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Samuel, Dean (implied Lucifer/Sam)
Rating: R
Warnings: ritualistic torture, Hell, implied rape, implied murder
Spoilers: Set somewhere between 6.13 and 6.16
Words: 2205
Summary: Samuel Campbell will stop at nothing to get his daughter back.
Note: Witten for cherry916's prompt at the current ohsam fic challenge:
Gen. Season 6. Samuel Campbell was more obsessed than Sam and Dean realized, he will stop at nothing to try and bring Mary back even if he has to sacrifice his youngest grandson in a ritual to so, with Sam's soul newly returned and the wall bring so fragile Dean has to work double time on saving Sam and making sure he stays sane.
Sadly, this is somewhat lacking in the comfort department. I tried, but the story refused to have anything more added to it.
Sam wakes to pain. Familiar pain, easily identified. Blow to the back of his head - well-placed and hard enough to know him out, but not hard enough to give him a concussion. This is going to hurt for a few days, if he will live to suffer it.
He can’t move because he’s bound. Sam opens his eyes, blinks until the world swims into focus. He looks left and right, takes in the hall that surrounds him. Medium sized, high ceiling, empty. Abandoned warehouse. No Dean bound to a table beside him. Good.
There’s daylight falling in through the high ceiling and candles on the ground. They are forming a pattern. Sam doesn’t know it, but recognizes there is a meaning. A ritual. Not good. He acknowledges the presence of the man who isn’t Dean.
The man is standing between the candles and now he comes closer, careful not to knock over any of the lights. He’s older, tall, bald. A feeling of recognition runs through Sam and is gone when he tries to reach for it. Maybe he met this man when he had no soul. Maybe this is about revenge.
“Whatever you intend to do,” Sam says, his voice rough and hoarse, “don’t do it. It won’t end well.”
“Don’t worry about it, Son,” the man says and turns to another table, busying himself with objects Sam can’t see. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Who are you?”
The man stops whatever he is doing to look at Sam with a strange expression on his face. “Ah, I see,” he says. “Dean succeeded, then. I could tell you were different the moment I saw you.”
So this man knows he’s changed since they last met. He knows Dean wanted to get Sam’s soul back, and that doesn’t leave many possible candidates. “You’re Samuel,” Sam realizes.
“Yes,” Samuel confirms. “And I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Sam tugs on the robes holding his hands left and right beside his head and his legs bent with his feet 0on the table. They are tight, but with some time Sam would probably be able to wriggle out of them.
Time he isn’t going to have.
“This will hurt,” Samuel says regretfully, though if this is what he’s sorry about Sam can’t tell. “But it’s necessary. It’s for your mother. Now you have a soul, you will understand.”
Sam’s stomach drops. “You’re trying to bring her back from the dead.” He looks around as best he can’t, but even knowing what it is for he doesn’t find anything in his memory that matches this set up. He does, however, know enough about rituals to recognize a blood sacrifice when he sees one. “You think she’d want this?” he asks, fighting against his bonds with new desperation.
“She’s my daughter,” Samuel reminds him as if that was reason enough for Mary to better be all over it - because she won’t get a say in it, and if Samuel knew how much he sounds like Sam’s dad right now he would probably shoot himself in the head and save Dean the trouble.
But Samuel isn’t finished yet. “She’ll never know what I had to do.” He picks up something; Sam can’t see what, but he hears the sound of metal scraping over metal and where the hell is Dean, anyway? “It’s unfortunate. But it has to be her kin.”
“Why don’t you sacrifice yourself, then?” Sam spits out. “When my dad saved Dean’s life, at least he had the decency to give his own life.” Not that Dean thanked him for it. Not that Sam wanted Dean to give his life for his. But if he has to die here, at least Sam wants his goddamn grandfather to know that John Winchester was a better man than him. A better father.
“Because I want her back!” Samuel growls. “I want to hold her in my arms again. Your father just wanted to avoid the guilt.”
“I’d be surprised if you knew how to spell that word.” Sam’s beginning to panic and trying not to show it. But Samuel comes closer now, and he’s ready, and Sam is completely helpless, bound, half-stripped of clothes, and something is lurking in the back of his mind that gets stronger whenever he tries to break free and fails. Feeding his fear. Whispering of eons.
“You’re one to talk.” Samuel’s voice is harder now and Sam knows he can’t say anything to make this man change his mind. He grew up with John Winchester as a father - he knows what obsession looks like. “Even if Mary knew, she would understand. If I told her what you have done. You think she wanted her son to turn out that way? You insulted her memory. And so did your brother.”
“How so? Because he would not let me burn in Hell for all eternity?” It gets hard to breathe as something dark rises inside Sam, like a tide stinking of sulfur. But Sam can’t remember. He can’t remember, there’s a wall keeping him safe. And then another thought runs through him because Dean isn’t here and that’s good but Samuel isn’t worried about Dean finding them, isn’t worried about Dean finding mom and telling her, and it gives Sam the strength to fight against the bonds one more time even as meat hooks are tearing through his thoughts. “What happened to Dean?” he yells. “What did you do to him?”
His right hand feels like it might come loose any moment, but then it’s grabbed, and pressed down, and his fist is opened by a grip like a vice. “I know you can’t remember what happened during our time together,” Samuel says calmly, and something hard and pointy is set against Sam’s palm, digging in and No. “But rest assured that you deserve this.”
There is a metallic clank and a piercing pain and the world inside Sam rises up and covers the world around his body like a tide coming in and Lucifer laughs as he picks pieces of bone out of Sam’s thorn appendage. Sam is screaming but it’s just Samuel beside him, just Samuel chanting in ancient Greek but Sam can’t concentrate, can’t listen and Dean isn’t coming and Dean can’t come and Dean.
There’s more pain - unimportant compared to the pain in Sam’s hand but there and going deeper than it should, like acid eating its way down to his bones. He turns his head and sees Samuel carve a single symbol into his arm, exactly between wrist and elbow, and is this the pain making him see things or is it really glowing faintly, burning away the blood pouring out so it doesn’t obscure the sign? (Is any of this really happening?)
After he’s done, Samuel moves on to the other arm, drawing another symbol, different from the first. Sam doesn’t know them. They’re not Greek. Then Samuel puts down the knife (silver, with gold embroidering, but those are hardly visible, not meant for decoration) and picks up the hammer again, and another long, thick nail (metal, available in any local store).
Reverse order from the hand before, Sam thinks. He knows why his feet are positioned like that. Then Samuel drives the nail through his palm and the world below rises up and drowns him.
-#-
The stink of sulfur and burning flesh is suffocating even though Sam can’t die and shouldn’t have to breathe. (Why does he have to breathe?) He chokes on it and Michael laughs (Ah, yes, that’s why, how could he forget?) and Lucifer is standing between his legs where Samuel is standing, and his hands are trailing up over Sam’s skin, past the symbols the old man carved, and push apart his knees. (His touch is so gentle but so strong. It snaps Sam’s ankles without effort because Sam’s feet have been nailed down and are fixed but Lucifer wants his legs open, yes, of course he does, and Sam can’t even scream anymore though he can still hear his own voice.) His hands slip further up, trailing over the inside of Sam’s thighs so tenderly it almost tickles and he chuckles. (“Don’t pretend, Sammy.”)
There is a man standing beside Sam but Sam doesn’t know him. Why would Michael take a form Sam doesn’t know? It doesn’t make sense, and everything Michael does makes sense, everything follows patterns. Sam needs to decipher this one but then, it doesn’t matter. The Michael-man is holding a stake in one hand and a large hammer in the other and he’s positioning them over Sam’s stomach, where it will kill him but not instantly. Lucifer will love this. He will draw this out, and Michael will watch and feel like the big brother gain, making his little brother a present. Then he will get angry and tear apart what’s left of Sam in his rage. Sam knows this game.
He doesn’t understand why Michael suddenly lets go of the stake and steps back but he does know why he hears Dean’s voice now. He’s been hearing Dean’s voice ever since he came down here and does his best not to listen. Dean never says anything kind.
It’s still better to focus on Lucifer as he picks up the stake Michael dropped and drives it through Sam’s insides with so much power it gets stuck in the table below him.
-#-
Samuel stumbles back with a gasp when Dean’s bullet hits him in the shoulder, his chanting stopping abruptly. Dean doesn’t pay him any mind beyond thinking I should have aimed for his head. Bobby’s got this. And Sam is on that fucking table, that fucking sacrificial altar and he’s fucking seizing and Dean knows what that means, he fucking knows what that means.
Sam’s also covered in blood because the bastard nailed him to the table and he’s seizing. He’s in Hell. (Should have aimed for the head.)
“Sammy!” Dean yells, rushing to him, knocking over candles left and right while Bobby is pointing his shotgun at his grandfather and Samuel is saying “No, no, you don’t know what you’ve done,” over and over. Dean is going to aim for his head next, but first he’s going to nail him to the floor and tear out his entrails.
Sam’s stopped seizing and is still now. Staring up at the ceiling, not reacting to Dean’s hand patting his cheek or the one in his hair, and fuck, so much blood.
Samuel got the drop on him when he was at the bookshop, picking up a delivery - and Dean can only be grateful that the old man still isn’t used to these paranoid times and its security cameras. But they still needed too long to find them and the bastard nailed Sam to the table and Dean can’t get the nails out. They’re in too deep - he can see that with one glance, and they didn’t bring pliers, of course they didn’t. Why would they? Who would be so sick and nail someone down?
“Bobby,” Dean says, helplessly, and Bobby looks, and curses, and says he has a tool box in the car, only, Dean will have to watch this granddad while he’s gone, and can he do that?
Of course Dean can. He keeps one hand on the forehead of his brother who still hasn’t snapped out of it (shit, how long does this take, the last time Sam was gone for a few minutes and it felt like a week how long has he been down yet shit) and the other it aiming his gun at the old man before him. The pathetic, evil old man.
Samuel, holding his bleeding shoulder, slowly climbs to his feet and Dean doesn’t stop him. His finger twitches.
“This was the only chance,” Samuel says, desperation in his voice and pain in his eyes as he looks around, looks at Sam on the table, unmoving but still alive. Just one more second, Dean thinks, Just one more second, and Samuel shakes his head, lost and full of accusation. “You ruined it. You killed Crowley and now you ruined this, too. How could you? She’s your mother!”
“And you think she would bring you back from the dead just because you’re her dad?” Dean asks, his voice cold. “You ever wonder, then, why she never tried? Why she would make a deal for John but not for you?”
Samuel doesn’t do him the favor of flinching. “I wouldn’t ask it of her. I wouldn’t want her to!”
“No, you just want the best for her!” Dean spits. “Pull her out of Heaven where she’s at peace, where she’s happy, and throw her down to a stinking warehouse beside the mutilated corpse of her son? You think she’d thank you for that? I bet you would have been just thrilled to come down here and find her body cooling before you with someone saying, oh, yes, we did that for you, congratulations.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Samuel snarls with tears of anger in his eyes. “You have no idea what it means to love someone that much.”
Under Dean’s palm Sam doesn’t move. Dean aims the gun a little higher. “Yes, I do,” he says.
November 16, 2011
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Samuel, Dean (implied Lucifer/Sam)
Rating: R
Warnings: ritualistic torture, Hell, implied rape, implied murder
Spoilers: Set somewhere between 6.13 and 6.16
Words: 2205
Summary: Samuel Campbell will stop at nothing to get his daughter back.
Note: Witten for cherry916's prompt at the current ohsam fic challenge:
Gen. Season 6. Samuel Campbell was more obsessed than Sam and Dean realized, he will stop at nothing to try and bring Mary back even if he has to sacrifice his youngest grandson in a ritual to so, with Sam's soul newly returned and the wall bring so fragile Dean has to work double time on saving Sam and making sure he stays sane.
Sadly, this is somewhat lacking in the comfort department. I tried, but the story refused to have anything more added to it.
Sam wakes to pain. Familiar pain, easily identified. Blow to the back of his head - well-placed and hard enough to know him out, but not hard enough to give him a concussion. This is going to hurt for a few days, if he will live to suffer it.
He can’t move because he’s bound. Sam opens his eyes, blinks until the world swims into focus. He looks left and right, takes in the hall that surrounds him. Medium sized, high ceiling, empty. Abandoned warehouse. No Dean bound to a table beside him. Good.
There’s daylight falling in through the high ceiling and candles on the ground. They are forming a pattern. Sam doesn’t know it, but recognizes there is a meaning. A ritual. Not good. He acknowledges the presence of the man who isn’t Dean.
The man is standing between the candles and now he comes closer, careful not to knock over any of the lights. He’s older, tall, bald. A feeling of recognition runs through Sam and is gone when he tries to reach for it. Maybe he met this man when he had no soul. Maybe this is about revenge.
“Whatever you intend to do,” Sam says, his voice rough and hoarse, “don’t do it. It won’t end well.”
“Don’t worry about it, Son,” the man says and turns to another table, busying himself with objects Sam can’t see. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Who are you?”
The man stops whatever he is doing to look at Sam with a strange expression on his face. “Ah, I see,” he says. “Dean succeeded, then. I could tell you were different the moment I saw you.”
So this man knows he’s changed since they last met. He knows Dean wanted to get Sam’s soul back, and that doesn’t leave many possible candidates. “You’re Samuel,” Sam realizes.
“Yes,” Samuel confirms. “And I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Sam tugs on the robes holding his hands left and right beside his head and his legs bent with his feet 0on the table. They are tight, but with some time Sam would probably be able to wriggle out of them.
Time he isn’t going to have.
“This will hurt,” Samuel says regretfully, though if this is what he’s sorry about Sam can’t tell. “But it’s necessary. It’s for your mother. Now you have a soul, you will understand.”
Sam’s stomach drops. “You’re trying to bring her back from the dead.” He looks around as best he can’t, but even knowing what it is for he doesn’t find anything in his memory that matches this set up. He does, however, know enough about rituals to recognize a blood sacrifice when he sees one. “You think she’d want this?” he asks, fighting against his bonds with new desperation.
“She’s my daughter,” Samuel reminds him as if that was reason enough for Mary to better be all over it - because she won’t get a say in it, and if Samuel knew how much he sounds like Sam’s dad right now he would probably shoot himself in the head and save Dean the trouble.
But Samuel isn’t finished yet. “She’ll never know what I had to do.” He picks up something; Sam can’t see what, but he hears the sound of metal scraping over metal and where the hell is Dean, anyway? “It’s unfortunate. But it has to be her kin.”
“Why don’t you sacrifice yourself, then?” Sam spits out. “When my dad saved Dean’s life, at least he had the decency to give his own life.” Not that Dean thanked him for it. Not that Sam wanted Dean to give his life for his. But if he has to die here, at least Sam wants his goddamn grandfather to know that John Winchester was a better man than him. A better father.
“Because I want her back!” Samuel growls. “I want to hold her in my arms again. Your father just wanted to avoid the guilt.”
“I’d be surprised if you knew how to spell that word.” Sam’s beginning to panic and trying not to show it. But Samuel comes closer now, and he’s ready, and Sam is completely helpless, bound, half-stripped of clothes, and something is lurking in the back of his mind that gets stronger whenever he tries to break free and fails. Feeding his fear. Whispering of eons.
“You’re one to talk.” Samuel’s voice is harder now and Sam knows he can’t say anything to make this man change his mind. He grew up with John Winchester as a father - he knows what obsession looks like. “Even if Mary knew, she would understand. If I told her what you have done. You think she wanted her son to turn out that way? You insulted her memory. And so did your brother.”
“How so? Because he would not let me burn in Hell for all eternity?” It gets hard to breathe as something dark rises inside Sam, like a tide stinking of sulfur. But Sam can’t remember. He can’t remember, there’s a wall keeping him safe. And then another thought runs through him because Dean isn’t here and that’s good but Samuel isn’t worried about Dean finding them, isn’t worried about Dean finding mom and telling her, and it gives Sam the strength to fight against the bonds one more time even as meat hooks are tearing through his thoughts. “What happened to Dean?” he yells. “What did you do to him?”
His right hand feels like it might come loose any moment, but then it’s grabbed, and pressed down, and his fist is opened by a grip like a vice. “I know you can’t remember what happened during our time together,” Samuel says calmly, and something hard and pointy is set against Sam’s palm, digging in and No. “But rest assured that you deserve this.”
There is a metallic clank and a piercing pain and the world inside Sam rises up and covers the world around his body like a tide coming in and Lucifer laughs as he picks pieces of bone out of Sam’s thorn appendage. Sam is screaming but it’s just Samuel beside him, just Samuel chanting in ancient Greek but Sam can’t concentrate, can’t listen and Dean isn’t coming and Dean can’t come and Dean.
There’s more pain - unimportant compared to the pain in Sam’s hand but there and going deeper than it should, like acid eating its way down to his bones. He turns his head and sees Samuel carve a single symbol into his arm, exactly between wrist and elbow, and is this the pain making him see things or is it really glowing faintly, burning away the blood pouring out so it doesn’t obscure the sign? (Is any of this really happening?)
After he’s done, Samuel moves on to the other arm, drawing another symbol, different from the first. Sam doesn’t know them. They’re not Greek. Then Samuel puts down the knife (silver, with gold embroidering, but those are hardly visible, not meant for decoration) and picks up the hammer again, and another long, thick nail (metal, available in any local store).
Reverse order from the hand before, Sam thinks. He knows why his feet are positioned like that. Then Samuel drives the nail through his palm and the world below rises up and drowns him.
-#-
The stink of sulfur and burning flesh is suffocating even though Sam can’t die and shouldn’t have to breathe. (Why does he have to breathe?) He chokes on it and Michael laughs (Ah, yes, that’s why, how could he forget?) and Lucifer is standing between his legs where Samuel is standing, and his hands are trailing up over Sam’s skin, past the symbols the old man carved, and push apart his knees. (His touch is so gentle but so strong. It snaps Sam’s ankles without effort because Sam’s feet have been nailed down and are fixed but Lucifer wants his legs open, yes, of course he does, and Sam can’t even scream anymore though he can still hear his own voice.) His hands slip further up, trailing over the inside of Sam’s thighs so tenderly it almost tickles and he chuckles. (“Don’t pretend, Sammy.”)
There is a man standing beside Sam but Sam doesn’t know him. Why would Michael take a form Sam doesn’t know? It doesn’t make sense, and everything Michael does makes sense, everything follows patterns. Sam needs to decipher this one but then, it doesn’t matter. The Michael-man is holding a stake in one hand and a large hammer in the other and he’s positioning them over Sam’s stomach, where it will kill him but not instantly. Lucifer will love this. He will draw this out, and Michael will watch and feel like the big brother gain, making his little brother a present. Then he will get angry and tear apart what’s left of Sam in his rage. Sam knows this game.
He doesn’t understand why Michael suddenly lets go of the stake and steps back but he does know why he hears Dean’s voice now. He’s been hearing Dean’s voice ever since he came down here and does his best not to listen. Dean never says anything kind.
It’s still better to focus on Lucifer as he picks up the stake Michael dropped and drives it through Sam’s insides with so much power it gets stuck in the table below him.
-#-
Samuel stumbles back with a gasp when Dean’s bullet hits him in the shoulder, his chanting stopping abruptly. Dean doesn’t pay him any mind beyond thinking I should have aimed for his head. Bobby’s got this. And Sam is on that fucking table, that fucking sacrificial altar and he’s fucking seizing and Dean knows what that means, he fucking knows what that means.
Sam’s also covered in blood because the bastard nailed him to the table and he’s seizing. He’s in Hell. (Should have aimed for the head.)
“Sammy!” Dean yells, rushing to him, knocking over candles left and right while Bobby is pointing his shotgun at his grandfather and Samuel is saying “No, no, you don’t know what you’ve done,” over and over. Dean is going to aim for his head next, but first he’s going to nail him to the floor and tear out his entrails.
Sam’s stopped seizing and is still now. Staring up at the ceiling, not reacting to Dean’s hand patting his cheek or the one in his hair, and fuck, so much blood.
Samuel got the drop on him when he was at the bookshop, picking up a delivery - and Dean can only be grateful that the old man still isn’t used to these paranoid times and its security cameras. But they still needed too long to find them and the bastard nailed Sam to the table and Dean can’t get the nails out. They’re in too deep - he can see that with one glance, and they didn’t bring pliers, of course they didn’t. Why would they? Who would be so sick and nail someone down?
“Bobby,” Dean says, helplessly, and Bobby looks, and curses, and says he has a tool box in the car, only, Dean will have to watch this granddad while he’s gone, and can he do that?
Of course Dean can. He keeps one hand on the forehead of his brother who still hasn’t snapped out of it (shit, how long does this take, the last time Sam was gone for a few minutes and it felt like a week how long has he been down yet shit) and the other it aiming his gun at the old man before him. The pathetic, evil old man.
Samuel, holding his bleeding shoulder, slowly climbs to his feet and Dean doesn’t stop him. His finger twitches.
“This was the only chance,” Samuel says, desperation in his voice and pain in his eyes as he looks around, looks at Sam on the table, unmoving but still alive. Just one more second, Dean thinks, Just one more second, and Samuel shakes his head, lost and full of accusation. “You ruined it. You killed Crowley and now you ruined this, too. How could you? She’s your mother!”
“And you think she would bring you back from the dead just because you’re her dad?” Dean asks, his voice cold. “You ever wonder, then, why she never tried? Why she would make a deal for John but not for you?”
Samuel doesn’t do him the favor of flinching. “I wouldn’t ask it of her. I wouldn’t want her to!”
“No, you just want the best for her!” Dean spits. “Pull her out of Heaven where she’s at peace, where she’s happy, and throw her down to a stinking warehouse beside the mutilated corpse of her son? You think she’d thank you for that? I bet you would have been just thrilled to come down here and find her body cooling before you with someone saying, oh, yes, we did that for you, congratulations.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Samuel snarls with tears of anger in his eyes. “You have no idea what it means to love someone that much.”
Under Dean’s palm Sam doesn’t move. Dean aims the gun a little higher. “Yes, I do,” he says.
November 16, 2011