Arms Spread Wide, 1/1, PG-13, Gen
So, my darling lissa_ann requested hurt!Sam for her birthday, and Astra adores her requests. Like, cannot deny this woman ANYTHING. She has my muse tamed better than I do. :P This came out of nowhere and refused to not be written. I give you...a TON of hurt!Sam. Happy birthday week darling! *blows kiss*
Title: Arms Spread Wide
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: In my head, this is set after S2's "Hunted".
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Sam's not certain what will kill him first: his wounds, the sun, or the cross he hangs from.
Wordcount: 2,518
Warnings: Um, torture hinted at from behind the scenes, veryveryhurt!Sam. Not a death!fic.
So, this is what a degree in Ancient Greco-Roman Studies does for you: tells you the in's and out's of crucifixion, what it does to the body, why you die. Yay college!
<--->
All he knew was pain. All he'd known for hours was pain. Days, maybe. It was getting harder to think.
It was getting harder to breathe.
The heat was unbearable, beating down on his bare body with no mercy. Rivulets of sweat slid down his back and into the open wounds, stinging and making him flex helplessly against it. The wood behind him was hot to the touch, and all it did was continue to rip the bloody stripes open again and again. He was dizzy from the blood loss.
Actually, he had no idea if that was why he was dizzy, or if it was from the heat of the sun. Or the disorientation of hanging, unable to keep himself upright.
Or it could be on account of being crucified. That probably had something to do with it, too.
He felt sick to his stomach, and the urge to throw up haunted his every waking second. His heart was too fast, pounding against his ribcage as his lungs fought for air. The heartbeat wasn't as fierce as it had been before, though.
Another crow landed on his arm, the third that day. He managed to twist his arm and frighten it off, but felt the wood burn his arm and force him to slide further down the cross as a result. He pressed the soles of his feet against the wood, feeling splinters dig and the heat scorch the skin. He bit his lip and shoved himself up weakly, body trembling with the effort. He had to try and hang on for a little bit longer. If he could push himself up, he could keep breathing. It was important that he keep breathing.
But for the life of him, Sam couldn't remember why.
Hands grabbed him roughly, dragged him away from the car. He'd only been a few feet away, if that. He slid his leg back around him and kicked hard, earning a grunt and a loosened grip. He tore himself away, trying to wrench his arm loose from the last hands holding him. It was hard to breathe through the cloth they'd folded over his mouth. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't dislodge the hand that held it there. The odor told him it wouldn't be long before he faded out, and he had to tell Dean, he needed to yell for Dean's help.
Then the cloth and the odor did its job, and Sam faded into oblivion.
Even though the sun wasn't as high in the sky, it was still too hot outside. The slide of perspiration down his skin left him feeling nauseous, anxious to move, anxious to wipe it away. He pulled at his arm to do so and found it restrained. Why...?
The cross. They'd put him on the cross in the middle of the field. A scarecrow of blood, pain, and harsh breaths. A crucifixion of the demon savior.
He was pretty certain he'd die. He didn't think he'd come back in three days, though.
It felt as if his ribs were sliding down into his belly, taking his lungs and heart with them. He strained to lift himself and only succeeded in scraping his torn back against the still hot wood. Gasping in pain, his head fell, allowing him to look at his body. Red and pink skin greeted him, his boxers doing nothing to shield his body. Half of the red was blood, the rest of it a fiery oath of pain from the sun.
He could feel something small, an insect, crawling up his leg, and he shut his eyes when he realized he couldn't do anything about it. If he could've wept, he would've, but tears and moisture had long since abandoned him. He wasn't sweating anymore, that was important. It was a bad thing.
Sam just didn't understand why.
When he came to, it was to find himself tied to a chair, a hood over his head. He made the mistake of moving, alerting those around him to his conscious state. The hood was ripped away, and bright lights burned through his eyes. He squinted and tried to see anything, but the painful brightness was all that was there.
Then the voices made themselves known. “Sam Winchester. A demon trying to play as a hunter.”
“I'm not a demon,” he told them.
“Not what we've heard. Heard you were dangerous. Doing all sorts of psychic things. Things humans don't do.”
“Heard you're gonna be the savior of the demons. You'll damn humanity for those black-eyed sons of bitches.”
He swallowed hard, tried to reason. “No, you've got it all wrong. I'm human, I swear. You don't understand-”
“No, and I sure as hell don't want to. You've been tried for crimes against humanity, against hunters, and been found sorely lacking. You're the leader of the demons. Let's see if your demonic buddies are willing to come save you now.”
A sharp pain across his temple was the last thing he remembered.
Hot. Pain. His lungs weren't working. Every breath was a rattle. Death rattle. His world narrowed to the pain that encompassed his body.
His back was on fire. Flames licked at his body. Flames of Hell. He was burning, choking on the smoke, he couldn't breathe.
What had he done? Why had he been cast into Hell?
Demon. Psychic. Freak.
No, no, it wasn't true. Begged, pleaded with them to listen. No one was listening. No one ever listened except the crows. They were circling ahead. Not crows, something bigger. Something more daring. Pick the cooked flesh from his bones.
Nausea surged through him, a force unable to be stopped. He distantly felt what he'd brought up slide down his chest; he was more keenly aware of the spasming of his stomach as it tried to settle. There was no point to feeling anything, though. He was dying.
He panted for air, felt his lungs tighten around his stuttering heart. Too hot, too hard to breathe. There was no air around him, the fire had consumed all the oxygen. The birds taunted him from above, free to move and escape the heat. The sun was almost gone, yet the fire it had lit still remained.
The world was slowly fading to black. He'd fought before, rallied against the inevitable, but he couldn't fight anymore. Useless to resist. A face filled his mind, a name that was important, laugh lines as he quoted something. Useless to resist. It was important to resist.
He didn't remember the name of the person, but he knew he couldn't resist anymore. The darkness was encroaching, calling, begging him to give in, just like he'd begged. Important to resist.
He knew he'd never have the time to remember why.
“Please, stop-”
The lashes kept falling. His hands were bound above him, the pole firm against him, keeping him from falling. Keeping him immobile as the whip cracked and tore at his back.
“Please, god, I'm not...I'm not a demon, just let me go-”
They dragged him on his front through the soil, rocks and thorns and branches cutting through his body, his skin easily ripped open. His back was aflame, and when they turned him over and dragged him on his back, he screamed.
“P-Please, m'sorry, stop, I...I didn't-”
Rough hands lifted him high off the ground, held him while ropes were tied tight around his arms and ankles. Wood scratched at his back, at his wounds, making him cry out. The hands were horrible, pushing and shoving and forcing him still.
When they let go, though, it was worse.
“Roast in Hell, demon spawn.”
They walked away and left him hanging from the cross, battered and bruised and torn. Already he could feel his lungs striving to fill all the way as he hung there. He pushed and shoved himself up, pulling in big gasps of air when he was supported. It only lasted for a few seconds, though. Not long enough. Never long enough.
At his back, the sun began to heat his bare skin.
Muted sounds filled his ears. Pulled him back from the brink of total oblivion. The birds. It had to be the birds. Rushed sounds and high pitched sounds and pulling at him, at his arms, oh god, he wasn't dead yet, let him die before they-
Tore him loose.
He tumbled from the cross, skin too hot and sensitive as it hit something solid and rough. Something touched him all over, awakening skin that was too painful, and he arched away as best he could, whimpering and pleading to be left alone. To die at last.
Air. The fire hadn't taken it all. Slowly his lungs began to expand, filling with the precious commodity. His ribs ached as they expanded for the first time in too long. All of him ached. His back screamed as he was jostled, held closely, and a cry of pain was torn from his burnt lips.
The jostling stopped. The touches were gentler, lighter. Familiar.
He opened his burning eyes, everything too blurry to be seen. Dark shapes were everywhere, and panic bubbled up within him.
Then one shape cleared a little, and sounds filtered in. A voice called to him, as if underwater. Yet he heard the panic, the fear, the love that hadn't been in any of the other voices.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, then let the darkness pull him down.
The first hour was the worst thing he'd ever endured. The sun beating down on him, the crows flying by, the sweat sliding down his skin. His stomach rolled at the thought.
Dean. Dean had to be looking for him. They'd parted at the parking lot, though Dean hadn't been enthused about the idea. He was still too wary, too worried, about Sam taking off again. Of Sam being taken.
“Two stores,” Sam had told him. “You grab the ammo, I'll grab lunch. We'll be back on the road in ten minutes.”
Longest ten minutes of Sam's life, now. His entire being ached and yearned for his big brother to come racing across the field, to untie him, to get him down from the most terrible thing Sam had ever had to face. The heat was leaving him unable to breathe, being tied to the cross was leaving his heart weaker and weaker every minute. He just had to hold on, wait for Dean. That was what was important.
When the first hour slid into the second, Sam finally realized just how bad it was. The middle of nowhere, a field that was surrounded by a forest. Farmland that hadn't been used in years, if the grass growing in random patches was any indication. No roads. No houses. Nothing except Sam, the crows, and the cross.
The possibility of Dean not finding Sam finally crossed his mind, leaving him breathless for a whole new reason. As the minutes ticked by, the possibility became a reality. Dean couldn't come, wasn't going to find him. All he'd find was a bag full of food left on the pavement where they'd grabbed him. Or maybe they'd have taken it and left Dean wondering if Sam had abandoned him, again.
He lost track of time, eventually. As the sun continued to bear down on him, the crows continued to move in closer, and Dean didn't appear, Sam finally broke down and wept.
All he knew was pain. And the heat, licking at his skin.
But it was muted. Background, now. Not ever present and consuming his every thought.
Something rough slid against him, too rough against his skin. He hissed and tried to move, then realized that he could. He could move again. Which meant that he wasn't tied to the cross anymore. Was he dead? Had the birds managed to bring him to the ground? Or-
“Sammy?”
Or had Dean somehow, somehow, found him.
“Sammy?”
Slowly Sam opened his eyes. Dean gazed at him from his crouched position beside the bed, his usual noon-day scruff turning into a beard. Beneath his eyes were dark circles, telling of sleepless nights. Dean hadn't looked like that when Sam had been taken.
It all paled to the shimmering of Dean's eyes, the stark relief when he met Sam's gaze. “Jesus, Sammy,” Dean choked out, hands gently cupping his face. “I almost didn't...you almost...”
Sam knew what he'd almost done. “But you did,” Sam whispered, then winced. “You found me.” Lips were too sore from the heat. All of him was too sore from the heat.
Within seconds he was being carefully lifted while still on his side, Dean a constant source for support. Sam let himself lean into his brother as a cup of water was placed at his lips. The water tasted glorious, even while the cup felt too harsh against his lips. He didn't care.
Dean laid him back down, taking great care to keep Sam from rolling onto his back. His back was one mass of numbness, though pain was beginning to filter in. His skin still felt too hot, the long hours of baking in the sun having done their damage. His feet were tender, and when he slid them against the rough motel sheets, he could feel the crisp bandages. The splinters.
Yet none of it mattered at that particular moment, because Dean had found him, somehow. Dean was there, holding his hand like he was all of five again and crossing the street. Holding his hand as if Sam would disappear, fade away if he let go. Sam wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't.
It was all right. Dean wouldn't let go. Sam was safe. Dean would always come for him. That was what was important.
That was what Sam had needed to remember.
The birds overhead are circling, their cries loud in the still, hot air. Everything burns, everything hurts, and there's no refuge. He can't breathe, and his back is screaming in agony. He chokes on his next breath, suddenly terrified it's the last.
A shot rings out in the air, and one by one the birds tumble into the distant flames, flames that are no longer licking at his skin. Then rough, gentle hands are there, taking him down, freeing him. Saving him.
Words of comfort and security are whispered, nonsense words soothing as arms hold him close. The pain is gone; only safety and love remain.
Dean has come for him. Even in Sam's dream, Dean has come for him to save him.
The room was filled with rags, empty bottles, bloody cloths, and small pieces of wood. Aloe and burn cream stood side by side with aspirin and the small bottle of morphine from the first aid kit.
In the chair beside the bed, Dean sat. His hand hung over the gun at his side, fingers caressing the trigger. His other hand was still wrapped around Sam's, fingers carefully brushing over burned and torn knuckles. A silent promise to keep pain at bay, to keep it from ever happening again.
Sam slept on.
END
A/N: I'm thinking about a mirror fic from Dean's POV. I don't know, though. Should I?
~Nebula
Title: Arms Spread Wide
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: In my head, this is set after S2's "Hunted".
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Sam's not certain what will kill him first: his wounds, the sun, or the cross he hangs from.
Wordcount: 2,518
Warnings: Um, torture hinted at from behind the scenes, veryveryhurt!Sam. Not a death!fic.
So, this is what a degree in Ancient Greco-Roman Studies does for you: tells you the in's and out's of crucifixion, what it does to the body, why you die. Yay college!
<--->
All he knew was pain. All he'd known for hours was pain. Days, maybe. It was getting harder to think.
It was getting harder to breathe.
The heat was unbearable, beating down on his bare body with no mercy. Rivulets of sweat slid down his back and into the open wounds, stinging and making him flex helplessly against it. The wood behind him was hot to the touch, and all it did was continue to rip the bloody stripes open again and again. He was dizzy from the blood loss.
Actually, he had no idea if that was why he was dizzy, or if it was from the heat of the sun. Or the disorientation of hanging, unable to keep himself upright.
Or it could be on account of being crucified. That probably had something to do with it, too.
He felt sick to his stomach, and the urge to throw up haunted his every waking second. His heart was too fast, pounding against his ribcage as his lungs fought for air. The heartbeat wasn't as fierce as it had been before, though.
Another crow landed on his arm, the third that day. He managed to twist his arm and frighten it off, but felt the wood burn his arm and force him to slide further down the cross as a result. He pressed the soles of his feet against the wood, feeling splinters dig and the heat scorch the skin. He bit his lip and shoved himself up weakly, body trembling with the effort. He had to try and hang on for a little bit longer. If he could push himself up, he could keep breathing. It was important that he keep breathing.
But for the life of him, Sam couldn't remember why.
Hands grabbed him roughly, dragged him away from the car. He'd only been a few feet away, if that. He slid his leg back around him and kicked hard, earning a grunt and a loosened grip. He tore himself away, trying to wrench his arm loose from the last hands holding him. It was hard to breathe through the cloth they'd folded over his mouth. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't dislodge the hand that held it there. The odor told him it wouldn't be long before he faded out, and he had to tell Dean, he needed to yell for Dean's help.
Then the cloth and the odor did its job, and Sam faded into oblivion.
Even though the sun wasn't as high in the sky, it was still too hot outside. The slide of perspiration down his skin left him feeling nauseous, anxious to move, anxious to wipe it away. He pulled at his arm to do so and found it restrained. Why...?
The cross. They'd put him on the cross in the middle of the field. A scarecrow of blood, pain, and harsh breaths. A crucifixion of the demon savior.
He was pretty certain he'd die. He didn't think he'd come back in three days, though.
It felt as if his ribs were sliding down into his belly, taking his lungs and heart with them. He strained to lift himself and only succeeded in scraping his torn back against the still hot wood. Gasping in pain, his head fell, allowing him to look at his body. Red and pink skin greeted him, his boxers doing nothing to shield his body. Half of the red was blood, the rest of it a fiery oath of pain from the sun.
He could feel something small, an insect, crawling up his leg, and he shut his eyes when he realized he couldn't do anything about it. If he could've wept, he would've, but tears and moisture had long since abandoned him. He wasn't sweating anymore, that was important. It was a bad thing.
Sam just didn't understand why.
When he came to, it was to find himself tied to a chair, a hood over his head. He made the mistake of moving, alerting those around him to his conscious state. The hood was ripped away, and bright lights burned through his eyes. He squinted and tried to see anything, but the painful brightness was all that was there.
Then the voices made themselves known. “Sam Winchester. A demon trying to play as a hunter.”
“I'm not a demon,” he told them.
“Not what we've heard. Heard you were dangerous. Doing all sorts of psychic things. Things humans don't do.”
“Heard you're gonna be the savior of the demons. You'll damn humanity for those black-eyed sons of bitches.”
He swallowed hard, tried to reason. “No, you've got it all wrong. I'm human, I swear. You don't understand-”
“No, and I sure as hell don't want to. You've been tried for crimes against humanity, against hunters, and been found sorely lacking. You're the leader of the demons. Let's see if your demonic buddies are willing to come save you now.”
A sharp pain across his temple was the last thing he remembered.
Hot. Pain. His lungs weren't working. Every breath was a rattle. Death rattle. His world narrowed to the pain that encompassed his body.
His back was on fire. Flames licked at his body. Flames of Hell. He was burning, choking on the smoke, he couldn't breathe.
What had he done? Why had he been cast into Hell?
Demon. Psychic. Freak.
No, no, it wasn't true. Begged, pleaded with them to listen. No one was listening. No one ever listened except the crows. They were circling ahead. Not crows, something bigger. Something more daring. Pick the cooked flesh from his bones.
Nausea surged through him, a force unable to be stopped. He distantly felt what he'd brought up slide down his chest; he was more keenly aware of the spasming of his stomach as it tried to settle. There was no point to feeling anything, though. He was dying.
He panted for air, felt his lungs tighten around his stuttering heart. Too hot, too hard to breathe. There was no air around him, the fire had consumed all the oxygen. The birds taunted him from above, free to move and escape the heat. The sun was almost gone, yet the fire it had lit still remained.
The world was slowly fading to black. He'd fought before, rallied against the inevitable, but he couldn't fight anymore. Useless to resist. A face filled his mind, a name that was important, laugh lines as he quoted something. Useless to resist. It was important to resist.
He didn't remember the name of the person, but he knew he couldn't resist anymore. The darkness was encroaching, calling, begging him to give in, just like he'd begged. Important to resist.
He knew he'd never have the time to remember why.
“Please, stop-”
The lashes kept falling. His hands were bound above him, the pole firm against him, keeping him from falling. Keeping him immobile as the whip cracked and tore at his back.
“Please, god, I'm not...I'm not a demon, just let me go-”
They dragged him on his front through the soil, rocks and thorns and branches cutting through his body, his skin easily ripped open. His back was aflame, and when they turned him over and dragged him on his back, he screamed.
“P-Please, m'sorry, stop, I...I didn't-”
Rough hands lifted him high off the ground, held him while ropes were tied tight around his arms and ankles. Wood scratched at his back, at his wounds, making him cry out. The hands were horrible, pushing and shoving and forcing him still.
When they let go, though, it was worse.
“Roast in Hell, demon spawn.”
They walked away and left him hanging from the cross, battered and bruised and torn. Already he could feel his lungs striving to fill all the way as he hung there. He pushed and shoved himself up, pulling in big gasps of air when he was supported. It only lasted for a few seconds, though. Not long enough. Never long enough.
At his back, the sun began to heat his bare skin.
Muted sounds filled his ears. Pulled him back from the brink of total oblivion. The birds. It had to be the birds. Rushed sounds and high pitched sounds and pulling at him, at his arms, oh god, he wasn't dead yet, let him die before they-
Tore him loose.
He tumbled from the cross, skin too hot and sensitive as it hit something solid and rough. Something touched him all over, awakening skin that was too painful, and he arched away as best he could, whimpering and pleading to be left alone. To die at last.
Air. The fire hadn't taken it all. Slowly his lungs began to expand, filling with the precious commodity. His ribs ached as they expanded for the first time in too long. All of him ached. His back screamed as he was jostled, held closely, and a cry of pain was torn from his burnt lips.
The jostling stopped. The touches were gentler, lighter. Familiar.
He opened his burning eyes, everything too blurry to be seen. Dark shapes were everywhere, and panic bubbled up within him.
Then one shape cleared a little, and sounds filtered in. A voice called to him, as if underwater. Yet he heard the panic, the fear, the love that hadn't been in any of the other voices.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, then let the darkness pull him down.
The first hour was the worst thing he'd ever endured. The sun beating down on him, the crows flying by, the sweat sliding down his skin. His stomach rolled at the thought.
Dean. Dean had to be looking for him. They'd parted at the parking lot, though Dean hadn't been enthused about the idea. He was still too wary, too worried, about Sam taking off again. Of Sam being taken.
“Two stores,” Sam had told him. “You grab the ammo, I'll grab lunch. We'll be back on the road in ten minutes.”
Longest ten minutes of Sam's life, now. His entire being ached and yearned for his big brother to come racing across the field, to untie him, to get him down from the most terrible thing Sam had ever had to face. The heat was leaving him unable to breathe, being tied to the cross was leaving his heart weaker and weaker every minute. He just had to hold on, wait for Dean. That was what was important.
When the first hour slid into the second, Sam finally realized just how bad it was. The middle of nowhere, a field that was surrounded by a forest. Farmland that hadn't been used in years, if the grass growing in random patches was any indication. No roads. No houses. Nothing except Sam, the crows, and the cross.
The possibility of Dean not finding Sam finally crossed his mind, leaving him breathless for a whole new reason. As the minutes ticked by, the possibility became a reality. Dean couldn't come, wasn't going to find him. All he'd find was a bag full of food left on the pavement where they'd grabbed him. Or maybe they'd have taken it and left Dean wondering if Sam had abandoned him, again.
He lost track of time, eventually. As the sun continued to bear down on him, the crows continued to move in closer, and Dean didn't appear, Sam finally broke down and wept.
All he knew was pain. And the heat, licking at his skin.
But it was muted. Background, now. Not ever present and consuming his every thought.
Something rough slid against him, too rough against his skin. He hissed and tried to move, then realized that he could. He could move again. Which meant that he wasn't tied to the cross anymore. Was he dead? Had the birds managed to bring him to the ground? Or-
“Sammy?”
Or had Dean somehow, somehow, found him.
“Sammy?”
Slowly Sam opened his eyes. Dean gazed at him from his crouched position beside the bed, his usual noon-day scruff turning into a beard. Beneath his eyes were dark circles, telling of sleepless nights. Dean hadn't looked like that when Sam had been taken.
It all paled to the shimmering of Dean's eyes, the stark relief when he met Sam's gaze. “Jesus, Sammy,” Dean choked out, hands gently cupping his face. “I almost didn't...you almost...”
Sam knew what he'd almost done. “But you did,” Sam whispered, then winced. “You found me.” Lips were too sore from the heat. All of him was too sore from the heat.
Within seconds he was being carefully lifted while still on his side, Dean a constant source for support. Sam let himself lean into his brother as a cup of water was placed at his lips. The water tasted glorious, even while the cup felt too harsh against his lips. He didn't care.
Dean laid him back down, taking great care to keep Sam from rolling onto his back. His back was one mass of numbness, though pain was beginning to filter in. His skin still felt too hot, the long hours of baking in the sun having done their damage. His feet were tender, and when he slid them against the rough motel sheets, he could feel the crisp bandages. The splinters.
Yet none of it mattered at that particular moment, because Dean had found him, somehow. Dean was there, holding his hand like he was all of five again and crossing the street. Holding his hand as if Sam would disappear, fade away if he let go. Sam wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't.
It was all right. Dean wouldn't let go. Sam was safe. Dean would always come for him. That was what was important.
That was what Sam had needed to remember.
The birds overhead are circling, their cries loud in the still, hot air. Everything burns, everything hurts, and there's no refuge. He can't breathe, and his back is screaming in agony. He chokes on his next breath, suddenly terrified it's the last.
A shot rings out in the air, and one by one the birds tumble into the distant flames, flames that are no longer licking at his skin. Then rough, gentle hands are there, taking him down, freeing him. Saving him.
Words of comfort and security are whispered, nonsense words soothing as arms hold him close. The pain is gone; only safety and love remain.
Dean has come for him. Even in Sam's dream, Dean has come for him to save him.
The room was filled with rags, empty bottles, bloody cloths, and small pieces of wood. Aloe and burn cream stood side by side with aspirin and the small bottle of morphine from the first aid kit.
In the chair beside the bed, Dean sat. His hand hung over the gun at his side, fingers caressing the trigger. His other hand was still wrapped around Sam's, fingers carefully brushing over burned and torn knuckles. A silent promise to keep pain at bay, to keep it from ever happening again.
Sam slept on.
END
A/N: I'm thinking about a mirror fic from Dean's POV. I don't know, though. Should I?
~Nebula