Spiritual Possession, Chapter Three/Six
Title: Spiritual Possession 3/6
Rating: T (for Teen...or whatever)
Characters: Sam and Dean and Father John
Word Count: approx. 9200 (total)
Summary: Dean couldn't get angry with Sam. After all, he'd hurt the kid worse before. (Mostly PreSeries...but slips into a tag to Asylum at the end)
Chapter One | Chapter Two
-----------------------------
Sam's skull throbbed. It reminded him of the morning after his father had let him drink until he'd puked. He'd puked a lot more that following morning. But something was more wrong than a few too many swigs of tequila, Sam was sure. He was just trying to convince himself he needed to open his eyes.
Something scuffed against a hard surface nearby and Sam forced his eyelids to lift enough he could squint at his surroundings. Where the hell was he? He turned his head slightly to the side and saw what he lay on from the beam of a nearby flashlight, propped up to illuminate the area. A fucking conveyor belt. Sam was lying on a fucking conveyor belt.
Sam tried to sit up and groaned. Correction: he was tied to a fucking conveyor belt, without a shirt on. Where the hell had his shirt gone?
Sam looked around him again as he tested the ropes tied around his wrists and ankles. Finally, a few feet from his left foot, Sam spotted his brother. "Dean! What's going on?" Sam asked. He vaguely recalled his brother striking him, but hadn't he also decided this wasn't his brother? "Untie me and let's get the hell out of here!" Dean took a step closer to the light and Sam's heart-rate picked up as he noticed the hunting knife in his older brother's hand.
Anyone could be intimidating with a knife...Dean was downright menacing. Sam had spent too many hours watching his brother work with one to doubt his brother's ability.
"Always trying to tell me what to do," Dean spat in a voice that wasn't entirely his own. Sam was quickly realizing Dean was being possessed by something. He'd heard about vengeful spirits being able to possess people, but he'd never actually seen it in person. Until now, he supposed.
"Dean...this isn't you," Sam said as he wriggled some more the closer his brother got to him. "You've got to snap out of whatever you're under and untie me so we can get the hell out of here."
"STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!!" Dean practically screamed. Sam would have covered his ears, had he been able to move his hands.
So maybe talking wasn't the best idea. His older brother finally stood above him and Sam stared up at him in fright. Any doubts his brother was being possessed were erased when he looked up into his brother's eyes. All his life, Sam had known his brother's eyes were green. The eyes he stared up into were bright blue, pupils dilated slightly (though, Sam thought absently, that could be from the dim lighting).
"I'm sick of taking care of you," Dean said and Sam flinched. It easily could have been his own brother saying the words. Dean had taken care of Sam for the past eighteen years; more so than their father had, that was for sure. Dean leaned in closer, so his mouth was near his brother's ear. "You're not even my real brother." Sam stared up at his brother as Dean stood straight again, a small sneer adding to a triumphant look on his face. Sam calmed himself by repeating not real not real not real over and over again in his head.
"What are you going to do?" Sam asked in a soft voice, hoping he wouldn't anger whatever was looking like Dean. He shivered as the cold steel of the knife was traced lightly across his chest.
"I'm gonna make myself feel a hell of a lot better but making you feel a hell of a lot worse," Dean said in a cruel tone.
Sam was caught too off guard to bite back his cry of pain as Dean's knife plunged into his right shoulder. Sam had been stabbed before, a few times, but it had never quite been like this. It'd never been by his brother's hand, for one. And it'd never been while he was completely immobile and unable to do anything but lie still as the blade was yanked free again. He blinked rapidly to keep himself from passing out.
"I just had to get that out of my system," Dean said, turning the knife in the light to look at the blood on it. He smiled as he looked back down at his brother. "The rest will be slower, I promise." Sam's teeth clenched as Dean cut a deep line from just below his left nipple to a point parallel to his navel."Blood's amazingly easy to spill when it's not your own, you know?" Dean grinned as he rested the knife on the side of Sam's left arm, near where it rounded into his shoulder.
"Dean...I am your brother. You've gotta snaaHH," Sam gasped as the knife cut through muscle as it dragged down toward his elbow. He could compare it to the claws of the skinwalker from when he'd been fourteen, but the skinwalker hadn't looked at him with Dean's face.
"I told you not to come here," Dean whispered in an angry voice. "Said I wouldn't feed ya if you did." Sam shuddered involuntarily again as he felt the blade tickle the sensitive skin across his lower abdomen. "So what do you do?" Sam closed his eyes tightly as the blade cut a deep line between his navel and the waistband of his jeans. "You go to my WIFE and ask her for a handout!"
Sam was only mildly surprised when the fist knocked his head to one side. A knife could only get so personal, after all. Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his brother weakly. The wounds on his chest and abdomen weren't truly deep enough to be a problem on their own, but the wounds to his shoulder and arm were bleeding heavily.
"Dean please," Sam whispered, not bothering to hide the tear as he felt the knifepoint rest somewhere near his left collarbone. The blade had just bitten flesh when Sam heard an out-of-place click from somewhere behind Dean.
"Drop the knife," a voice boomed. Dean whirled, keeping a grip on the knife so it pushed a little deeper into his brother. Sam wondered blearily if it was touching bone yet as he turned his head to his left. He could make out a figure in the dark, taking slow steps toward them.
"This is none of your business," Dean growled. "He's mine to do with as I see fit!" Sam bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he forced himself not to scream as the blade did indeed hit bone, sawing across it as Dean pulled the knife free again. He was barely conscious enough to feel the blade at his throat. "If you don't stop where you are, he dies a lot quicker than I'd planned on." Sam blinked slowly as he realized the figure had stopped. It knelt slowly and Sam heard the gun being set on the pavement. Dean smiled as he turned back to Sam.
Sam jerked as Dean was suddenly shoved out of his line of sight. There was a grunt and the sound of flesh striking flesh before Sam could manage to get his vision straight again.
"Dad?" he croaked as the older man suddenly popped up next to him, breathing a little heavier than usual. He looked down at his youngest with a deep frown on his features. "Dean?" Sam asked as his father went about gingerly untying his hands and feet.
"Knocked him out," John said tersely as he looked Sam with a critical eye, triaging wherever he saw blood. "Christ," he muttered aloud without meaning to.
"It wasn't Dean," Sam whispered, more to reassure himself than to really tell his father. John nodded a bit as he took off his jacket. He ripped his overshirt off, popping a few buttons, before using his own knife to cut it into a a few strips. Sam closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as his father tightened the strips around his three worst wounds.
"Let's worry about you first," John suggested. He lifted his son as gently as he could into a sitting position, making sure to aim his legs on the opposite side of the conveyor belt from where Dean lay unconscious on the mill floor. "Can you walk if I help you? Or do I need to carry you?" Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd heard his father sound so genuinely concerned.
"Help me walk," Sam said, sliding off the belt. As soon as his feet hit the ground, his knees buckled, his father's arms the only thing keeping him from falling face first into the dust and dirt.
"Easy," John said softly, putting an arm around his son's waist as he pulled him up straight again.
"What about Dean?" Sam asked groggily as they weaved toward the door. He'd lost...was losing...more blood than he thought. Not to mention the blows to the head.
"I'll come back for him once I get you to a hospital." Sam stopped in his tracks, effectively forcing his father to do the same.
"No Dad. Don't leave him here. Something's possessing him."
"One of the brothers?" Sam flinched and John frowned: it took a lot to make either of his sons flinch. He sighed. "Just let me get you in the car and I'll go back in for Dean." Sam realized it was the best he was going to get, so he complied, letting his father push him gently into the passenger seat of the Impala, draping his jacket over his son.
Fifteen minutes later they sped down dark roads, Dean unconscious in the back seat with his hands cuffed behind his back, an insistence of John's. Sam was barely conscious himself, huddled in the passenger seat. "The hospital's only another fifteen minutes," John reassured his youngest.
"No hospital," Sam murmured. John looked at him in disbelief.
"Bud, you've lost more blood than I care to think about..." Sam forced himself to sit up a little straighter.
"No hospital. Stab wounds draw too much attention." John cursed himself for using the same excuse before. He saw it differently when they were his own wounds; it wasn't the same where his sons were concerned. "Home is closer anyway." John glanced at Sam and saw the hardened, determined look he unfortunately recognized as being one of his own hereditary gifts to his son. "No hospital. I'm eighteen. My decision."
John swallowed hard as he continued down the road that would take them to their house, but away from the hospital. He didn't want to tell his son he'd been more mature than most eighteen-year-olds since he was ten. He'd certainly been able to make vital decisions concerning his well-being, and the well-being of others, since he was thirteen.
He just wanted, desperately, to take his son to a medical professional. Someone who could pump him full of extra blood in addition to stitching him up. But John recognized the hard look in Sam's eyes, one he'd had many times himself, and he knew even if he'd gone to the hospital, Sam would have fought tooth and nail until they gave up and kicked him out.
John parked the car in the driveway and jogged around the vehicle as Sam opened his door. He was mildly surprised at the string of curse words offered up by his youngest as he was pulled to his feet, but he didn't comment: stab wounds didn't deserve kind language.
"I'll get you and then I'll get your brother," John assured his youngest before Sam could say anything. Sam stumbled alongside his father as John pulled him through the house to the bedroom the brothers shared. He closed his eyes as he sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to pass out.
"Lay back," John ordered, pushing his son down. "I don't want you passing out and falling over." John hurried back out to the Impala and somehow managed to maneuver his oldest son into the house. He dropped him into a kitchen chair, redoing the handcuffs so Dean was cuffed to it. He didn't know for sure if his son would be himself when he regained consciousness and he wasn't taking any chances.
John moved back to Sam, having grabbed the well-stocked first-aid kit from the bathroom. His youngest son's eyes were closed and he almost thought Sam had passed out, but Sam's eyes opened as the floor creaked under his father's boots and turned his head in John's direction to see him. "How's Dean?" he asked.
"Still out," John said, setting the kit on the bed before grabbing the shabby desk chair and pulling it over to sit next to Sam. "He's in the kitchen." Sam clenched his teeth and closed his eyes as his father pulled away the makeshift bandage from his worst wound, the stab wound in his right shoulder. "You need a hospital Sam..."
"Dad..."
"There's gotta be muscle damage with at least a couple of these," John continued angrily as he pulled the bottle of alcohol from the kit. "Serious damage." Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his father. John hoped the tears he saw in them were from pain and not something deeper he'd have to deal with. John had never been good with emotions.
"What's Dean gonna do when he realizes he put me in the hospital?" Sam whispered. "You know he won't even take the time to listen reason." John held his son's gaze a long moment before finally nodding in concession. Sam bit his lip and closed his eyes again as John cleaned the wound.
Sam stayed conscious all the way through the stitching of the first wound, but passed out with a strangled cry as John started on the second, the one just over his left collarbone. John listened to his son's breathing for a bit before he continued on.
John lost count of how many stitches it took somewhere around thirty. They'd definitely need to pick up more wire before they left town. Taping down the last gauze pad on Sam's abdomen, John turned to dig through the kit, shaking his son gently.
"Wake up for a minute, Sammy," he said softly. Sam groaned as John disappeared briefly in the bathroom, coming back with a paper cup filled with water. Sam blinked up at him and saw the pills in his father's hands. "Some antibiotics and a pain pill." Sam stared blankly at them a moment.
"I think I got a concussion," he mumbled. John's eyes widened and he set the cup and pills momentarily on the night stand, leaning closer so he could inspect his son's pupils.
"Follow my finger," he instructed. He sighed when his son did as instructed. "Yeah. Maybe a mild one. You could probably still take the pain killer."
"Just give me the antibiotics," Sam said instead. "I'm gonna pass out again in a minute anyway."
John supported his son as he took the two pills, helping him ease back against the pillow when the water was gone. Sam's eyelids were already drooping again. "I'll wake you up in a couple hours." Sam murmured in understanding and slipped back to sleep.
John stood, feeling more tired than he had in a few years, and bent over to untie Sam's sneakers. Once that was accomplished, he tossed a blanket over him and picked up the first-aid kit, taking it with him to the living room to fill out a list of what they'd need to get to replenish it. Both his truck and the car had their own kits, but he'd rather not take from them if he didn't have to. John sank into the couch and before he could stop himself, drifted off to sleep.
TBC in Chapter 4
Rating: T (for Teen...or whatever)
Characters: Sam and Dean and Father John
Word Count: approx. 9200 (total)
Summary: Dean couldn't get angry with Sam. After all, he'd hurt the kid worse before. (Mostly PreSeries...but slips into a tag to Asylum at the end)
Chapter One | Chapter Two
-----------------------------
Sam's skull throbbed. It reminded him of the morning after his father had let him drink until he'd puked. He'd puked a lot more that following morning. But something was more wrong than a few too many swigs of tequila, Sam was sure. He was just trying to convince himself he needed to open his eyes.
Something scuffed against a hard surface nearby and Sam forced his eyelids to lift enough he could squint at his surroundings. Where the hell was he? He turned his head slightly to the side and saw what he lay on from the beam of a nearby flashlight, propped up to illuminate the area. A fucking conveyor belt. Sam was lying on a fucking conveyor belt.
Sam tried to sit up and groaned. Correction: he was tied to a fucking conveyor belt, without a shirt on. Where the hell had his shirt gone?
Sam looked around him again as he tested the ropes tied around his wrists and ankles. Finally, a few feet from his left foot, Sam spotted his brother. "Dean! What's going on?" Sam asked. He vaguely recalled his brother striking him, but hadn't he also decided this wasn't his brother? "Untie me and let's get the hell out of here!" Dean took a step closer to the light and Sam's heart-rate picked up as he noticed the hunting knife in his older brother's hand.
Anyone could be intimidating with a knife...Dean was downright menacing. Sam had spent too many hours watching his brother work with one to doubt his brother's ability.
"Always trying to tell me what to do," Dean spat in a voice that wasn't entirely his own. Sam was quickly realizing Dean was being possessed by something. He'd heard about vengeful spirits being able to possess people, but he'd never actually seen it in person. Until now, he supposed.
"Dean...this isn't you," Sam said as he wriggled some more the closer his brother got to him. "You've got to snap out of whatever you're under and untie me so we can get the hell out of here."
"STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!!" Dean practically screamed. Sam would have covered his ears, had he been able to move his hands.
So maybe talking wasn't the best idea. His older brother finally stood above him and Sam stared up at him in fright. Any doubts his brother was being possessed were erased when he looked up into his brother's eyes. All his life, Sam had known his brother's eyes were green. The eyes he stared up into were bright blue, pupils dilated slightly (though, Sam thought absently, that could be from the dim lighting).
"I'm sick of taking care of you," Dean said and Sam flinched. It easily could have been his own brother saying the words. Dean had taken care of Sam for the past eighteen years; more so than their father had, that was for sure. Dean leaned in closer, so his mouth was near his brother's ear. "You're not even my real brother." Sam stared up at his brother as Dean stood straight again, a small sneer adding to a triumphant look on his face. Sam calmed himself by repeating not real not real not real over and over again in his head.
"What are you going to do?" Sam asked in a soft voice, hoping he wouldn't anger whatever was looking like Dean. He shivered as the cold steel of the knife was traced lightly across his chest.
"I'm gonna make myself feel a hell of a lot better but making you feel a hell of a lot worse," Dean said in a cruel tone.
Sam was caught too off guard to bite back his cry of pain as Dean's knife plunged into his right shoulder. Sam had been stabbed before, a few times, but it had never quite been like this. It'd never been by his brother's hand, for one. And it'd never been while he was completely immobile and unable to do anything but lie still as the blade was yanked free again. He blinked rapidly to keep himself from passing out.
"I just had to get that out of my system," Dean said, turning the knife in the light to look at the blood on it. He smiled as he looked back down at his brother. "The rest will be slower, I promise." Sam's teeth clenched as Dean cut a deep line from just below his left nipple to a point parallel to his navel."Blood's amazingly easy to spill when it's not your own, you know?" Dean grinned as he rested the knife on the side of Sam's left arm, near where it rounded into his shoulder.
"Dean...I am your brother. You've gotta snaaHH," Sam gasped as the knife cut through muscle as it dragged down toward his elbow. He could compare it to the claws of the skinwalker from when he'd been fourteen, but the skinwalker hadn't looked at him with Dean's face.
"I told you not to come here," Dean whispered in an angry voice. "Said I wouldn't feed ya if you did." Sam shuddered involuntarily again as he felt the blade tickle the sensitive skin across his lower abdomen. "So what do you do?" Sam closed his eyes tightly as the blade cut a deep line between his navel and the waistband of his jeans. "You go to my WIFE and ask her for a handout!"
Sam was only mildly surprised when the fist knocked his head to one side. A knife could only get so personal, after all. Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his brother weakly. The wounds on his chest and abdomen weren't truly deep enough to be a problem on their own, but the wounds to his shoulder and arm were bleeding heavily.
"Dean please," Sam whispered, not bothering to hide the tear as he felt the knifepoint rest somewhere near his left collarbone. The blade had just bitten flesh when Sam heard an out-of-place click from somewhere behind Dean.
"Drop the knife," a voice boomed. Dean whirled, keeping a grip on the knife so it pushed a little deeper into his brother. Sam wondered blearily if it was touching bone yet as he turned his head to his left. He could make out a figure in the dark, taking slow steps toward them.
"This is none of your business," Dean growled. "He's mine to do with as I see fit!" Sam bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he forced himself not to scream as the blade did indeed hit bone, sawing across it as Dean pulled the knife free again. He was barely conscious enough to feel the blade at his throat. "If you don't stop where you are, he dies a lot quicker than I'd planned on." Sam blinked slowly as he realized the figure had stopped. It knelt slowly and Sam heard the gun being set on the pavement. Dean smiled as he turned back to Sam.
Sam jerked as Dean was suddenly shoved out of his line of sight. There was a grunt and the sound of flesh striking flesh before Sam could manage to get his vision straight again.
"Dad?" he croaked as the older man suddenly popped up next to him, breathing a little heavier than usual. He looked down at his youngest with a deep frown on his features. "Dean?" Sam asked as his father went about gingerly untying his hands and feet.
"Knocked him out," John said tersely as he looked Sam with a critical eye, triaging wherever he saw blood. "Christ," he muttered aloud without meaning to.
"It wasn't Dean," Sam whispered, more to reassure himself than to really tell his father. John nodded a bit as he took off his jacket. He ripped his overshirt off, popping a few buttons, before using his own knife to cut it into a a few strips. Sam closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as his father tightened the strips around his three worst wounds.
"Let's worry about you first," John suggested. He lifted his son as gently as he could into a sitting position, making sure to aim his legs on the opposite side of the conveyor belt from where Dean lay unconscious on the mill floor. "Can you walk if I help you? Or do I need to carry you?" Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd heard his father sound so genuinely concerned.
"Help me walk," Sam said, sliding off the belt. As soon as his feet hit the ground, his knees buckled, his father's arms the only thing keeping him from falling face first into the dust and dirt.
"Easy," John said softly, putting an arm around his son's waist as he pulled him up straight again.
"What about Dean?" Sam asked groggily as they weaved toward the door. He'd lost...was losing...more blood than he thought. Not to mention the blows to the head.
"I'll come back for him once I get you to a hospital." Sam stopped in his tracks, effectively forcing his father to do the same.
"No Dad. Don't leave him here. Something's possessing him."
"One of the brothers?" Sam flinched and John frowned: it took a lot to make either of his sons flinch. He sighed. "Just let me get you in the car and I'll go back in for Dean." Sam realized it was the best he was going to get, so he complied, letting his father push him gently into the passenger seat of the Impala, draping his jacket over his son.
Fifteen minutes later they sped down dark roads, Dean unconscious in the back seat with his hands cuffed behind his back, an insistence of John's. Sam was barely conscious himself, huddled in the passenger seat. "The hospital's only another fifteen minutes," John reassured his youngest.
"No hospital," Sam murmured. John looked at him in disbelief.
"Bud, you've lost more blood than I care to think about..." Sam forced himself to sit up a little straighter.
"No hospital. Stab wounds draw too much attention." John cursed himself for using the same excuse before. He saw it differently when they were his own wounds; it wasn't the same where his sons were concerned. "Home is closer anyway." John glanced at Sam and saw the hardened, determined look he unfortunately recognized as being one of his own hereditary gifts to his son. "No hospital. I'm eighteen. My decision."
John swallowed hard as he continued down the road that would take them to their house, but away from the hospital. He didn't want to tell his son he'd been more mature than most eighteen-year-olds since he was ten. He'd certainly been able to make vital decisions concerning his well-being, and the well-being of others, since he was thirteen.
He just wanted, desperately, to take his son to a medical professional. Someone who could pump him full of extra blood in addition to stitching him up. But John recognized the hard look in Sam's eyes, one he'd had many times himself, and he knew even if he'd gone to the hospital, Sam would have fought tooth and nail until they gave up and kicked him out.
John parked the car in the driveway and jogged around the vehicle as Sam opened his door. He was mildly surprised at the string of curse words offered up by his youngest as he was pulled to his feet, but he didn't comment: stab wounds didn't deserve kind language.
"I'll get you and then I'll get your brother," John assured his youngest before Sam could say anything. Sam stumbled alongside his father as John pulled him through the house to the bedroom the brothers shared. He closed his eyes as he sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to pass out.
"Lay back," John ordered, pushing his son down. "I don't want you passing out and falling over." John hurried back out to the Impala and somehow managed to maneuver his oldest son into the house. He dropped him into a kitchen chair, redoing the handcuffs so Dean was cuffed to it. He didn't know for sure if his son would be himself when he regained consciousness and he wasn't taking any chances.
John moved back to Sam, having grabbed the well-stocked first-aid kit from the bathroom. His youngest son's eyes were closed and he almost thought Sam had passed out, but Sam's eyes opened as the floor creaked under his father's boots and turned his head in John's direction to see him. "How's Dean?" he asked.
"Still out," John said, setting the kit on the bed before grabbing the shabby desk chair and pulling it over to sit next to Sam. "He's in the kitchen." Sam clenched his teeth and closed his eyes as his father pulled away the makeshift bandage from his worst wound, the stab wound in his right shoulder. "You need a hospital Sam..."
"Dad..."
"There's gotta be muscle damage with at least a couple of these," John continued angrily as he pulled the bottle of alcohol from the kit. "Serious damage." Sam opened his eyes and looked up at his father. John hoped the tears he saw in them were from pain and not something deeper he'd have to deal with. John had never been good with emotions.
"What's Dean gonna do when he realizes he put me in the hospital?" Sam whispered. "You know he won't even take the time to listen reason." John held his son's gaze a long moment before finally nodding in concession. Sam bit his lip and closed his eyes again as John cleaned the wound.
Sam stayed conscious all the way through the stitching of the first wound, but passed out with a strangled cry as John started on the second, the one just over his left collarbone. John listened to his son's breathing for a bit before he continued on.
John lost count of how many stitches it took somewhere around thirty. They'd definitely need to pick up more wire before they left town. Taping down the last gauze pad on Sam's abdomen, John turned to dig through the kit, shaking his son gently.
"Wake up for a minute, Sammy," he said softly. Sam groaned as John disappeared briefly in the bathroom, coming back with a paper cup filled with water. Sam blinked up at him and saw the pills in his father's hands. "Some antibiotics and a pain pill." Sam stared blankly at them a moment.
"I think I got a concussion," he mumbled. John's eyes widened and he set the cup and pills momentarily on the night stand, leaning closer so he could inspect his son's pupils.
"Follow my finger," he instructed. He sighed when his son did as instructed. "Yeah. Maybe a mild one. You could probably still take the pain killer."
"Just give me the antibiotics," Sam said instead. "I'm gonna pass out again in a minute anyway."
John supported his son as he took the two pills, helping him ease back against the pillow when the water was gone. Sam's eyelids were already drooping again. "I'll wake you up in a couple hours." Sam murmured in understanding and slipped back to sleep.
John stood, feeling more tired than he had in a few years, and bent over to untie Sam's sneakers. Once that was accomplished, he tossed a blanket over him and picked up the first-aid kit, taking it with him to the living room to fill out a list of what they'd need to get to replenish it. Both his truck and the car had their own kits, but he'd rather not take from them if he didn't have to. John sank into the couch and before he could stop himself, drifted off to sleep.
TBC in Chapter 4