[Supernatural]: Suffering
Title: Suffering
Fandom: Supernatural
Recipient: vail_kagami
Summary: Hell isn't just in Sam's head anymore.
Notes: Written (finally!) for vail_kagami, who is not only an awesome writer but the wonderful person who won me in the help_japan auction. And here is her gift, at long last. It is, as is to be expected, full of pain and h/c and also Cas and Sam interaction, but of the significantly less hilarious kind. I hope she enjoys it!
The Wall fell in bits and pieces. Or more accurately, chunk by chunk. For a while, Sam seemed to be coping. For a while. He was tense, yeah, and jumpy, and sometimes his eyes didn’t seem to want to focus on one place, but he was fine.
Dean had crafted denial into the highest of art forms.
Of course things went bad eventually, though. They always did.
And when Sam got his leg clawed open because he’d been busy shying away from nothing, denial became quickly worthless. “Dammit, Sam,” Dean yelled as he yanked a tourniquet tight around Sam’s leg and worked on hauling him to the car. “What were you fucking thinking? Did you not see that thing coming?”
Dean thought he would remember the look on Sam’s face for the rest of his life; slightly glazed and fighting for clarity. That, and the minute tremble in his voice when he said, “I was kind of distracted by all the rest.”
“All the,” Dean started to say, and then realized that Sam was looking over his shoulder at nothing and making a thin sound that was not quite a whine. And understood. “Oh Jesus,” he said.
Thankfully, at that point Sam passed out.
**
It wasn’t just seeing things. That would have been bad enough. It was bad enough, with Sam unable to distinguish between what was really attacking and what was Hell leaking out of his brain. He tried, Dean could see him trying, even when they were just walking between houses, his eyes flickering from Dean to past Dean and focusing on Dean again, but he was constantly tense, constantly on edge.
A week later and another chunk of the wall, and Sam wasn’t just seeing Hell, he was feeling it.
Sam went down screaming just outside their motel room, curling protectively around his perfectly intact arm, and Dean wanted nothing more than to kill the entire world. “Dean,” Sam said desperately, “Dean, please - please, make it stop- my shoulder, fuck-”
It wasn’t fair, Dean thought, desperately trying to convince Sam that he was fine, that they were safe, that - it wasn’t fucking fair. Sam clung to him with all the desperation of drowning, but only with one hand, because something had rendered his other arm useless, and he was feeling it, phantom pain of a phantom Hell.
Sam had stopped screaming, at least, and now he was just leaning limply against Dean’s chest, keening quietly, heaving rapid, shallow breaths, and Dean didn’t know what to do.
Eventually the lack of blood on Dean’s hands seemed to convince Sam that he still had two working arms, but it still took a couple minutes after that for his other arm to come up and grip the back of Dean’s shirt with a familiar kind of desperation that made Dean feel both nauseous and overprotective. “We can’t do this,” Dean said. “We need to stop.”
“Stopping won’t fix me,” Sam said, and he looked so tired, wrung out like he really had been ripped open with blood spilling out at the seams. “It won’t fix anything. It won’t even help. We need to keep going, Dean.” He tried to smile, so hard. “Saving people, hunting things. Remember?”
Sam sounded so clear, so lucid. So fucking convincing, if he hadn’t been falling apart just moments earlier.
“I’ll deal with this,” he said. “Just like with everything else. We can deal with this too.”
Dean had to believe him, because what else could he even do? Better to trust Sam, and believe for a little longer.
He called Cas once Sam was asleep, restless and twisting under the blankets without a sound. “I told you there’s nothing I can do,” he said, expression impassive; though Dean thought he caught a flicker of sympathy in his hard blue eyes. “A soul once damaged doesn’t heal.”
“There has to be something,” Dean insisted, “Somewhere.” On the bed, Sam took a shuddering breath in.
“Dean-” The Angel cut off, and looked skyward, as though praying. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he said, finally. “As much as I can.”
Dean knew it was meaningless, knew from the way Castiel wouldn’t meet his eyes that maybe the angel would look but that he really didn’t expect to find anything. “Thanks,” he said dully, and turned back to Sam without waiting for Castiel to take flight.
He settled a hand on Sam’s shoulder and his brother simultaneously twitched and leaned into it. He whispered something inaudible. Sam had fought Lucifer from inside his own head and won. He could beat Hell too.
“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean whispered.
He stayed awake through the night, just in case. Sam didn’t wake up once, just cried out softly in his sleep. For mercy. Or for death.
Dean was glad he couldn’t understand the words.
**
It didn’t get better. The Wall did not rebuild. And Hell was driving Sam insane.
He did so well at not showing it, other than occasional wandering eyes and almost continuous twitchiness. And then on their next hunt, a spirit, something in Sam’s head broke his arm in three places, and it took almost an hour for Sam to understand that he was fine. By then Sam had bitten clean through his lip and dug his nails hard enough into his own palm to break skin. “I’m sorry,” Sam gasped when it was over. “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Dean wanted to punch him, but then he didn’t really want to do that at all. He just wanted things to be fine.
The one bright spot Dean could find was that in all of the things leaking out of Sam’s head and into the real world, Lucifer did not appear to be one of them. He didn’t think even he could pull Sam back from that. He was already watching the entire world with a wary eye. Nowhere was safe.
Dean had his own nightmares, his own fears, and only half of them were memory-dreams of being back on the rack or worse, standing above it. Sam never talked about what he saw, of course; probably didn’t have the words. Hearing him scream said enough.
Another hunt went wrong and this time whatever Sam saw just plain gutted him.
Dean only left the room for a moment, just to breathe, to get away from the sound of his little brother choking on imaginary blood. Only for a moment.
There was blood (real blood) running down Sam’s face when he got back, running from under his hands over his eyes. “I want them gone,” Sam said, “I tried, I tried, but I can’t make…I can’t…it hurts too much.”
Dean pulled Sam’s hands away and breathed a sigh to see both eyes staring back at him, fingernail marks circling the socket. “Dean, please,” Sam said, turning his face up. “If I can’t see it - it’s better. It’s better. Please. Help me.”
He shuddered. His hands twitched on his lap. “If you can’t see them,” Dean said, carefully, “If you close your eyes…”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Sam made a jerky movement like to lift his fingernails to dig into his eyes again. Dean grabbed both his wrists. “It’s not there. Hell’s not there.”
Something he could do. At last, Dean thought with a leap of relief entirely disproportionate, something that he could help with. “Leave your eyes alone, Sammy,” he said firmly. “I have a better idea. It’ll be fine now.”
It was so stupidly simple that Dean couldn’t believe that they’d gone this long. It was just a blindfold, just a strip of cloth - black, to cut the light as much as possible - but for the difference it made it might have been a cure. He felt Sam sag with relief as soon as the outside world vanished, and didn’t realize how tightly he’d been wound until he saw all the muscles go slack.
“It’s quiet,” Sam said in a low, almost inaudible voice.
“I know, Sam,” Dean said, and found a grin before he even remembered that Sam couldn’t see it anyway, and that was the idea. “Who’s the best big brother ever?”
“You are,” Sam said, and shifted slightly to lean into Dean, and then drop his head on his shoulder, and then fall asleep, and really Dean should have pushed him off but he didn’t quite feel like it.
Of course, just to make sure that Dean didn’t forget how much the universe hated Winchesters, Sam still dreamed.
You couldn’t have everything, and Sam still had his eyes. Dean was still counting this one as a win.
**
It took adjusting. Of course. Sam seemed to move by leaps and bounds, though, and more importantly agreed to hold off the hunting. “Until I get the hang of this,” he said, stubbornly, and reached up to touch the blindfold with one hand.
Dean thought of the days when Sam would have given anything to get away from hunting. It would have been funny if it weren’t occasionally worrying.
His other senses were still sharp, though, and when Cas turned up, it was Sam who sat up straighter and said, “Cas? That you?”
The angel glances over at Sam, frowned, and looked at Dean in clear question. “It helps,” he said, nearly defensively. “Every little bit, right?”
Castiel looked skeptical. Sam couldn’t possibly have seen it, but he piped up anyway, saying, “I’m actually functional like this. Pretty big improvement.” And he smiled. Dean felt like his chest hurt. In a good way, though.
Sam smiled so rarely.
Castiel seemed awkward. “I came to see how you were,” he said, very nearly uncertain. “You were struggling when I saw you last.”
“We’re doing better,” Dean said honestly. Sam shifted slightly.
“As soon as Dean lets me we’ll be hunting again,” he said, and it was still strange to hear Sam talking like that, like this was something he needed to be doing, like he couldn’t possibly do anything else. Castiel was frowning.
“Is that wise?”
“No,” said Dean, and Sam made that particular exasperated noise that no one could quite imitate, Dean included.
“It’s fine,” Sam insisted. “I’m learning how to work with it. It’s just an adjustment.”
The angel looked at Dean, who made certain to roll his eyes judiciously. Castiel seemed oddly relieved. “Heaven seems momentarily quiet,” he said after a second or two of silence. “I may be able to visit more often for a time.”
“Glad to hear you can fit us into your busy schedule,” said Dean, somewhat bitterly. Castiel looked almost perplexed, and then his face went blank.
“Dean,” Sam said, and then turned his blindfolded eyes in Cas’ general direction. “That’d be nice. Next time I’ll make you some tea without Dean hovering.”
It was amazing, really, how mollified Castiel looked. That was Sam for you, Dean supposed. It was funny how he’d ended up with so many enemies. “Thank you, Samuel,” said the angel, only a little stiffly. “I will endeavor to make that possible.”
And then he was gone.
“You don’t have to be nasty to him,” Sam said reproachfully. Dean scoffed, and Sam somehow managed to make a bitchface even with the blindfold. And Dean felt a real smile spread across his face and sink in like it hadn’t for what felt like forever.
And it was good.
**
It didn’t last. Of course it didn’t fucking last. They lived in a world that hated them, after all, and took every opportunity possible to screw them hard.
It was a nest of vampires that just happened to walk into the same convenience store as Dean and just happened to recognize him and just happened to catch him unawares. And here he was, in a basement somewhere with puncture marks in his arms and Sam alone in the motel room, alone and blind and-
But of course, he’d forgotten what Sam was like when he got determined.
He heard the nest dying upstairs and thought gratefully that Sam had probably called Cas down for backup.
It turned out he hadn’t.
By the time Sam reached Dean, he was breathing raggedly and moving strangely. He staggered against the wall and his teeth flashed in the dim glow of the single bulb. “Dean,” Sam said, and groped for the cuffs, unlocked them. They clunked to the floor.
He wasn’t, Dean realized gradually as he was feeling a little dazed himself, wearing the blindfold.
“Sam?” He said worriedly. Sam tilted.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said, and fuck, fuck, fuck. Sam looked down at his left arm. And frowned. “Look at that,” he said, and then went down.
He wasn’t hurt. Dean checked, his own head spinning a little, almost hoping… but nothing. Sam was unhurt. But his skin was clammy and pale like he’d been bleeding, heart rate rapid and uneven, and why did this always happen, why did this always…
“Cas,” he said, because he hurt and didn’t know what else to do. “Cas, please.”
The angel brought them both back and they put the blindfold back on, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. All the ground they’d gained was lost in a couple hours.
Dean didn’t quite understand, because Sam wasn’t exactly coherent, not most of the time, not when he was twitchy and scared, eyes unable to focus, but from what he could gather during the fight with the vampires, something, something else, from Hell, had ripped Sam’s arm off at the shoulder.
“It’s still there,” Dean said, but Sam’s eyes slid away from him again.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, voice rough and all broken edges. “Sorry. I just. Dean, they want me back. Piece by - they’re going to take me back. You can’t stop - please don’t. Please.”
“It’s not real,” Dean said, desperately, but Sam didn’t even seem to hear him, just wrapped one arm around himself, the other hanging useless at his side because he didn’t believe it was there, wouldn’t believe it was there.
And he was tearing himself up about it. About being useless. About being dragged back to Hell in pieces. It wasn’t getting worse, not with the blindfold back, but it wasn’t getting better either.
Watching Sam twist and scream silently in his sleep, Dean reached out and ran a hand through his hair. “Sam,” he said. “We got this far. Come on. You can beat this too.”
He stepped out of the motel and prayed. Castiel came what seemed like more quickly this time, and looked toward the door. “There has to be something we can do,” Dean said without preamble.
The angel hesitated. “There is,” he said, finally. “Something.”
“God, Cas,” Dean said irritably. “You could have said something before now.”
Castiel hesitated, and glanced toward the door one more time. “You won’t like it.”
He didn’t.
**
In the end, they went to Bobby’s. By car, because even with the blindfold and all Sam’s efforts Dean could still see the way Sam flinched when Castiel got close.
That wasn’t going to make the rest of this any easier, but Dean was out of ideas, and Cas thought it would work. Cas thought it might work.
Returning to the room and watching Sam move unevenly across the floor, overcompensating for an arm he was convinced wasn’t there (that still was), Dean didn’t know what else to do.
Sam slept for most of the drive. “There is a chance,” Castiel said as they were crossing through South Dakota, “This could make things worse. The pain…”
“Cas,” Dean said roughly, “Shut up.” His stomach churned.
“I would think you’d want to know the risks.” The angel sounded almost affronted, though he’d gotten good at hiding it again. Dean tightened his hands on the wheel.
“Cas,” he said. “I need to do something.” Castiel just nodded, minutely, but he didn’t speak up again. Sam twisted in the passenger seat and made a small whimpering noise.
The first problem was how to explain to Sam what they were doing in the first place. Cas didn’t think it was practical. Dean wanted to hit him just for that, but that was probably because he’d been wanting to hit someone for a week and a half without much of a target. Other than Sam, who really wasn’t.
So when Sam woke up faintly confused, Dean told him the truth.
“Where are we?” Sam asked, adjusting his blindfold without ever shifting it from his eyes or moving his left hand. His voice sounded almost level.
“Bobby’s,” Dean said roughly. “Come on, we’re going inside. Cas thinks he has a way to fix your arm.” Sam smiled, a little, but it was thin and kind of sad, the expression he got when he thought Dean was being unreasonable.
“Dean,” Sam said, “There’s nothing to fix.”
Dean pressed his lips together. “We’ll see,” he said finally, because yelling at Sam did nothing but upset them both.
Bobby emerged from the house and looked back and forth between them. Dean closed the distance, letting Sam make it on his own. “Panic room?” Bobby asked, and Dean looked at Sam and thought about the last time Sam had been down there, and the time before that, and the time before that.
“No,” he said. “Better not.”
Sam knew there was something wrong. Dean could see it in the set of his mouth and his shoulders. But he didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, just went into the house and sat down in a chair in the living room. And only then, “Guys,” he said, “Is something going on?” He sounded nervous. Maybe he thought Dean was leaving. Maybe he thought that some other kind of penny was going to drop. Dean swallowed hard, and didn’t think, for a moment, that he could go through with this. Thought that they should just leave now, go to the Grand Canyon and-
Castiel shifted. “Sam,” he said finally. “You must understand that we are helping you.”
Sam tensed. His head swiveled to Dean unerringly, even though he couldn’t see. Sam always knew where he was. “Helping me how?” He asked, voice trembling minutely, and Dean wondered if Sam was wondering if this was real, or if this was it, Hell finally revealing that it’d been there all along.
Oh god.
Bobby took Sam’s shoulders. Castiel knelt and took his wrist, pulling his left arm out straight. Sam didn’t react, not even seeming to notice, though his breathing quickened audibly. “Guys,” he said, “What’s going on?”
“It’s all right, Sammy,” Dean said, though his throat was trying to close. “It’s going to be all right.”
**
“Pain,” Castiel said. Dean blinked.
“What?”
“Pain,” the angel repeated. “Have you tried inflicting it on Sam?”
“Uh,” Dean said, eyes narrowing. “No.”
They let Castiel do the breaking. He started with Sam’s fingers. At the first he flinched but didn’t seem to understand or even feel it. “Dean,” he said, and his shoulders shifted under Bobby’s hands. “What’s going on.”
The second snap was louder than the first, and this time Sam’s whole body jerked. “It’s okay,” Dean said, though he could feel bile surging at the back of his throat. “Your arm’s still there, Sam. It’s still there.”
“Dean?” There was something in Sam’s voice that was not quite frantic. Dean looked at Castiel instead, and forced himself to nod.
Bone breaking made such a terrible sound. Come on, he thought. Come on. You have to feel that. You have to.
“Pain is the body’s way of…”
“Saying that something’s wrong, yeah, I know,” Dean said. “What the hell are you saying, Cas?”
“I’m saying,” he said, slowly. “That if you wound the arm Sam believes is missing significantly enough, it will become impossible to ignore, and he will have to recognize it is there.”
“You can’t be serious.”
By the time Castiel broke Sam’s thumb (easily, so fucking easily) Bobby wasn’t looking, Dean could barely swallow, and Sam was fighting down screams. “Dean,” he kept saying, “I don’t understand, what’s going on, I don’t understand,” and Dean said “Focus on the pain, Sam, something hurts, what hurts,” and Sam twisted and fought against Bobby’s hands.
“I won’t,” he was saying thickly, blindfold askew. “I won’t, I can’t, it’s not real, Dean-”
Castiel looked at Dean. He looked uncertain. Bobby looked sick. Sam seemed right on the verge of panicking. Stop, he wanted to say. They were waiting for his word. “Keep going,” he managed.
If this didn’t work Dean thought he was going to have to shoot himself.
“Of course I am serious.” Castiel frowned. “You wanted to know how you can help fix Sam. Perhaps you could start by giving him both his arms.”
“By - what, breaking every bone from fingers to shoulder?”
Castiel looked thoughtful. “Something like that might work.”
Dean hadn’t known just how many bones there were in the human wrist until Castiel started breaking them one at a time, and Dean avowed never, ever to piss Cas off. Sam was crying now, between short, sharp screams. “Not real,” he insisted, “It’s not real, it’s not - please, stop. Please.”
“Sam,” Cas said, suddenly. “It’s me. I need you to think. About what hurts. I need you to think about why…”
“Everything,” Sam said. His whole body was trembling and was it too much? How was Dean supposed to know? “Everything hurts, everything always-”
“Sammy,” Dean began, when Sam’s head snapped around.
“You’re not Dean,” he said, with sudden, unshakable certainty. “You’re not- you can’t-”
Castiel didn’t look to Dean before shifting his fingers again. It didn’t get any easier to hear that sound. Didn’t get any easier to hear Sam scream. “Cas-” Dean started to say, but the angel leaned down, close to Sam. His voice was quiet, gentle. Terrible.
“What bone was that?” He asked, and Dean twitched, because Sam went still in a way Dean didn’t like.
“I-”
“Answer me.”
“Scaphoid,” Sam said at last, voice trembling but neutral, flat. “L-left scaphoid. I think.”
“Good,” Castiel said, still in that same unnerving voice. “Good. What happened to your left arm, Sam?”
Dean could see the way Sam was shaking. “Gone,” Sam said. He twitched. “It’s gone. I couldn’t - I just-”
“I see.” Dean had never heard Cas take quite that tone, of disapproval and disappointment. He moved both hands up and jerked Sam’s forearm sharply. Sam screamed again, and Castiel asked, “Then what did I just break?”
Sam was panting, his chest heaving like he’d just run fifteen miles at a sprint. “Cas,” Dean said, low and quietly. The angel ignored him. “This needs to-”
“It’s not - it’s just - phantom pain,” Sam gasped. “You’re making me feel-”
“Am I?” This time the snap was more of a crunch. Bobby pulled away, stepped back, but Sam didn’t seem able to curl in on himself or to move away.
“Aah- no, stop- please- I can’t - can’t-”
“Cas,” Dean said again, with more desperation, and took a step closer.
“Stay where you are, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was like iron. “Sam, listen. Focus.” His hands moved. Another snap, another scream. “Tell me. What happened to your left arm?”
“I don’t - Dean, please, help me-”
“What happened?” Another snap and a full throated yell as Sam’s whole body jerked and spasmed and he cried out.
“You’re breaking it!”
Castiel stopped. His voice altered, subtly. “Yes. That’s right.” Sam was shuddering like he couldn’t stop. “Sam. Do you know who I am?”
“Castiel.” Sam’s head dropped slowly to his chest. His eyes weren’t visible but the blindfold was damp and there were tears running from underneath it. “You’re Cas.”
“Yes,” Castiel said, something soft and strange in his voice. “That’s right.” He reached out and touched Sam’s shoulder lightly, and Sam went limp. Dean could see his arm, his fingers, straighten and realign. Then he turned to Dean, who stared at him, appalled.
“He will rest for a while,” Castiel said simply. “Do not call me again.”
Then he was gone.
**
Next time, Dean told himself, he was going to make sure that he got straight the definition of ‘a while.’ A while, it turned out, was enough time for he and Bobby to both get painfully drunk, suffer a terrible hangover, and stare nervously at each other for most of the next day.
“Never make me do anything like that again,” Bobby said.
“No,” Dean agreed. He still felt like throwing up. “Never.”
Sam woke up in the afternoon with a light fever, dizzy and disoriented and confused. He took the glass of water with his left hand, though. “Dean,” he said hoarsely, throat worn out (from screaming). “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Sam,” Dean said, as firmly as he could. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Sam said, and rolled over and went back to sleep.
He woke up in the middle of the night and went downstairs to Sam’s couch of fever to find it empty. He panicked, for a moment, but then he realized he heard Sam out on the porch.
“I understand,” Sam was saying, to the sky. “I do. I really do. I get it. And - thank you.”
He didn’t hear the sound of wings, but he heard Castiel’s voice. “I did not find it enjoyable.”
Dean could almost hear Sam smile. “Yeah, well,” he said, “That makes two of us.” The silence seemed loaded, and then Sam added, “I’m joking. I’m fine. Dean’s fine. It’s okay. And I…feel better. I think. Just don’t…”
“I will not do that again,” Castiel said firmly. There was another moment of silence.
“Thank you, you know,” Sam said again. “For doing…what you did. I know it couldn’t be…what you wanted to be doing with a Saturday afternoon. But that you did it for Dean anyway…”
Castiel tilted his head; Dean could just see the gesture. “For Dean?”
Sam faltered. “Well…yeah.”
Castiel seemed hesitant. “I am…fond of Dean,” He said, finally. “But it was not only for him. Also for you.” Silence, again.
“Cas,” Sam said finally, sounding almost…choked up. The girl.
“It is of no import.” That was embarrassment. Dean almost grinned. There was another silence.
“I’m not going to stay blind forever,” Sam said abruptly. “I mean…like this.” Dean could just see him touch the blindfold. “I can’t.”
“You may be able to go without it someday and yet…”
“Stay sane? Yeah. But it’s not likely, is it?” Sam shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I just…you’ll look after Dean, right? If things go wrong?” He didn’t hear Castiel’s answer, but he must have nodded, because Sam said, “Good.”
“And after you,” Castiel added. And then, “I must go.”
“Thanks for coming,” Sam said, but Castiel was gone midway through the sentence, and Dean heard his brother sigh, and then move awkwardly toward the house, still finding his way across the porch.
Sam opened the door and Dean stepped back. “Hi,” he said, quickly, before Sam walked right into him. Sam nearly jumped.
“Jesus, Dean,” he said. “Don’t do that.”
Dean reached out and felt Sam’s forehead despite his feeble attempts to swat it away. “Come on. Get back on your couch. Feels like your fever’s gone up.”
“You can’t actually tell someone’s temperature from feeling their forehead,” Sam said.
“Shows what you know.” Dean found a smirk, before remembering that Sam couldn’t see it. “Come on. Trouble sleeping?”
“You were eavesdropping,” Sam accused.
“Was not,” Dean denied, and somehow Sam still managed to bitchface at him without the eyes. “Lie down. Do you want some tea or something?”
“Just…stay for a little bit?” Sam said, and his voice had gone suddenly small. Dean felt a peculiar, almost unfamiliar warmth in his chest.
“Sure, Sammy,” he said. “As long as you want.”
Sam fell asleep quickly, and it wasn’t entirely peaceful. Dean sat on the edge of the couch and watched his face, and his eyes moving visibly under the blindfold. Sam didn’t want to be blind forever. That was okay. Whatever they had to do then to stay together, Dean was ready to do it.
He found Sam’s left hand and squeezed it, and couldn’t help a smile when Sam squeezed back. Reflexive, maybe.
Dean took what he could get.
Fandom: Supernatural
Recipient: vail_kagami
Summary: Hell isn't just in Sam's head anymore.
Notes: Written (finally!) for vail_kagami, who is not only an awesome writer but the wonderful person who won me in the help_japan auction. And here is her gift, at long last. It is, as is to be expected, full of pain and h/c and also Cas and Sam interaction, but of the significantly less hilarious kind. I hope she enjoys it!
The Wall fell in bits and pieces. Or more accurately, chunk by chunk. For a while, Sam seemed to be coping. For a while. He was tense, yeah, and jumpy, and sometimes his eyes didn’t seem to want to focus on one place, but he was fine.
Dean had crafted denial into the highest of art forms.
Of course things went bad eventually, though. They always did.
And when Sam got his leg clawed open because he’d been busy shying away from nothing, denial became quickly worthless. “Dammit, Sam,” Dean yelled as he yanked a tourniquet tight around Sam’s leg and worked on hauling him to the car. “What were you fucking thinking? Did you not see that thing coming?”
Dean thought he would remember the look on Sam’s face for the rest of his life; slightly glazed and fighting for clarity. That, and the minute tremble in his voice when he said, “I was kind of distracted by all the rest.”
“All the,” Dean started to say, and then realized that Sam was looking over his shoulder at nothing and making a thin sound that was not quite a whine. And understood. “Oh Jesus,” he said.
Thankfully, at that point Sam passed out.
**
It wasn’t just seeing things. That would have been bad enough. It was bad enough, with Sam unable to distinguish between what was really attacking and what was Hell leaking out of his brain. He tried, Dean could see him trying, even when they were just walking between houses, his eyes flickering from Dean to past Dean and focusing on Dean again, but he was constantly tense, constantly on edge.
A week later and another chunk of the wall, and Sam wasn’t just seeing Hell, he was feeling it.
Sam went down screaming just outside their motel room, curling protectively around his perfectly intact arm, and Dean wanted nothing more than to kill the entire world. “Dean,” Sam said desperately, “Dean, please - please, make it stop- my shoulder, fuck-”
It wasn’t fair, Dean thought, desperately trying to convince Sam that he was fine, that they were safe, that - it wasn’t fucking fair. Sam clung to him with all the desperation of drowning, but only with one hand, because something had rendered his other arm useless, and he was feeling it, phantom pain of a phantom Hell.
Sam had stopped screaming, at least, and now he was just leaning limply against Dean’s chest, keening quietly, heaving rapid, shallow breaths, and Dean didn’t know what to do.
Eventually the lack of blood on Dean’s hands seemed to convince Sam that he still had two working arms, but it still took a couple minutes after that for his other arm to come up and grip the back of Dean’s shirt with a familiar kind of desperation that made Dean feel both nauseous and overprotective. “We can’t do this,” Dean said. “We need to stop.”
“Stopping won’t fix me,” Sam said, and he looked so tired, wrung out like he really had been ripped open with blood spilling out at the seams. “It won’t fix anything. It won’t even help. We need to keep going, Dean.” He tried to smile, so hard. “Saving people, hunting things. Remember?”
Sam sounded so clear, so lucid. So fucking convincing, if he hadn’t been falling apart just moments earlier.
“I’ll deal with this,” he said. “Just like with everything else. We can deal with this too.”
Dean had to believe him, because what else could he even do? Better to trust Sam, and believe for a little longer.
He called Cas once Sam was asleep, restless and twisting under the blankets without a sound. “I told you there’s nothing I can do,” he said, expression impassive; though Dean thought he caught a flicker of sympathy in his hard blue eyes. “A soul once damaged doesn’t heal.”
“There has to be something,” Dean insisted, “Somewhere.” On the bed, Sam took a shuddering breath in.
“Dean-” The Angel cut off, and looked skyward, as though praying. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he said, finally. “As much as I can.”
Dean knew it was meaningless, knew from the way Castiel wouldn’t meet his eyes that maybe the angel would look but that he really didn’t expect to find anything. “Thanks,” he said dully, and turned back to Sam without waiting for Castiel to take flight.
He settled a hand on Sam’s shoulder and his brother simultaneously twitched and leaned into it. He whispered something inaudible. Sam had fought Lucifer from inside his own head and won. He could beat Hell too.
“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean whispered.
He stayed awake through the night, just in case. Sam didn’t wake up once, just cried out softly in his sleep. For mercy. Or for death.
Dean was glad he couldn’t understand the words.
**
It didn’t get better. The Wall did not rebuild. And Hell was driving Sam insane.
He did so well at not showing it, other than occasional wandering eyes and almost continuous twitchiness. And then on their next hunt, a spirit, something in Sam’s head broke his arm in three places, and it took almost an hour for Sam to understand that he was fine. By then Sam had bitten clean through his lip and dug his nails hard enough into his own palm to break skin. “I’m sorry,” Sam gasped when it was over. “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Dean wanted to punch him, but then he didn’t really want to do that at all. He just wanted things to be fine.
The one bright spot Dean could find was that in all of the things leaking out of Sam’s head and into the real world, Lucifer did not appear to be one of them. He didn’t think even he could pull Sam back from that. He was already watching the entire world with a wary eye. Nowhere was safe.
Dean had his own nightmares, his own fears, and only half of them were memory-dreams of being back on the rack or worse, standing above it. Sam never talked about what he saw, of course; probably didn’t have the words. Hearing him scream said enough.
Another hunt went wrong and this time whatever Sam saw just plain gutted him.
Dean only left the room for a moment, just to breathe, to get away from the sound of his little brother choking on imaginary blood. Only for a moment.
There was blood (real blood) running down Sam’s face when he got back, running from under his hands over his eyes. “I want them gone,” Sam said, “I tried, I tried, but I can’t make…I can’t…it hurts too much.”
Dean pulled Sam’s hands away and breathed a sigh to see both eyes staring back at him, fingernail marks circling the socket. “Dean, please,” Sam said, turning his face up. “If I can’t see it - it’s better. It’s better. Please. Help me.”
He shuddered. His hands twitched on his lap. “If you can’t see them,” Dean said, carefully, “If you close your eyes…”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Sam made a jerky movement like to lift his fingernails to dig into his eyes again. Dean grabbed both his wrists. “It’s not there. Hell’s not there.”
Something he could do. At last, Dean thought with a leap of relief entirely disproportionate, something that he could help with. “Leave your eyes alone, Sammy,” he said firmly. “I have a better idea. It’ll be fine now.”
It was so stupidly simple that Dean couldn’t believe that they’d gone this long. It was just a blindfold, just a strip of cloth - black, to cut the light as much as possible - but for the difference it made it might have been a cure. He felt Sam sag with relief as soon as the outside world vanished, and didn’t realize how tightly he’d been wound until he saw all the muscles go slack.
“It’s quiet,” Sam said in a low, almost inaudible voice.
“I know, Sam,” Dean said, and found a grin before he even remembered that Sam couldn’t see it anyway, and that was the idea. “Who’s the best big brother ever?”
“You are,” Sam said, and shifted slightly to lean into Dean, and then drop his head on his shoulder, and then fall asleep, and really Dean should have pushed him off but he didn’t quite feel like it.
Of course, just to make sure that Dean didn’t forget how much the universe hated Winchesters, Sam still dreamed.
You couldn’t have everything, and Sam still had his eyes. Dean was still counting this one as a win.
**
It took adjusting. Of course. Sam seemed to move by leaps and bounds, though, and more importantly agreed to hold off the hunting. “Until I get the hang of this,” he said, stubbornly, and reached up to touch the blindfold with one hand.
Dean thought of the days when Sam would have given anything to get away from hunting. It would have been funny if it weren’t occasionally worrying.
His other senses were still sharp, though, and when Cas turned up, it was Sam who sat up straighter and said, “Cas? That you?”
The angel glances over at Sam, frowned, and looked at Dean in clear question. “It helps,” he said, nearly defensively. “Every little bit, right?”
Castiel looked skeptical. Sam couldn’t possibly have seen it, but he piped up anyway, saying, “I’m actually functional like this. Pretty big improvement.” And he smiled. Dean felt like his chest hurt. In a good way, though.
Sam smiled so rarely.
Castiel seemed awkward. “I came to see how you were,” he said, very nearly uncertain. “You were struggling when I saw you last.”
“We’re doing better,” Dean said honestly. Sam shifted slightly.
“As soon as Dean lets me we’ll be hunting again,” he said, and it was still strange to hear Sam talking like that, like this was something he needed to be doing, like he couldn’t possibly do anything else. Castiel was frowning.
“Is that wise?”
“No,” said Dean, and Sam made that particular exasperated noise that no one could quite imitate, Dean included.
“It’s fine,” Sam insisted. “I’m learning how to work with it. It’s just an adjustment.”
The angel looked at Dean, who made certain to roll his eyes judiciously. Castiel seemed oddly relieved. “Heaven seems momentarily quiet,” he said after a second or two of silence. “I may be able to visit more often for a time.”
“Glad to hear you can fit us into your busy schedule,” said Dean, somewhat bitterly. Castiel looked almost perplexed, and then his face went blank.
“Dean,” Sam said, and then turned his blindfolded eyes in Cas’ general direction. “That’d be nice. Next time I’ll make you some tea without Dean hovering.”
It was amazing, really, how mollified Castiel looked. That was Sam for you, Dean supposed. It was funny how he’d ended up with so many enemies. “Thank you, Samuel,” said the angel, only a little stiffly. “I will endeavor to make that possible.”
And then he was gone.
“You don’t have to be nasty to him,” Sam said reproachfully. Dean scoffed, and Sam somehow managed to make a bitchface even with the blindfold. And Dean felt a real smile spread across his face and sink in like it hadn’t for what felt like forever.
And it was good.
**
It didn’t last. Of course it didn’t fucking last. They lived in a world that hated them, after all, and took every opportunity possible to screw them hard.
It was a nest of vampires that just happened to walk into the same convenience store as Dean and just happened to recognize him and just happened to catch him unawares. And here he was, in a basement somewhere with puncture marks in his arms and Sam alone in the motel room, alone and blind and-
But of course, he’d forgotten what Sam was like when he got determined.
He heard the nest dying upstairs and thought gratefully that Sam had probably called Cas down for backup.
It turned out he hadn’t.
By the time Sam reached Dean, he was breathing raggedly and moving strangely. He staggered against the wall and his teeth flashed in the dim glow of the single bulb. “Dean,” Sam said, and groped for the cuffs, unlocked them. They clunked to the floor.
He wasn’t, Dean realized gradually as he was feeling a little dazed himself, wearing the blindfold.
“Sam?” He said worriedly. Sam tilted.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said, and fuck, fuck, fuck. Sam looked down at his left arm. And frowned. “Look at that,” he said, and then went down.
He wasn’t hurt. Dean checked, his own head spinning a little, almost hoping… but nothing. Sam was unhurt. But his skin was clammy and pale like he’d been bleeding, heart rate rapid and uneven, and why did this always happen, why did this always…
“Cas,” he said, because he hurt and didn’t know what else to do. “Cas, please.”
The angel brought them both back and they put the blindfold back on, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. All the ground they’d gained was lost in a couple hours.
Dean didn’t quite understand, because Sam wasn’t exactly coherent, not most of the time, not when he was twitchy and scared, eyes unable to focus, but from what he could gather during the fight with the vampires, something, something else, from Hell, had ripped Sam’s arm off at the shoulder.
“It’s still there,” Dean said, but Sam’s eyes slid away from him again.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, voice rough and all broken edges. “Sorry. I just. Dean, they want me back. Piece by - they’re going to take me back. You can’t stop - please don’t. Please.”
“It’s not real,” Dean said, desperately, but Sam didn’t even seem to hear him, just wrapped one arm around himself, the other hanging useless at his side because he didn’t believe it was there, wouldn’t believe it was there.
And he was tearing himself up about it. About being useless. About being dragged back to Hell in pieces. It wasn’t getting worse, not with the blindfold back, but it wasn’t getting better either.
Watching Sam twist and scream silently in his sleep, Dean reached out and ran a hand through his hair. “Sam,” he said. “We got this far. Come on. You can beat this too.”
He stepped out of the motel and prayed. Castiel came what seemed like more quickly this time, and looked toward the door. “There has to be something we can do,” Dean said without preamble.
The angel hesitated. “There is,” he said, finally. “Something.”
“God, Cas,” Dean said irritably. “You could have said something before now.”
Castiel hesitated, and glanced toward the door one more time. “You won’t like it.”
He didn’t.
**
In the end, they went to Bobby’s. By car, because even with the blindfold and all Sam’s efforts Dean could still see the way Sam flinched when Castiel got close.
That wasn’t going to make the rest of this any easier, but Dean was out of ideas, and Cas thought it would work. Cas thought it might work.
Returning to the room and watching Sam move unevenly across the floor, overcompensating for an arm he was convinced wasn’t there (that still was), Dean didn’t know what else to do.
Sam slept for most of the drive. “There is a chance,” Castiel said as they were crossing through South Dakota, “This could make things worse. The pain…”
“Cas,” Dean said roughly, “Shut up.” His stomach churned.
“I would think you’d want to know the risks.” The angel sounded almost affronted, though he’d gotten good at hiding it again. Dean tightened his hands on the wheel.
“Cas,” he said. “I need to do something.” Castiel just nodded, minutely, but he didn’t speak up again. Sam twisted in the passenger seat and made a small whimpering noise.
The first problem was how to explain to Sam what they were doing in the first place. Cas didn’t think it was practical. Dean wanted to hit him just for that, but that was probably because he’d been wanting to hit someone for a week and a half without much of a target. Other than Sam, who really wasn’t.
So when Sam woke up faintly confused, Dean told him the truth.
“Where are we?” Sam asked, adjusting his blindfold without ever shifting it from his eyes or moving his left hand. His voice sounded almost level.
“Bobby’s,” Dean said roughly. “Come on, we’re going inside. Cas thinks he has a way to fix your arm.” Sam smiled, a little, but it was thin and kind of sad, the expression he got when he thought Dean was being unreasonable.
“Dean,” Sam said, “There’s nothing to fix.”
Dean pressed his lips together. “We’ll see,” he said finally, because yelling at Sam did nothing but upset them both.
Bobby emerged from the house and looked back and forth between them. Dean closed the distance, letting Sam make it on his own. “Panic room?” Bobby asked, and Dean looked at Sam and thought about the last time Sam had been down there, and the time before that, and the time before that.
“No,” he said. “Better not.”
Sam knew there was something wrong. Dean could see it in the set of his mouth and his shoulders. But he didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, just went into the house and sat down in a chair in the living room. And only then, “Guys,” he said, “Is something going on?” He sounded nervous. Maybe he thought Dean was leaving. Maybe he thought that some other kind of penny was going to drop. Dean swallowed hard, and didn’t think, for a moment, that he could go through with this. Thought that they should just leave now, go to the Grand Canyon and-
Castiel shifted. “Sam,” he said finally. “You must understand that we are helping you.”
Sam tensed. His head swiveled to Dean unerringly, even though he couldn’t see. Sam always knew where he was. “Helping me how?” He asked, voice trembling minutely, and Dean wondered if Sam was wondering if this was real, or if this was it, Hell finally revealing that it’d been there all along.
Oh god.
Bobby took Sam’s shoulders. Castiel knelt and took his wrist, pulling his left arm out straight. Sam didn’t react, not even seeming to notice, though his breathing quickened audibly. “Guys,” he said, “What’s going on?”
“It’s all right, Sammy,” Dean said, though his throat was trying to close. “It’s going to be all right.”
**
“Pain,” Castiel said. Dean blinked.
“What?”
“Pain,” the angel repeated. “Have you tried inflicting it on Sam?”
“Uh,” Dean said, eyes narrowing. “No.”
They let Castiel do the breaking. He started with Sam’s fingers. At the first he flinched but didn’t seem to understand or even feel it. “Dean,” he said, and his shoulders shifted under Bobby’s hands. “What’s going on.”
The second snap was louder than the first, and this time Sam’s whole body jerked. “It’s okay,” Dean said, though he could feel bile surging at the back of his throat. “Your arm’s still there, Sam. It’s still there.”
“Dean?” There was something in Sam’s voice that was not quite frantic. Dean looked at Castiel instead, and forced himself to nod.
Bone breaking made such a terrible sound. Come on, he thought. Come on. You have to feel that. You have to.
“Pain is the body’s way of…”
“Saying that something’s wrong, yeah, I know,” Dean said. “What the hell are you saying, Cas?”
“I’m saying,” he said, slowly. “That if you wound the arm Sam believes is missing significantly enough, it will become impossible to ignore, and he will have to recognize it is there.”
“You can’t be serious.”
By the time Castiel broke Sam’s thumb (easily, so fucking easily) Bobby wasn’t looking, Dean could barely swallow, and Sam was fighting down screams. “Dean,” he kept saying, “I don’t understand, what’s going on, I don’t understand,” and Dean said “Focus on the pain, Sam, something hurts, what hurts,” and Sam twisted and fought against Bobby’s hands.
“I won’t,” he was saying thickly, blindfold askew. “I won’t, I can’t, it’s not real, Dean-”
Castiel looked at Dean. He looked uncertain. Bobby looked sick. Sam seemed right on the verge of panicking. Stop, he wanted to say. They were waiting for his word. “Keep going,” he managed.
If this didn’t work Dean thought he was going to have to shoot himself.
“Of course I am serious.” Castiel frowned. “You wanted to know how you can help fix Sam. Perhaps you could start by giving him both his arms.”
“By - what, breaking every bone from fingers to shoulder?”
Castiel looked thoughtful. “Something like that might work.”
Dean hadn’t known just how many bones there were in the human wrist until Castiel started breaking them one at a time, and Dean avowed never, ever to piss Cas off. Sam was crying now, between short, sharp screams. “Not real,” he insisted, “It’s not real, it’s not - please, stop. Please.”
“Sam,” Cas said, suddenly. “It’s me. I need you to think. About what hurts. I need you to think about why…”
“Everything,” Sam said. His whole body was trembling and was it too much? How was Dean supposed to know? “Everything hurts, everything always-”
“Sammy,” Dean began, when Sam’s head snapped around.
“You’re not Dean,” he said, with sudden, unshakable certainty. “You’re not- you can’t-”
Castiel didn’t look to Dean before shifting his fingers again. It didn’t get any easier to hear that sound. Didn’t get any easier to hear Sam scream. “Cas-” Dean started to say, but the angel leaned down, close to Sam. His voice was quiet, gentle. Terrible.
“What bone was that?” He asked, and Dean twitched, because Sam went still in a way Dean didn’t like.
“I-”
“Answer me.”
“Scaphoid,” Sam said at last, voice trembling but neutral, flat. “L-left scaphoid. I think.”
“Good,” Castiel said, still in that same unnerving voice. “Good. What happened to your left arm, Sam?”
Dean could see the way Sam was shaking. “Gone,” Sam said. He twitched. “It’s gone. I couldn’t - I just-”
“I see.” Dean had never heard Cas take quite that tone, of disapproval and disappointment. He moved both hands up and jerked Sam’s forearm sharply. Sam screamed again, and Castiel asked, “Then what did I just break?”
Sam was panting, his chest heaving like he’d just run fifteen miles at a sprint. “Cas,” Dean said, low and quietly. The angel ignored him. “This needs to-”
“It’s not - it’s just - phantom pain,” Sam gasped. “You’re making me feel-”
“Am I?” This time the snap was more of a crunch. Bobby pulled away, stepped back, but Sam didn’t seem able to curl in on himself or to move away.
“Aah- no, stop- please- I can’t - can’t-”
“Cas,” Dean said again, with more desperation, and took a step closer.
“Stay where you are, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was like iron. “Sam, listen. Focus.” His hands moved. Another snap, another scream. “Tell me. What happened to your left arm?”
“I don’t - Dean, please, help me-”
“What happened?” Another snap and a full throated yell as Sam’s whole body jerked and spasmed and he cried out.
“You’re breaking it!”
Castiel stopped. His voice altered, subtly. “Yes. That’s right.” Sam was shuddering like he couldn’t stop. “Sam. Do you know who I am?”
“Castiel.” Sam’s head dropped slowly to his chest. His eyes weren’t visible but the blindfold was damp and there were tears running from underneath it. “You’re Cas.”
“Yes,” Castiel said, something soft and strange in his voice. “That’s right.” He reached out and touched Sam’s shoulder lightly, and Sam went limp. Dean could see his arm, his fingers, straighten and realign. Then he turned to Dean, who stared at him, appalled.
“He will rest for a while,” Castiel said simply. “Do not call me again.”
Then he was gone.
**
Next time, Dean told himself, he was going to make sure that he got straight the definition of ‘a while.’ A while, it turned out, was enough time for he and Bobby to both get painfully drunk, suffer a terrible hangover, and stare nervously at each other for most of the next day.
“Never make me do anything like that again,” Bobby said.
“No,” Dean agreed. He still felt like throwing up. “Never.”
Sam woke up in the afternoon with a light fever, dizzy and disoriented and confused. He took the glass of water with his left hand, though. “Dean,” he said hoarsely, throat worn out (from screaming). “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Sam,” Dean said, as firmly as he could. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Sam said, and rolled over and went back to sleep.
He woke up in the middle of the night and went downstairs to Sam’s couch of fever to find it empty. He panicked, for a moment, but then he realized he heard Sam out on the porch.
“I understand,” Sam was saying, to the sky. “I do. I really do. I get it. And - thank you.”
He didn’t hear the sound of wings, but he heard Castiel’s voice. “I did not find it enjoyable.”
Dean could almost hear Sam smile. “Yeah, well,” he said, “That makes two of us.” The silence seemed loaded, and then Sam added, “I’m joking. I’m fine. Dean’s fine. It’s okay. And I…feel better. I think. Just don’t…”
“I will not do that again,” Castiel said firmly. There was another moment of silence.
“Thank you, you know,” Sam said again. “For doing…what you did. I know it couldn’t be…what you wanted to be doing with a Saturday afternoon. But that you did it for Dean anyway…”
Castiel tilted his head; Dean could just see the gesture. “For Dean?”
Sam faltered. “Well…yeah.”
Castiel seemed hesitant. “I am…fond of Dean,” He said, finally. “But it was not only for him. Also for you.” Silence, again.
“Cas,” Sam said finally, sounding almost…choked up. The girl.
“It is of no import.” That was embarrassment. Dean almost grinned. There was another silence.
“I’m not going to stay blind forever,” Sam said abruptly. “I mean…like this.” Dean could just see him touch the blindfold. “I can’t.”
“You may be able to go without it someday and yet…”
“Stay sane? Yeah. But it’s not likely, is it?” Sam shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I just…you’ll look after Dean, right? If things go wrong?” He didn’t hear Castiel’s answer, but he must have nodded, because Sam said, “Good.”
“And after you,” Castiel added. And then, “I must go.”
“Thanks for coming,” Sam said, but Castiel was gone midway through the sentence, and Dean heard his brother sigh, and then move awkwardly toward the house, still finding his way across the porch.
Sam opened the door and Dean stepped back. “Hi,” he said, quickly, before Sam walked right into him. Sam nearly jumped.
“Jesus, Dean,” he said. “Don’t do that.”
Dean reached out and felt Sam’s forehead despite his feeble attempts to swat it away. “Come on. Get back on your couch. Feels like your fever’s gone up.”
“You can’t actually tell someone’s temperature from feeling their forehead,” Sam said.
“Shows what you know.” Dean found a smirk, before remembering that Sam couldn’t see it. “Come on. Trouble sleeping?”
“You were eavesdropping,” Sam accused.
“Was not,” Dean denied, and somehow Sam still managed to bitchface at him without the eyes. “Lie down. Do you want some tea or something?”
“Just…stay for a little bit?” Sam said, and his voice had gone suddenly small. Dean felt a peculiar, almost unfamiliar warmth in his chest.
“Sure, Sammy,” he said. “As long as you want.”
Sam fell asleep quickly, and it wasn’t entirely peaceful. Dean sat on the edge of the couch and watched his face, and his eyes moving visibly under the blindfold. Sam didn’t want to be blind forever. That was okay. Whatever they had to do then to stay together, Dean was ready to do it.
He found Sam’s left hand and squeezed it, and couldn’t help a smile when Sam squeezed back. Reflexive, maybe.
Dean took what he could get.