Mercy, Mercy (Fighting for Nothing) [2/3]
He’s running again.
This time through a field, cutting a path through stalks of yellow grass that reach up past his eyes. He’s running from that voice again, that voice that lurks, always out of sight, calling him, taunting him, luring him.
Only the figure that appears before him, black hair, blue eyes, is enough to stop him cold.
For a minute, Sam thinks it’s just another illusion. Another insubstantial presence in his vivid dream world; another figment of his imagination.
But then he remembers. “Cas,” he says and his voice comes out in a whisper, his dream self still too afraid of being caught. “You’re really alive.”
Castiel just nods, and his eyes dart around, peering through the grass, up at the red-orange sky.
Sam keeps whispering. “Dean said, but I didn’t quite believe… This. You’re real, aren’t you? Not just in my head?”
“I am real, yes,” Cas answers, and Sam’s chest is a little less tight, even though his limbs are still shaking in fear. Shaking with the need to keep running.
“I’m so sorry.” Sincere whisper, quiet apology.
“I blame Lucifer. I do not blame you,” Castiel assures.
Sam shivers at the name, has to keep his head from whipping around, has to stop himself from checking the shadows for signs of his hunter. Cas’s eyes narrow.
“I am not the only angel in your dream.” It’s not a question and, as if on cue, the voice rings out once more.
“Sammy. Oh, Sammy. I’m right behind you!”
Castiel stares at Sam, looks almost betrayed. “You lied to Dean. You told him Lucifer was still in Hell.”
Guilt stabs. “Don’t want him to find out. He’d have to kill me. Send me back again.”
“Can’t run, can’t hide. Can’t run forever, Sammy!”
Cas looks towards the voice. It’s closer now.
“We will discuss this later.” Cas turns to vanish again.
“Wait! Don’t tell Dean…”
Cas is gone.
“Can’t run.”
Sam has to keep running.
“Can’t run, can’t hide.”
Can’t stop running, can’t let Dean find out, can’t go back.
“Can’t hide.”
***
Dean knows he should stop.
Should settle, sit, let himself sleep for more than an hour at a time. Knows he should, doesn’t know if he can.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, squeaky mattress and stiff quilt, and Sam’s moving, just a few feet away. He’s not thrashing, not screaming yet, but he’s kicked off the sheet, and his limbs are twisting, constantly, a sporadic movement that’s not enough to wake him, not enough to make Dean wake him.
Sam’s eyes are closed, squeezed tight, but they move beneath the lids, darting back and forth like he’s looking for something, something he can’t see. His breath comes in harsh, quick bursts from between parted lips, and Dean wonders what’s happening in Sam’s head.
What he’s fighting so hard.
“Lucifer.”
Castiel stands in the corner, partly concealed by shadow, and Dean starts, bedsprings creaking as he stands up.
Cas’s eyes are on Sam too, and there’s something like pity, like sadness in them when Dean asks, “what?”
“Lucifer,” Cas repeats, hands in the pockets of his coat. “He’s running from Lucifer.”
“Dreaming, you mean, he’s. Dreaming of Lucifer?” Remembering, reliving, suffering. Dean hates the way Cas avoids his eyes at the question in his voice.
“Lucifer…” Cas hesitates. “Lucifer is not in Hell.”
Dean glares at the angel, at the too-vague response. “Cas, you’d better tell me what the Hell you’re talking about…”
Sam’s eyelids fly open. He’s breathing hard and Dean watches his scared, pleading eyes move to look at Cas. It’s persuasion, panic, and Dean starts to put the pieces together in his head.
Oh god, he realizes, green eyes locking with brown. He doesn’t hear the whoosh of wings as Castiel disappears.
Sam’s face is open, so scared, so alone, and Dean sits down heavy on his bed before his knees can give.
“Sammy.” He can barely force out the next words, not really wanting to hear the answer, not letting himself think of the worst one. “You’re not… you’re still you? Please tell me you’re not him.”
Sam shakes his head, once, twice, over and over. “No. God, no. I’m still me.”
Dean shutters, relief or fear, he can’t tell which. “But, Lucifer. Lucifer’s not gone?”
“No.” Almost imperceptible.
Not gone, not safe, not over. It’s never over, never, and Dean’s exhausted, so numbingly tired that he just. Snaps.
“Jesus, Sammy! Why didn’t you tell me? What the Hell were you thinking?” His voice is loud, yelling, and he flinches when Sam does, surprised at the volume.
“I didn’t… didn’t want you to…”
But he never gets to finish the sentence. “He’s not gone! The fucking Devil, Sam, and you didn’t tell me he was still in your head?”
“I’m so…”
“He could’ve killed you! Taken you over, killed you from the inside. Could’ve killed us both, and you didn’t think that was important enough to mention? Didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”
“I…”
“I just can’t. I need some fucking air.”
Dean doesn’t bother grabbing his coat as he spins around and slams the door, not letting himself turn around, not wanting to see the wet in Sam’s eyes or the hurt corners of his frown. Not wanting to hear his attempts at apology.
The air is cool and crisp, and Dean feels like he can’t breathe.
***
Sam’s eyes don’t stray from the door. He tries not to blink because there are tears waiting just beneath the surface, and he stares. He doesn’t know how much time goes by, because his eyes never travel as far as the clock on the wall. He can hear it ticking.
When Dean finally enters the room again, he’s quiet. Sam looks away and swallows the lump in his throat and thinks maybe, maybe Dean will talk to him.
Ask him more questions, curse at him, yell for hours. Maybe he should, maybe it’s what Sam deserves, but it’s not what he gets.
Dean sinks into bed without a word, without a glance, and there’s no rage left in his movement. He turns his back to Sam, and Sam almost feels like speaking. Like whispering, pleading, stopping his brother from sleeping.
He wants to tell Dean that he’s fine, that Lucifer’s trapped, that he can only feel him when he dreams.
But Dean curls in on himself, sighing quietly, and Sam whispers a simple “I’m sorry” and lets him rest.
***
The surprise in Dean’s eyes is only half of what Sam feels.
He opens his mouth and expects to voice a comment about the motel, another chorus of “I’m fine.” What he actually says is something he never thought he would.
“Let’s find the demon.”
***
They’ve been driving for five and a half minutes.
Dean’s hands are on the wheel and it feels right, like his hands missed the hunt even if his heart didn’t.
Sam’s hands are in his lap, but they’re not still, not calm. He twists at the hem of his shirt and picks at his finger nails and scratches at his jean-covered thigh. When Dean glances over, Sam’s eyes flicker from the window to his face to his lap and back again. They’re nervous.
Five more minutes, and then Dean pulls over. Sam looks at him, confusion evident.
“What’re you doing?”
Dean just looks at his brother, hands off the wheel now. “Look. I know you’re not fine.” Blunt, direct. Sam opens his mouth to protest but Dean can’t have that. “I’ve heard you dreaming, Sam, and you’re not fine. I know… God, I know I’m the last person to ever ask this, but. Would you just talk to me? Sammy. Please?”
Sam meets his eyes for a second, two, then looks away. Mouth open, trembling slightly.
“I.” Deep breath. “I…”
And Dean wants to say something, force the words out. But Sam’s blinking furiously, hands balled into fists, and Dean just waits.
“I can’t.” A swallow, a shake of the head. “I’m sorry, Dean. I. I just can’t.”
His voice cracks, and when he closes his eyes a tear escapes. Somehow that says it all. Dean lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder and the shaking is ten times worse under his fingers.
Sam doesn’t say anymore, water tracking his cheeks. His hands are still curled in his lap, like he just doesn’t have the energy to wipe away the tears, so Dean does it for him. He brushes the wet away with his thumb, and Sam doesn’t acknowledge it as his eyes gradually dry.
Dean takes his hand away and waits until Sam’s back to staring at the road ahead, resolute and stony eyes.
Then he drives.
***
Demons lie.
That’s what Sam tells himself. To get prepared, mentally ready for anything that could - will - be waiting inside.
The house is big and dark and looming, casting shadows that move, and the last thing Sam wants to do is walk in. He doesn’t want to know why he’s back, doesn’t want to know why Lucifer is still in his head, doesn’t want to hear the demon’s plans for him. Doesn’t want to know his destiny.
But Dean is stoic and rigid beside him, and he squares his shoulders. Dean pushes open the door.
It creaks like Sam knew it would.
They enter the house, guns raised, ears wide open. But the demon isn’t hiding. She’s standing in the center of the living room, fire crackling behind her, and she turns. Fluid, graceful, when she senses their presence. The body is beautiful; long black hair and short black dress, but red glows sharply, contrasting catlike rings around her eyes.
“Boys,” she says with a smirk. They don’t lower their guns, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Dean Winchester. Nice to finally meet you.” She turns her grin, feral, predatory, to Sam. “And Sammy. It’s been too long.” Crooning. Deceptive. Seductive.
Sam finds himself with a dry throat and he opens his mouth silently. Dean is the one who speaks. “Alright. I think you know why we’re here. Just tell us what we need to know, and we’ll leave.”
Victoria clicks her tongue, disapproving. “Come now Dean, you really think you’ll get anything out of me like that?” She turns to Sam. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I’m surprised it took you this long to find me.” She laughs. “Actually I’m surprised you’re still alive, but you always did have a knack for the unexpected.”
Sam furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” He finally speaks.
“Oh, you really do have no idea, don’t you? No idea why you’re back, why your mind isn’t just a drying puddle under Lucifer’s feet. Pity. I didn’t want to be the one to break the bad news.” She throws back her head, laughing more, maniacal. “No, actually, I love to bring bad news. Especially news like this. Because, boys? This is bad.”
Sam can feel the rage building inside him, and he fights back an angry growl.
“Just fucking tell us,” Dean spits out.
“I would, Dean, I would. But this news is for Sam’s ears only.” She meets Sam’s eye and winks. He glares.
“Fine. I’ll cover my ears and sing la, la, la.” Dean rolls his eyes, and the demon shakes her head.
She turns away from Dean again. “Sammy. Come here.”
Sam narrows his eyes. He doesn’t want to get within reach of her. He’s not strong, hasn’t been fighting, hasn’t been practicing. She would win in minutes if it came down to a fight.
“Come on. I won’t bite.” Her voice is a purr, low and soft and just loud enough to reach their ears.
Dean scoffs. “Sure you won’t.”
“I’m not a vampire, Dean. Sam, come on, come closer. I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to talk. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know why you’re here? Aren’t you just the least bit curious?”
Sam just glares, and Victoria grins.
“Of course you are,” she says, taking a step forward, two. “Come on, Sammy. Let me tell you. Let me show you why you’re alive.”
One hard swallow, and Sam walks forward, ignoring Dean’s protests. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of the demon. She blinks, her eyes go red. He’s nervous, but he locks his knees and shoulders, standing tall, resolute. She smirks and leans in to whisper in his ear. Sam braces himself.
He expects her breath on his face and her voice in his ear, but he lets out a noise of surprise when she darts forward and covers his mouth with hers.
Sam struggles, squirms and tries to pull away, but her hand is on the back of his head and it holds him in place as she moves her lips against his. Sam stays stock still, then, fighting is useless, and he’s waiting for her to stop, for it to be over.
And then it starts.
It rushes at him, one thing after another, voices and words and pictures and sounds and it doesn’t stop. He’s shaking and his knees threaten to give out. It’s all too much. Too much, too much, can’t be, he can’t take it. He loses track of the meaning as everything rushes into his head; he can’t keep it straight, can’t separate one thought from another, can’t tell what it all means.
What does it mean? When will it stop?
His eyes are squeezed shut and he knows the demon is gone only when the assault on his mind stops. Her hand falls from around his head and he barely registers the scream and the stream of black smoke as the host body crumples to the ground.
He’s stumbling backwards, tripping over nothing and shaking; the demon’s gone but he’s still so overwhelmed. It’s just too much. He can’t think of it, can’t let the meanings take hold, can’t look too closely because it’s too much. It’s too bad, worse than he thought, too big, bigger than him. Bigger than all of them.
Sam thought it was over, but he was wrong. So wrong.
Dean’s strong arm wraps around his waist and Sam lets his knees give out completely, his brother supporting his weight.
“Sammy, hey. Are you okay? What did she do?” Dean’s voice is hurried, concerned.
Sam wants to answer, to beg for help, to ask Dean, what does it mean? But he hasn’t found his voice yet. He shakes his head.
“Come on. Let’s get to the car.” Dean steers him out of the house and his legs move on their own.
The seats are cool and they would be comforting, but Sam doesn’t notice them, not really. He hears the door slam as Dean pushes it and climbs in the driver’s side, but he doesn’t look over at his brother. He doesn’t think he can, doesn’t want Dean to look into his eyes and see everything. He doesn’t know what to do.
Sam drops his head into his hands, and just holds on.
***
He can’t see Sammy’s eyes.
Dean can hear shaky breathing, he can feel shivering shoulders, but he can’t see his brother’s eyes and that’s what scares him. Sam’s soul shines out through his eyes, green and brown, all secrets revealed. All happiness, gleaming, all pain on display.
Sam’s head is in his hands, bent over and clearly, so clearly breaking, and Dan can only whisper. “Sammy. Look at me.” And then he gasps, because Sam listens and he raises his head.
Usually so familiar, Sam’s eyes are cold. Hollowed out like his soul has been drawn into his body, so deep that it’s out of sight.
Dean feels like he should speak. Say something, say anything, make Sam tell him. What happened? What’s wrong?
“I shouldn’t be here.” It’s as if he heard Dean’s thoughts. Sam’s voice is as hollow as his stare. “Shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t. I don’t belong here. I belong… down there.”
“What do you…?”
“I shouldn’t be alive.”
Dean freezes. Sam looks so hurt.
“I can’t be alive. Dean, kill me. Please. You have to…”
Sam bites down on his lip so hard that a tear escapes his eye and rolls down his cheek.
“Please…”
Dean leans forward with his palms on Sam’s face, and he doesn’t know what to do but this. He presses his lips softly to Sam’s. He watches as Sam’s eyes close, their mouths together, a soft constant pressure. Neither of them moving. Neither pulling away.
Sam doesn’t kiss him back; Dean’s not even sure if he wants him to, but he leans ever so slightly into the hand resting on his cheek.
They stay, just like that, breathing; lips, faces touching.
And after a while, Sam stops shaking.
***
“Michael brought me back.”
Straight to the point, soon as he’s ready.
“Michael sent me here.
“But. But he’s still in Hell. Isn’t he?”
Dean’s confused, trying not to push Sam but needing to know.
“He is. He brought me back. Used his power to save me.”
Sam’s voice is detached, monotone.
“But why…”
Why did he save you and not himself?
”He saved me because I’m not me.”
Sam pauses after every word, painful emphasis.
“He used the last of his power to send me back because I’m not me.”
Dean’s brain is whirring, clicking through and calculating.
“But you are you… Sammy, what are you saying?”
“Lucifer, Dean! Lucifer’s in my head. That’s why Michael brought me back. For him. To save him.”
“But that’s impossible.”
Dean’s shaking his head.
“Michael’s an angel, Sam. Or did you forget?”
Sam’s eyes, piercing.
“Lucifer’s an angel too.”
“Yeah, but…”
Dean trails off, and he doesn’t want to ask the next question because it brings up complications. Horrible complications, and he doesn’t want to know.
But he can’t let Sam bottle it all in, so he asks.
“Is Michael… in league with Lucifer?”
Sam drops his eyes and his hair falls forward.
Nod.
“But, he was supposed. He was meant to be good, to. Goddamnit, he was supposed to save the world!”
Dean’s mind is reeling.
Was it all a deception?
“He wanted Lucifer brought back to earth. Had to send me back. Had to let me carry the devil out of Hell.”
Was it?
“He went to Hell so he could push me back out.”
Deception.
“But why?”
Sam just looks at him. Long, long unblinking stare.
“Because they’re brothers, Dean.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
***
It’s not the dark that scares him, but the way it echoes.
The way it surrounds him, all-encompassing and impenetrable. The way that, when the voice sounds out, it seems to be everywhere at once.
“I can see you, Sammy.”
Around, around, in the air and universal.
“I’m getting closer now, I can feel it. Can you feel me?”
And oh, how he tries not to. Tries to ignore the scratching, scraping, tearing at the walls of his mind, in every corner of the dark. Clawing and ripping and begging. Trying to get inside.
“You’re not as strong as you think you are.”
His breath comes in gasps and his legs move fast, carrying him, running from and to the voice. Just running.
“You’re not as strong as me.”
And his knees give out. He can’t see the ground, but he hits it hard, bones burning and silently crying out. The voice turns to laughter, swirling, moving, and it seems to descend. Blanketing him.
He closes his eyes and covers his head with his hands.
The laughter never stops.
***
For a moment, Sam doesn’t know he’s awake. He’s curled up and the bed could be grass, shadowed ground. His hands are still raised, protecting. Hiding. He can feel Lucifer, still scratching at his mind. Searching for a way in, and he just wants the dream to end.
Just wants to wake up.
Sam flinches when Dean touches him. But when the hands don’t stop gripping his shoulders, he opens his eyes. Dean’s face is close, green eyes grounding, and Sam concentrates, gritting his teeth until the fight in his mind stops and he can’t feel the devil anymore.
“Are you okay?” Dean asks. Every time.
And Sam’s tired of lying, of saying he’s fine, so he just shakes his head, leaning forward until his face presses to Dean’s shoulder and arms wrap around him. Containing him.
Sam wonders what’s different. Why his brother will hold him, now, when he wouldn’t before.
Because I was in Hell? Because he lost me, again? Because I’m weak, because he’s forgiven me, because he loves me?
Suddenly it’s too close. If he gets too close, Dean will know. Sam’s breath on his neck and Dean will feel Lucifer scrabbling for control. Reassuring whispers in his ear, and Dean will hear how close it is. How close Sam is to losing. To losing everything.
Sam pulls away.
Dean’s eyes - slightly hurt, sympathetic - move away from Sam’s only when Castiel, swoosh, appears beside him.
“Sam.” The angel speaks and Sam looks at him, eyes heavy.
“You spoke with the demon.” It’s a statement; he knows.
Sam just nods.
“I need to know what happened. Heaven is in chaos, and I believe you are the key to determining why.”
He’s already said it. To Dean, to himself, and Sam just looks up at Cas. Pleading. Don’t make me say it again.
“Come on.” Dean comes to the rescue.
Always.
He leads Castiel away, into the hall, and Sam doesn’t move. Just stares at the wall, green wallpaper matching the sheets, and tries to stop thinking. Stop thinking about Lucifer, because he doesn’t want to let Lucifer into his mind. Doesn’t want to give him any more room, any more advantage, any more reason to take over.
Sam’s slipping, slipping, alone in his world and sharing his mind, and he wills his eyes to stay open. He’s so tired, a phenomenal exhaustion weighing him down, pulling him apart from the inside out. And he can’t fall asleep.
His feet are weights on the floor and the bed is pulling him down. Only when Dean re-enters the room; only then does he let himself sink.
***
When they check out in the morning, it’s out of ritual, not necessity. They pack - one bag each - and they drive. Dean at the wheel, Sam at his side. It’s tradition. Constant, safe.
They’re not chasing, not searching; no goal in sight. Heading towards nothing, and Dean won’t let himself think of what they’re running from. Moving, they’re just moving.
Dean drives, doors locked, because if he stops it’s done. If he stops, it means their world is finally crumbling.
***
His life is loud but his dreams are quiet.
Always flat colors and swirling fog, muted sound and senses. Even his nightmares; even his nightmares are calm. Despite his terror, despite his cold sweat and wide eyes, he’s walking in his ideal world. Warm and soft and unthreatening.
His utopia. His dystopia.
His worst fears integrated into his fantasies; his dreams are liars. They tell him what he wants to hear. That he’s safe, here; Sam’s hand on his. That they’re happy; Sam’s laugh and smile.
There’s nothing to fear.
And Dean wants to scream because he wants it, he wants it. Wants calm, wants sleep, wants Sam, wants out.
It’s his idea of Heaven, but better.
He doesn’t know why he wakes himself up.
***
Sam can smell the blood.
It blasts with the air through the open window and hits him like something solid, thick. Metallic in his nostrils and swimming behind his eyes; it mingles with the scent of fear.
He gasps. It gets stronger.
A house sprawls on the side of the road; all curtains closed and cream-colored planks dirty, worn. The roof is dark and red, painted with the smell.
“Pull over,” Sam says, voice flat. An order.
“What? Why?” Dean looks at him, stares like he’s gone crazy.
“Something’s wrong. Pull over.”
Dean does.
The door of the house opens wide with a click, not locked, not barricaded. Sam holds his breath.
It’s still inside, air hanging suspended and waiting. Undisturbed. Undisturbed except for the splotches on the ground; splattered and spilt and soaked with that scent. It’s hard to breathe, hard to see, and something in Sam wants to drink it in, revel, rejoice in the pain, the death.
Something that gets stronger with every step.
When they find the bodies, it’s ten times worse. Dean bends over the first corpse - small, female, ripped apart - and he’s all business; investigation and calculation.
There’s nothing in the air but the small, the blood, all oxygen banished. Gone from the air and from Sam’s lungs. He takes a stumbling step backwards and trips. Another body. Another burst inside his head.
He can feel the pain, the screams that tore from their mouths as they felt their lives draining away. He can feel their fear and he soaks it in. Their tears. He can feel the panic they felt as they died.
Sam throws back his head and he laughs.
The sound comes from the back of his brain, the far reaches of his mind. The shadow. The darkness. The part that’s not him. It rips from his lungs, pure fury and elation, and he can’t stop it.
Can’t stop, can’t fight, can’t choke back the noise.
He just stands with eyes wide open as Lucifer sings.
***
Dean has seen Sam’s demons.
He’s seen the eyes glow black and the mouth stained red. He’s seen the darkness and the terrifying power that consumed, that made Sam something different, something almost unrecognizable.
But through it all, through the worst of it all, it was still Sam. There was still a glimmer, sparking hope, and Dean always knew. This was Sam, and Sam would be okay. Sam would come back.
Come back to him.
But now, he can’t tell.
When Sam breaks, when he snaps and howls. When he laughs, Dean can’t tell. If this is Sam, if this is a just-this-once. Or if Sam’s really gone. If Lucifer is standing in front of him.
He stands stock-still, rigid in the sudden cold, and waits. Sam’s bellow echoes and he waits.
Waits for the moment that comes, finally, when the laugh dies, sputters out in a screech that leaves his head aching and his eyes watering. When the manic gleam is gone from Sam’s eyes, when it’s replaced with shock and tears and confusion.
When Sam crumples to the ground.
He collapses, arms and legs sprawled. Unconscious, and Dean doesn’t move, not for a whole minute. Not until he stops seeing Lucifer and starts seeing Sam. When he’s sure, when he’s convinced himself that it’s only his brother lying there, Dean picks him up and carries him out.
Sam’s weight is heavy in his arms and he absorbs the feeling, the moment, wanting Sam’s eyes to open but not wanting to see what’s in them. What he knows is just below the surface. Because he can’t lie to himself anymore, can’t let Sam lie. He knows. Knows the truth, horrible truth, painful truth.
Sam isn’t the same, isn’t alright. He’s something more, part of something evil. He belongs to them, to Lucifer, to the angels, and that’s what breaks Dean’s heart most of all. Sam is theirs, their vessel, their plan. He belongs to them.
He doesn’t belong to Dean.
***
Bricks and stones and knives. All bouncing, bumping, knocking around his head. Bashing at the sides of his skull, breaching the walls of his mind, the corners of his vision. It's alive, the pain. It has a form, a purpose. Pain with a plan of action, agony with a name.
Lucifer.
The knives are laughing, that same howling laugh, but it's just inside now, just inside Sam's head. He can't let it out. He can't open his eyes, can't move his legs, can't escape. Can't scream.
He's trapped, trapped with this life inside, terrible, searing life. Trapped, sleeping, scared.
For a moment, a long, long moment, Sam is completely alone. Alone, alone with Lucifer, until he opens his eyes and looks over. Dean's sitting on the opposite bed. Not sleeping, just sitting and watching, tired, worried. Dean moves when Sam moves, starts to stand up, but Sam does it first. Stands up and sits next to Dean and looks at his brother until the pain fades and the loneliness dims and disappears.
Dean's smell, the smell of the sheets and the night, they bring Sam back. Back twenty years, back to the beginning, the simple, the innocent. Back home.
Sam lays back, the short way across the bed, legs hanging over the side. Hands clasped over his chest, Sam closes his eyes and falls asleep before he can feel Dean lie beside him.
***
The crinkle of paper, the whoosh and the crackle as it soars, crushed into a sphere, over his head to hit the wall. The breathing, the sniffs and chokes, frustrated and desperate; they echo over as well. Over his bed, and it sparks Dean’s brain, jolts it to consciousness.
Sam’s fists are clenched and his eyes are streaming, tears flowing, one after the other. Anger mars his features, twists his eyebrows and wrinkles his skin. Anger and sadness and intense confusion that Dean can feel, resonating and flooding his mind.
He stands up.
Pages litter the floor. Newspaper pages, colored photos and crumpled text, all ripped apart and thrown. Across tables and chairs and rugs, and Dean feels like he should raise his hands in surrender.
He’s not sure why.
Sam says, “It’s everywhere.”
His voice cuts, electric.
Sam says, “It’s on every page. Every single one.”
Dean doesn’t know if he should speak or let this happen. Whatever this is.
“Every page, it says. They’re dead, so many dead. Murdered. Genocide, it says. Serial killer or cult or random violence. But it’s not, it’s not random. It’s happening and it’s happening for a reason, and I’m afraid. I’m afraid the reason is me.”
He should say something, shake his head, deny. But there’s a coldness in Sam’s eyes that stops Dean, stops him before he opens his mouth.
Sam says, “I want it.”
And Dean says, “Want what?” before he can make himself quiet.
Sam squeezes his eyes, rolls his shoulders and shakes all over. Like he’s possessed. Like he’s fighting something, something inside.
“I want it all. I want the blood. The death. The pain. I want it all.”
Sam says, “He wants it all,” and more tears splash.
When Dean steps forward Sam moves away, jerks backward like he can’t help it, and he hits a chair with his knees, knocks it over and stumbles.
Sam says, “Don’t,” and Dean reaches out.
Sam says, “Don’t,” and then says, “You can’t.”
Sam says, “Don’t,” and then says, “Help me.”
Dean pulls him forward.
“Help me. Help me.”
Sam says, “Help me,” and Dean cries too.
Dean’s arms wrap around him, and to Dean Sam feels normal. Just as tall, just as strong, broad shoulders and big hands. But he shakes and he never relaxes, not even a little bit, as Dean rubs circles into his back. Strong to the touch, but Sam’s broken inside, and the worst part is that Dean knows why.
He tries not to, tries to forget, but Dean can feel the way Sam struggles, and knows that while he’s holding his brother he’s holding the devil too. He just grips tighter.
Sam says, “Help me.”
Dean says, “I will.”
Minutes pass, and Sam says it’s okay. He says, “I’m okay,” and Dean gets in the Impala and drives, off to the nearest scene, the nearest bath of blood. Sam says, “Go ahead,” and Dean does. He drives forward and doesn’t look back, because this is the right thing to do. To hunt, he tells himself. To do what he’s always done. To protect Sam.
The moment he steps down, puts his foot on the gas. The moment the car moves, Dean wants to turn back. Turn around and help from there, help from home, help by holding Sam and never letting go.
He drives on.
part one - part three
This time through a field, cutting a path through stalks of yellow grass that reach up past his eyes. He’s running from that voice again, that voice that lurks, always out of sight, calling him, taunting him, luring him.
Only the figure that appears before him, black hair, blue eyes, is enough to stop him cold.
For a minute, Sam thinks it’s just another illusion. Another insubstantial presence in his vivid dream world; another figment of his imagination.
But then he remembers. “Cas,” he says and his voice comes out in a whisper, his dream self still too afraid of being caught. “You’re really alive.”
Castiel just nods, and his eyes dart around, peering through the grass, up at the red-orange sky.
Sam keeps whispering. “Dean said, but I didn’t quite believe… This. You’re real, aren’t you? Not just in my head?”
“I am real, yes,” Cas answers, and Sam’s chest is a little less tight, even though his limbs are still shaking in fear. Shaking with the need to keep running.
“I’m so sorry.” Sincere whisper, quiet apology.
“I blame Lucifer. I do not blame you,” Castiel assures.
Sam shivers at the name, has to keep his head from whipping around, has to stop himself from checking the shadows for signs of his hunter. Cas’s eyes narrow.
“I am not the only angel in your dream.” It’s not a question and, as if on cue, the voice rings out once more.
“Sammy. Oh, Sammy. I’m right behind you!”
Castiel stares at Sam, looks almost betrayed. “You lied to Dean. You told him Lucifer was still in Hell.”
Guilt stabs. “Don’t want him to find out. He’d have to kill me. Send me back again.”
“Can’t run, can’t hide. Can’t run forever, Sammy!”
Cas looks towards the voice. It’s closer now.
“We will discuss this later.” Cas turns to vanish again.
“Wait! Don’t tell Dean…”
Cas is gone.
“Can’t run.”
Sam has to keep running.
“Can’t run, can’t hide.”
Can’t stop running, can’t let Dean find out, can’t go back.
“Can’t hide.”
***
Dean knows he should stop.
Should settle, sit, let himself sleep for more than an hour at a time. Knows he should, doesn’t know if he can.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, squeaky mattress and stiff quilt, and Sam’s moving, just a few feet away. He’s not thrashing, not screaming yet, but he’s kicked off the sheet, and his limbs are twisting, constantly, a sporadic movement that’s not enough to wake him, not enough to make Dean wake him.
Sam’s eyes are closed, squeezed tight, but they move beneath the lids, darting back and forth like he’s looking for something, something he can’t see. His breath comes in harsh, quick bursts from between parted lips, and Dean wonders what’s happening in Sam’s head.
What he’s fighting so hard.
“Lucifer.”
Castiel stands in the corner, partly concealed by shadow, and Dean starts, bedsprings creaking as he stands up.
Cas’s eyes are on Sam too, and there’s something like pity, like sadness in them when Dean asks, “what?”
“Lucifer,” Cas repeats, hands in the pockets of his coat. “He’s running from Lucifer.”
“Dreaming, you mean, he’s. Dreaming of Lucifer?” Remembering, reliving, suffering. Dean hates the way Cas avoids his eyes at the question in his voice.
“Lucifer…” Cas hesitates. “Lucifer is not in Hell.”
Dean glares at the angel, at the too-vague response. “Cas, you’d better tell me what the Hell you’re talking about…”
Sam’s eyelids fly open. He’s breathing hard and Dean watches his scared, pleading eyes move to look at Cas. It’s persuasion, panic, and Dean starts to put the pieces together in his head.
Oh god, he realizes, green eyes locking with brown. He doesn’t hear the whoosh of wings as Castiel disappears.
Sam’s face is open, so scared, so alone, and Dean sits down heavy on his bed before his knees can give.
“Sammy.” He can barely force out the next words, not really wanting to hear the answer, not letting himself think of the worst one. “You’re not… you’re still you? Please tell me you’re not him.”
Sam shakes his head, once, twice, over and over. “No. God, no. I’m still me.”
Dean shutters, relief or fear, he can’t tell which. “But, Lucifer. Lucifer’s not gone?”
“No.” Almost imperceptible.
Not gone, not safe, not over. It’s never over, never, and Dean’s exhausted, so numbingly tired that he just. Snaps.
“Jesus, Sammy! Why didn’t you tell me? What the Hell were you thinking?” His voice is loud, yelling, and he flinches when Sam does, surprised at the volume.
“I didn’t… didn’t want you to…”
But he never gets to finish the sentence. “He’s not gone! The fucking Devil, Sam, and you didn’t tell me he was still in your head?”
“I’m so…”
“He could’ve killed you! Taken you over, killed you from the inside. Could’ve killed us both, and you didn’t think that was important enough to mention? Didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”
“I…”
“I just can’t. I need some fucking air.”
Dean doesn’t bother grabbing his coat as he spins around and slams the door, not letting himself turn around, not wanting to see the wet in Sam’s eyes or the hurt corners of his frown. Not wanting to hear his attempts at apology.
The air is cool and crisp, and Dean feels like he can’t breathe.
***
Sam’s eyes don’t stray from the door. He tries not to blink because there are tears waiting just beneath the surface, and he stares. He doesn’t know how much time goes by, because his eyes never travel as far as the clock on the wall. He can hear it ticking.
When Dean finally enters the room again, he’s quiet. Sam looks away and swallows the lump in his throat and thinks maybe, maybe Dean will talk to him.
Ask him more questions, curse at him, yell for hours. Maybe he should, maybe it’s what Sam deserves, but it’s not what he gets.
Dean sinks into bed without a word, without a glance, and there’s no rage left in his movement. He turns his back to Sam, and Sam almost feels like speaking. Like whispering, pleading, stopping his brother from sleeping.
He wants to tell Dean that he’s fine, that Lucifer’s trapped, that he can only feel him when he dreams.
But Dean curls in on himself, sighing quietly, and Sam whispers a simple “I’m sorry” and lets him rest.
***
The surprise in Dean’s eyes is only half of what Sam feels.
He opens his mouth and expects to voice a comment about the motel, another chorus of “I’m fine.” What he actually says is something he never thought he would.
“Let’s find the demon.”
***
They’ve been driving for five and a half minutes.
Dean’s hands are on the wheel and it feels right, like his hands missed the hunt even if his heart didn’t.
Sam’s hands are in his lap, but they’re not still, not calm. He twists at the hem of his shirt and picks at his finger nails and scratches at his jean-covered thigh. When Dean glances over, Sam’s eyes flicker from the window to his face to his lap and back again. They’re nervous.
Five more minutes, and then Dean pulls over. Sam looks at him, confusion evident.
“What’re you doing?”
Dean just looks at his brother, hands off the wheel now. “Look. I know you’re not fine.” Blunt, direct. Sam opens his mouth to protest but Dean can’t have that. “I’ve heard you dreaming, Sam, and you’re not fine. I know… God, I know I’m the last person to ever ask this, but. Would you just talk to me? Sammy. Please?”
Sam meets his eyes for a second, two, then looks away. Mouth open, trembling slightly.
“I.” Deep breath. “I…”
And Dean wants to say something, force the words out. But Sam’s blinking furiously, hands balled into fists, and Dean just waits.
“I can’t.” A swallow, a shake of the head. “I’m sorry, Dean. I. I just can’t.”
His voice cracks, and when he closes his eyes a tear escapes. Somehow that says it all. Dean lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder and the shaking is ten times worse under his fingers.
Sam doesn’t say anymore, water tracking his cheeks. His hands are still curled in his lap, like he just doesn’t have the energy to wipe away the tears, so Dean does it for him. He brushes the wet away with his thumb, and Sam doesn’t acknowledge it as his eyes gradually dry.
Dean takes his hand away and waits until Sam’s back to staring at the road ahead, resolute and stony eyes.
Then he drives.
***
Demons lie.
That’s what Sam tells himself. To get prepared, mentally ready for anything that could - will - be waiting inside.
The house is big and dark and looming, casting shadows that move, and the last thing Sam wants to do is walk in. He doesn’t want to know why he’s back, doesn’t want to know why Lucifer is still in his head, doesn’t want to hear the demon’s plans for him. Doesn’t want to know his destiny.
But Dean is stoic and rigid beside him, and he squares his shoulders. Dean pushes open the door.
It creaks like Sam knew it would.
They enter the house, guns raised, ears wide open. But the demon isn’t hiding. She’s standing in the center of the living room, fire crackling behind her, and she turns. Fluid, graceful, when she senses their presence. The body is beautiful; long black hair and short black dress, but red glows sharply, contrasting catlike rings around her eyes.
“Boys,” she says with a smirk. They don’t lower their guns, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Dean Winchester. Nice to finally meet you.” She turns her grin, feral, predatory, to Sam. “And Sammy. It’s been too long.” Crooning. Deceptive. Seductive.
Sam finds himself with a dry throat and he opens his mouth silently. Dean is the one who speaks. “Alright. I think you know why we’re here. Just tell us what we need to know, and we’ll leave.”
Victoria clicks her tongue, disapproving. “Come now Dean, you really think you’ll get anything out of me like that?” She turns to Sam. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I’m surprised it took you this long to find me.” She laughs. “Actually I’m surprised you’re still alive, but you always did have a knack for the unexpected.”
Sam furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” He finally speaks.
“Oh, you really do have no idea, don’t you? No idea why you’re back, why your mind isn’t just a drying puddle under Lucifer’s feet. Pity. I didn’t want to be the one to break the bad news.” She throws back her head, laughing more, maniacal. “No, actually, I love to bring bad news. Especially news like this. Because, boys? This is bad.”
Sam can feel the rage building inside him, and he fights back an angry growl.
“Just fucking tell us,” Dean spits out.
“I would, Dean, I would. But this news is for Sam’s ears only.” She meets Sam’s eye and winks. He glares.
“Fine. I’ll cover my ears and sing la, la, la.” Dean rolls his eyes, and the demon shakes her head.
She turns away from Dean again. “Sammy. Come here.”
Sam narrows his eyes. He doesn’t want to get within reach of her. He’s not strong, hasn’t been fighting, hasn’t been practicing. She would win in minutes if it came down to a fight.
“Come on. I won’t bite.” Her voice is a purr, low and soft and just loud enough to reach their ears.
Dean scoffs. “Sure you won’t.”
“I’m not a vampire, Dean. Sam, come on, come closer. I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to talk. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know why you’re here? Aren’t you just the least bit curious?”
Sam just glares, and Victoria grins.
“Of course you are,” she says, taking a step forward, two. “Come on, Sammy. Let me tell you. Let me show you why you’re alive.”
One hard swallow, and Sam walks forward, ignoring Dean’s protests. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of the demon. She blinks, her eyes go red. He’s nervous, but he locks his knees and shoulders, standing tall, resolute. She smirks and leans in to whisper in his ear. Sam braces himself.
He expects her breath on his face and her voice in his ear, but he lets out a noise of surprise when she darts forward and covers his mouth with hers.
Sam struggles, squirms and tries to pull away, but her hand is on the back of his head and it holds him in place as she moves her lips against his. Sam stays stock still, then, fighting is useless, and he’s waiting for her to stop, for it to be over.
And then it starts.
It rushes at him, one thing after another, voices and words and pictures and sounds and it doesn’t stop. He’s shaking and his knees threaten to give out. It’s all too much. Too much, too much, can’t be, he can’t take it. He loses track of the meaning as everything rushes into his head; he can’t keep it straight, can’t separate one thought from another, can’t tell what it all means.
What does it mean? When will it stop?
His eyes are squeezed shut and he knows the demon is gone only when the assault on his mind stops. Her hand falls from around his head and he barely registers the scream and the stream of black smoke as the host body crumples to the ground.
He’s stumbling backwards, tripping over nothing and shaking; the demon’s gone but he’s still so overwhelmed. It’s just too much. He can’t think of it, can’t let the meanings take hold, can’t look too closely because it’s too much. It’s too bad, worse than he thought, too big, bigger than him. Bigger than all of them.
Sam thought it was over, but he was wrong. So wrong.
Dean’s strong arm wraps around his waist and Sam lets his knees give out completely, his brother supporting his weight.
“Sammy, hey. Are you okay? What did she do?” Dean’s voice is hurried, concerned.
Sam wants to answer, to beg for help, to ask Dean, what does it mean? But he hasn’t found his voice yet. He shakes his head.
“Come on. Let’s get to the car.” Dean steers him out of the house and his legs move on their own.
The seats are cool and they would be comforting, but Sam doesn’t notice them, not really. He hears the door slam as Dean pushes it and climbs in the driver’s side, but he doesn’t look over at his brother. He doesn’t think he can, doesn’t want Dean to look into his eyes and see everything. He doesn’t know what to do.
Sam drops his head into his hands, and just holds on.
***
He can’t see Sammy’s eyes.
Dean can hear shaky breathing, he can feel shivering shoulders, but he can’t see his brother’s eyes and that’s what scares him. Sam’s soul shines out through his eyes, green and brown, all secrets revealed. All happiness, gleaming, all pain on display.
Sam’s head is in his hands, bent over and clearly, so clearly breaking, and Dan can only whisper. “Sammy. Look at me.” And then he gasps, because Sam listens and he raises his head.
Usually so familiar, Sam’s eyes are cold. Hollowed out like his soul has been drawn into his body, so deep that it’s out of sight.
Dean feels like he should speak. Say something, say anything, make Sam tell him. What happened? What’s wrong?
“I shouldn’t be here.” It’s as if he heard Dean’s thoughts. Sam’s voice is as hollow as his stare. “Shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t. I don’t belong here. I belong… down there.”
“What do you…?”
“I shouldn’t be alive.”
Dean freezes. Sam looks so hurt.
“I can’t be alive. Dean, kill me. Please. You have to…”
Sam bites down on his lip so hard that a tear escapes his eye and rolls down his cheek.
“Please…”
Dean leans forward with his palms on Sam’s face, and he doesn’t know what to do but this. He presses his lips softly to Sam’s. He watches as Sam’s eyes close, their mouths together, a soft constant pressure. Neither of them moving. Neither pulling away.
Sam doesn’t kiss him back; Dean’s not even sure if he wants him to, but he leans ever so slightly into the hand resting on his cheek.
They stay, just like that, breathing; lips, faces touching.
And after a while, Sam stops shaking.
***
“Michael brought me back.”
Straight to the point, soon as he’s ready.
“Michael sent me here.
“But. But he’s still in Hell. Isn’t he?”
Dean’s confused, trying not to push Sam but needing to know.
“He is. He brought me back. Used his power to save me.”
Sam’s voice is detached, monotone.
“But why…”
Why did he save you and not himself?
”He saved me because I’m not me.”
Sam pauses after every word, painful emphasis.
“He used the last of his power to send me back because I’m not me.”
Dean’s brain is whirring, clicking through and calculating.
“But you are you… Sammy, what are you saying?”
“Lucifer, Dean! Lucifer’s in my head. That’s why Michael brought me back. For him. To save him.”
“But that’s impossible.”
Dean’s shaking his head.
“Michael’s an angel, Sam. Or did you forget?”
Sam’s eyes, piercing.
“Lucifer’s an angel too.”
“Yeah, but…”
Dean trails off, and he doesn’t want to ask the next question because it brings up complications. Horrible complications, and he doesn’t want to know.
But he can’t let Sam bottle it all in, so he asks.
“Is Michael… in league with Lucifer?”
Sam drops his eyes and his hair falls forward.
Nod.
“But, he was supposed. He was meant to be good, to. Goddamnit, he was supposed to save the world!”
Dean’s mind is reeling.
Was it all a deception?
“He wanted Lucifer brought back to earth. Had to send me back. Had to let me carry the devil out of Hell.”
Was it?
“He went to Hell so he could push me back out.”
Deception.
“But why?”
Sam just looks at him. Long, long unblinking stare.
“Because they’re brothers, Dean.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
***
It’s not the dark that scares him, but the way it echoes.
The way it surrounds him, all-encompassing and impenetrable. The way that, when the voice sounds out, it seems to be everywhere at once.
“I can see you, Sammy.”
Around, around, in the air and universal.
“I’m getting closer now, I can feel it. Can you feel me?”
And oh, how he tries not to. Tries to ignore the scratching, scraping, tearing at the walls of his mind, in every corner of the dark. Clawing and ripping and begging. Trying to get inside.
“You’re not as strong as you think you are.”
His breath comes in gasps and his legs move fast, carrying him, running from and to the voice. Just running.
“You’re not as strong as me.”
And his knees give out. He can’t see the ground, but he hits it hard, bones burning and silently crying out. The voice turns to laughter, swirling, moving, and it seems to descend. Blanketing him.
He closes his eyes and covers his head with his hands.
The laughter never stops.
***
For a moment, Sam doesn’t know he’s awake. He’s curled up and the bed could be grass, shadowed ground. His hands are still raised, protecting. Hiding. He can feel Lucifer, still scratching at his mind. Searching for a way in, and he just wants the dream to end.
Just wants to wake up.
Sam flinches when Dean touches him. But when the hands don’t stop gripping his shoulders, he opens his eyes. Dean’s face is close, green eyes grounding, and Sam concentrates, gritting his teeth until the fight in his mind stops and he can’t feel the devil anymore.
“Are you okay?” Dean asks. Every time.
And Sam’s tired of lying, of saying he’s fine, so he just shakes his head, leaning forward until his face presses to Dean’s shoulder and arms wrap around him. Containing him.
Sam wonders what’s different. Why his brother will hold him, now, when he wouldn’t before.
Because I was in Hell? Because he lost me, again? Because I’m weak, because he’s forgiven me, because he loves me?
Suddenly it’s too close. If he gets too close, Dean will know. Sam’s breath on his neck and Dean will feel Lucifer scrabbling for control. Reassuring whispers in his ear, and Dean will hear how close it is. How close Sam is to losing. To losing everything.
Sam pulls away.
Dean’s eyes - slightly hurt, sympathetic - move away from Sam’s only when Castiel, swoosh, appears beside him.
“Sam.” The angel speaks and Sam looks at him, eyes heavy.
“You spoke with the demon.” It’s a statement; he knows.
Sam just nods.
“I need to know what happened. Heaven is in chaos, and I believe you are the key to determining why.”
He’s already said it. To Dean, to himself, and Sam just looks up at Cas. Pleading. Don’t make me say it again.
“Come on.” Dean comes to the rescue.
Always.
He leads Castiel away, into the hall, and Sam doesn’t move. Just stares at the wall, green wallpaper matching the sheets, and tries to stop thinking. Stop thinking about Lucifer, because he doesn’t want to let Lucifer into his mind. Doesn’t want to give him any more room, any more advantage, any more reason to take over.
Sam’s slipping, slipping, alone in his world and sharing his mind, and he wills his eyes to stay open. He’s so tired, a phenomenal exhaustion weighing him down, pulling him apart from the inside out. And he can’t fall asleep.
His feet are weights on the floor and the bed is pulling him down. Only when Dean re-enters the room; only then does he let himself sink.
***
When they check out in the morning, it’s out of ritual, not necessity. They pack - one bag each - and they drive. Dean at the wheel, Sam at his side. It’s tradition. Constant, safe.
They’re not chasing, not searching; no goal in sight. Heading towards nothing, and Dean won’t let himself think of what they’re running from. Moving, they’re just moving.
Dean drives, doors locked, because if he stops it’s done. If he stops, it means their world is finally crumbling.
***
His life is loud but his dreams are quiet.
Always flat colors and swirling fog, muted sound and senses. Even his nightmares; even his nightmares are calm. Despite his terror, despite his cold sweat and wide eyes, he’s walking in his ideal world. Warm and soft and unthreatening.
His utopia. His dystopia.
His worst fears integrated into his fantasies; his dreams are liars. They tell him what he wants to hear. That he’s safe, here; Sam’s hand on his. That they’re happy; Sam’s laugh and smile.
There’s nothing to fear.
And Dean wants to scream because he wants it, he wants it. Wants calm, wants sleep, wants Sam, wants out.
It’s his idea of Heaven, but better.
He doesn’t know why he wakes himself up.
***
Sam can smell the blood.
It blasts with the air through the open window and hits him like something solid, thick. Metallic in his nostrils and swimming behind his eyes; it mingles with the scent of fear.
He gasps. It gets stronger.
A house sprawls on the side of the road; all curtains closed and cream-colored planks dirty, worn. The roof is dark and red, painted with the smell.
“Pull over,” Sam says, voice flat. An order.
“What? Why?” Dean looks at him, stares like he’s gone crazy.
“Something’s wrong. Pull over.”
Dean does.
The door of the house opens wide with a click, not locked, not barricaded. Sam holds his breath.
It’s still inside, air hanging suspended and waiting. Undisturbed. Undisturbed except for the splotches on the ground; splattered and spilt and soaked with that scent. It’s hard to breathe, hard to see, and something in Sam wants to drink it in, revel, rejoice in the pain, the death.
Something that gets stronger with every step.
When they find the bodies, it’s ten times worse. Dean bends over the first corpse - small, female, ripped apart - and he’s all business; investigation and calculation.
There’s nothing in the air but the small, the blood, all oxygen banished. Gone from the air and from Sam’s lungs. He takes a stumbling step backwards and trips. Another body. Another burst inside his head.
He can feel the pain, the screams that tore from their mouths as they felt their lives draining away. He can feel their fear and he soaks it in. Their tears. He can feel the panic they felt as they died.
Sam throws back his head and he laughs.
The sound comes from the back of his brain, the far reaches of his mind. The shadow. The darkness. The part that’s not him. It rips from his lungs, pure fury and elation, and he can’t stop it.
Can’t stop, can’t fight, can’t choke back the noise.
He just stands with eyes wide open as Lucifer sings.
***
Dean has seen Sam’s demons.
He’s seen the eyes glow black and the mouth stained red. He’s seen the darkness and the terrifying power that consumed, that made Sam something different, something almost unrecognizable.
But through it all, through the worst of it all, it was still Sam. There was still a glimmer, sparking hope, and Dean always knew. This was Sam, and Sam would be okay. Sam would come back.
Come back to him.
But now, he can’t tell.
When Sam breaks, when he snaps and howls. When he laughs, Dean can’t tell. If this is Sam, if this is a just-this-once. Or if Sam’s really gone. If Lucifer is standing in front of him.
He stands stock-still, rigid in the sudden cold, and waits. Sam’s bellow echoes and he waits.
Waits for the moment that comes, finally, when the laugh dies, sputters out in a screech that leaves his head aching and his eyes watering. When the manic gleam is gone from Sam’s eyes, when it’s replaced with shock and tears and confusion.
When Sam crumples to the ground.
He collapses, arms and legs sprawled. Unconscious, and Dean doesn’t move, not for a whole minute. Not until he stops seeing Lucifer and starts seeing Sam. When he’s sure, when he’s convinced himself that it’s only his brother lying there, Dean picks him up and carries him out.
Sam’s weight is heavy in his arms and he absorbs the feeling, the moment, wanting Sam’s eyes to open but not wanting to see what’s in them. What he knows is just below the surface. Because he can’t lie to himself anymore, can’t let Sam lie. He knows. Knows the truth, horrible truth, painful truth.
Sam isn’t the same, isn’t alright. He’s something more, part of something evil. He belongs to them, to Lucifer, to the angels, and that’s what breaks Dean’s heart most of all. Sam is theirs, their vessel, their plan. He belongs to them.
He doesn’t belong to Dean.
***
Bricks and stones and knives. All bouncing, bumping, knocking around his head. Bashing at the sides of his skull, breaching the walls of his mind, the corners of his vision. It's alive, the pain. It has a form, a purpose. Pain with a plan of action, agony with a name.
Lucifer.
The knives are laughing, that same howling laugh, but it's just inside now, just inside Sam's head. He can't let it out. He can't open his eyes, can't move his legs, can't escape. Can't scream.
He's trapped, trapped with this life inside, terrible, searing life. Trapped, sleeping, scared.
For a moment, a long, long moment, Sam is completely alone. Alone, alone with Lucifer, until he opens his eyes and looks over. Dean's sitting on the opposite bed. Not sleeping, just sitting and watching, tired, worried. Dean moves when Sam moves, starts to stand up, but Sam does it first. Stands up and sits next to Dean and looks at his brother until the pain fades and the loneliness dims and disappears.
Dean's smell, the smell of the sheets and the night, they bring Sam back. Back twenty years, back to the beginning, the simple, the innocent. Back home.
Sam lays back, the short way across the bed, legs hanging over the side. Hands clasped over his chest, Sam closes his eyes and falls asleep before he can feel Dean lie beside him.
***
The crinkle of paper, the whoosh and the crackle as it soars, crushed into a sphere, over his head to hit the wall. The breathing, the sniffs and chokes, frustrated and desperate; they echo over as well. Over his bed, and it sparks Dean’s brain, jolts it to consciousness.
Sam’s fists are clenched and his eyes are streaming, tears flowing, one after the other. Anger mars his features, twists his eyebrows and wrinkles his skin. Anger and sadness and intense confusion that Dean can feel, resonating and flooding his mind.
He stands up.
Pages litter the floor. Newspaper pages, colored photos and crumpled text, all ripped apart and thrown. Across tables and chairs and rugs, and Dean feels like he should raise his hands in surrender.
He’s not sure why.
Sam says, “It’s everywhere.”
His voice cuts, electric.
Sam says, “It’s on every page. Every single one.”
Dean doesn’t know if he should speak or let this happen. Whatever this is.
“Every page, it says. They’re dead, so many dead. Murdered. Genocide, it says. Serial killer or cult or random violence. But it’s not, it’s not random. It’s happening and it’s happening for a reason, and I’m afraid. I’m afraid the reason is me.”
He should say something, shake his head, deny. But there’s a coldness in Sam’s eyes that stops Dean, stops him before he opens his mouth.
Sam says, “I want it.”
And Dean says, “Want what?” before he can make himself quiet.
Sam squeezes his eyes, rolls his shoulders and shakes all over. Like he’s possessed. Like he’s fighting something, something inside.
“I want it all. I want the blood. The death. The pain. I want it all.”
Sam says, “He wants it all,” and more tears splash.
When Dean steps forward Sam moves away, jerks backward like he can’t help it, and he hits a chair with his knees, knocks it over and stumbles.
Sam says, “Don’t,” and Dean reaches out.
Sam says, “Don’t,” and then says, “You can’t.”
Sam says, “Don’t,” and then says, “Help me.”
Dean pulls him forward.
“Help me. Help me.”
Sam says, “Help me,” and Dean cries too.
Dean’s arms wrap around him, and to Dean Sam feels normal. Just as tall, just as strong, broad shoulders and big hands. But he shakes and he never relaxes, not even a little bit, as Dean rubs circles into his back. Strong to the touch, but Sam’s broken inside, and the worst part is that Dean knows why.
He tries not to, tries to forget, but Dean can feel the way Sam struggles, and knows that while he’s holding his brother he’s holding the devil too. He just grips tighter.
Sam says, “Help me.”
Dean says, “I will.”
Minutes pass, and Sam says it’s okay. He says, “I’m okay,” and Dean gets in the Impala and drives, off to the nearest scene, the nearest bath of blood. Sam says, “Go ahead,” and Dean does. He drives forward and doesn’t look back, because this is the right thing to do. To hunt, he tells himself. To do what he’s always done. To protect Sam.
The moment he steps down, puts his foot on the gas. The moment the car moves, Dean wants to turn back. Turn around and help from there, help from home, help by holding Sam and never letting go.
He drives on.
part one - part three