Oversoul

[twilightshours]

 

It starts with the smallest thing, really. Maybe a little bigger than that. He and Sam are leaving the motel room onto the next hunt, and he spots some lingerie peeking out from under his brother's bed. Definitely wasn't there before. He picks it up and dangles it in front of Sam's face.

"Sam, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Nothing his ass. Sam cocks his head a little to the side, doing that annoyingly quick frown, that dumb furrowing of his eyebrows.

"You can tell me, you know that right?"

"Dean, I'm fine. I swear." Sam even dares to laugh after, smiling as if he were joking. God, he wants to punch that expression off the bastard's face.

"Really?" And Dean doesn't even know where this is gonna go, but it's going. "Because I'm starting to wonder."

"We've already had this discussion, dude," Sam says, still smiling that damned smile. He's getting seriously pissed now; discussion?

"Yeah, and I wanna have it again, this time with a little more input. What happened down there, Sam? What happened to you?"

"What spurned this, the lingerie?" Another laugh. "I can stop bringing the girls in the room if you want. Unless you'd rather have them, or something." And damn, if that didn't make Dean fucking pissed, but he won't be distracted.

"You didn't answer the question, Sam."

"Well technically, you asked more than one."

"Then answer both." He gets a guffaw in response. "Sam."

"Dean, nothing's changed."

"Oh? I'm pretty damn sure this," he holds the lacey underwear higher, "isn't Sam. I'm pretty damn sure Sam doesn't sleep with whores. Hell, he certainly wasn't a whore when I knew him. And he definitely cared about people other than himself!" His arms do some dramatic embarrassing motion that sends the offending garment halfway across the room, but Sam's gaze doesn't move from Dean. His smile is frozen to his face, it seems.

"Do you even feel, Sam? Do you even know what it's like to experience sadness, or guilt, or love?"

"Hell didn't do anything to me, Dean. It didn't change me. And I'm sorry that you think it did." The smile is slowly inching off his face.

"Then what is it? The Campbells? You can leave them, and it'll be just you and me."

"I can't abandon the hunt, you know that."

"Are you thinking that? Or did they tell you to say that?"

"Dean," Sam's taking up that patronizing face, the one that says you're an idiot and not nearly as good as him. "The Campbells aren't evil, they're family."

"I'm not so sure about that," he growls, gets up into Sam's face. "If they changed you-"

"Dean, they're fine! I'm fine. Everyone's-"

"Are you even my brother, Sam?" He's barely even angry, just sad. Because at least with his brother, he believed a little of what he said. Now...

"I already proved to you, didn't I?" Sam's cold, now. His jaw clenches, Dean can see it, and his shoulders roll. Their noses are inches from each other.

"Christo," Dean whispers. Nothing happens. A silence rolls over them, so tense that he can feel it about to snap, it's almost there-

Sam smiles again. "I'll be in the car. Whenever you're ready, we can go."

No change, no flinch or black eyes, but Dean's even more convinced that whatever was just in the room with him isn't his brother.

Sam's waiting in the car, just like he said. Dean puts his bags in the trunk, takes a few things out, and shoves them in his pockets before he grasps the door handle open. The first ten minutes of driving are anything but quiet.

"How long were you in Hell?"

"I think it'll take about six hours to get to Montana, if we don't stop for anything but gas."

"What did Lucifer and Michael do to you?"

"Hang on, lemme check the map here."

"Are you a demon, Sammy?"

"Do you still have your collection of cassette tapes?" Sam bends down to check under his seat, bringing up the large cardboard box. "Dude, there's dust on these."

"Sam, please."

"Why don't we put in some Led Zeppelin, I haven't heard any in forever." He blows on the tape, making billows of dust cloud up his side of the Impala. He doesn't sneeze, but waves his hand around. "Oops."

"If you're not a demon, what are you?"

There's the sneeze.

"Lucifer?"

"Usually people say bless you. Unlock the window dude, my eyes are going to water."

"Why the hell would I say bless you, you bastard?" He rolls the windows down.

"How about we stop at the gas station up ahead, I need a coffee and a piss anyway. You can get the dust off the rest of these."

He pulls off and starts filling the tank when Sam returns with a coffee and then go back to use the bathroom. Dean waits before he's out of sight before takes the contents out of his pocket and goes to work.

He gets off his phone just as Sam leaves the building, and he puts the Zeppelin tape in as they pull out. It's just the sound of music for a while before Sam remembers his coffee. He takes a sip. The song ends.

Sam dumps the coffee out the window, cup and all. "What a waste of $4.53."

The song skips ahead, but they both ignore it. Sam continues, "You'd really drug your own brother, Dean?"

Dean says nothing, just stares at the road ahead. His knuckles are white, clutching the steering wheel.

"I trust you, you know that?" Smile. Smile smile smile.

Dean spares a glance at the thing sitting beside him before stopping on the side of the road. "If you do, then here," he fishes the leftover sleeping pills from his jacket pocket and holds them out. Sam stares at them.

"If you trust me." The hand doesn't tremble. "Then here. Take them."

A few moments pass, a car drives by, and then Sam grabs the pills and dry-swallows them. "Figures we wouldn't be going to Montana."

"Bobby's got someone else doing the case," Dean states emotionlessly as he changes the gear out of park.

Sam sighs before he falls into a deep sleep. Dean's not sure if it's a sigh of exasperation, or sadness, or annoyance, or frustration, or what. Dean's tired. For the first time in a year, he's tired.

They get him down to the panic room without much trouble, using Bobby's wheelchair about half of the way. He's strapped onto the cot just as he begins to rouse, but he stays quiet. Just stares at them. Dean doesn't like the fact that nothing happened as they crossed all the traps and runes.

"What's the problem," Castiel sort of questions just as he appears on the other side of Sam. No one jumps.

"This isn't Sam, Cas," Dean says in a determined voice, and Bobby sighs morosely. There's a long wait as Castiel stares down at the man trapped on the cot, either studying him, analyzing him, or looking right through him. Maybe into him. Castiel looks up again, stares straight at Dean.

"Yes it is." Dean doesn't think he gets it.

"No. Trust me, I'd know if it was Sam, and it's not. Look at him, he's not even saying anything, Cas."

"Kid's got a point," Bobby adds in, "what Dean described on the phone didn't sound like Sam at all, and this..."

"This is Sam," Castiel says again, and then moves his fingers to Sam's heart, sort of plunging them in although they don't move past his clothes. Sparks of light erupt from the point of contact, then the light kind of turns dark, and all through it Sam's not quite screaming, but making a low wrenching type of growl. Dean doesn't make a move to get closer, and soon enough the angel pulls his fingers back.

Castiel blinks once, then straightens and cocks his head to the side. "Part of Sam's soul is not with him."

"What?" Bobby exclaims.

"Oh, God," Dean moans, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Where is it?"

"In Hell. Probably still with Lucifer."

"How do we get it back?" Bobby asks, sounding pissed, but neither of them are sure who he's angry at. Sam's chuckling lowly, softly.

"You go into Hell and get it." Castiel is a little frank. Dean is a little frustrated.

"Can you just, can you elaborate a little more on the situation, please? How is Sam..?"

"Well," Castiel begins sounding like he has no idea how to start this. "Sam has enough of his soul to still be here,  but the part missing is swapped out with something else."

"Something else?"

"I'm not sure. Something making him like this," he sweeps his hand vaguely across the form below him. Sam's still smiling, but his eyebrows are raised, as if he's mockingly interested.

"And how do we get into Hell to get the right part?" Bobby's sat down on a folding chair a few feet away, his hat resting on his lap.

"I believe you humans have something informally called dreamroot."

"So Hell is in Sam's head? Now if that doesn't sound a little dramatic..."

"When Sam is asleep," Castiel disregards Dean's interruption, "the rest of his soul, his subconscious, will likely return to Hell. Follow him there and you'll be able to retrieve it."

"What, we just take it?" Dean questions, doubting the plan will be that easy.

"It's not gone because he made a deal," the angel says, but Dean knows that's not answering the question. He wonders about the repercussions of an Earth year in the deepest part Hell, a soul that suffered so long suddenly snatched back and placed in its body again.

"I've got some of the root left upstairs, I'll see if I can find it," Bobby meanders off. Dean waits 'til he's out of earshot before asking.

"Cas, should Sam's soul even come out of Hell?"

There's a pause, then, "I do not know."

And Castiel is gone.

It doesn't really start out that hard. Sam doesn't provide any trouble, just stares at the wall and practices his mute act, and they wait for him to fall asleep. Dean reasons that a drug-induced sleep has fewer chances of dreaming, so they pull some hair out and try not to fall asleep first.

While waiting, he thinks. Is it worth it? Going back to Hell? For this thing laying strapped to a cot in a panic room? But thinking of the Sam he knew, he realizes it's not the mindset he should have; he's doing this for Sam, not whatever fraction of soul in Sam that belongs to someone, something else.

But would Sam want to come back? He's either turned into a demon, or is too far gone to even function in the real world. Dean doesn't doubt his brother would die as soon as they got him back, just out of principle. That, or he'd be worse than the thing that's here now.

Sam would bring him back if their places were switched. He knows that. It's not enough, though. They've gone through too much to not learn from their mistakes, and Dean's learned there's some truth in what's dead should stay dead. But, Sam's not really dead. He's in Hell. The Cage. With Lucifer, and probably Michael too. And it's been a year - for Dean, that would be 120 years. It might be- a hundred thousand times more than that where Sam is, for all he knows. Hasn't he suffered too much already? Hasn't he suffered too much to come back?

Sam finally falls asleep, and Dean gets ready.

The thing that convinces him is the moments after Sam came back, where it was really Sam. The small, familiar motions, the phrases, facial expressions. Castiel said only part of his soul was gone. There's still some in there.

They go upstairs to be comfortable, and close their eyes.

Obviously Dean can't describe Hell, never could, so he doesn't bother even thinking about what he's seeing when he lands in Sam's subconscious. Bobby's next to him, thank God, and like Hell, Dean can't really describe the old man's expression. He just understands.

The only thing he thinks is, it's cold.

They're lucky that they simply followed Sam into his dreams, so they didn't have to look far to find him. Dean's surprised that he's actually seeing Sam's body, but he figures since it's a dream it's more of a memory in Hell, fused with what must be happening at the moment. He doesn't spend long to think about it.

Well, he takes a little of that back. He's pretty sure it's Sam. And thinking that, it hits him-

This is Sam. This is the Cage.

And Sam's been down here too long.

"Sammy?" Dean calls out, taking note that Bobby's most likely lost his voice, but is vaguely pleased that the fatherly figure has enough strength to follow behind him. Neither of them expect an answer, so they're surprised when they get one.

"Sam's not available at the moment," a voice says. Another thing Dean can't describe, but he's pretty sure he knows who it is.

"Lucifer," his voice cracks a bit, causing the fallen angel to chuckle.

"Who else?" He doesn't step out from the darkness, and Dean realizes that he is the darkness, a giant shadow right behind what could pass as Sam. He looks up, and can't make out the form entirely, but sees what he thinks are three heads, and giant wings. Massive chains can be heard every time the shadow shifts, but it seems to be able to go around the entire cage, which Dean doesn't see any bars to.

Lucifer picks Dean's brother up with two claws. "Sammy isn't really in a state suited for speaking, you might want to come back some other time."

"Put him down, you son of a bitch." Bobby was beside him, crying. Dean feels tears on his cheeks as well.

"I'm sorry, Dean." He doesn't sound sorry, blowing over the contents in his fingers. Puffs of ice coat Sam until he's a bloody, abstract ice sculpture. "I shouldn't have taken my time killing you." He flings the body to the ground, and it shatters, chunks of frozen meat settling at his and Bobby's feet. Bobby groans and puts a hand over his mouth, and Dean clenches his eyes shut. Lucifer laughs.

"Well, I'd say that got boring after the first hundred times I did that, but it's a lot more fun with you two here. He stopped fighting back after-"

"You sick fuck," Bobby finally yells up, "give him back to us."

It's quiet, for a while, as the pieces of Sam slowly come together again into something grotesque, as though Lucifer isn't sure how to put him back together right. The angel picks him up again, covers him with his shadowy hand.

"I don't have much use of him, that's true. And I'd love to give him back to you, Bobby," the voice is sympathetic, passionate, mocking. "But I'm afraid there's no point in me doing that."

Dean picks up, "We have something of yours."

"Oh?" The hand holding Sam tightens, and Dean swears he hears a scream, accompanied with bones crunching, "What would that be?"

Almost instantly, the angel is down at their level, heads swiveling and jerking within inches of Dean's and Bobby's faces. They can see blood, black, tears running out of everywhere, they can see mock sadness and fake guilt. They can see everything but Sam, still above them.

"We have part of your soul," Dean spits into the middle face.

Lucifer rears up, coils. His wings spread out, and the whole cage shudders. Still, the only reply they get is another "Oh?"

The fallen angel holds Sam out to them, entirely whole, but then turns his back to them, hiding Dean's brother from view. What comes after nearly breaks the two dreamwalkers, because now they can really hear Sam, it's so distinctly Sam, but Dean's never heard his brother like this. There are sparks of darkness, and after what they believe to be hours the sparks turn into light, like fire.

Lucifer turns, and drops Sam at their feet pitilessly. It's higher up than they thought, because there's a loud smacking sound when he lands, and he can feel something wet hit his face.

"That's it?" Bobby asks, voice shaking but strong, and Dean wishes he could hide behind the fatherly figure. A bark of laughter coughs out from the shadow.

"Sam's been here longer than either of you could ever imagine. I've better things to do than play around with this unresponsive piece of shit. He was better at the beginning, screaming and cussing his weak little heart out... I don't think you're doing him a favour, bringing him back. Besides," He bends down again, "you've given me something really, really important. It wasn't accessible to me until you showed up. Thank you, Dean Winchester. Bobby Singer." He smiles. "Sammy. Of course, what better way to wake him up than a parting gift?"

He places a claw on Sam's neck, then tears down, down, down.

Dean feels like he fell onto the couch. He opens his eyes to the sound of vomiting, and wants to throw up himself, but doesn't allow himself to. They're out, that's what matters. He waits until Bobby's done cleaning up to venture a glance at him, and he doesn't think he's ever seen the man as terrified as he looks now.

An eruption of shrieks make them jump up and sprint down to the panic room.

To say it's a mess, Dean thinks, is an understatement. He thinks that whatever falling sensation he felt when he woke was made literal in Sam's case, because the cot is broken, the straps are ripped, and there's blood splatter so far across the room that it paints the walls, some dots even on the ceiling. It's concentrated mostly around his head, like a vermillion halo, and spread out from his shoulders and his back, like wings. Blood runs from his tightly shut eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears. It colours his clothes and skin. Castiel is standing close by, barely noticed, but he isn't covered with scarlet, so he must have shown up after Sam fell- woke up.

Sam's still screaming. "Shit," Bobby says, takes a step forward, and that sets Dean into motion, makes him run to his brother and crouch down and almost touch him. His hands hover, he isn't sure if it's okay to even be close to Sam. A mix of Castiel saying something along the lines of it's okay and Sam screaming something along the lines of Dean influenced him to bring his hands down on his brother's face, trying to wipe off some of the blood but only smearing it. He thinks he's crying again, but he doesn't know what to feel. It's too strong.

"Sam? Sammy? Can you hear me?" He must be sad, his voice is high-pitched and congested-sounding. He can hear Lucifer's words echoing through the room. I don't think you're doing him a favour, bringing him back. His own doubts.

Should Sam's soul even come out of Hell?

I do not know.

Sam doesn't open his eyes for weeks. Castiel heals what he can, but the tortured man doesn't stop screaming until his voice gives out. Bobby's worried they won't get him to eat or drink, but after a few days they manage to get water and soup into his mouth and see some proof of swallowing before it all spills out.

Sam's awake. They all know that. He just keeps his lids shut, like he's afraid of what he'll see when he opens them. Dean wonders if he's been granted the mercy of just darkness with closed eyes, or if he's still stuck with Lucifer. He talks to Sam every day, as much as he can.

After the third week, Castiel appears again. Bobby and Dean are sitting in the panic room with Sam, most of the blood cleaned off the floor and walls. The speckles on the ceiling still remain.

"Cas, how did get here so fast - before?"

"We can feel him," Castiel replies, eyes boring into the thrashing man.

"What do you feel now?"

"He's waking up."

"But he's already-" Dean freezes, and looks down at Sam. His eyes are open.

"Sam?" Even though they're only slits, Sam's pupils are huge. Dean almost starts back, thinking they're entirely black, but upon closer look he can see a miniscule ring of hazel. He moves over to block the light from the opening in the ceiling.

Sam opens his mouth, but what comes out sounds like gravel crushing together. He coughs, letting Dean turn him on his side, and blood splatters out of his mouth.

"Shhh, Sammy, your vocal chords are still pretty sensitive from..." He can't say anymore. Bobby's got one hand on his shoulder, the other touching Sam's shirt. Castiel stands stationary, but he hasn't left yet, and Dean's grateful. He holds out a glass of water with a straw.

Sam tries to sip it, but he apparently can't keep the water in his mouth, because soon the cup is filled with semi-opaque red water. Dean gives up after a while, just settles with smoothing back Sam's hair and running his fingers over his eyelids once they close again.

"We're good," Dean says after a while, and he feels a little bad for wanting privacy, but Castiel and Bobby leave without a word. A few minutes in the silence, and he finally breaks down, rests his forehead against Sam's chest and sobs until there's a huge spot of the fabric that's soaked from tears and spit and snot. He laughs a little after he sees the damage he's done to Sam's shirt, then starts crying all over again when he notices Sam's eyes are open again, a little wider since it's darker out.

"Hey Sammy," his laughs turn into hiccups, "kinda ruined your shirt, dude."

Sam lets out a sigh, slow and quiet. Tears haven't stopped running down the sides of his face since he came back.

"Yeah, I know. It'll get better, Sammy, I swear."

His brother opened his mouth slowly, then closed it again just as slow, repeating the motion a few times.

"You're hungry?"

He closed his eyes in a slow-motion blink - everything Sam does now is slow motion - and tenses his neck and jaw, causing his head to tremble a little.

"Oh, you're cold, oh- I should have known, I'm sorry." He fetches a thick, unused blanket from the side of the room, but is stopped by Sam sticking out his tongue before he drapes it over him.

"What is it, Sammy?"

Sam opens his mouth again, but doesn't do anything, and Dean realizes he has to get closer. Sam's trying to whisper something.

It sounds a little like move.

"You can," Dean sounds a little worried, and he thinks again about the consequences of an eternity in Hell. Is paralysis possible? Is Sam strong enough to fight now that he's out? "Castiel healed everything that was wrong when you came back. The only thing that should hurt is your throat." He reaches up with his free hand to wipe off tears gushing from Sam's eyes, already having lost count of how many times he's done it in the past hour, and then moves down to grab Sam's hand. It's freezing cold.

"You can," he repeats. Sam scrunches his eyes shut, and a moment passes before Dean feels a pressure on his palm, sees the digits twitch slightly.

"Good boy." He's aware that he breaks down in front of Sam every five minutes or so, but he doesn't care, they're both a little happy for the moment.

A month passes until Sam's not constantly crying, but they can't move him out of the panic room due to the fact that his pupils remain exploded, and he has next to no tolerance to light. However, he's managed to start taking care of himself, using Bobby's wheelchair to maneuver himself - slowly - to the bathroom, and walking briefly across the panic room for exercise. Dean still has to help him with things, such as bathing and eating occasionally, other things that require light, so Sam keeps his eyes shut, or ties a blindfold around them, and lets Dean do all the work.

One day while Dean's toweling Sam's hair off - he cut it just the other day, to it's a little above his shoulders again - Lisa calls. It's not like he doesn't text or have short chats with her and Ben on the phone every now and then, but it's never been around Sam. He opens the phone and puts it to his ear. Sam's tired, too tired to move enough to figure out what Dean's doing, so he stays still.

"Hey, Lis'. How are you?" Sam lets out a little sigh, and Dean picks back up on drying off his hair. He rubs the towel in his face teasingly, earning a snort from the younger brother.

"Good, good, I'm good. Just sittin' with Sam here. You wanna talk to him?" Sam sticks his tongue out slowly, the familiar wait signal, but Dean ignores it. "Here, I'll put it on speaker."

"-kay, that's fine. Hey, Sam! Ben, say hi."

"Hi, Sam."

He exhales a short breath that sounds a little like hey. For not the first time, Dean wonders if Sam can talk normally, or if he simply doesn't believe he can. Mental repercussions, he reminds himself.

"Sam says howdy. What're you guys up to right now?"

"We're making a scarecrow!"

"Ben insists on giving the one we already have a friend to help fight off the crows."

"Oh, sweet. I'll have to come by and see it sometime." He glances at Sam, who he knows is listening, and adds, "Sam says he's terrified of those things."

That earns a frown from his brother, and a mixture of tinny laughter from his phone.

"Oh yeah, Dean, we all know who's really afraid of them."

Sam kind of laughs, Dean thinks, seeing the short, popcorn-y puffs of breath exit the younger man, and he sees a rare smile emerge from the face beside him. Dean's glad no one's crying now, else he'd believe Sam were sobbing.

"I swear to God, it was the damn crow. Those buggers are like rats with wings."

They talked for a while more, Dean providing conversation from both himself and Sam, until Lisa decided they better go put up the scarecrow before it got dark out.

"We don't want this thing in the house for the night, so we'll talk to you later."

"Now who's afraid?" Dean chuckles a bit. "Night, Lisa, night Ben."

"Goodnight, Dean," they chorus, "love you."

"Love you guys," he replies fondly. He almost hangs up when they speak again.

"Love you, Sam."

It's silent for a minute. Dean's lost his voice, and Sam's soundless beside him, so he turns to look. Tears are running down his face again, and he's looking right at Dean.

Clearing his throat, Dean manages, "He says he loves you too." Hangs up, never takes his eyes off his brother.

"Dean." It's a half-whisper, half-croak at best, but it's there.

"Aw, Sammy." Dean sits down, scoots his chair closer, earning a shriek from metal scraping against concrete. They both move a hand, grasping each other's fingers soft but firmly. Sam squeezes, and it's strong, so much stronger than the first time, but it reminds Dean of when he held his baby brother in his arms and Sam took hold of one finger, acting like it was the only thing he'd ever want to hold on to.

He scoots a little closer, Bobby stomping on the floor above them and yelling for them to shut up and go to bed already, and Dean thinks, progress.