Delirium
Dean’s burning. It’s not new, nothing’s ever new anymore and he lies still, rigid, while flames engulf his body. His shroud is soaked, cold against the baking heat of his skin. He wants to throw it off, but he knows he’s not allowed to move, shackled and chained and nailed to the floor to keep him still. Everything’s black and red and hazy and shadows slink around the edges of his vision. It’s not like anything down here is afraid of a little heat. Just because he’s on his way to being a pile of ash doesn’t mean something won’t come along and rip him to shredded bits of charred flesh and bone as he roasts in his own private bit of hellfire.
Dean’s freezing. Hell’s like that, one extreme to another in what used to be a heartbeat. The damp length of cloth wrapped around him leaches what little heat remains from his body. Crystals of rime coat his limbs and they’re heavy, flash frozen in place, ready to shatter at any blow. Everything’s white and silver and sharply defined, with teeth and claws and eyes shining with malicious intent. He’s trembling so hard that he’s going to fall; fall and explode into a million icy bits, and he shivers and shakes as the cold freezes his body to its core.
Someone’s yelling, screaming even, but that’s nothing that’s going to get Dean’s attention. His own screams are the only ones that matter anymore and the sounds he’s hearing are coming from miles away- from earth, from heaven and they’re meaningless. Hands yank at the clammy fabric that’s keeping him immobile, and pull it away, exposing his naked flesh to the chill in the surrounding air. Heat encircles his wrists, burning so deeply into the joints that he’s sure his hands are going to melt right off his forearms.
A hard tug on those burning wrists brings Dean to a sitting position, and he listens for the crack that means his arms have been jerked right off of his body, that he’s been broken in half at the waist. It’s happened before, but this time there’s just more cloth wrapping around him, dry and thick and warm. He starts to curl in on himself but something slides in behind him, big, solid and radiating heat, Alastair, it’s got to be, so he curls into that instead. Moisture’s pouring down his face as he thaws, heart stuttering in his chest as it forces icy slush though his veins.
Dean stares through his eyelids and through the fall of water the room is yellow, like jaundice, like pus and the lineup of evil dead along the walls doesn’t surprise him a bit. They’re regular visitors in the pit. He tries to shift away, though he knows it’s against the rules, and an iron bar wraps around his chest and pulls him back into whatever’s behind him.
There are words, not yelling now, not screaming, but coming from even further away. Infection and fever and drink and there’s something tilting his head back, pushing at his lips, dribbling onto his tongue. He doesn’t trust it, can’t, but the pressure’s insistent and it’s just water, just water. He swallows, waiting for the trap, but it flows down his throat like silk and another sip follows the first.
There’s motion in the corner of his eye and he tries to turn his head, but it’s locked in place. He doesn’t need to track the movement because it flows straight to him, up onto the bed, kneels in front of him. Dean only caught a glimpse of the water spirit when it tried to drown Lucas in the depths of Lake Manitoc, but the pale, bluish skin and weeds twining his drenched hair make it clear who he is. The boy leans forward, placing his hands over Dean’s mouth and the water’s not running down his throat to his stomach, it’s trickling into his lungs. The trickle becomes a stream and then it’s gushing, a torrent of brackish water and he flails against the bar holding him in place. The boy flickers and is gone, but Dean can’t breathe, arching back, gasping to get oxygen into his fluid filled lungs.
The band around his chest multiplies, suddenly there are two and both are squeezing for all they are worth. Thick brown goop fountains out of his mouth, cascading onto the formerly dry blanket, and something heavy is pounding his back as he hacks mouthfuls of fetid water onto the bed.
“Sorry, Dean. Sorry, it’s okay. We’ll go slower with the water, but you’ve got to drink, man.”
Drink? He almost just died draining the Okeefenokee Swamp from his lungs, he’s not going to having any more liquid for a while, thanks. Dean wants to tell water-guy that, but he doesn’t think his voice would travel the eternity it would need to reach whoever’s on the other end of the conversation.
There’s bubbling laughter in his ear, dark and close and another voice whispers from the recesses of his mind. You’re not going to die yet, Dean. Not before everybody gets a chance to play.
The wall of support shifts from behind him and he expects to be dropped, but instead he’s lowered slowly onto something soft. The blanket is pulled from his shoulders and his hands blindly grab to keep its warmth around his trembling body.
“It’s okay, Dean. Come on, let me have the damned thing, it’s damp and there are lots more in the closet. The stove’s keeping it plenty warm in here and if we had to hole up in a cabin to get out of this storm, at least it’s well stocked. “
Dean finally recognizes the voice that’s attached to the hands that are stealing his blanket and no. No, no, no. It’s Sam. It’s fucking Sam, and that’s not good, because Sam can’t be here. Not his Sam, anyway. He came here to save Sam, and if he’s here too it’s all for nothing. Then he remembers. Sam is down here too. Or he was. Maybe he’s back topside now. Maybe they both are. For fucks sake, why can’t he think?
Dean wants to open his eyes to see his brother, to know for certain which version he’s dealing with here, but it’s like they’ve been seared closed. He doesn’t need them open to see the rest of the room’s occupants. He can always see them, even after his eyes have been torn from their sockets.
Constance smiles at him from near the window then she’s gone, strobing across the floor to the bed. She stands and looks down at him, swaying in a way that would be pretty damned hot, if she wasn’t a vindictive, dead bitch. She hitches up her tattered white dress and straddles Dean’s hips, grinding against him as she leans forward to place a hand on his chest.
You’re unfaithful, she whispers, and he feels his face twist into a smirk.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he replies, because in all the ways that matter to him he’s never unfaithful, but in the way Constance means it? He totally is.
She snarls and plunges a hand though his ribcage, ripping through his lungs, grasping for his heart. He’s drowning again, but this time in his own blood as Constance shreds his chest cavity. He can taste the blood as it runs over his tongue, thick and coppery and it’s spraying through the crater she’s made in his torso. It hurts, Jesus, it hurts and bubbling screams tear from his blood slicked throat.
“Dean! Hey! Take it easy, man. It’s okay, I got you.”
Sam’s back and Constance is gone and there’s another blanket being wrapped around him as he shudders and doesn’t Sam notice the fucking blood? There’s a hole where his heart used to be and Sam’s just covering it up? He’s still in hell, because his Sam would never leave him like this.
He doesn’t see, Dean. Fuck. The voice in his head is back. Maybe he’ll never see.
He has to see. Sammy has to see, because every evil thing Dean’s ever hunted, ever killed, is lined up to take a piece of him and then he’s going to die and Sam won’t even know why. He thrashes and twists in the blanket, and Sam’s there.
“Jesus Dean, we’ve got to get your temperature down. You’re burning up.”
“No,” Dean moans, reaching blindly for his brother. “Sammy, help me. Constance, Peter, all of them. Drowning and tearing and help me Sam…”
“There’s nothing here, Dean. The perimeter’s protected, it’s the fever making you see them. You’re delirious because your brain’s overheating. I’ve got the tub filling, gonna try to cool you down a little.”
His brain’s overheating, Sam would know that. What Sam doesn’t know is that it’s the least of his damned problems right now, because Zachariah’s just stepped up to the plate and he’s looking at Dean like he’s been fucking angels in the Impala’s back seat.
You ruined so many plans for me, you slithering little ass worm.
“Hey, Zach,” Dean rasps. “Where’s your lion face?”
“He’s not here, Dean. He can’t hurt you anymore,” but Sammy’s wrong.
Zachariah reaches out and lays a hand on Dean’s face, and it burns. It burns like Castiel’s hand burned, branding itself onto Dean’s skin forever. This doesn’t stay in one place though. It’s spreading, blistering his whole body and Dean writhes in agony.
“Fuck. Fuck Dean, you’re on fire. Jesus.” Sam’s lifting him and only Zachariah’s smirk follows them into the bathroom.
The water’s rushing out of the faucet and Sam shifts Dean’s weight to lean down and turn it off. The water’s stopped running but there’s still a bubbling sound coming from the tub and Dean wearily twists his head and jerks in Sam’s arms. The water’s seething in the tub, steam rising from it; his skin’s already white and erupting in leaking, blistering sores and Sam’s going to put him in boiling water?
“No. No, Sammy it’s too hot. Please, it’s too hot….” Dean bucks and flails against Sam’s tightening grip as his brother lowers him inexorably into the tub.
“It’s okay, Dean. I know you’re hot, but the water’s just barely warm and I’m going to let it cool off slowly and you’ll cool off with it. Hopefully.” Sam’s voice is trying to be soothing, but Dean can hear the strain as Sam fights to get him in the water.
Dean wants to open his eyes, see the water as Sam sees it, instead of looking through his eyelids. Maybe it’s not boiling; Sam would never do that after all. Maybe it won’t be so bad…and then he hits the water and begins to scream.
“Dean! Come on, man just hold still.” Sam’s got one heavy hand pressed against Dean’s heaving chest while the other scoops scalding water over the parts of his body that aren’t already submerged.
“Sammy, stop.” Dean’s appalled by how weak his voice is. “ ‘s too hot, Sammy, please.”
“This is going to help, Dean. I promise.” Sam sounds scared and like he’s not sure at all that what he’s doing is going to help, and Dean’s face is wet from more than just the splashing water. “Hang on, Dean. Please don’t go, I’m gonna get you better.”
Can’t go, Sammy, Dean wants to say, but the pain’s too much. Not ‘til everyone’s had a chance to play.
There’s splashing in the tub and the water starts to slap at Dean in waves and the tub’s getting longer, wider and he’s not alone. Hands rub his feet, slide up his calves and a voice sighs in contentment.
Dean, my boy. I’ve missed you so much. And I’ve finally found someplace almost warm enough up here. Once I get inside, it’ll almost be like we’re back home.
“No,” Dean mutters. “Alastair, no, please.”
It’s to no avail. Begging never got him anywhere with Alastair, and he clenches his thighs together as the demon’s hands move to separate them. Resistance never got him anywhere either, and Dean lets out a pained gasp as his legs part like the water they’re boiling in and Alastair spreads them wide as he slips between them.
Alastair’s hands trace Dean’s body, peel the loosened skin from his chest, slide down to grasp Dean’s hips as he shoves inside. It’s different every time with Alastair, and now it’s like being fucked by a jagged chunk of granite. Dean tries to scream, but the demon’s mouth is covering his own, and the best he can manage is ragged groans as his body jolts against the porcelain and Alastair tears up his insides.
Sam’s voice is in his ears, pleading, but all Dean can hear is Alastair’s filth. The demon’s mouth is off his now and Dean takes advantage of it to beg Sam one last time.
“Alastair. Sammy, please. Make him stop.”
“He’s not real, Dean. He’s just a delusion, a fever dream.”
It’s right in front of his face, Dean. Maybe Sammy’s not back on his game yet. The voice in his head is back, and Dean cries out as Alastair orgasms, fills him with the thick, burning tar of his come.
“A fever dream.” Sam’s muttering and Dean tries to reach for his hand, but Alastair’s got his wrists pinned. “A dream. A god-damned dream. Fuck, Dean. You’re sick, but you’re dreaming too. I can help you, just hold on.”
Sam’s grabbing Dean, pulling him from the tub and Alastair’s see you soon, pet fades into the darkness behind them. Dean sways unsteadily as Sam quickly dries him then ferries him back to the bed. He settles back into the softness and huddles under the blankets that Sam's piling onto him, but the dead still line the walls and even as Sam straightens up, the next one’s already heading his way.
“I’m coming, Dean. Just hang on a little longer, man. Just….hang on.”
Dean can hear Sam’s voice as he moves around the room, but his attention’s focused on the rakshasa looming over him. It’s dressed in full clown regalia, and Dean’s not going to make fun of Sam for being afraid of the freaky motherfuckers ever again. It licks its huge, blood-red lips and falls on him, teeth ripping at the flesh on his shoulder.
Don’t worry, Dean. It can’t have all of you. It has to save some for your other friends.
Dean struggles to push it off, staring past its shoulder to where Madison waits. And Gordon, and the wendigo and the rugaru- all wanting their share of his flesh and blood. At the end of the line sits a hell hound; he goes last Dean. After everyone else has had a turn, he’s going to bring you back home.
Dean goes limp as the clown’s white gloves stain crimson. He’s burning, broken, torn up inside and out and he can’t take his eyes from the hell hound. His breath comes out in panting, whimpering gasps and he’s done, he knows he is- he’s going back and…
“Dean. Look at me, man.” Sam’s here. Sam’s here and Dean can see him now and he’s Dean’s Sam and not Hell’s Sam. Sam’s staring at the clown in horror, then he gives his head a little shake. Sam helped jumpstart the apocalypse, O.D.’d on demon blood, took on Lucifer, went to hell and came back. Dean would smile at the look on his brother’s face when Sam realizes how much clowns don’t scare him anymore if he wasn’t busy being chowed down on by a circus performer.
Sam doesn’t dream-conjure up a brass dagger to take care of the rakshasa, he dream-conjures up a freakin’ brass scimitar, and cuts the damned thing in two. He whirls and makes a much neater job of separating Gordon’s head from his shoulders than he did the last time, before lighting up the wendigo and the rugaru and putting another silver bullet into Madison.
Dean watches his brother move along the line, the right weapon for each monster appearing as he reaches it. Not all his attackers are in Sam’s line of sight, however, and movement at the foot of the bed jerks Dean’s eyes away from Sam’s carnage to see his father settling himself down on the mattress.
“Dad,” he whispers, and John smiles the smile that haunts Dean’s dreams, stares at him through merciless yellow eyes. Dean watches his father’s hand slide under the blanket, feels his organs compress as it comes to rest, splayed across his stomach. The pain comes next, and Dean thinks it should be nothing compared to what’s come before, but it’s even worse than he remembers. The demon holds him still, doesn’t let so much as a gasp escape to warn Sam that he’s under attack. Dean doesn’t know how he has any blood left, but it’s pouring through his skin in a never ending river.
Dean wants to look for Sam but the yellow eyes have him mesmerized. He’s lost in blood and pain and the demon keeps him there as his body shuts down.
There’s no sound that Dean can hear above the screaming in his skull, but the demon lazily turns its head and curls its lip in amusement. Dean draws a shuddering breath into his burning lungs and, freed from the demon's gaze, turns his head to see Sam staring at the demon with death in his eyes. Sam’s face shows only rage and contempt and Dean watches in horror as he raises a hand to expel the demon from their father’s body.
"No," Dean mutters desperately. "No, don't Sammy, please."
Sam doesn't look away from the demon, but speaks only to his brother. "It's okay, Dean. I can do it in the dream without any demon blood. Don't worry."
"No!" Dean's adamant and the demon laughs.
"You heard your brother, Sammy. Don't kill Daddy."
"You're not our father, and he knows that. Trust me, he's not worried about you." Sam's face doesn't change but suddenly the Colt's in his hand and he waits just long enough for the dream demon to realize that before he puts a bullet squarely through its heart. The demon in John's body crackles with the Colt's light show and then vanishes. "It's done now, Dean. They're all gone."
Sam's headed to the bed when Gordon reappears behind him and flings him into the wall. They’re all back, the whole line, and Dean tries to move his heavy limbs, tries to get to Sammy, but he’s too weak, his body too broken. He can see his brother across the room, back to Dean, swaying slightly as he stares at something on the wall. Dean’s vision has dimmed with the damage done to his body, and he can’t make out what Sam is looking at, but he can tell it’s moving, undulating blackly against the yellowish cast of the wall.
Sam turns as Gordon reaches Dean, and gives one anguished look at his brother’s ruined body before vanishing into thin air. His voice comes from miles away again. “Hang on, Dean. I know what it is now, and I can stop it. Just hold out a few more minutes and it’ll all be over.
I don’t know, Dean. I think he might finally have caught on. Took him long enough. Might have taken him too long, what do you think?
Dean thinks Sam’s going to save him, that’s what he thinks. If he hurries the fuck up with whatever it is that he’s doing, that is.
Gordon laughs as he lowers himself onto the bed. "Haven't had my turn yet, Dean. Rather it was Sammy I was getting a crack at, but you'll do for now."
Gordon settles himself over Dean's prone body, laps the blood from Dean’s chest. Extra teeth spring from the vampire’s gums and Dean bucks as Gordon drives them into his neck. Dean’s fading as Gordon drains what’s left of his blood from his body. His mind’s spinning and he thinks that dying this way would suck less if some of the pain would leave him along with his blood.
Time’s up, the voice in his mind mutters and it sounds pissed. Gordon disappears and the line of things waiting to get their teeth, claws, minds, dicks, into Dean shrinks to just one. I win.
“Hurry, Sammy,” Dean breathes, but it’s practically soundless and the hell hound launches itself from across the room. It lands on the bed, stands over Dean with teeth bared, and is inches from ripping his throat out when it disappears in a burst of flame. There’s screaming and Dean’s pretty sure it’s not coming from him; the presence in his head is burning right along with the hell hound.
The flames don’t touch Dean, don’t add to his pain, and just as suddenly as Sam vanished, he’s back. He stretches out beside Dean, careful not to jostle him, and Dean feels Sam’s hand land gently on his forehead.
“You’re okay, Dean. I’m in control of the dream now and you’re okay, you hear me?” Sam’s voice is certain, demanding and Dean has no choice but to believe. His breath begins to come easier, and his body knits itself together under Sam’s hands. He’s still alternating between burning and freezing, and his shoulder hurts like a sonofabitch, but he vaguely remembers Sam telling him that he’s sick.
“ ‘m sick, Sammy?”
“Yeah, Dean. You didn’t quite dodge enough of the pitchfork our last angry spirit threw at you and you’ve got an infected shoulder wound.”
“I jus’ dreamed all that?”
Sam’s face darkens, but the hand stroking Dean’s sweat soaked hair never stops its gentle motion. “They were your nightmares, but you had some help making them real. You probably didn’t notice the décor of the place we’re crashing in, being unconscious when we came in and all, but it’s mostly a western theme with a lot of Native American artwork.” Sam waves a hand in the general direction of the rest of the cabin, but Dean’s not really up to looking around.
“So..?”
“So…,” Sam looks away for a moment. “So there was a dream catcher on one of the walls. I’m so sorry Dean, I should have seen it sooner.”
“ ‘s okay, Sammy. They don’t really catch dreams. Unless…”
“Yeah, unless. Unless they’ve got hexes woven into them like this one did. I didn’t see it until I was here, in the dream world and it was like they were alive. I could almost hear them.” Sam swallows hard and grips Dean’s hand. “They were telling me I was too late. That I took too long to see. That I’d killed you.”
Dean squeezes Sam’s hand as hard as he’s able. “Saved me, Sam. Doesn’t matter how long it took, you saved me.”
Dean tries to keep his grip on his brother’s hand, but Sam’s pulling gently away. Dean knows Sam won’t really leave, but he can’t keep himself from panicking.
“Hey, it’s okay Dean. I can’t stay here, I’ve got to look after you in the real world. How about you come back there with me? I think your fever’s actually gone down during this mess. You can do it Dean. Come on, we’ll go together.” Sam grabs Dean’s hand again and vanishes, pulling his brother with him back to the waking world.
There’s a cool cloth wiping Dean’s face and he manages to open his eyes long enough to see Sam dipping it back into the bowl on the bedside table. His body is wet and sticky, but it’s from sweat, not blood, not come and Sam wipes it all away with slow, soothing strokes. When he’s cleaned Dean as well as he can, Sam wraps him up in another blanket and slides behind him, cradling Dean in a sitting position against his chest.
“Okay, we’re going to try this again, you need to get hydrated.” Sam presses a water bottle to Dean’s lips and Dean greedily drinks the water down, following it with a couple of pills Sam slides over his tongue. “All right, that’s enough for now. You can have a little more later, don’t want you puking again.”
Dean lets out a tired groan and Sam grins. “Try to get some sleep, okay? I’ll be right here, nothing will happen, I promise.”
Dean fights it as long as he can, but eventually his eyes slide closed and he sleeps, cocooned in his blankets and his brother’s arms.