The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [2/22] Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Angel and The Devil, Heavy on Your Shoulders (Prologue.2.)
Word Count: 773 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
PROLOGUE. I’m In a Bad Place Right Now.
--Chapter Two--
Other then the gentle sizzle of his flesh, things were quiet in the Pit.
Dean could tell the newer souls that sometimes, the anticipation of pain hurt a hell of a lot worse than its practice-he would tell them, if they’d quit shrieking long enough to listen to him. The sons of bitches in charge knew that fear alone could wrap itself around your throat and wring you into a twisted mass of hot panic. Dean was always a smart man, and he’d found ways to breath, even with barbed-wired desperation cramming up his inner workings.
“I couldn't answer all your questions…and if you're lost I couldn't find the way
I couldn't find your way…” He sang hoarsely to himself, through a raw windpipe.
He heard a call-He heard his name.
They were back. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his dry lips. He was fine. He was not losing it. He was enduring, god damn it. Sure, Hell hurt, but it wasn’t so bad when you got used to all the disembowelment.
He heard it again.
Fuck them. Dean refused to open his eyes. No matter how desperate the call sounded, dragging itself through fire and bone to reach his ears. Fuck the bastards. They could use his heart as a pin-cushion all they wanted, but he would not let them see-
“Dean.”
The familiar voice drove into Dean’s heart like a fire-poker.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just, no.”
Dean trembled all over, his need to fucking kill something pumping hard in his every part of him, giving an acidic life to his tired limbs. They couldn’t just use Sam like this. It wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t.
“Dean…”
It wasn’t.
“Dean, please.”
With some effort, Dean finally focused a dangerous glare at Sam’s face, and fuck, did he look miserable. His contorted face shone with sweat and tears, and the grease coating his hair practically twinkled in the light of eternal damnation. It might have been beautiful if it wasn’t so damn pathetic. He looked like he’d been dragged a few hundred miles over rough earth with a few kicks thrown in for good measure.
“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam said.
Dean smiled.
“Sorry? You’re sorry? Kiss my sweet ass, you motherfucker.” Dean knew he would regret the backtalk intensely and thoroughly once his punishment got under his skin--but god damn it, they knew how to push his fucking buttons. And Jesus, this was low. Sam’s face was warped and wobbling, he was biting his lip and sniveling, and from some small part of Dean a memory of tiny little Sam with a scraped knee stabbed at his gut. Those assholes really had studied his insides.
“Come on, you sack of shit. Drop the act-we both know it ain’t workin’. Check it out-my skin’s all in one piece right now. You got work to do,” Dean challenged. He thought he might never learn the art of biting his tongue--he hoped he never would.
“Dean, please,” Sam said, breathless and sobbing like a little lost kid. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m not you, Dean, not you. I couldn’t take it. The things they did to me…I couldn’t save you, and now…fuck…”
It was then that the gleam from a blade in Sam’s hand pierced Dean’s vision. An ornate ivory handle curled downwards to end in a long, bright metal blade, new and eager to be stained. Dean’s mouth was dry and drawn tight.
“He wouldn’t…” Dean started, feeling his heart going crazy in his chest while his blood drained to his toes. “You’re not…”
“Yeah. That…that’s better,” Sam said, hiccupping a little. “I’m not Sam, Dean. I’m someone else. Sam’s not…your brother is better than this.”
Sam was swaying on his feet, towards Dean and away, his expression looking an awful lot like the way Dean felt: sick and unsure. Sam wiped damp palms on his jeans, dragged a big hand over his face and squeezed his eyes shut. He stayed just like that for a few dozen heavy heartbeats.
Dean felt a flutter in his stomach and a clamp on his heart. He’d learned, here in Hell, he’d learned fucking well: Demons don’t hesitate.
“Sam?” Dean said softly. He squinted, trying to see his brother through the constant simmering haze. “Is that you, Sammy?”
Sam’s eyes snapped open, his mind apparently settled. When his gaze swung to Dean, it stung. He strode towards Dean with purpose-and a knife.
He put it to use before Dean could say how much he’d missed him.
-prologue.three-